Lie Down with the Devil (10 page)

Think of something else, I ordered myself. Be grateful to Sam, even to Nardo, for offering money. Be grateful Paolina will be able to stay at McLean as long as she needs to, be grateful you don’t need to desperately troll for clients.

When I saw Mooney’s car in the lot, I braked, stared, then pulled in alongside.

I would know that car anywhere, that battered Buick, the quintessential Boston beater, a wreck you’d hesitate to challenge on the highway. Didn’t look like it had many more miles left, and he still hadn’t gotten the banged-up passenger door fixed. It won’t open; the passenger has to enter on the driver’s side and crawl over the hump, which must restrict the man’s dating.

I picked up my cell phone, punched in the McLean number, and the answer was the same. No, I hadn’t been elevated to acceptable visitor status.

I should have driven home. Instead I waited till Mooney came out the door, down the flagged path.
When he was ten feet from his car, I emerged and blocked his route.

“Did you see her?”

“Christ, Carlyle, what the hell is that you’re driving?”

“Coming from you, that’s good. Did you see her?”

“You going in?”

“No.”

“Talking to her doctor?”

“No.”

“I give up.”

“You saw her?”

“Hey, I should have come before. You know the excuses, all the busywork, all the paperwork. I’m buried under it, but I should have come. So thanks for reminding me at the range. I mean, I’m sorry about what happened, but if you hadn’t come, I wouldn’t have …” He wound down and took a breath. “Anyway, why are you here if you’re not going inside? You tailing me?”

“How is she?”

He hesitated. “Hard to say. We just talked.”

“What did she say?”

“Carlotta, we talked.”

“That’s more than she’ll do with me, Moon.”

He looked down at his shoes, kicked at a chunk of gravel. “I know.”

“She told you? That she won’t talk to me?”

He nodded.

“Shit.”

“Hey, come on.” He gave a quick look around, like he was sure he was being observed. “Let’s get a cup of coffee, go someplace warm.”

“I don’t want to compromise your virtue.”

“Look, it’s no joke. The feds think I blew their
chance to nab Gianelli. My record, all the years I’ve worked, and they jump on me.”

“They can’t prove it.”

“They may not need to. You know what they’re like. And it’s not like I haven’t tangled with them before.”

“Your guy, Dailey, he a big red-faced guy?”

“Get in the car at least,” he said. “I’m freezing.”

“My car,” I said.

“You didn’t buy that thing, did you?”

“I borrowed it. And, by the way, all the doors open.”

“Ouch,” he said.

The rust-and-blue 1986 Honda Civic featured sprung seats and an interior that smelled like cheap pine air freshener. I hadn’t really borrowed it. I’d rented it only an hour earlier, because I was still enthralled by the possibility of finding Sam’s Jaguar. Hope and procrastination had brought me to a Somerville Rent-a-Wreck owned by a friend of a friend, to another sad excuse for a car.

“This is cozy,” Mooney said.

“Skip it.”

“So you ran into Dailey?”

“What’s his story?”

“Rufus Dailey, special agent. Da-da. The only reason he wasn’t farmed out to North Dakota after Whitey Bulger skipped was that he was the lead guy on the Gianellis. Can’t stand the thought of history repeating itself, Gianelli going fugitive, too. Missed the boat on Whitey, but he’s damned well gonna get Gianelli. Rabid-dog type, and if he can get his teeth in me, he’ll bite.”

“Charming,” I said.

“You saw him?”

“Hanging around Sam’s apartment.”

“Sam’s not in the States? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“He’s not in the States,” I said.

“So,” Mooney said after an awkward gap, “you working?”

“I was.”

“You get fired?”

“I don’t get fired all that often, Moon.”

“You quit?”

“I don’t do that either.” Sometimes I think he’s never forgiven me for quitting the force. “My client died. Area A, hit and run.”

“Christ, drivers around here. Drunk?”

“They haven’t nailed anybody. Couldn’t even make the ID on the corpse till they found me. You know a couple of cops named Mac?”

“Area A?”

“They rousted me, brought me over to the ME’s.”

“Mess over there,” he said.

“I tried to get them to tell me about it, when and where and what they were doing to find the car that hit my client. Whether they had wits, who was knocking doors—”

“You didn’t get far?”

“Nowhere.”

“Look, it’s a hit and run. You know how that is. Maybe somebody will sober up and turn himself in.”

“And maybe he won’t.”

“Client hire you because he was scared he might catch something fatal?”

“Her. And no.”

“But?”

“It doesn’t feel right.” I told him about Jessica’s trip to New York. “She shouldn’t have been where she was found.”

“Well, if you want me to have a word with these Mac guys …” He looked and sounded reluctant. His breath fogged a circle in the windshield.

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

“I oughta go,” he said.

“How does she look? Paolina. You can at least tell me that.”

“Carlotta, it must be hard, that she won’t talk to—”

“How does she look?”

“She’s fine. She cut her hair. Just a little. Hey, come on. It’s her hair.”

“Sorry. It’s just I’m not sure this is the right thing for her. Everybody says it is, but being shut up here, thinking about what happened to her all the time—”

“She doesn’t think about it all the time. They have classes and stuff. Groups. She’s trying to keep up with school. And she listens to music a lot. She’s got a CD she checked out of the library. Colombian music. She played it for me.”

“So why won’t she see me?”

He stared out the side window. “I’m not sure.”

“Why do you think?”

“Carlotta, I don’t know what to say, except you’re a pretty tough act to follow.”

I shook my head to show him I didn’t follow his logic.

“She sees you as so strong, Carlotta, so perfect. And she fell apart. She cried and cried for days, and she thinks she disappointed you somehow.”

“She’s a kid.”

“Right.”

“And I’m not perfect, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yeah, I told her that. Believe me, I did.”

“Thanks.”

“But you hold yourself to some tough standards, lady. Maybe Paolina thinks you hold her to standards that are just as high.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re tough on yourself; that’s all I’m saying. Like when you left the force? You were punishing yourself. Because you didn’t live up to your own expectations.”

“You studying psychology out here? Taking night classes?”

“Look, I better go.”

He opened the door and stepped out. I didn’t stop him. Didn’t look at him.

Instead I drove away so quickly, my tires spun on the gravel, my hands clenched on the steering wheel. I studied them, with their short unvarnished nails and reddened knuckles. Volleyball hands. Guitar hands. Killer’s hands.

I didn’t need to punish myself this time; Paolina was doing it for me.

I noticed the flasher in the rearview mirror as I squeezed through the yellow, but I figured it was an ambulance since I cut through traffic signals like that all the time and never get stopped for doing it. I switched to the right-hand lane to make way for the emergency vehicle, but instead of getting passed at speed by an ambulance or a fire truck, a light brown sedan with a portable flasher on the roof swerved in behind me. When the sedan blinked its headlights, I coasted to a stop on the grass verge near the ornate metal gates of Mount Auburn Cemetery.

The beefy red-faced man took his time emerging from behind the wheel.

“See your license, miss?”

“This a traffic stop? Sir?”

“I’m a federal agent.”

“With credentials?”

He took his time slipping them out of his back pocket. He wore dark wraparound sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes; not their color, not their shape.

“A couple of questions for you,” he said.

“Then it’s not a traffic stop?”

“It could get to be one.” He sounded annoyed.

His tone pleased me in a perverse kind of way. Guess
I was in the mood to annoy someone. “Don’t tell me. It’s a Patriot Act stop?”

“Miss, you want me to search your vehicle?”

Suddenly I didn’t want him searching the car at all. How did I know what the hell was in the car? I’d just rented it. There could be half a kilo of coke in the trunk. Or Special Agent Dailey could plant a Baggie of marijuana in the dash compartment and cause merry hell.

I smiled as sweetly as I could manage. “Hey, no need. Why not just tell me why you pulled me over and we’ll take care of it.”

“You know a Boston cop named Joseph Mooney?”

“I do.”

“How do you know him?”

“Professionally.”

“Really?” His voice went up like I’d just confessed to something.

“Through law enforcement. We worked together. Straight shooter. Ask anybody.”

“I’m asking you. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Is he under suspicion for something?”

“I’m asking you.”

“Well, I just now spoke to the man. We met by chance. While he was visiting a friend of mine.”

“In the looney bin?”

“A good friend. You might say a sister.” My smile got chillier.

“Did Mr. Nardo give you any message to pass on to Captain Mooney?”

“Nardo? And Mooney?” I almost laughed. “You are barking up one dead tree.”

“Just answer the question.”

“No, Mr. Nardo did not give me any message to pass on to Captain Mooney,” I recited.

“How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. Nardo.”

“I have no relationship with Mr. Nardo.”

“He came to your house.”

“He was selling Girl Scout cookies.”

“You may not know what you’re messing with here, Miss Carlyle.”

“Oh, but I think I do. I think you don’t.”

“A little advice, miss? Stay away from Nardo.”

“Happy to do it.”

“And get that left taillight fixed.”

I bit. After he pulled away, I got out and circled the car. And, of course, there was nothing wrong with my left taillight.

But wait a minute: There had been something wrong with the Volvo’s left taillight, with Ken Harrison’s left taillight. And where had Agent Dailey been late Friday night? I wished I’d gotten the license plate of the sedan that zipped around the rotary after I’d hit the tacks.

Since I was so close and the larder was bare, I stopped at the Shaw’s across Mount Auburn Street for cold cuts and eggs. Since the liquor store was within walking distance of the Shaw’s lot, I picked up a couple of six-packs. I thought about adding a carton or two of cigarettes, but held fast.

Then, as if to redeem myself for the beer, I left everything in the trunk and marched into Harvard Square. Despite the cold, the Andean street musicians who had been playing in front of Calliope for the past few weeks were holding court. I listened, arms folded for warmth, until they took a break, then asked where
I could buy a set of pipes like the ones the frizzy-haired guitarist occasionally played. I thought Paolina might like them. She couldn’t have her trap set at McLean because the drumming might upset the other patients, but the pipes were low and sweet.

The street musician wore woolen gloves with the fingers cut off. We conversed in Spanish. He told me he played the pan pipes, seven bamboo reeds of varying lengths fastened together, but a novice might have more success with the
quena
, a single pipe resembling a recorder. He demonstrated both and I put five dollars in the collection jug.

I thought I’d have to drive out to Wood & Strings in Arlington, or maybe to Daddy’s Junky Music, but the musician sent me to a basement emporium on a nearby back street. I bought the smallest pan pipes they had. They cost too much and I didn’t care. I’d stop buying beer, save my pennies.

I walked home with my purchase clasped tight against my chest.

Dailey wanted me to know he was keeping an eye on me. The question was why.

I was dressed when the bell rang Wednesday morning. Dressed, but in a haze. It was too early for visitors, I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and the shrill summons of the doorbell seemed to pierce my skull. Opening my front door takes time under the best of circumstances, since I have more than one lock and a strong chain as well; it’s a neighborhood thing. As I fumbled with the locks, I checked the peephole.

Cops. Big Mac leaned on the bell again, and my ears tried to crawl inside my brain.

Both officers stared at me accusingly when I managed to open the door. They’d changed clothes since yesterday. Each wore a slightly different, but equally unattractive, suit.

“You leave your car on the street around here?” Little Mac asked. So much for civilities, good morning, and so on. I hadn’t had my morning coffee yet, and I needed it badly.

“You got demoted to parking detail?” I asked pleasantly.

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t have a car at the moment.”

They both looked at me like I’d confessed to spending my childhood on the moon. Big Mac retreated a
couple of steps. I was hoping he’d retreat all the way to his car, but he went only as far as the top step, where he stopped and scraped the sole of his left shoe. Must have picked up some dog poo on his way across the lawn. Another neighborhood hazard. Besides burglars.

“You telling us you don’t drive?” Little Mac said.

“I was in an accident,” I said. “My car got totaled.”

“When did this happen?”

I walked them through it. They didn’t seem to understand how I’d been able to cope for months without a car of my own.

“I live in Cambridge.” Since that didn’t register, I tried, “You can check the New Hampshire police report for a date. I’ll can fax you my insurance forms.”

“So what are you doing for a car?” Little Mac kept the ball rolling.

“I don’t need one that much. I use the T. It’s environmentally friendly.”