Rogue Island (12 page)

“What'd you tell 'em?”

“I told 'em,
‘Vaffanculo!'
Next thing you know, they're knockin' on my neighbors' doors asking more questions. Now everybody's lookin' at me funny, and nobody even says hello when I tip my hat.”

“Tell me where you were when the fires started, and maybe I can get them off your back.”

“I was right here. Alone. Watching my shows just like every night. So unless Bill O'Reilly can see me through the TV, I ain't got no alibi.”

“What about the fire in the rooming house? That one was in the afternoon.”

“I was at the firehouse. That's what I told those two
cogliones.
But they asked the fellas, and none of 'em could remember if I was there the whole time or maybe ducked out for a while.”

“Okay, Jack. Here's what I want you to do. I want you to get out of that chair and go fishing.”

“It ain't fishin' season.”

“It is somewhere. Alaska, maybe? Florida? Pack up your gear, get on a plane, and don't tell anyone where you're going. Hold on to your airline and hotel receipts, and the next time there's a fire, you'll have your alibi. I'll call your cell and let you know when it's okay to come back.”

“Hell, Liam. I ain't got that kinda money.”

“It's on me.”

“Can't let you do that.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, Liam. I can't.” His voice was stern now, letting me know he meant it.

I sighed, crossed my arms, and thought for a minute. Then I slipped two Cubans out of my pocket and offered him one.

“No thanks,” he said, “but you go ahead.”

I clipped the tip with my cigar cutter, fired it up, leaned back in the chair, and blew a couple of smoke rings.

“Look, Jack,” I said. “They're probably going to question you again. If they do, don't say anything. If they ask you to go with them to the station, ask if you are under arrest. If they say no, don't go with them. If they say yes, ask for a lawyer, and don't say a word until he shows up. You can do that for me, right?”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“And don't tell Polecki and Roselli I told you not to talk, okay?”

“Got it.”

“This won't last forever, Jack. One of these days, the arsonist will make a mistake. He'll get caught. And you'll have your life back.”

“I hope you're right, boy.”

I smoked some more, he drank some more, and we reminisced some more about my father. When the cigar burned down to the ring, I dropped it into the tumbler and got up to leave. Jack rose to see me to the door.

“Wish your dad was around to talk to,” he said. “I can't tell you how this feels, the neighbors lookin' at me the way they do.”

As I stepped into the hall, he snapped off the light and pulled the door closed. I trudged down the stairs, picturing him alone in the dark, drinking from his tumbler of whiskey.

24

That evening, when the cops came for Sassy/Sugar, Ralph and Gladys Fleming barricaded themselves inside their little house.

Guns drawn, the cops tried to negotiate with them through a megaphone. When that didn't work, they lugged a battering ram to the front door. As they swung it, they slipped on the icy stoop and toppled onto the crusted snow, giving Logan some great footage for the six o'clock news. The cops scrambled to their feet, picked up the ram, and were about to swing it again when Martin Lippitt, the dog's presumed rightful owner, pointed out that they were being ridiculous. For a while, a dozen cops stood around looking sheepish. Then they jumped into their prowl cars and drove off.

Logan ended his report with the news that Channel 10 had stepped in to settle the dispute. X-rays of the dog's legs and an examination of the pads on its feet could determine conclusively whether Sassy/Sugar had crossed the country or only crossed the street. Tufts University's Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine in Grafton, Massachusetts, would do the examination, Channel 10 would foot the bill, and Lippitt and the Flemings had agreed to abide by the result.

“You know,” I said as the TV over the bar broke for commercial, “it's a sad commentary that an idiot like Logan has more sense than the Providence Police Department.”

“Wouldn't it be easier for somebody to get in touch with those people out in Oregon and see if they still have the dog?” Veronica said.

Edna Stinson told me a week ago that Sassy had been dismembered by a logging truck, but it was a little late to be bringing that up. So what I said was, “Hardcastle tried, but the Stinsons took off for their annual fishing trip to British Columbia and aren't expected back for a month.”

Veronica fished a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse and put one between her lips. I leaned over with the Colibri and gave her a light. She took a puff, then thought better of it and ground the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“Can't smoke at work anymore,” she said, “so this is a good time to quit.”

I was craving another Cuban, but this seemed like a bad time to fire one up.

Veronica rose from her chair, fed quarters into the jukebox, and punched up some slow songs. When the Garth Brooks cover of Dylan's “To Make You Feel My Love” came on, we got up and danced a little in a cramped space between the tables, our shoes making scraping sounds on the gritty wooden floor. I loved the way her body fit against mine. Then we walked out of Hopes hand in hand into the first clear night in a month.

A bright moon floated over city hall. We stood on the sidewalk and kissed. It was still early, but we agreed we'd both had too many late nights lately. We got into our separate cars and drove to our separate apartments.

25

After bedding Secretariat down for the evening, I climbed the narrow flight of stairs to my place, where Veronica's toothbrush still sat reassuringly in the porcelain fixture.

I tuned the TV to a
Law & Order
rerun and started reading a U.S. government publication titled
21st Century Guide to the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (ATF): Includes Arson and Explosives, Bomb Threat and Detection, Bomb Task Force, Ballistics Technology to Solve Crimes, Commerce in Firearms, Brady Law, Gang Resistance Education and Training, Special Agent Recruiting, Safety Info, Laws, Regulations, and Manuals, Field Divisions, Laboratories, Forms, ATF Bulletins, Church Arson Task Force (Core Federal Information Series)
.

Clint Eastwood owns the movie rights.

I must have dozed off, because the rap on the door startled me. Half asleep, I padded barefoot across the cold linoleum, turned the dead bolt, and found Sharon Stone wiping her white vinyl boots on my straw welcome mat. That was odd. I wasn't expecting anyone from Hollywood. The only person I knew who'd even
been
to Hollywood was a Rhode Island–born comedian named Ruth Buzzi, and she hadn't been heard from since
Laugh-In
was canceled.

“Well?” said Sharon Stone. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“Excuse my manners, Gloria,” I said as synapses fired and a handful of brain cells clicked on. “If I knew it was you, I would have put on a shirt.”

“Nice pecs,” she said as she stepped across the threshold.

Yes, indeed,
I thought. She was wearing a white cable-knit sweater that showed the swell of her breasts while concealing that pudgy waist. Two Nikons, one with a wide-angle lens and the other with a telephoto, hung from her neck, the black leather straps digging into her cleavage. She looked around for someplace to hang the green parka that was slung over her right shoulder. Seeing nothing, she let it drop to the floor.

I offered her something to drink, but she declined both Veronica's leftover Russian River and my Maalox. We were sitting now on the edge of my bed, me in an old Pedro Martínez Red Sox jersey I'd shrugged on despite her insistence that I not go to the trouble. Sam Waterston and an anorexic starlet who looked nothing like any assistant district attorney I'd ever seen finished celebrating another triumph of the American criminal-justice system, and the Verizon “Can you hear me now?” guy, who pissed me off every time I looked at him, opened his mouth to sell me phone service. I couldn't reach him with a left hook, so I shut him up with the remote.

“So,” she said. “That how you plan to spend the evening? Watching actors pretend to solve crimes? Or do you want to hit the streets again and try to solve a real one?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I hear you've been prowling around Mount Hope at night,” she said.

“Where'd you hear that?”

“A cop I know.”

“Yeah, I blew a few nights cruising around because I couldn't think of anything else to do. But it's a waste of time, Gloria. I'm not doing that anymore.”

“It's not a waste of time,” she said. “You might get lucky. I already did once.”

“How's that?”

“Night of the rooming-house fire, I was the one who pulled the alarm. I shot forty frames before the first fire truck got to the scene.”

“I thought you said you ran into it on your way home.”

“I lied,” she said.

Turned out she'd been haunting the neighborhood after dark almost every night for two weeks, mostly driving, sometimes parking her Ford Focus on the street and getting out to stretch her legs. That figure I'd seen my first night out, the one carrying something that might have been a camera? Chances are it was Gloria.

“So you got lucky once,” I said. “It's not likely to happen again.”

“A photographer makes her own luck. Those fire pictures? They got me out of the lab. I start as a full-time shooter next week.”

“That's great, Gloria. It's long overdue. But I don't much like the idea of you prowling around alone at night.”

“So come with me,” she said. “That's why I came by, to invite you to keep me company.”

“How about we just stay here and watch Craig Ferguson?”

“Come on, Mulligan. It's a clear night with a big old moon. I've got a thermos full of hot coffee and Buddy Guy on the CD player. You can smoke in my car if you want. Or maybe kiss me a little. I think I might like that.”

She leaned over and put her lips on mine, trying it out.

“Yes,” she said, “I think that might work.”

“Worked for me,” I said, “but, ah …”

“But you're thinking Veronica might not like it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You two getting serious?”

“No. I don't know. Maybe.”

“Think a night with me might help you figure it out?”

It might at that. It was a perfectly logical and appealing proposition. Still, I had the feeling there might be a flaw in it somewhere. I started dressing for the cold.

I was in the bathroom with the door closed, changing into some warm pants, when the phone rang.

“Mind getting that for me, Gloria?” I said, but I should have known better.

I heard her say “Hello,” and then she got very quiet. I zipped up, came out quickly, and took the phone.

“You!

fucking!

bastard!”

“Hello, Dorcas.”

“So. Who is she?”

“Just a colleague from the paper.”

“Fucking her yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Be sure to let me know when you start so I can add another count of adultery to the divorce complaint.”

“Good night, Dorcas,” I said, and hung up.

“The almost ex?” Gloria said.

“Uh-huh.”

“You should have heard what she called me.”

“Sorry about that. She's more than a little nuts.”

“So I gathered.”

“You know, my life's pretty complicated right now, Gloria.”

“And I'd just complicate it more?”

“In a good way. But yeah, I'm afraid you would.”

“Aw, damn. Well, you know where to find me if you ever get things worked out.”

With that, Sharon Stone gave me a parting hug, picked her coat up off the floor, and walked out my door.

26

The managing editor's office, four glass walls in the middle of the newsroom, looked like an aquarium. More than once, I'd been tempted to seal it with a tube of silicone, fill it with water, and add tropical fish.

Through the glass, I could see Marshall Pemberton sitting behind his gleaming oak desk, his red rep tie loosened and the sleeves of his starched white shirt rolled up and ready for business. Lomax was there too, sunk in a maroon leather visitor's chair. I stepped in and collapsed into another just like it.

“You wanted to see me?” I said.

“Mulligan,” Pemberton said, “we have selected you for a very important assignment.”

“Thanks, but I've already got one.”

Pemberton glanced at Lomax, arched an eyebrow, chose to ignore my insolence, and pressed on.

“As you may know, our publisher's son has returned from Columbia, and he is starting work today as a reporter for our online edition. He is a very serious young man with a deep and abiding interest in the newspaper business. He wants to learn from the best, so we have chosen you to be his mentor. He will accompany you on all your reporting assignments until further notice.”

“Well,” I said, “I am deeply humbled by this honor, but there is one small problem.”

“Which is?”

“Which is that I'm hip-deep in the Mount Hope arson investigation, and I don't have the time or patience to wipe his blue-blood nose and change his too-rich-to-stink diapers.”

In five seconds, Pemberton's expression raced through a half dozen emotions, from anger to exasperation. He started to say something, thought better of it, and looked to Lomax for help.

“You don't have a vote here, Mulligan,” Lomax said.

“Why don't you stick his privileged ass upstairs in the ‘Living' section?” I said. “That way, he won't be hanging around the newsroom, getting in my way, and telling you what to put on page one.”