“Why?”
“Something about you taking my shift at the golf club in October.”
Dennis sat up. “What exactly did she say?”
“Nothing. She just wanted to know where to find you.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I gave her an address near Fenway. Some girl’s I went to school with.”
“Good. What did you tell her about that day?”
“I didn’t tell her you made me call in sick, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. Good.”
“Why is she looking for you?”
“Don’t know, babe. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Hey, wait. I—”
Dennis hung up the landline and made a call from his unregistered cell. “Hey, it’s Weitman.”
“I hope you have a good reason for calling this number.”
“Some Secret Service chick named Kennedy is looking for me, asking about the golf club.”
“Who has she contacted?”
“My ex. The one I took the shift for.”
“What did Ms. Gingras tell her?”
Dennis frowned, surprised they even knew his ex’s name. “Julie gave the woman a fake address to get rid of her.”
“I see.”
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble with no Secret Service.”
“Don’t panic, Mr. Weitman. We’ll take care of it.”
“Damn right you will. Last thing I need is cops crawling up my ass.”
“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Keep a low profile until we find out what this is about.”
“You know what this is about. Someone knows or someone talked. Either way, I just got paid to do a job. None of this is my shit to deal with.”
“Thank you for notifying us. You have nothing to worry about. We’ll get back to you when we know something.”
“Damn right you will.” Dennis hung up. “Motherfucker.” He kicked the coffee table and got up to shower.
*
A quick call to the airport confirmed there were no direct flights between Portland and Boston, so Shield decided to drive the hundred or so miles and arrived at Fenway about one in the afternoon. It didn’t take her long to determine the address that Gingras had given her was fake. Number 152 was a broken-down tenement, long unoccupied, that was due to be torn down to make way for a new parking lot. None of the area merchants recognized Dennis Weitman’s mug shot.
Frustrated, she called Reno back. “The address I had is bogus. Got any leads where he might be?”
“Weitman has no family to speak of,” Reno replied. “No one visited him in prison. But Harry Brinker—his cellmate when he was in the MCI-Norfolk facility—lives just outside Boston, and Weitman was registered at that address when he was released a year ago.”
“Mail it to me, and a mug shot of Brinker.”
“Coming your way.”
“Talk to you later.” Shield hung up.
She entered the address into her GPS and turned the car south. Thirty minutes later, she stood at the door of a tiny prefab house surrounded by a wire fence, in a slummy area of Dorchester. The house was tired and worn, and a large, balding beige patch served as lawn.
Shield went up three steps to the small porch. As soon as she knocked, she heard movement from inside. “Mr. Brinker, please open up.”
“Who’s there?”
“Agent Kennedy. I’m with the Secret Service.”
Several seconds passed before an overweight man in his mid-thirties opened the door but left it on the chain. He wore soiled sweats, and a cigarette dangled from between his brown-stained fingers.
Shield held up her ID. “I was hoping you could help me find Dennis Weitman.”
“Dunno him.”
“Your ex-cellmate. He registered your home as his address after his release.”
“Oh, that Weitman. Yeah, he was here for a week, maybe. That was over a year ago.”
“Do you know where he went after that?”
“Nah, we didn’t stay in touch.” He was blinking so fast Shield was surprised he could see her.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“What for?” Brinker asked. “He’s not here.”
“I’d like to check that for myself.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No, but I can get one. All I want is to make sure he’s not in there.”
The big guy took a quick look behind him and turned back to her. “I don’t think so. If you want to come in, I’m gonna have to see a warrant.”
These were the times Shield regretted working under her own name instead of a cover. Under other circumstances, the door would be hanging on its hinges and the fat guy would be sweating on the couch with her gun in his face. Shield took a deep breath. “Look, I’m not here to make any trouble for you. I just need to talk to Dennis.”
“What about?”
“I want to ask him some questions about a past employer.”
Brinker looked away briefly again. Shield was sure he was checking with Weitman about whether to let her in.
“I’d help, lady, but I don’t kow where he is.”
“Very well then, you don’t leave me a choice. I’ll be back in an hour.” Shield returned to her rental sedan, certain that it wouldn’t take long for Weitman to come running out, looking for a place to hide. She drove away and parked around the corner where her car would be concealed but positioned so she had a view of the front porch through the shrubbery.
The door opened five minutes later and Brinker emerged to scan the area. His mouth moved; he said something aloud and then Weitman came out, small duffel bag and car keys in hand. He hurried to an older Plymouth and took off. Shield waited a few seconds to follow him.
Weitman pulled onto the freeway and headed north at the speed limit, with Shield pacing him several cars behind. As they followed the signs toward Salem, rapidly eating up miles, she realized that the car directly behind the Plymouth—a silver Ford sedan—wasn’t following the natural flow of traffic, but was altering its speed to keep its position. Someone else was also following Weitman.
Shield called Reno and asked him to trace the plates on the Ford. He reported back that it had been reported stolen an hour earlier.
Weitman exited the freeway and turned into a deserted parking lot behind an after-hours strip joint. The silver sedan kept pace until he did, then continued down the road past the club.
Shield grabbed her gun from the dash as she stepped on the gas and stopped right behind the Plymouth, trapping Weitman between her car and the wall of the building. She jumped out and pointed the gun at him. “Secret Service. Show me your hands.”
“I’m unarmed,” he shouted, and put his hands on his head.
“Get out of the car.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“I have nothing to say.”
Shield opened the door for him and grabbed him by the collar.
“Chill,” he said, “I’m coming out.”
“Keep your hands where they are.”
“I didn’t do anything.” He slid out of the driver’s seat with his hands still on his head.
“I want to talk about Thomas.”
He leaned against the car. “I don’t know any Tho—”
Weitman’s eyes went blank as blood oozed from a small hole that suddenly appeared above his left eyebrow. Almost simultaneously, Shield heard the muffled discharge of a weapon. As Weitman dropped to his knees in front of her, Shield immediately ducked and fired over the car in the direction where the gunshot had come from. No more shots came her way, but she heard a car take off in the distance.
Weitman lay limp on his side in front of the open door of the Plymouth, his eyes wide open and a growing puddle of blood under his head. So, the ex-girlfriend hadn’t been angry enough with him to not warn him. Too bad Weitman had to alarm whoever had hired him.
Shield wasn’t exactly heartbroken by his demise, but she did regret not getting the chance to make him talk. She dialed 911 from the pay phone outside the club and told the operator a man was down and gave them the address. She wasn’t about to get involved or offer any information that would wake any sleeping dogs to her suspicions concerning Jeffrey Thomas’s death. So far, she had little to no proof, and any media and fed attention would lead to a wild goose chase that would only alarm those behind Thomas’s death and hamper her search.