Black Diamond (3 page)

“Good morning, Lex. And to what do I owe this profound honor?”

“It's your lucky day, Billy. I have something you want and I'm offering it to you on a silver platter.”

“And that crock of Irish bull feces means I have something you want, and I'm about to get the horse trading of the week. What've you got, Lex?”

“I have your newest indictee, Hector Vasquez. He'll turn himself in. Michael will personally walk him right into your office.”

I could hear Billy's low whistle of surprise.

“That little son of a gun moved fast. The ink is still wet on the indictment. And here he is on your doorstep already.”

“The same thought occurred to us, Billy. Who do you suppose tipped him off to the indictment before the arrest warrant was executed? Sounds like there's a hole in your little boat over there.”

“It sounds to me like maybe he's connected to people you don't generally get into bed with, Lex.”

That idea was nudging me too when I thought of that envelope with $10,000 on my desk. Someone wanted Hector to be well represented in this case for reasons that might go beyond Hector's personal welfare.

“Not to change the subject, Billy, but in gratitude for our putting Hector on your doorstep, I thought you might like to share a little information.”

“Here it comes. Just remember, I'm as Irish as you are. What do you want, Lex?”

“A modest request. What have you got on Hector?”

I could see Billy rock back with a laugh you could hear in Charlestown.

“Why don't you just come over so I can give you the key to our files?”

“Now, now, Billy. You'll have to disclose most of it eventually. Let's just make it a fair fight.”

“We have the race films. They show Vasquez riding next to Danny Ryan on the right. He has his whip in his left hand. Ryan's horse is taking the lead. All of a sudden, Ryan shoots out of the saddle and tumbles over the rail. Ryan winds up dead.”

“I see. And the film clearly shows beyond a reasonable doubt that Vasquez poked Ryan out of the saddle with his whip.”

Mr. D. winked at me. I had mouthed to him what Hector had said about the films.

“No, Lex.”

“Oh, that's unfortunate, Billy.”

“Nor does it show that he didn't.”

“Then what does it show that you're going to build a case on, my optimistic friend?”

“The opportunity.”

“And exactly how are you going to spin that into a conviction?”

“Did you ever hear of the old Latin concept
res ipsa loquitur
? The thing speaks for itself.”

“They mentioned it in law school. They also said it only applies in civil cases.”

“It has a counterpart in criminal cases. It's called circumstantial evidence. Works all the time.”

Mr. D. rocked back in his chair, and the little smile was gone. “Uh-huh. Now let's get to the heart of it, Billy. You've got a case that's as weak as dishwater. You rush to a criminal indictment in what has to be record time in a situation that would be handled in every other case by the track stewards, the racing commission at the most. What the hell's going on?”

There was a moment's pause that was significant enough to set both of our spines on edge.

“A jockey died. That's more than the stewards' office can handle.”

“And you think Hector deliberately murdered him. Billy, have you lost the few marbles you have left? It was a freak accident. Jockeys have survived spills twice that bad. There are more certain ways of doing him in if that was the plan.”

“It's felony murder, Lex. Someone died during the commission of a felony.”

“And the felony is?”

“The race was fixed.”

“You don't mean it. A race fixed at Suffolk Downs? Please say it isn't so.”

I could almost feel the sarcasm wash over my shoes.

“Billy, do you remember when we were kids, the ninth race at Suffolk was called ‘the jockeys' race'? The jockey's would pick a long shot, bet on it, and then make it happen. You and I used to stay for the ninth just to guess which long shot it was.”

“And may I remind you, that it's been a few years since we were kids. Times change.”

It was Mr. D's turn to pause.

“You don't want Vasquez. Fixed race or not, he's like swatting a mosquito. This sounds like the machinations of our eminent district attorney. Angela Lamb wants to nail Hector to get him to flip. On whom, Billy? She must smell some headlines. Who's she after?”

“You're fishing, Lex.”

“Am I? You got that indictment before the sun went down on Danny Ryan's body. That means you had a grand jury in session investigating something that ties into that race. And it's one hell of a lot bigger than little Hector Vasquez.”

“You have a fertile imagination. You'll want copies of the race films and the autopsy report on Ryan. I'll send them over. That's the best I can do for you.”

“And for that you expect me to deliver Vasquez like a Thanksgiving turkey?”

“No. You'll deliver Vasquez to avoid a charge of harboring a fugitive.”

“And that's all I get after a lifetime of personal favors to you, Mr. Coyne?”

“That would be correct. When can we expect Vasquez?”

They arranged for me to bring Hector directly to Billy Coyne's office. At least we'd have the arguing point before the jury that Hector voluntarily surrendered to the D.A. A bit disturbing was the fact that Billy told us to use the rear entrance with an elevator directly to the district attorney's offices. The reason for that bit of added security escaped us at the time, but it set off alarms in the central nervous system.

Before Hector and I left our offices, the three of us had a chat about the race the previous day. He denied knowing anything about a fixed race then or ever at Suffolk Downs. Mr. D. and I exchanged looks that said we had a client who was selective about his moments of truth telling.

We also quizzed him about who tipped him off to the indictment before they could serve an arrest warrant. That was a dead end too. He mentioned an anonymous caller that afternoon and stuck to his story. His answer to our questions about the source of the $10,000 was simply his savings account.

I came to the uncomfortable conclusion that the only word out of Hector's mouth since I met him that came within a mile of the truth was that he did not cause Danny's death. And that was a leap of faith.

I explained the situation to Hector and escorted him to the district attorney's office as promised. Billy met us and took Hector into custody. The arraignment was scheduled for the following morning. There was no rush, since Hector already had counsel, and any bail that he could post was not an option in a felony murder case.

That done, I turned to something I had been anxious to do, and yet dreading all afternoon. I drove to Danny's home in Beverly.

Danny's success as a jockey took him all over the East Coast, from Saratoga Springs in New York to Gulfstream in Florida, but his heart always remained on the north shore of Boston, where he and I had spent the better part of our teen years with our foster-father, Miles O'Connor.

Miles had a daughter, Colleen. He raised her from the day his wife died in childbirth. If she'd been raised in a convent, she'd have had a more liberated upbringing. At the top of the list of negative worldly influences to be kept as far outside of her world as humanly possible were Miles's live-in rescues, Danny Ryan and myself. We barely knew she existed until she was in her teens. But the day that the gate that separated the stables from the wing of the mansion that was her castle was accidentally left ajar, Danny and Colleen caught a glimpse of each other face-to-face. It was actually little more than a glimpse, but it was as if Danny's heart and mind were locked tight, and only one soul on earth had the password.

I won't say Danny never dated during the years I was in college and law school and he was working his way up the list of leading
jockeys, but we kept in close contact, and I could sense that something kept him from getting serious with any of the girls he dated.

It's strange, or perhaps fatalistic, that it was Miles who ultimately brought them together. After a lifetime of vacuum sealing Colleen in schools for young ladies, Miles died of the trial lawyers' curse, a heart attack, and Danny and Colleen saw each other for the second time at Miles's funeral. Maybe it was the common bond of a love for Miles that united them instantly, but my money is on that glimpse of each other that had occurred eight years earlier.

Whatever the cause, Danny and Colleen were like the negatively and positively charged particles of an atom from that moment on. The obvious love between them was so tangible that it seemed to put smiles on the faces of anyone who came into their presence. The only thing on earth that could have deepened that love was the birth of their daughter, Erin.

All of this ran through my mind on the drive to their home in Beverly. I was just barely holding it together when I thought of the hole Danny left in my life. But when I thought of the enormity of Colleen's loss, I had no idea how I'd be able to pass on the strength I wanted to give to her.

It took three of my ritual knocks before the door slowly opened a crack. There were none of Colleen's familiar rapid, almost dancing footsteps and welcoming flinging of the door wide open. There was no hug and kiss on the cheek and smile that could inspire yet another Irish song. In fact, I hardly heard her come to the door, and it opened just enough to identify the visitor. The drawn, pale, expressionless face that acknowledged my presence was hardly recognizable as Colleen.

I wasn't sure she was going to open it the rest of the way until I spoke. She just retreated inside, and I pushed it myself.

Whatever empty, idiotic, useless words I said accomplished nothing to break down the wall created by her blank expression. I don't know what I expected. Maybe a consoling hug and the release of a flood of tears. It didn't happen.

I made a perfunctory offer of help, but since I was incapable of bringing Danny back, anything else fell short of rousing the least spark of interest.

I gave it a full ten minutes before getting a grip on the obvious. For whatever reason, Colleen had locked herself away from the intrusion of well-intended consolation—at least mine. I decided to favor her with that which she seemed to want or need the most, my absence.

The hollowness that I'd felt since hearing of Danny's death seemed at least doubled when I turned to leave with nothing but frost in place of the mutual consolation I'd imagined. I reached the door alone, when I realized that something else was missing. The iciness of Colleen had blocked out my expectation of two tiny feet running like trip hammers and two tiny arms that leaped toward my neck in the constant faith that I'd catch her and lift her the rest of the way. The smushy feeling of that angelic face rubbed into my nose and cheek was as much of a ritual as my signature knock on the door.

“Colleen, where's Erin? Does she know?”

The question seemed to jar her out of the deep freeze. There was a hesitation, but at least she spoke a full sentence.

“She's at the neighbor's.”

“Have you told her?”

Again the pause. “No.”

“Colleen, I know it's hard, but—”

“I can't. Let it go at that!”

It came out sharper than I think she intended. I couldn't block the stunned look. I think it was that look that first registered whom she was with. She took a hanky out of her pocket and let the tears flow into it. I came back to her, and she let herself sob on my shoulder for what seemed like several minutes.

I thought it had washed away the wall of ice, but when the flow stopped, it was back. I wondered if she had heard that I was representing the man charged with Danny's murder, but that seemed unlikely.

We walked to the door. This time she opened it. I stepped outside and turned back.

“Colleen, I guess you know that if there's anything I can do—”

The only response was a nod with her head down. I hated to leave that way. I felt as if I were failing Danny. On the basis of what the hell, I reached out and grabbed her shoulders. The shock of it brought her head up, and for the first time she looked me in the eye.

“Colleen, this is not some stupid, half-wit mumbling of the right thing to say. I'm really here to help you. If only for the sake of Erin, can you get a grip?”

She pushed away and went inside the door. I thought she'd slam it, but she turned back from the darkness inside and said in the coldest tones I'd ever heard, “I've got a grip. I've got a grip on the fact that everything is gone. Can you hear that?”

I had no answer. I was completely empty. I started to leave, when Colleen's voice caught me. It was just as cold, but there was more steel in it. “Can you hear that, Michael? There's nothing left.”

She closed the door. I stood there for a moment without a rational thought in my mind. I walked to my car in a state of numbing shock. The end of the visit had been even more bizarre than the beginning. The person I had just left was as complete a stranger as if I'd knocked on the wrong door.

The drive back to Boston was on instinct while I tried to make sense of that whole conversation. I don't even remember the first ten miles. Nothing about the previous twenty minutes rang true to the Colleen who was like the closest family to me.

I think I was passing through Lynn when ideas started dropping into my consciousness like pieces of the sky falling, and each connection multiplied the panic brewing in the pit of my stomach. I reached into my pocket for my cell phone to call Colleen. I found the handkerchief she had been using. There was something hard and round rolled in it. I pulled over and unraveled it slowly to postpone what I sensed was coming, but there was no preparing for it. My chest seized and I could barely breathe when I saw in the folds
of the handkerchief a tiny gold ring with a ruby birthstone. I had given it to Erin for her second birthday. Danny had told me she loved wearing it.