House Revenge (9 page)

“Do they have a picture of him on file?” DeMarco asked, not caring about the inequitable ways the city of Boston dealt with drunkards.

“I guess. Probably.”

“Have someone e-mail you his picture.”

Five minutes later, after Fitzgerald and the guy he was talking to figured out how to e-mail Canyon's mug shot, Fitzgerald had it on his phone.

“I want to go to the places around here that sell booze, especially cheap booze,” DeMarco said.

They stopped at three places, all of them three or four blocks from Elinore's apartment. None of the store owners recognized Canyon, and a guy as tall as him with a wild mane of black hair would have been noticeable. “Don't you find it strange,” DeMarco said, “that this wino doesn't shop in any of the stores around here? Look at his arrest record and find out where most of his arrests occurred.”

“The e-mail doesn't say. It's just a summary, like you asked for.”

“So call the fuckin' guy that prepared the summary and ask him.”

Fitzgerald did. “Almost all the busts were in Revere.”

“Which is where the McNultys have a bar,” DeMarco said. “The goddamn McNultys know this guy.”

DeMarco was silent for a moment. “I want you to get Canyon's picture to every cop on patrol in Boston and Revere.”

“You gotta be shittin' me,” Fitzgerald said. “I mean, I know you're upset by what happened to that old lady—I am, too—but it's not like Canyon was one of the marathon bombers.”

“Does it
look
like I'm shitting you, Fitzgerald?” DeMarco said.

Fitzgerald started to say something—then he recalled whatever O'Rourke had said to him about the necessity of keeping Congressman John Mahoney happy.

Fitzgerald made three or four phone calls and relayed DeMarco's order—and DeMarco could hear the people he was speaking to saying a variation of what Fitzgerald had said:
Are you shitting me?

Happy that the cops were now on the hunt for Canyon—who ­DeMarco was a hundred percent sure was an accomplice to trying to kill Elinore Dobbs—DeMarco told Fitzgerald: “Let's go see the McNultys.”

An hour later—Fitzgerald had begged DeMarco to let him stop at a McDonald's before he collapsed from hunger—they parked near a bar named the Shamrock in Revere.

As they were walking toward the bar, DeMarco said, “You need to be careful with these guys. You might even consider calling for backup.”

“Backup?” Fitzgerald said. “I don't think so.”

DeMarco got the impression just then that Fitzgerald hadn't always been a fat cop waiting until he could draw a pension. In fact, he wouldn't have been surprised if Fitzgerald had a sap in his back pocket and would enjoy using it.

The tavern was a dump, which is what DeMarco had expected from the exterior. Dimly lit, broken-down furniture, smelling of spilt beer. There was a dartboard on one wall and the wall around the board was pockmarked from players too drunk to hit the target. The glass covering a picture of Larry Bird behind the bar was flyspecked.

Standing behind the bar, reading a paperback, was an ample-sized woman with frizzy red hair and arms like a stevedore. One unshaven old drunk who looked as if he'd forgotten where he put his dentures was the only customer in the place. The McNulty brothers were at a table, a bottle of Jameson's in front of them, watching Jerry Springer on the television over the bar. On the Springer show two large women were screaming at a scrawny, tattooed doofus, accusing him of cheating on them both. The doofus seemed very pleased with himself.

When the McNultys saw DeMarco, they smiled. Ray, the one with the bitten ear, said, “Hey, what happened to you? Looks like somebody cleaned your clock.”

DeMarco almost lost it. He clenched his fists and took a step toward the table, then inhaled and stopped. He wasn't in good enough shape for a fight and, with his luck, and with Fitzgerald as a witness, he'd probably get arrested for assault.

“Where were you two shitheads last night?” DeMarco asked.

“Why you asking,” Ray said.

“And you better watch your fuckin' mouth,” Roy said.

“He's not asking,” Fitzgerald said. “I'm Detective Mike Fitzgerald, BPD, and I'm the one who's asking. So where were you two shitheads last night?”

Elinore was an early riser and she'd been found by Canyon at seven thirty a.m., which was another thing that bothered DeMarco: a bum being up at that time of day. DeMarco figured that the trip wire had been installed the night before. He also figured that whoever installed it—the McNultys or Canyon—hadn't been worried about any of the other residents using the stairs late at night. Mrs. Polanski, the lady with dementia, didn't leave her apartment; Goodman, the agoraphobic, didn't leave his; and Mrs. Spiegleman was an invalid, and gutless Mr. Spiegleman would have been afraid to venture out at night. The trap had been set for Elinore because the McNultys knew that she'd be out and about early in the day.

“We ain't got nothin' to hide,” Ray McNulty said to Fitzgerald. “We were here in the bar from, shit, I don't know, five until what?” he said, looking over at his brother. “Ten?”

“Yeah,” Roy said. “It was probably about ten. The Sox game was almost over but they were so far behind we bailed before it ended.”

“And what did you do after you left the bar?” Fitzgerald said.

“We had a couple girls over to our place.”

“You two had
dates
?” DeMarco said, making it clear that he found it incredible than any woman would go out with them.

Ray laughed. “I guess you'd call it a date, but we had to pay them.” He pulled out his wallet and handed Fitzgerald a card. Fitzgerald showed the card to DeMarco. It said Pinnacle Escort Services. “The two who came over were named Crystal and Terri,” Ray said.

“No, her name was Sherrie,” Roy said.

“Oh, yeah, Sherrie. Anyway, give 'em a call. They spent the whole night, didn't leave until eight this morning.”

“That's your alibi?” DeMarco said. “Hookers?”

“We don't need an alibi,” Ray said. “We didn't do anything.”

“How come you didn't ask why we're asking where you were last night?” DeMarco said.

They shrugged simultaneously, like Siamese twins joined at the shoulder.

“We figured you just wanted to hassle us about something,” Ray McNulty said. “So why are you asking?”

“Because someone tried to kill Elinore Dobbs this morning. Someone stretched a wire across the landing on the third floor, and she tripped over it and fell. She's got a concussion and a broken arm. And I think you two cocksuckers either did it or paid someone to do it.”

Roy stood up. “I told you. You better watch your mouth.”

Fitzgerald put his hand on his short revolver and said, “Sit your ass back down.”

Roy did, but he was simmering, and DeMarco thought—actually, he
hoped
—that Roy would attack him.

“Where do you guys know Greg Canyon from?” Fitzgerald asked.

“Who?” they said in unison.

DeMarco looked over at the hefty barmaid standing behind the bar, listening to everything. “What's your bartender's name?” he asked Ray.

“Doreen. Why?”

DeMarco walked over to Doreen and said, “Were you here last night, Doreen?”

She scowled at him, making him think of a pit bull with freckles. “Yeah.”

“And were the McNultys here the whole time you were here?”

“They were wherever they said they were.”

DeMarco knew he was wasting his time. With people like Doreen loyalty to your friends always came first, plus the McNultys, since they owned the bar, employed her. Nonetheless, he said, “I know what they said, but I want to hear what you have to say. So were they in the bar last night and how long were they here?”

Doreen just crossed her arms over her broad chest and stared at him.

“They made an old lady fall down some stairs,” DeMarco said. “They were trying to kill her.” Doreen didn't even blink. “If she dies, Doreen, and you cover for them, you can be charged as an accessory.”

“If you're not going to order a drink,” Doreen said, “move along.”

“Those goons did it,” DeMarco said as he Fitzgerald drove back to Boston. “I'm absolutely positive.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Fitzgerald said.

“You gotta find Canyon, Fitzgerald. If you can find him, we can make him talk.”

“I'll bet you my pension,” Fitzgerald said, “that Canyon is long gone from here. But I think you're right about those guys being involved, for whatever good that does, but it's going to be impossible to prove.”

DeMarco stopped by the hospital to see Elinore again. When he walked into her room, she was eating orange Jell-O with little pineapple chunks and had dribbled several bites down the front of her gown.

“Elinore,” DeMarco said softly. “How are you doing?”

“Pete? What are you doing here? You should be at work.”

Aw, jeez. Pete was her fireman husband who'd been dead for thirty years.

DeMarco tracked down young Dr. Webster next. “How's she doing?”

Webster shook her head. “Physically, she's fine. She's mending. But mentally . . .”

“Yeah, I know. She didn't recognize me again.”

“Do you know if she has any family?”

“I know she was married but her husband's dead. She didn't mention kids or anyone else. But I know a guy who's pretty high up in the government. I'll give him a call and see if he can find her next of kin.”

“Good. She needs someone to look after her.”

DeMarco didn't call the guy he knew that was high up in the government. Instead he called Maggie Dolan and told her to sic the interns on tracking down any relatives Elinore might have.

Two hours later he was informed that Elinore Dobbs had a daughter, which surprised DeMarco. He thought Elinore might have mentioned that, which made him wonder how close she was to her daughter. The daughter's name was Alice Silverman. She was sixty-two years old, divorced, and a retired college professor who lived in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He passed on the information to Dr. Webster.

That turned out to be just one more mistake DeMarco made.

As he was leaving the hospital, the retired contractor, Boyer, called him.

“Okay, I got MassDEP looking into what Flannery's doing. I'll bet by tomorrow they'll have stopped work on the project, or at least parts of it. Flannery might have records showing he removed and disposed of the asbestos the way he was supposed to, but I doubt it. Ditto with the contaminated soil. I'll go down there tomorrow to check on what's happening.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” DeMarco said.

But DeMarco was really thinking that slowing down work on Callahan's project was no longer good enough—at least not for him. And delaying Callahan wasn't going to affect the McNultys one damn bit.

The McNultys had to go—and DeMarco thought he knew a way to make that happen. As for Callahan, he hadn't figured out what he was going to do about him yet, but some slap-on-the-wrist fine for improper asbestos removal wasn't sufficient to pay for what had happened to Elinore Dobbs. Callahan and the McNultys hadn't killed the woman, but if she didn't recover mentally, they might as well have.

13

DeMarco had decided that if he couldn't use the law to get the McNultys, then he'd use outlaws.

Superintendent O'Rourke had given him the idea when he mentioned that the McNultys occasionally smuggled cigarettes for the Providence mob. But DeMarco wasn't going to screw around with a crime as benign as depriving the state of Massachusetts of its exorbitant tax on cigarettes. He wanted the brothers in jail until they were old and toothless. Or if not old, he'd be satisfied with toothless, a condition they were likely to achieve when they annoyed the wrong people in prison.

A couple years ago, Mahoney's middle daughter, Molly, had some trouble with an addiction to both booze and gambling. She was clean now, but as a result of the gambling she got into debt in a major way to a casino boss in Atlantic City, and to get out of debt, she conspired with the casino boss in an insider trading scheme. Then she was arrested. DeMarco was able to keep Molly from going to jail—even though she deserved to go to jail—by turning a mobster in Philly named Al Castiglia against the casino boss. As for the casino boss, well, he just disappeared.

The guy who did the disappearing was one of the scariest people DeMarco had ever met, a man named Delray. Delray—DeMarco didn't know if that was his first or his last name—was Al Castiglia's enforcer. He was built like a linebacker, he rarely spoke, and his most distinctive feature was one milk-colored, blind eye; the eye had met the pointy end of a shank while Delray was in prison.

What all this meant was that DeMarco knew a mobster in Philadelphia “that he'd once helped,” and the mobster might now be willing to help him. He checked flights departing Logan and four hours later found himself in the City of Brotherly Love, where he was hoping to launch a plan to destroy two brothers.

DeMarco used a pay phone to call Delray, preferring that there not be a record of him calling a man in Delray's line of business. The first thing Delray said to him was: “How are your teeth doing?”

One of the odd things about his initial encounter with Delray was at the time he met the man, he was suffering from a cracked tooth, couldn't get in to see his regular dentist, and Delray had recommended a nephew who was just starting his practice in D.C. So Delray's nephew was now DeMarco's dentist. Talk about six degrees of separation.

“My teeth are fine,” DeMarco said. “And I've recommended your nephew to all my friends.”

“Yeah, my sister tells me his practice is really growing. So why'd you call?”

“I need to meet with you and your boss.”

Delray picked DeMarco up at his hotel near the Philadelphia airport. Delray had a dark complexion—DeMarco wasn't sure of his ethnicity—and, as always, was wearing sunglasses. He rarely took the glasses off because of his disfigured right eye. He was dressed casually in lightweight gray slacks and a blue polo shirt. He didn't say a word to DeMarco during the thirty-minute drive to Al Castiglia's house; he hadn't become a chatterbox since DeMarco last saw him.

Castiglia's house was a sprawling older home in a working-class neighborhood of Philadelphia. The area had not yet been gentrified by greedy developers, and with Castiglia living there, it probably wouldn't be until he either moved or died. Al Castiglia was no Elinore Dobbs. When Delray rang the doorbell, Castiglia answered the door himself.

Castiglia was a big man and getting bigger as he aged; he was six foot four and weighed close to three hundred pounds. He'd gained weight since the last time DeMarco saw him. He was close to seventy and mostly bald, just a few wispy strands of gray hair remaining on his big head. Because Philadelphia was experiencing the same heat wave as Boston, he was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt, baggy shorts that reached below his knees, and sandals showing off hairy toes.

“Let's go down to the basement,” Castiglia said. “It's cooler down there. I'm starting to believe all that global warming bullshit might be real.”

There was a billiard table in the basement and a seating area with two comfortable old couches positioned for viewing a seventy-inch television screen.

“You want a beer?” Castiglia asked DeMarco.

“Sure,” DeMarco said.

“How 'bout you, Delray?”

Delray shook his head.

Castiglia took two bottles from a refrigerator near the billiard table, and used an opener attached to the refrigerator door to open the beers. He handed one to DeMarco, saying: “They make that right here in Philly.”

The label on the bottle said Kenzinger, a brand DeMarco had never heard of. He took a sip and said, “It's good.”

“So how's Mahoney doing?” Castiglia asked.

In order to keep his daughter from going to jail for insider trading, Mahoney had been forced to meet with Castiglia and, for whatever reason, the two men actually liked each other. Maybe that was because there wasn't that much difference between gangsters and politicians; they just belonged to different gangs.

“He's pissed that the Republicans still control the House,” DeMarco said, “but other than that, he's doing fine. And he's pretty much the reason I'm here. You see, Mahoney met this tough little old lady in Boston.”

DeMarco proceeded to tell Castiglia the tale of Elinore Dobbs, how Callahan and the McNulty brothers were trying to force her to move, and then, the last straw, had made her fall down the stairs.

“This old lady, who was sharper than a tack until this happened, can barely remember her own name now,” DeMarco concluded.

“Those sons of bitches,” Castiglia said. Delray didn't speak, but he shook his head to convey his opinion of the low-handed thing the McNultys had done—and DeMarco had been counting on this. It had been his experience that almost all men loved their mothers, even the most despicable men. And, by extension, most men tended to care about old ladies because old ladies reminded them of Mom.

“So what do you need from me?” Castiglia asked. “You want me to send someone to Boston to kneecap these assholes.”

“No. I want them in jail, not a hospital or a morgue.”

“Okay,” Castiglia said. “But I'm not exactly in law enforcement.”

No shit
, DeMarco almost said. “Do you know anyone in Providence? I mean, someone in your line of business?”

Castiglia shrugged. “I might know a couple guys there.”

“Here's what I want,” DeMarco said, “and you can name your price as long as it's not too outrageous. Somebody in Providence uses the McNultys to smuggle cigarettes from Virginia into Boston. They're not part of the outfit in Providence. They're just guys they use when they want something transported and don't want to use their own people for whatever reason.”

Castiglia nodded. “There's good money in cigarettes and the risk is fairly low. I mean, in terms of jail time.”

“Yeah,” DeMarco said. “But I'm not talking about cigarettes. I want you to buy a crate of automatic weapons. And I mean machine guns. M16s, AR-15s, something like that modified to fire on full automatic. I don't care if the guns are pieces of shit, but they have to be machine guns. Then I need you to contact whoever it is in Providence that uses the McNultys and . . .”

DeMarco concluded by saying, “The risk to you is almost zero. You won't have to go near the weapons. And I'll compensate you and Providence.”

Castiglia finished his beer and said, “You want another one?”

“No, I'm fine,” DeMarco said.

Castiglia opened another Kenzinger and took a long swallow. “You know, it'd probably be cheaper for you to just have these guys whacked. By the time you pay for the guns and me and Providence . . . Well, I'm just saying.”

“I don't want anyone killed,” DeMarco said. “What they did to that woman, I feel like killing them but . . . I'm just not going to go down that path, if for no other reason than I don't want to end up as an accomplice to murder. If we do this the way I want, nobody goes to jail but the McNultys. I'll be satisfied if they spend a long time inside, and when they get there, maybe you can reach out to someone and make their time in prison as uncomfortable as possible.”

“You okay with this, Delray?” Castiglia said.

Delray nodded. “I mean, shit, an old lady. Yeah, I'm okay with this.”

To DeMarco, Castiglia said, “Okay. I'll call you. It'll take a couple days to set all this up, and that's assuming the guy in Providence will go along with it. And then you're going to have to come up with the money.”

That could be a problem: coming up with the money.

The first thing DeMarco did when he arrived back in Boston was to go see Elinore again. He was hoping to see that she'd improved. When he arrived at her hospital room he found a woman sitting in a chair next to her bed, talking on a cell phone. She frowned when she saw DeMarco.

The woman was in her sixties, thin as a rail, and had dark hair tied back in a severe bun. In fact,
severe
pretty much described the woman. She was wearing a black dress—something appropriate for a funeral and not the July heat—and with her sharp nose, thin lips, and a face that looked as if it was frozen into a permanent frown, she reminded him of a discontented crow. She ended her call, saying, “I'm not sure how much longer I'll be in this god-awful city. You're just going to have to deal with that while I'm gone.”

“Who are you?” she said to DeMarco.

“My name's Joe DeMarco. Congressman John Mahoney sent me here to help Elinore with the problems she's having with a developer named Callahan. Who are you?”

“Alice Silverman. I'm Elinore's daughter.”

DeMarco had given Elinore's doctor the daughter's name, and the hospital must have contacted her. He was thinking it was a good thing that Silverman was now in Boston to help her mother—that is, he thought it was a good thing for about two more minutes.

“My mother didn't tell me anything about some congressman helping her,” Silverman said. “And right now she can't even remember who I am half the time. I knew she was fighting to stay in her apartment but now . . . Well, she no longer has that problem.”

“What do you mean?” DeMarco said.

“Yesterday, Mr. Callahan offered my mother half a million dollars to vacate her apartment and I accepted his offer.”

“What! Do you have the authority to do that?” DeMarco asked.

“Not that it's any of your business, but yes I do. My mother gave me power of attorney a long time ago in case she was incapacitated for any reason. So I'm accepting Mr. Callahan's offer on her behalf. I've also agreed that neither my mother nor I will file a lawsuit against Mr. Callahan for her accident since he's being so generous.”

“Son of a bitch,” DeMarco muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. So what's going to happen to her?”

“I'm taking her to live near me in Portsmouth. I'm placing her in an assisted-living facility there. Mr. Callahan said he'd help me relocate her, take care of her furniture and all that.”

“Callahan's the reason she's in the hospital,” DeMarco said. “She didn't have an accident. These two shitheads—”

“I don't like that sort of language.”

“Like I was saying, these
shitheads
working for Callahan rigged a trip wire across the stairs, and that's why your mother fell. They were trying to kill her, and you should never have signed anything agreeing not to sue him. The last thing your mother would have wanted was you accepting his offer.”

Silverman did not take kindly to DeMarco chastising her. “I won't tolerate you telling me what I should or shouldn't have signed, and I don't care who you work for. Now get out of here. My mother needs her rest.”

Ignoring Silverman, DeMarco walked over to stand next to Elinore's bed. “Elinore, how are you doing?”

Elinore looked up at him, her eyes cloudy and unable to focus. “What did you do with Eli?” she said.

“What?” DeMarco said.

“Eli was her dog. He died fifteen years ago,” Silverman said. “Now leave. Immediately.”

DeMarco felt like punching his fist through a wall. While he'd been in Philadelphia, Callahan had somehow gotten to Elinore's dour daughter. And although he didn't know for sure, he figured that Silverman was going to dump her mother into the cheapest assisted-living facility she could find. By the time Elinore recovered enough to manage her own affairs—assuming she ever recovered—Callahan would have cleaned out her apartment and started knocking down the walls so there would be no way that she'd be able to move back in.

He hated to do it, but he called Mahoney. Mahoney went ballistic, screaming so loud DeMarco had to hold the phone a foot from his ear.

When Mahoney finally stopped yelling, DeMarco said, “I'm going to get these guys, boss.”

“How? How in the hell are you going to do that?”

“I'm not going to tell you how on a cell phone, but the McNultys are going to go to jail. Then I'll deal with Callahan.”

“I'll believe it when I see it,” Mahoney said. He paused, then added, “Goddamnit, Joe, I sent you up there to help that woman and the next thing you know, she not only loses her apartment, she's a fucking vegetable. How did you let this happen?”

DeMarco couldn't believe it: now it was
his
fault that Elinore had been hurt. But then he thought:
Maybe Mahoney is right
. Maybe he should have considered the consequences of threatening the McNultys before he threatened them. Whatever the case, he was going to set things right.

DeMarco didn't have anything useful he could think to do while he waited to hear back from Al Castiglia. He'd been planning to contact a lawyer to initiate a lawsuit against Callahan for Elinore's injuries—but that option was no longer on the table thanks to Elinore's daughter.

He called Emma, curious if she'd learned any more about Congressman Sims. She didn't answer her phone—which was typical of Emma—and he didn't bother to leave a message.