Foursome (26 page)

I sat and listened. Aside from the faint ticking of the engine after the bumper-to-bumper traffic from the condo, there were only the usual noises from Tremont Street around the corner. Nothing from the other side of the trash bin.

Opening the car door quickly, I dropped to the ground, looking under the Prelude to see if any feet suddenly appeared from behind the dumpster. Nothing after ten seconds.

Straightening up, I brushed myself off and went around the corner and into the main entrance. Upstairs, I walked past my office door twice, but the lights beyond the pebbled glass were off, and from the corridor I didn’t hear anything, much less anything unusual.

Inside the office, there was the same desk, the same two windows overlooking the Park Street subway station, and the ever-changing crowd milling near the entrance and exit of the station itself. I watched for three full minutes, but didn’t see any gold warm-up jackets or blue tartan skirts.

Then I got on the telephone.

“Claims Investigation, Mullen.”

“Harry, John Cuddy.”

“Jeez, John, I was just thinking about this thing here. How you doing?”

“Not great, Harry. Anything on Sandra Newberg yet?”

“Just a second, okay?”

I heard the receiver bonk on his desk top. A minute later, he came back on.

“John, you still there?”

“Still here, Harry.”

“Good. Just wanted to close the door there.”

“What have you got?”

“Not much. Like I told you, it was kind of awkward asking about her over here.”

“Right.”

“I mean, not only did she leave, but the people who’re still onboard got their minds on other things.”

“Harry, I’m pretty pressed. Could we do a little fast forward on this?”

“Sure, John, sure. Like I said, I asked around, best I could. Most of the people from her department are long gone, laid off around the same time she was. But from what I hear, Newberg was a saint.”

“No problems at all?”

“None. Solid manager, near perfect attendance record, even organized the blood drive. She just happened to be running a department Empire decided to send south.”

“Anything on marital stuff?”

“Everybody was shocked the husband’s up for it. Most of the people I talked to never met the guy, but not even a whisper of family troubles or anything.”

“Harry, nothing at all?”

“Just that after she got laid off, a couple of the other managers—female ones—had lunch with her. Kind of a mini-reunion, you know?”

“Go on.”

“Well, one of them told me that Newberg complained about how bored she was, nothing to do out in Calem there and plenty of time to do it, what with nobody hiring department heads like her.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

At least he’d saved me some time. “Harry, thanks a lot.”

“Hey, John. I owe you, I don’t forget that.”

“Take care, Harry.”

“Every day in every way.”

“District Attorney’s office.”

“Nancy Meagher, please.”

“Please wait.”

I did.

“Ms. Meagher’s line.”

“John Cuddy calling. Is she there?”

“Please wait.”

I did, again.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Meagher is still on trial. Can I take a message?”

Since I had no reason to believe Las Hermanas knew of our relationship, I wasn’t about to leave Nancy a note that would scare her without explanation. “Just leave word that I called and will try her again at home tonight.”

“At her home?”

“Right.”

“Thank you.”

“Hub Vandemeer—Fine Cars, Fair Prices.”

An eager, woman’s voice. What was her—“Ms. Tollison?”

“Yes. This is Emily Tollison.” Even more eager. “How can I help you?”

“Ms. Tollison, this is John Francis. I was in earlier this week, talking with Hub about cars.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Francis. I remember you well.”

I doubted it, given that she’d known me only as “John Cuddy,” but Tollison certainly made me feel valued. “I wonder, could I speak to him?”

“Sure, sure, Mr. Francis. Just hold on for a tiny moment, and I’ll transfer.” After a long enough period to let her tell the boss I might be a live one, I heard “Hub Vandemeer, John. Made up your mind about us yet?”

Nice opening for a potential customer he couldn’t remember, either.

“Yeah, Hub. Matter of fact I have. I think you consort with known drug dealers.”

A pause. Then a cough. “Who the hell is this?”

“John Cuddy, Hub. We talked about your brother and your nephew and just about everything else under the sun yesterday, but I guess in all the excitement you sort of left out how Blanca Quintana, Queen of the Snow Carnival, is driving one of your ragtops.”

Another cough. “I don’t remember you asking me about Nicky’s girlfriend.”

“I’m asking now. Remember what we said about the Telephone game?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Why don’t you tell me straight and true how she’s in one of your cars, so that I don’t get it all garbled from somebody else.”

A tired sound from his side. “Simple enough. Nicky wrecked his car and lost his license. Boy that age needs to be able to get around. So, he introduced me to his girlfriend, and I sold her the car.”

“You sold her the car?”

“That’s right.”

“His parents know that?”

“I assume so.”

“You never told them?”

“What was there to tell? Her money was as good as anybody else’s.”

“How much, Hub?”

“I don’t have the sticker in front of me.”

“Lame, Hub, very lame. What’s the car you’re driving going for?”

Another tired sound. “Twenty-six nine.”

“She paid all cash, right?”

“So what? No law against legal tender.”

“You ever stop to think how a girl that age from her neighborhood might have picked up that cash?”

“Some people think all those Latins are hookers or drug dealers. I don’t.”

“Noble, Hub. But it just doesn’t wash. How will it look, she gets caught doing deals from that gold convertible with your name on the metal label over the bumper?”

“Look, I just sell them, pal. I don’t keep tabs on where they go or what they do. Anything else?”

“I had a talk with Nicky.”

“Hope you enjoyed it.”

“I did, but I’m not sure his attitude toward guardianship and yours quite mesh.”

“He’ll come around. Or the judge will make him.”

“But only till he’s eighteen, Hub. Then everything, including investment decisions, is up to him.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Cuddy.”

“Calem Police, Sergeant Clay.”

Harold Clay had been a solid patrol officer during my last case in Calem. I was glad to hear he’d gotten promoted, but I didn’t want to talk with him. “Paul O’Boy, please.”

“Wait one.”

More like ten seconds.

“Detectives, O’Boy speaking.”

“Cuddy here. At least for a little while longer.”

“Cuddy! Good to hear from you. What’s the matter?”

“Might have been a nice gesture to tip me about Sandy Newberg and Hale Vandemeer.”

“Hey, I gave you the neighbor, this Mrs. Epps, right?”

“I’ve met her. I’ve also met the Quintana sisters.”

“Quintana … ?”

“How about we drop the Lieutenant Columbo routine, okay? It doesn’t suit you.”

Three seconds. “Yeah, but you gotta admit, I play it well, huh?”

“Well enough. What’s the idea of sending me out to Nicky Vandemeer without knowing what his girlfriend was into?”

O’Boy lowered his voice. “All right, all right. I told you, we got this new chief, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, he’s just getting the scoop on a lot of things Wooten didn’t exactly … focus on.”

“Like some of the kids riding buses into Calem aren’t what you’d call model citizens.”

“For example. But he just gets appointed, he doesn’t want to piss in the soup of one of the selectmen voted for him.”

“Which selectman is in love with the special student program.”

“Selectman’s wife, actually.”

“So you what, use me as the cat’s paw to get the truth about Quintana out into the open?”

I could almost feel O’Boy looking innocent. “I figured—the chief figured—you come up with something that hits the fan, it gives us grounds for going into everything because we kind of have to.”

“The killings at the lake and the Maine authorities didn’t do that for you?”

“Hell, no. Nothing to tie Quintana to that. Besides, the Mainers, they weren’t interested in the son’s girlfriend as a part of their case. They just asked us to do a simple check.”

“And that wasn’t enough to bring to the selectmen.”

“Let’s say we thought it was close, but not a sure thing.”

“Which I might provide if you slipped me a little information on the side, confidential-like.”

“Aw, Cuddy, don’t go sarcastic on me, huh?”

“I forgot. You’re easily hurt, right?”

“Even one harsh word can do it.”

“Yeah, well I’m facing a little more than harsh words, O’Boy. You owe me a big one.”

“Depends on how you look at things, don’t it? I mean, you’re the one called me for help on this, right?”

“A big one, O’Boy.”

After the last call, I watched out my window for ten minutes. Nobody I recognized, no clutch of Hispanic girls in any kind of clothes loitering around anywhere I could see. I locked the office and went downstairs.

Walking past the parking alley once, I came back to it, slowly. No activity around the car or the dumpster. Given the stench, I didn’t think they’d fancy it a good spot to wait. I got into the Prelude and drove out onto Tremont. Acutely aware of my mirrors, I stayed in the lane paralleling Boston Common.

At Boylston, I took a right. Boylston is one of the borders of Back Bay, but the street becomes one way at Charles, forcing the driver to turn onto Charles and in effect circle half the Common. Being roundabout intentionally, I checked the mirrors for anybody who seemed confused behind me. Nothing but single-occupant cars and one Asian family in a white rental sedan whose faces suggested that they knew they had no hope of finding whatever they were looking for in the city.

As the Public Garden ended, I took a left onto Beacon, passing the facade for the
Cheers
bar on my right. At Arlington, I went left again rather than heading straight on, even though my condo building fronts on Beacon itself. Then I turned right onto Commonwealth. Other than the Asian family, nobody had stuck with me, and even they, arguing over an unfolded road map, took a right at Berkeley, leaving me four full blocks before my turn for home.

I continued up Commonwealth, taking the right at Fairfield. Pulling into the space behind the condo building, I congratulated myself that I’d listed in the telephone book only as to office address, office number, and home number, not home address. Then, getting out of the Prelude, I thought about the last time I was asked about my home address. The security desk at DRM, the guard looking at my driver’s license. The same driver’s license that Lidia Quintana had held in her hand.

Even so, if they’d used a different car, I might not have made it.

Walking on the Fairfield side of my building, I caught the gold convertible’s grille and front fender flashing out from a private parking space on the half block of Fairfield that lies in shadow between the two buildings across Beacon. The girl from the bench outside Area B began to stand up in the backseat with her Intratec, while my other guard cleared her semiautomatic pistol over the windowsill on the front passenger’s side. Blanca Quintana was at the wheel, everybody’s long black hair whipping in the breeze as she entered the intersection, pedal to the metal.

As the car came across Beacon against the light, it got tagged in the left rear end by the Asian family in the white rental, who apparently had made another random turn. The impact sent the Tec-9 girl up and out of the right side of the convertible, the Asians’ sedan caroming into the line of parked vehicles on the north side of Beacon. The convertible dribbled a urine line of liquid under the rear wheels as it fishtailed crazily, and Quintana wrenched at the wheel.

That’s when Blanca braked, and the girl with the pistol opened up.

I dove behind an old Pontiac with an engine block the size of a small sofa. The block absorbed a full magazine from the girl. Hearing the slide of her weapon jack open, I came up onto my knees, resting the Combat Masterpiece on the hood of the Pontiac. Before I could say anything, the girl struggling with the pistol tossed it into the back seat and raised another one at me.

I fired three times, half the rounds in my weapon.

The first slug snapped the girl’s head back, the second striking her in the throat, a grotesque pinkish blossom spurting upward from her collar. I didn’t register what happened to my third shot. Quintana accelerated as the girl sagged down, and the car pulled away.

I fired twice into the right front tire, bursting it.

The convertible, still accelerating, now pivoted on the front hub, spinning the car 180 degrees so that it was facing me. Suddenly, there was a sound like hail, peppering the street in front of me.

I dove again, this time under the front bumper of the Pontiac, and looked toward Beacon. The girl with the Intratec was limping up Fairfield toward me, dragging her bloodied right leg. The bloodied right arm hung at her side, the left hand firing in a clumsy way that told me she was right-handed.

From the gutter, I shouted at her twice to stop. She didn’t.

As her next string kicked up gravel and tar in front of me, I held the front sight on her waistline and pulled the trigger on my sixth round. The girl staggered backward like a dazed boxer before her torso closed down over her knees, and she pitched onto the asphalt face-first.

To my right I heard the convertible start forward again. I reached under my pant leg and drew the Chief’s Special from its calf holster.

As I came back up over the Pontiac’s hood, I could see Blanca bleeding badly from a wound in her throat. Maybe my second bullet after it went through her friend, maybe my third. Hacking blood into her side of the windshield, Quintana accelerated toward me parallel with the parked cars on Fairfield, the convertible grinding on the ruined hub of its right front wheel, the metal shooting sparks behind it like Flash Gordon’s spaceship.