“Brock has long been active in politics,” Betty said. “He has been a regular contributor to Republican candidates, and a vigorous fund-raiser as well. And several times he has taken a leave and served in one governmental job or another. Now he is running for governor.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I want it very much. I would like to be First Lady of the Commonwealth, and perhaps it would lead to more.”
“And Antonioni was going to help him?”
“He was going to help us. I was very much a part of Brock’s campaign.”
“Another project,” I said.
Again Betty gave me the look that suggested she didn’t quite get me. She was not alone. Then she seemed to dismiss the puzzlement and went on talking.
“Albert Antonioni is some sort of mobster from Rhode Island. There is, as you may know, a kind of vacuum in the mob situation here.”
“Yes,” I said. “And Antonioni wants to fill it.”
“Yes. Brock knew Albert when we lived in Rhode Island. We stayed in touch when we moved here. Albert thinks that when he expands into Massachusetts, it would be useful to have a governor he could trust.”
“So he has put a lot of money into Brock’s campaign.”
“Yes.”
“And Kragan?”
“Cathal is Albert’s man on the scene. Much of what Albert wants to take over is currently owned by the Irish. I think Albert feels the need to have one of their own as a point man. You know how ethnic they all are.”
I wasn’t sure who they all were. But it didn’t seem like I needed to at the moment and I let it pass.
“Does Antonioni own your husband?” I said.
Betty drank some of her brandied tea and stared out at the dying light. She nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she said.
“So when you made the mistake of giving those pictures to Kevin the plumber, and he made the mistake of trying to blackmail you with them, you went to Antonioni.”
“Kragan,” she said. “Albert is remote and prefers it that way.”
“And that was the conversation your daughter overheard.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that she has found some of the pictures you took?”
“She searched my room? She’s not ever...”
I didn’t say anything. Betty heard herself and stopped.
“She’s seen them?”
“Yes.”
Betty continued to look out at the dark rain.
“Oh God,” she said, “oh my dear God.”
Chapter 53
Thirty-three King’s Beach Terrace was in Swampscott, just over the line from Lynn, facing east across Lynn Shore Drive, where the Atlantic Ocean rolled ashore at King’s Beach. I parked on Lynn Shore Drive. Beside me in the passenger seat, Spike, wearing Oakley wrap-around sunglasses, was drop-dead gorgeous in a blue suit, dark blue shirt, amethyst tie, blue socks with some sort of small, round clock pattern in the weave, and black brogues gleaming with polish. He wore a big showy silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. It matched his tie.
“Spike,” I said, “you are better-looking than Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“So is Rosie,” Spike said. “I just dress better.”
“You did bring a gun,” I said.
“I don’t have one that matches,” Spike said.
“But you brought one.”
Spike grinned and opened his coat so I could see the butt of his Army Colt.
“I know you’ve explained it before,” Spike said, “but this Cathal Kragan is a stone killer, right?”
“Yes.”
“And why is it just you and me are calling on him?”
“I’m going to have to ask Richie for help if I need to talk with Albert Antonioni. I wasn’t comfortable asking him for help with Kragan.”
“He wouldn’t have even had to come,” Spike said. “His uncle could have come out with six or eight pistoleros and Kragan would have stood at attention while you talked with him.”
“Not the best way for me to learn anything,” I said. “And even if it were, I can’t ask him.”
“How about the cop you’re bopping?”
I shook my head.
“Something?” Spike said.
“I’m afraid he’s getting too serious.”
“So exploit that,” Spike said.
“No,” I said.
“Jesus Christ,” Spike said. “I gotta be pals with Nancy fucking Drew.”
“Are you scared?”
“I am without fear,” Spike said. “As you know. But if I were going to acquire some, this would be a good place to start.”
I opened the car door and got out.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You’re with me, after all.”
Spike climbed out of his side of the car and shut the door.
“True,” he said. “And I look so goddamned good.”
Kragan’s front door was opened by a bright-faced woman in her forties with a mass of dark red hair. A reddish dachshund peeked between her feet growling and wagging its tail. Talk about mixed messages. The woman held the dog back with one foot.
“My name is Sunny Randall,” I said. “I called earlier. Could you tell Mr. Kragan I’m here?”
“Sure, I’ll tell him,” the woman said. “Excuse me, but I have to close the door so the dog won’t get out.”
“I understand,” I said.
Spike and I stood and looked at the ocean for a little while and the door opened again. The red-haired woman stepped aside and we went into the foyer. The dog was no longer in evidence.
“Right over here,” the woman said, “in the living room.”
He was just as Millicent had described him: squat, thick-bodied, silver-haired, impeccable, and alive with force. He was sitting in an armchair by a fireplace with a gas fire, looking a bit posed, and incredibly, wearing a green velvet smoking jacket. Standing by the archway that led to the living room was a guy that looked like the employee of the month for Bodyguards-R-Us. He was about two hundred and fifty pounds of bone and muscle, padded by at least a hundred pounds of fat. He glanced at Spike with amusement.
Kragan spoke in the deep purr that I’d heard on my answering machine.
“So you’re Sunny Randall,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Who’s the clotheshorse?”
“My friend Spike,” I said.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Design police,” Spike said. “Gas fireplaces are really tacky.”
Kragan’s expression never changed.
“Georgie,” he said, “get him out of here.”
Georgie said, “Out you go, Mary.”
He put his hand on Spike’s chest and shoved him toward the hallway. Spike hit him four or five karate-type chops, too fast for an accurate count, and Georgie fell down and lay gasping on the floor. While he was going down I took my gun out in case Kragan took offense. If he did, he didn’t show it. He seemed mildly interested in how quick Spike was. Spike leaned over and patted Georgie down and took a gun away from him. He removed the magazine and put it in his pocket. He racked the slide back and ejected the shell from the chamber, and dropped the gun back onto the floor beside Georgie.
“He gonna recover?” Kragan said.
“Few minutes,” Spike said. “I didn’t go full out.”
Kragan nodded. “Be sort of interesting sometime to see you go full out,” he said.
“I didn’t come here to cause trouble,” I said.
“You brought him for that?” Kragan said.
“I brought him to protect me,” I said.
“So far he’s doing a hell of a job of it,” Kragan said, “You don’t need the piece.”
I put my gun away. Kragan appeared to pay no further attention to Georgie. Spike leaned against the wall near the door, rubbing his hands gently.