Rogue Island (26 page)

“Back up a minute,” Mason said. “Do the cops really think you set the fires, or is Polecki just trying to get even for that ‘Dumb and Dumber' story?”

“Both.”

“Why would they think you're involved?”

“The FBI profile
does
fit me to a T.”

“Yeah, but it could fit a lot of people.”

“True. And there's a flaw in it, too.”

“Which is?”

“The profile assumes the perp is a pyromaniac.”

“He isn't?”

“No. This isn't pyromania. It's arson for profit.”

“What makes you think that?” Mason asked.

“All in good time, Thanks-Dad.”

“What are you going to do now?” Veronica said.

“I've got twelve hundred in my checking account. That gives me about a month to crack this thing. If it takes longer than that …”

“You haven't taken any vacation this year, right?” Mason said.

I nodded.

“And you get—what?—three weeks a year?”

“Yeah.”

“So you've got some vacation pay coming. At your salary it should come to …?”

“Just under twenty-six hundred,” I said.

“I'll talk to Dad and get him to cut the check.”

Diego, the daytime waiter, was busy with something behind the stick, so Mason got up and fetched our drinks. Campari and soda for him, chardonnay for Veronica, Killian's for me. I swallowed a couple of painkillers, washed them down with beer, and chased it with Maalox.

“Woodward called today,” Veronica said.

“Oh?”

“He said he should have an opening for me soon, but he advised me to keep my distance from you until this thing blows over.”

“So I guess this isn't the best time for me to call him about a job.”

“Probably not.”

“You taking his advice?”

“I don't know. I don't want to.”

“But you're ambitious,” I said. “You're your father's girl.”

She pressed her lips together and stared into her wine glass.

Hardcastle came through the door with a couple of copy editors and grabbed a stool at the bar. A clerk from the courthouse wandered in. The place was filling. Hardcastle glanced over, spotted me, removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket, and placed a call.

“You need a lawyer,” Veronica said.

“Can't afford one.”

“If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you,” Mason said.

“Shut up, Thanks-Dad.”

“Sorry. I've been hanging around with a smart-ass, and some of it is rubbing off.”

In spite of myself, I was starting to like this kid.

“So what are you going to do?” Veronica asked.

“Maybe I'll ask your mystery source to represent me pro bono. After all, Brady Coyle and I were teammates at PC, and teammates are supposed to stick together.”

It was an educated guess. Coyle was one of a handful of people who could have gotten access to the secret grand-jury testimony. As Arena's lawyer, he wasn't legally entitled to it until the discovery phase of the trial, but for someone with his pull, the courthouse was a sieve. And he fit that description Veronica had let slip—a he who hated my guts. When her eyes got wide, I knew I'd guessed right.

“It's hard to keep a secret in this town, Veronica. Only thing I can't figure is why Coyle's feeding you stuff that makes his client look guilty.”

I was still waiting for her to say something when the cell started singing the blues in my hip pocket.

“I just heard on the radio that you were released,” Rosie said. “Are you okay?

“I've had better days.”

“Anything I can do? Do you need money for a lawyer?”

“I've got that covered,” I lied.

“Where are you? I want to see you.”

“Not until I get this cleared up. You can't be consorting with a serial arson suspect. How could you explain it to your men?”

We argued about it for a few more minutes, saying good-bye just as Logan Bedford strutted into the place with a cameraman. He surveyed the room, then headed straight for me. The little red light on the camera told me it was already on. Veronica saw them coming and bolted for the ladies' room.

Note to self: Change the cell ring tone to “Stand by Your Man.”

Logan checked his hair in the mirror behind the bar and sidled up next to me so his cameraman could get us both in the shot.

“Channel 10 News has learned exclusively that you fit the FBI profile of the Mount Hope arsonist. Would you care to comment?”

“How exclusive can it be,” I said, “when it's already been in the paper?”

“The public wants to know. L. S. A. Mulligan, are you the Mount Hope arsonist?”

“Logan, if you'd come in here like a professional journalist, which you aren't, instead of barging in like an asshole, which you are, I might have actually talked to you. Why don't you put
that
comment on the air?”

“What about you, sir?” he said, turning his attention to Mason. “Would you care to explain your choice of company this evening?”

Mason picked up my bottle of Maalox and offered it to Logan. “Here,” he said. “You're going to need this after I shove that camera down your throat.”

Yes. I was definitely starting to like this kid.

With that, Logan turned to leave.

“Hey,” I said.

He turned back to look at me.

“On your way out, tell Hardcastle I said he should go fuck himself.”

64

As evening fell, a thick fog rolled in from the bay. I guess Veronica thought it gave her enough cover to avoid being seen with me. We strolled out of Hopes hand in hand and got into her car together. As she started the engine, a couple of pedestrians strolled by, materializing out of the murk like ghosts. I could barely see two cars ahead as she groped her way toward my place.

That evening, we made love, Veronica rocking gently on top of me, doing her best not to jostle my ribs. Neither of us felt like talking. After she fell asleep in my arms, I nuzzled her hair, inhaling her familiar scent. I don't know how long I lay there, trying to figure a way to hold on to her. Trying to figure a way to get my job back. Trying to figure a way to catch the bastards who were turning both my childhood and my future into ashes. After a while, I untangled myself from Veronica without waking her, downed a cocktail of Maalox and painkillers, sat down at the kitchen table, and started reading through my stack of notebooks once again.

Shortly after 2:00
A.M.
, the police radio sprang to life. “Code Red, 12 Hopedale Road.” The tenement house where I'd lived as a kid, where Aidan, Meg, and I had played hide-and-seek, where we'd watched helplessly as my dad withered away. Did I know anyone who lived there now? I couldn't remember.

I got up and stepped into the bedroom to fetch Veronica's car keys. She was sitting on the bed, pulling on a pair of jeans.

“No need for you to go,” she said.

“Because I'm not a reporter anymore.”

“Lie down and get some sleep, my love. I'll be back in a while to tell you all about it.”

She stretched out her right hand for the keys. I shook my head and slid them into my pocket.

*  *  *

The fog caught the beams from our headlights and flung them back at us as I felt my way along the familiar city streets. I held my speed at 15 mph as I rolled along Camp Street, missing the turn for Pleasant. I backed up, turned right, and clipped a parked car, snapping off its side mirror. About fifty yards down the street, as I turned left onto Hopedale Road, the lights from the fire and rescue vehicles turned the fog into a red mist.

As I straightened the wheel I heard a pop, and just like that I lost control. Veronica screamed as the car veered to the left and bounced off a utility pole.

“Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Veronica said. “Are you hurt?”

My ribs were reintroducing me to real pain, so I lied. “I'm fine.”

I got out to check the damage. A cracked headlight and a crumpled fender. If it weren't for the two flat front tires, it would have been drivable. I went around to the passenger-side door and helped Veronica out. She took a couple of steps, and I could see she was limping.

“I guess I banged my knee,” she said.

I bent down to take a look. She had a bloody rip in her jeans.

“You need to get to the hospital.”

“I'll drive you,” someone said.

I looked up and saw Gunther Hawes, one of the DiMaggios, coming down the stairs of a weathered cottage. “My car's parked just down the way on Pleasant Street,” he said. “Stay here and I'll be right back.”

While we waited, I looked around to see if I could figure out what blew the tires. A pair of two-by-fours with spikes driven through them had been laid across the road. I flipped them upside down, tromped on them to bend the spikes, and dragged them onto the sidewalk. As I was finishing up, Gunther pulled up beside us, and I noticed his driver-side mirror was missing.

On the drive to the hospital, I apologized for the mirror, wrote down my insurance information for him, and told him about the booby trap.

“Somebody must have wanted to slow the fire equipment down,” he said, “but they came in from the other end of the street.”

“There was probably one there too,” I said.

“We should tell somebody,” Veronica said.

“Fire equipment's already on the street,” I said, “so they must have already found out the hard way.”

Gunther braked in front of the Rhode Island Hospital emergency-room entrance, and we both got out to help Veronica from the car. A rescue wagon, siren screaming, pulled in behind us, and the back doors flew open. Two attendants sprinted from the hospital to help the crew unload a stretcher from the back.

The patient was strapped to a backboard, a cervical collar stabilizing her neck. Part of her uniform had been burned off. The flesh underneath looked like grilled beef. I wouldn't have recognized her except for one thing.

The gurney was nearly half a foot shorter than she was.

65

On Monday, the federal grand jury handed up a sealed, thirty-two-count indictment charging Arena and three officials of the Laborers' International Union with wire fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, bribery, filing false income tax returns, perjury, obstruction of justice, labor racketeering, and conspiracy. The twelve stitches in her knee didn't seem to slow Veronica down any. Tipped by her source, she broke the story on page one, spoiling the U.S. attorney's plans for a showy press conference.

Coyle was so busy arranging bail, holding his client's hand, and condemning the government in a series of press interviews that it was a week before he could squeeze me in.

That gave me plenty of time to worry myself sick about Rosie.

She was in the intensive care unit. Only family was allowed to see her. All the hospital would tell me was that her condition was critical. They said it every time I called. Cops and firefighters hung up on me when I pressed for details, so all I knew about the accident was what I read in the paper.

HERO FIRE CHIEF CRITICALLY INJURED BY BOOBY TRAP
, the headline said. She'd been driving her official car down Mount Hope Avenue, red lights flashing. At Hopedale, she turned left, approaching the fire from the north. The booby trap blew out both of her front tires, and the car lurched into a light pole. The driver of the pumper truck following behind her was blinded by the fog. He didn't see her until it was too late. The truck clipped the right rear of her car, flipping it over, and the gas tank exploded.

I kept digging, double-checking documents and reinterviewing sources. I needed something to distract me from the image of Rosie lying limp and helpless on a gurney. And I had even more reason to nail the bastards now. I felt darn right homicidal.

*  *  *

The firm of McDougall, Young, Coyle, and Limone occupied two full floors of the Textron Tower. I got off the elevator on twelve, pushed open the mahogany double doors, and stepped into a waiting room big enough for a pickup basketball game. To the left, a receptionist in a beige business suit juggled calls behind a large glass desk. To the right, five baby dog sharks with tiny, cruel eyes cruised counterclockwise in a hundred-gallon aquarium, the firm's way of telling you right off what kind of lawyer you'd be getting.

I stood in front of the desk until the receptionist hung up the phone, glanced at my David Ortiz jersey and Red Sox cap, and asked if I was there to pick up or drop off.

“I have a ten o'clock appointment with Brady Coyle.”

“Do you, now?”

“I do,” I said, hoping she didn't recognize my voice.

“Your name?”

“L. S. A. Mulligan.”

“One moment, please.”

She picked up the phone, spoke a few words, told me Mr. Coyle would be with me shortly, and asked me to take a seat. I spent nearly an hour obsessing about Rosie and studying the little sharks—the wait just the big shark's way of establishing his dominance—before his secretary appeared and led me up an interior staircase to his office.

“Mulligan!” he said, gripping my right hand in both of his and smiling big to display a picket fence of blinding teeth. “I haven't seen you since I took you to school in that pickup game at Alumni Hall.”

Still trying to establish dominance, as if his panoramic view of historic Benefit Street, his three-inch height advantage, and his twelve-hundred-dollar suit weren't enough to do the job.

As he led me across a blue oriental rug toward a black leather visitor's chair, I took a moment to study the decor. Photos of Coyle posing with Buddy Cianci, George W. Bush, Alan Dershowitz, and Ernie DiGregorio. Four tastefully framed Jackson Pollocks. The room wasn't a vault, so I figured the paintings for reproductions.

“So,” he said, settling into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk, “you should know right off that we require a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer in criminal cases.”