Haunted Hearts (26 page)

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To the airport. To make a telephone call and change my flight.”

“Why?”

“Because I think I want to go back to Annapolis. Right away. Soon as I can.”

“You
think
?” she said.

McGuire covered one ear with his hand and pressed the receiver against his other ear, trying to catch every word of Ollie's scratchy voice over the din of the airline terminal.

“Brunell, Burnell, something like that,” Ollie was saying through the speakerphone by his bed in Revere Beach. “Sounded like some young pecker anyway.”

“He's okay,” McGuire said. “What'd he say?”

“He said Doitch told him he'd probably have gotten around to it anyway, but with his workload and under the circumstances and all, place the body was found, backlog, no suspect . . .”

“Well, is it or isn't it?” McGuire almost shouted into the telephone.

“There's no way that all the water in the lawyer's lungs came from the river. No way at all. Some entered, but it was mostly salt water. The guy didn't drown in the Charles. He drowned in an ocean somewhere and was dumped in the goddamn river.”

“Okay, okay.” McGuire was feeling the familiar excitement.

“How you doin'?”

“Listen, if Burnell calls back, tell him to check the car they found in Weymouth . . .”

“They got a match,” Ollie interrupted. “On fibers on the body, probably in the trunk. I thought about it already and asked Burnell. How many times I gotta tell you, I'm only paralyzed from the neck down? You goin' back down there?”

“If I can change my flight from Chicago, yeah.”

“How about Susan? She comin' back on her own?”

“If she agrees.”

“Give her a kiss for me. Then send her up here, and I'll tell her some tales, straighten her out about you, make sure she knows what she's getting into.”

“What about your nurse?”

“Susan'll be an antidote.”

McGuire promised to call when he had news, and hung up. He turned to kiss Susan on the cheek. “That's from Ollie,” he said. He scanned the terminal, looking for the airline counter. Then he stopped, turned to her again, and pulled her to him, pressing his mouth against hers and stroking the back of her head with his hands, weaving his fingers through her hair, never seeing the stares and smiles of passersby. When he finished he looked at her eyes, which were smiling back at him, and said: “And that's from me.”

He explained it to her on the flight to Chicago, telling her that all he wanted to do was fit the pieces together and place the puzzle in the lap of the police. “You go on to Boston, stay at the halfway house. I'll rent a car in Washington and drive to Annapolis.”

“Can't it wait?” she said. “Can't you take a flight tomorrow?”

“If I have to, I will. But if I do, I won't sleep all night. Besides, he must be getting spooked, ready to move on.”

“Can't you just give everything he knew to the police, and let them take it from there?”

“Donovan's liable to blow things. He'll resent having to use raw information from me. Besides, this one I want to see through for myself, because I was so damned blind to it until now.”

She rested her head against him, the Arizona desert far below them, while McGuire admitted to himself there was another reason to wrap things up on his own, a reason that connected him with Orin Flanigan: because he wanted to see Myers pay. He wanted to be there to see the man turn pale.

The flight to Washington left half an hour after McGuire and Susan arrived at O'Hare, the last one of the day. At the check-in counter, McGuire promised to call her the next morning from wherever he was staying. He pressed more than enough money into her hand for the cab ride to the halfway house, kissed her, seized his bag, and trotted towards the gate. He turned once to wave at her, before handing his ticket to the flight attendant. For the first time in his life, he questioned the energy driving him, the intensity that exploded whenever he grew this close to a resolution, to a settling of accounts.

McGuire's obsession with Myers had built from the moment Susan described her life with him: the beatings, the lies, the deceptions, the arrogance. From his days as a rookie Boston cop, McGuire considered domestic violence among the most abhorrent aspect of his work. He had seen more than his share of battered wives and battered children, had encountered more than enough spineless men who would bow and scrape in the presence of other men whose respect they craved, and later terrorize those whom they should have loved, who expected their love and instead harvested only their contempt and brutality. They were men who manipulated people around them, their tactics coolly plotted, clear of conscience. They were con artists and sociopaths, popular with those with whom they wanted to ingratiate themselves, ruthless with those who provided only the means and the trust.

He had never encountered one with the apparent malice of Ross Myers. He pictured Myers lavishing gifts on women, spending money to impress his friends at the hundred-dollar betting windows in Florida, while Susan cowered in Boston, shaken by every demand for more money and unable to stop the flow, to halt the descent.

It was past ten o'clock when he landed at Washington, where he rented a car and set off for Annapolis. The traffic was light, and just after eleven he pulled the sedan onto State House Circle and down Maryland Avenue to the Academy Bar and Grill. He stepped aside as three young men left the restaurant, one wearing a St. John's College sweatshirt, the others fastening their jackets against the night chill.

Inside, he was washed with warm air and the aromas of fried onions and beer. He walked through the restaurant area and past the bar, where perhaps half the stools were occupied. A gaunt bartender with unruly hair and bad teeth glanced up and nodded at McGuire.

“Who's your Bud distributor?” McGuire asked him.

“Our what?”

“Who owns the beer distributorship? Who ships your Bud to you?”

The man shrugged. “Rollie Wade. It's his company. He doesn't deliver it.”

“Who delivers it?”

“Depends. Some days it's a guy named Banting. Usually it's Dan Daniels. You know either of them?”

McGuire shook his head and walked away, choosing a table near the far wall, where the bartender watched him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Two waitresses were on duty, one bleached-blonde and heavyset, the other younger with a long, dark ponytail that swung with every step. When the younger one stopped at McGuire's table, he ordered a beer. When she returned to set the glass on his table, he smiled up at her. “There's another waitress who works here,” he said. “About thirty, thirty-five. Brown hair, not as long as yours. I'd like to see her.”

“Eileen,” the young woman said. “She's in tomorrow. That'll be two-fifty.”

McGuire handed her a five, told her to keep it.

“She's got a boyfriend, you know.” The waitress tucked the money in an apron pocket. “At least, she did last time I heard. A jealous one, too.”

“I know,” McGuire said. “They still living together?” She shrugged.

“I don't think so. Not anymore.”

“He still drive the Mercedes?”

“It's a Cadillac. You having anything to eat?”

McGuire said no. He took two sips of the beer, tapped his fingers on the table, and left.

Half an hour later he was registered in a motel room outside the town, tossing and turning in bed, willing himself towards a sleep that refused to arrive for hours.

“I couldn't sleep.” Susan's voice was shaking but strong through the telephone wire. “All night long, I couldn't sleep.”

McGuire sat up in bed, staring at dappled morning sunlight on the painted concrete-block wall of the motel room. “I didn't do so well myself,” he said.

“Did you see him?”

McGuire said no. But he expected to. He gave her Ollie's telephone number and address. “Take a cab up there,” he said. “I'll call when I've got something. While you're waiting, get Ollie to tell you stories about us. They'll have you in stitches. Some of them might even be true.”

After hanging up, he dialed Boston again and counted nine rings before a woman's angry, scratchy voice answered. “McGuire, you doorknob,” the woman spat through the phone after he identified himself. “The cats and I aren't even out of bed yet.”

“Calm down, Libby. I need a favour.”

“I don't do favours when I'm awake,” Libby Waxman almost shouted. “The hell makes you think I'll do one for somebody who gets me out of a sound sleep?”

“Just for me, Libby.”

“What?”

“I need a name.”

“Whose?”

“The bookie in Baltimore, told you about Myers.”

“Are you nuts?”

“He's a bookie, Libby. If he's a bookie, he's got other customers besides Myers, so they gotta know his name too. That's all I'm asking. Just give me his name.”

“What? You wanta place a bet?”

“You got it. What's the guy's name?”

“Lou. Lou Wachtman.” She spelled the last name for him.

“You're such a sweetheart,” McGuire said. “I almost wish I was there in bed between you and the cats. Thanks.”

“Wait a minute,” Libby said. “You wanta make a bet, don't you want his number?”

McGuire said no, he had all he needed.

He was too excited to eat, too driven even to have coffee. After showering and dressing, he checked out of the motel and drove through a brilliant autumn morning across the Severn River bridge into Annapolis, parking in front of the Academy Bar and Grill.

This time he didn't try opening the front door, but walked around the corner and down the service alley to the rear of the building. The rear door was unlocked, and he edged his way past trays of hamburger rolls and cartons of beer bottles into the bar area. From the dining room next door he heard the jangle of silverware being shuffled.

She was bent over one of the larger tables. Her hair was gathered on top of her head in Gibson-girl style, and the stained sweatshirt she wore was shapeless and frayed.

“Eileen,” McGuire said.

She turned to glance at him, her left hand clutching several stainless-steel dinner forks. “You the guy from the bakery?” she said, and looked back at her work, placing silverware on the round tables. “You still owe us four dozen rolls, Jenny tell you that?”

“I'm not from the bakery,” McGuire said. He stepped into the room, scanning the booths to make certain they were alone.

“Where you from?” She didn't look up.

“Boston.”

“You just visiting? 'Cause if you are, we don't open until eleven.”

“I know.” McGuire seated himself at one of the tables between her and the door. “I've been here before.”

She continued setting the forks in their correct location, but McGuire had seen her shoulders freeze for a moment, and now her actions were slower, more deliberate, as she tried to contain her emotion. She walked to a service counter in the corner and dropped the remaining forks into a tray with a loud clatter. She looked directly at him, then closed her eyes. “You're the guy,” she said, recognizing McGuire, remembering.

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.” She was wiping her hands on a towel.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“You know how to reach him, I'll bet.”

“I haven't seen him in . . .” She shrugged. “Nearly a week.”

“You pick him up in Weymouth?”

“Where?”

“Near Boston. Did you pick him up there one night in a shopping-mall parking lot? About a week ago?”

She dropped the towel on the serving counter and began to wipe her hands on her jeans. “Is he in trouble?”

“Oh yes. Ross Myers is in very big trouble.”

“With the same people?” She looked across at him. “Are you with them?”

“You mean the people from Baltimore?” McGuire said.

She nodded and bit her lip. “You're not going to hurt me, are you?” she pleaded. Her eyes were filling with tears. “I've got three kids, for God's sake . . .”

“Tell me where he is.”

“
I don't know!
” She leaned over the counter, refusing to look at him.

McGuire walked to her. When he placed a hand lightly on her back, she cringed. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he said. “Just tell me how to find him.”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Somebody's threatened you before?”

She nodded her head.

“Both of you?”

Another nod.

“Look.” He moved his hand from her back to her upper arm, and she turned to look at him, a woman on the cusp between the final bright years of her youth and early middle age. She seemed to have grown ten years older since McGuire entered the room. “Get a message to him. Through somebody who knows how to reach him.”

“Jake knows,” she said. “He knows how to find him.”

“Who's Jake?”

“The night bartender.”

“Thin guy, bad teeth?”

She nodded again, not looking at him.

“Okay, you get hold of Jake and tell him to pass a message to Myers. Tell him it's got something to do with Lou Wachtman, his bookie, who doesn't even know about it yet, so there's no sense Myers calling and asking him. Tell Myers I've got a way to settle things with Wachtman and get Myers out from under the money he owes. I'll be out in the open, where he can see me. Just tell him to get his ass and his Cadillac over here this afternoon between two and three and meet me . . .” McGuire looked around, recalling the layout of the town. “Up near the State House. In the park on that hill surrounding the State House. I'll be alone, and he'll be able to check if he wants. Okay? You tell him that?”

She nodded again.

“Did Myers tell you how he got to Weymouth?”

“He was delivering a car there. For a friend.”

“Sure he was,” McGuire said. “Sure he was.”

It was mid-morning when he drove through town and across the bridge to Bay Ridge Yachts, where a heavyset man in a pink polo shirt and elastic-waist slacks stood near the entrance, staring up at the hull of a trailered yacht with a critical eye. Across the breast of his shirt, McGuire read
Bay Ridge Yachts
,
embroidered in aqua thread.

McGuire pulled his car near the man, who was making notes on a clipboard, and lowered his window. “Mrs. Diamond in today?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Christine Diamond. She back at work yet?”

“Haven't seen her.” The voice was familiar, the words had the soft edges of a well-worn Georgian drawl.

“You Harrison Klees?”

“That's me.” Klees underlined something he had written on the clipboard paper. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” McGuire smiled, and as Klees watched he swung the car back towards the street where he had seen a telephone booth. He found a B. Diamond in the directory, remembered that her husband's name was Bert, deposited a quarter, and dialed the number.

After three rings a woman's voice answered.

“Mrs. Diamond?” McGuire said.

“Yes?” Was there a hint of a tremor there? McGuire thought he heard one.

“I was just talking to Mr. Klees down here at the office, and he said I should perhaps see you about . . .” He looked up at several sailboats sitting on cradles nearby. On the hull of one he read
Nonsuch 26
. “A Nonsuch
twenty-six I'm kind of interested in.”

“We don't have a Nonsuch for sale that I was aware of,” she said. “We had one last month, but I believe it was sold . . .”

“Oh, is that right?” McGuire looked down at the open telephone directory, memorizing the address. “Son of a gun. Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you. Thanks a lot.”

He walked back to the car, repeating the address from the telephone directory over and over in his mind.

An attendant at a gas station directed McGuire to North Point, a slim finger of land extending into the bay beyond the town. The road followed the crest of the point, with views of Chesapeake Bay on either side. The houses on North Point Road were large and elaborate, set at the end of long lanes, many with decorative stone gates at the entrance. The lots were large, and the rear yards were enclosed by high fences and shrubbery for privacy.

He found 3327, a large white Cape Cod with extensions on either side and twin brick chimneys. Behind it, McGuire could see a garden area extending to the shore. As he drove through the open gates and closer to the house, he noted a boathouse and an oversized dock on the shore. The lane led all the way to the dock. He saw a small sailing dinghy bobbing in the water.

He parked the car behind a gray Volvo in the driveway and walked to the heavy black door with its massive brass hardware: Colonial handle, letter slot, kick-plate, and a door knocker shaped like a schooner. He clattered the knocker against the door three times and waited, hearing only the wind and the faint crashing of waves against the dock and onto the shoreline.

The woman who opened the door had the same face as the one McGuire had met in Bay Ridge Yachts a week earlier, but in other ways she was not the same person. She wore no makeup, and her eyes were puffy, as though McGuire had wakened her. A man's white shirt hung over her thin shoulders and almost halfway down the black tights she wore with black ballet slippers. “Yes?” she said. She looked past McGuire to see if he were alone, or to look for a car on the road perhaps.