“So, then. Got any story ideas?”
“I already have a scoop for you,” I said. “Show me where to sit, and I’ll bang it out.”
47
If the homicide twins were guilty of robbery and murder, proving it was going to be a bitch. I didn’t know where to start. The next morning, I kicked it around with Joseph for a couple of hours. He wasn’t any help.
At noon, I drove to the Omni and cornered the desk clerk who’d been on duty when Romeo Alfano was killed. Had he seen anybody who looked like a cop walk out of the hotel with a briefcase that day? He didn’t remember. When I slipped him forty bucks, he still didn’t. The concierge was no help either.
The hotel detective was a retired Providence police sergeant named Ferguson Conklin. I found him sitting in a cramped office near the reception desk, his eyes scanning the hotel’s surveillance monitors.
“How ya doin’, Fergie?”
“Been better. Murder ain’t good for business.”
“I assume you’ve gone over all the video from the day of the murder.”
“Of course I have. Freitas and Wargart did, too.”
“They show anything?”
“Nothing helpful.”
“No intruder sneaking into the murder room before the cops showed up?”
“There aren’t any surveillance cameras in the hallways.”
“What? Why not?”
“Our guests value their privacy.”
“But the cameras cover the stairwells and elevators?”
“Of course.”
“Anybody go up to the ninth floor shortly before the cops arrived?”
“Just a couple of the housekeeping staff. And one guy who knew how to avert his face from the cameras. Could have been the killer. Could have just been some guy cheating on his wife. Happens all the time. Of course, the cameras also caught you and McCracken coming down. Wargart and Freitas seemed real interested in that.”
“Did the homicide twins go up before Parisi arrived?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Mind if I take a look at the tape?”
“Sorry. The Providence dicks took it with them.”
I went back to my car and tried to think things through. A couple of weeks ago, I was an investigative reporter hell-bent on exposing massive political corruption in the state legislature. Now I’d been reduced to trying to clear a violent punk, and myself, of a murder rap. The sense of mission that had driven me for more than two decades as a journalist was gone, but my new task did come with a sense of urgency.
When I couldn’t think of anything better to do, I decided to try talking things over with Parisi-even though he was never much for talking.
“I hear you’re a private dick now,” he said through his rolled-down driver’s-side window.
“I am.”
“I hate private dicks.”
“That’s funny. Last time we talked, you said some nice things about McCracken. And he always speaks well of you.”
“Of course he does.”
“Mario Zerilli claims he didn’t shoot Romeo Alfano,” I said.
“What else would you expect him to say?”
“He also says he doesn’t have the two hundred grand.”
“Umpf.”
“Know what I’m wondering?” I asked.
“No idea.”
“I’m wondering if the homicide twins took it.”
A ten-second delay, and then, “You’re thinking they found Alfano dead and grabbed the money before I got there?”
“Or maybe scooped it after they shot him.”
Five seconds. “Interesting theory. Only one problem with it.”
“And what would that be?”
Ten seconds this time. “That grocery bag the Providence cops confiscated when they executed the warrant on your apartment?”
“Yeah?”
“You know what was in it?”
“No idea. I didn’t notice anything missing.”
Five seconds. “Hundred-dollar bills bundled with blue bank bands.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“How much?”
“Seven grand.”
“Jesus!”
He gave me a hard look and held it.
“Want to tell me where you and McCracken stashed the rest of the cash?”
I studied his face, trying to figure out if he was serious. It didn’t tell me anything.
“Come on, Captain. Freitas and Wargart must have planted a few bundles to set us up. You know we didn’t do this.”
“Do I?”
“Otherwise, you’d already have us in handcuffs.”
Ten seconds. “Not my decision. It’s Providence PD’s case.”
With that, he rolled up his window and roared out of the parking lot.
At first, I was too shocked to think straight. When I finally calmed down, my mind flooded with questions. If the homicide twins had me in a frame, why was I still running around loose? If they thought McCracken was involved, why hadn’t he been brought in for questioning? Why hadn’t his home and office been searched? For that matter, why hadn’t they searched my car?
None of it made sense.
I was halfway back to Providence when I spotted another gray Honda Civic in my rearview. This one tailed me all the way to Federal Hill, then kept going straight on Atwells Avenue when I turned onto America Street. I parked in front of my tenement building and spotted another one parked two blocks away on the other side of the street. I was getting paranoid about them again. The damned things were everywhere.
I turned off the ignition and fished the cell out of my pocket to tell McCracken what I’d learned. Just before I hit the call button, I was struck by a frightening thought.
After I’d tipped Parisi and the homicide twins that they could find Romeo Alfano and Mario Zerilli at the Omni, McCracken and I had parted ways in front of the hotel. The P.I. could have slipped back inside before the cops arrived, waited until Mario shot Alfano, and then grabbed the money. Or he could have killed Alfano himself.
Was my old friend capable of that?
I didn’t think so. But his agency wasn’t in the black yet, and two hundred grand was a lot of money. McCracken certainly had the skill to break into my apartment without leaving a trace and plant a few bundles of cash for the homicide twins to find.
The more I thought about it, the more paranoid I got.
48
I spent the next few days brooding and hiding out in my apartment. No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t see a way out of the mess I was in.
Every morning, I caught up with the local news in The Ocean State Rag: Family of three shot dead in Pawtucket carjacking. Murder of state legislator remains unsolved. Sports gambling veto dooms state employee pension system. Providence Vipers release regular season schedule. State cheerleader championships at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center on Saturday. Fried calamari crowned official state appetizer. When had I started getting my daily dose from Mason’s website instead of the newspaper? I couldn’t remember, but it was definitely before I started stringing for him. In fact, it was well before Chuckie-boy fired me.
Yolanda called early Wednesday morning, and this time she had news.
“GCHI settled,” she said.
“Already?”
“I met with their attorneys in our conference room yesterday afternoon. I gave them a figure. They huddled and made a counteroffer. We haggled for about an hour and then agreed to split the difference.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“How much?”
“A hundred and thirty-five thousand. If you accept the offer, they’ll cut the check this week. After our fee, you’ll get a hundred and one thousand dollars and change.”
“I need to think about it.”
“It’s the best deal you’re going to get without going to trial, Mulligan, and we don’t want to do that.”
“I agree.”
“What is it, then?”
“Do you think you could let me have twenty-five grand this week and hold on to the rest of the money for a while?”