Solitary Dancer (28 page)

“You know a woman named Billie Chandler.” Zelinka shifted the car into gear and pulled into the evening traffic.

“Billie?” McGuire turned away from the scene at the hotel window. “What about her?”

“She is dead.”

McGuire stared at Zelinka, waiting for him to continue.

Zelinka swung the car to the right, down Charles Street. “She was found strangled in her bed. It happened some time this afternoon.”

“Who found her?”

“Your friend Donovan and two uniformed officers he flagged down in the street. They broke in, on Donovan's suspicions.”

“We're going there now?”

Zelinka grunted.

“Why do you want me along?” Billie. Jesus, poor Billie.

“Because things are beginning to come together very quickly and I'm certain this woman's death is part of it,” Zelinka said.

“I don't see how,” McGuire said.

“Patience.” Zelinka swung right again, turning west. “I think Donovan is prepared to explain many things.”

McGuire sat in silence for another moment or two. Then, “You said you were looking into a lot of different stuff to do with Heather Lorenzo's murder.”

“I was.”

“Did that include Scrignoli's investigation into fraud charges, the Green Team stuff that started with DeMontford and spread to a bunch of other heavyweights in town?”

Zelinka smiled and nodded.

“So what'd you find?”

“Minor indiscretions by DeMontford's company.”

“And the rest?”

Zelinka shook his head. “Smoke. Suspicions. That's all.”

It was McGuire's turn to nod. “I thought so,” he said more to himself than to the other man. “I thought so.”

Zelinka flashed his ID and the two men swept past the uniformed officers at the door to Billie's apartment building and through a knot of tenants gathered in the lower foyer. At the top of the stairs Mel Doitch stood unwrapping a stick of gum which he wadded into his mouth before greeting Zelinka with a nod and McGuire with a sudden arching of his eyebrows.

“Got a time?” Zelinka asked.

“Between noon and two.” Doitch was watching McGuire. “What's he doing here?” he asked Zelinka.

“I'm researching a book,” McGuire said, stepping around the medical examiner.

He walked down the corridor past Billie's kitchen to her large bedroom with the double bay windows and the oversized brass bed with its ivory lace duvet and matching pillow shams.

Billie lay on her back, fully dressed in sweater and slacks. One leg was pulled up as though she were making herself comfortable. Both arms were bent at the elbows, her hands alongside her head in a position that said I give up, I surrender. Her eyes were partially open, staring somewhere beyond the ceiling. A pair of pantyhose had been pulled so furiously around her neck that deep blue furrows had been carved into the flesh.

Two forensic men, newcomers unknown to McGuire, were lifting fingerprints from the surface of the bed, the night table and the telephone, speaking in low tones to each other as they worked.

Leaning against the wall, staring out the window, was Phil Donovan. He looked at McGuire without expression and turned his head away.

“You know her?” McGuire asked Donovan.

Donovan turned slowly around to look first at McGuire, then at Zelinka. “Get him out of here,” he said to the I.A. man.

Zelinka said nothing. He walked to the foot of the bed, his hands in the pockets of his topcoat, and stared down at Billie with great sadness.

“Hey.”

It was Donovan glaring at Zelinka, who looked at Donovan as though seeing him for the first time.

“McGuire is here because he is involved,” Zelinka said. “You know that.”

“He's here because he used to fuck her,” Donovan said.

The two ID men paused to glance at Donovan, then at each other, before resuming their work.

McGuire felt weary, beaten. In some other world, a better one, Billie would have married an insurance man a few years ago and be living in Needham, raising kids and crabgrass, and the biggest danger she'd face would be a leaky microwave oven.

And some other woman would be here now, a voice reminded him. You don't eliminate this stuff, you just change names and faces.

“You were as well, I understand,” Zelinka replied to Donovan. He raised a hand to stroke his mustache. “Is that why you were here today?”

“She got pissed at me last night.” Donovan was staring out the window again. “I needed to check some stuff I picked up.” He jerked his head in McGuire's direction. “From his drug pusher, his street connection.”

“Django?” McGuire said. “You talking about Django?”

“Little black bastard was followin' us last night and I nailed him outside the Convention Center. Prick acts tough but he's a cream puff. Put the squeeze on him and he'll squeal on his own grandmother.”

“What did he tell you?” Zelinka asked.

The ID men had finished and were putting their instruments in oversized black briefcases. Donovan watched them snap the cases closed and leave the room before pushing himself away from the window and walking to the bed where he stared down at Billie as he spoke.

“Django, whatever his name is, he was at the Flamingo the night Fox got it.” He breathed deeply and McGuire realized the detective was on the edge of tears. “He was going up to your room,” he said to McGuire without looking up, “and saw Fox open your door, goin' in. He turned to leave, heard the shot and ducked into the shadows near the fence. The perp came out, ran down the stairs and vaulted the fence maybe ten feet from your friend. Never knew his black ass was there.”

“But he saw the man?” Zelinka asked. “He was able to describe him?”

Donovan nodded.

“Danny Scrignoli,” McGuire said.

Donovan turned to him. “You knew?”

“Figured it out. Zelinka and I, we figured it out.”

“So why didn't you
do
somethin'?” Donovan's voice was a howl of anger and pain.

“We needed more,” Zelinka said. “More time, more proof. More assurance that there was no one else with him. We couldn't risk making a false accusation.”

“He killed her,” Donovan said, extending a hand toward Billie's body. “He came up here at noon and killed her, probably to learn what Django'd told me. The little bastard's missin' and the guy who was runnin' him, Grizzly, he's dead, down near the JFK, his loony girlfriend's bouncin' off walls at Mass General and Django's probably chopped into cat food by now. Or haulin' his ass to California.”

McGuire looked over at Zelinka. It's not all coming together, McGuire said silently. It's all falling apart.

“Where were you today?” Zelinka asked Donovan. “Before you found her?”

Donovan released a deep breath. “Chatham. On the Cape. Checkin' out how long it took to drive from Newbury Street to there. Talked to a waitress, works the early morning shift at Denny's. Asked if she remembered seeing Scrignoli and DeMontford there.”

“And she did.”

“Sure she did. Said they were both like a couple a monkeys in heat. Couldn't sit still. Ordered breakfast, hardly touched a thing. But here's the kicker. I found an Exxon attendant, station near Hyannis, who remembered seein' DeMontford about midnight, sittin' in a Buick, fits the description of Scrignoli's car. The guy used to work at a station near DeMontford's place so he sees him in the passenger seat, Scrignoli's drivin', positive identification, both of them. Scrignoli fills up, comes in the booth and pays cash. The guy watches DeMontford through the window but doesn't say anythin' because he knows DeMontford's got the big bucks, except he doesn't look it.”

“Doesn't look it?” McGuire asked.

“Dressed like a labourer, that's what the gas attendant says. I told you, the attendant used to work at a station near DeMontford's place on the Cape, years before. He sees him from inside the booth this night and thinks the poor bastard's lost it all, maybe he's doin' construction work, somethin' like that. So he's a decent guy, he's not gonna embarrass DeMontford who sure as hell didn't know this guy anyway. DeMontford's hardly the type to buddy up with a gas station attendant.”

“Why does DeMontford look like a labourer?” Zelinka asked.

“Both of them did.” Donovan turned away and stared at the floor. His voice was lower, as though telling the tale had drained him of energy. “Scrignoli and DeMontford. They were wearin' coveralls and old sweatshirts. And that's why the attendant remembered. Never saw DeMontford in anythin' but Brooks Brothers.”

“And six hours later they're back ordering breakfast at Denny's,” McGuire said.

Donovan nodded.

“But they weren't wearing coveralls.”

“Golf sweaters and sports jackets,” Donovan said. “And smellin' of smoke. That's what the waitress remembered. They had this odour of smoke comin' off them.”

“One provided an alibi for the other,” Zelinka said.

“They both killed her, that's what I figure.” Donovan walked back to look out the window, down at the evening traffic.

“That's why she ran, all through the apartment,” McGuire said. “That's why Heather didn't try for the door. She wasn't killed by one man. She was killed by two men. They stalked her, taking turns beating her with baseball bats probably. Then they stabbed her and left.”

“Burned the clothes somewhere between here and Chatham,” Donovan said. “They'd be covered in blood, the clothes.”

“And the baseball bats,” Zelinka added. “They would have burned them too.”

“There's a record of a telephone call from DeMontford's place to Berkeley Street at two fifteen in the morning,” Donovan said. “But that's a chickenshit alibi these days. Any two-bit computer with a modem could make the call, right? Programmed to access Scrignoli's electronic mail, Berkeley Street computer picks it up at the other end, telephone company registers it as a call. Danny figured he could use it, prove they called for messages, another nail in the story.”

“Why Scrignoli?” McGuire asked. “What got him involved?”

The question seemed to amuse Donovan. “You kiddin' me? Guy beats up on a broad like that, it's gotta be for one of two things, am I right? Love or money. Am I right? And with that bitch it was always both.”

“Have you placed a call to Berkeley for Scrignoli?” Zelinka asked.

“Goddamn right,” Donovan said. He was staring at Billie's body again. “Goddamn right. I'm not sittin' on my ass like you guys did. Look what happened.” He gestured toward the bed, but there was neither malice nor anger in his voice. “Look what it did for Billie.”

“Good work,” McGuire said as he left the room. “You did good work, out on the Cape.”

“Fuck off, McGuire,” Donovan said. “You think I need you tellin' me what a good cop I am? Huh? Well, fuck you, asshole, because I don't.”

Zelinka told Donovan to calm down, relax a little bit, and the red-haired detective swore and turned away, leaning against a wall and lowering his head.

There was no response at Scrignoli's apartment and a squad car was assigned to watch it through the night. McGuire rode with Zelinka through the streets, monitoring reports that Scrignoli had been sighted at various locations in Boston and Cambridge, all of them proving empty and futile.

At midnight McGuire accompanied Zelinka to Berkeley Street where the Task Force facility set up to find the killer of Tim Fox was now the nerve center of the hunt for Boston Police Sergeant Daniel Scrignoli.

“Where is Captain Vance?” Zelinka asked one of the detectives.

“With the commissioner.” The detective popped the remaining half of a jelly doughnut in his mouth.

“Plotting strategy?” Zelinka said.

The detective shifted the doughnut to one side of his mouth. “Drafting news releases,” he said around the wad of pastry.

“Stay here,” Zelinka said to McGuire and left the room, striding down the corridor toward the commissioner's office.

McGuire walked to the coffee machine, nodding in response to muted greetings from the officers who recognized him. He was pouring a second cup when Zelinka returned and collapsed on a chair at a nearby table. He waved McGuire over.

“General agreement is, Scrignoli killed Fox.” Zelinka looked toward the front of the room where three officers were bent over a city map. “As you suggested.” He shook his head sadly. “Figured there was something in your room that might point to him and DeMontford. Fox surprised him, Dan panicked and shot.”

“How did he get involved in the first place?” McGuire asked. “With Heather?”

“Danny was squeezing DeMontford, that's what we figure. Uncovered some dirt on DeMontford, maybe threatened to widen the investigation, or maybe DeMontford made the first move by offering a bribe. Anyway, Danny took it. Dan's been looking the other way on a bunch of stuff for a while now. That's why I got involved in the first place. We were collecting evidence, getting ready to call him in, show what we had and give him the opportunity for a graceful exit. Then the Lorenzo woman was murdered. When DeMontford's name turned up in both Danny's green file and the Lorenzo woman's telephone records, the connection seemed more than coincidental. What if Heather had learned about Danny's deals with DeMontford and some others? Maybe the news got back to Heather Lorenzo from other sources, or maybe DeMontford himself couldn't resist bragging that he had a cop in his hip pocket. That he was buying whatever he needed from Danny. Time, information, whatever.”

Zelinka angled his head, reacting to a thought, and when he spoke it was more slowly and distinctly, as though he were describing a new and complex machine. “I'm willing to bet that Heather Lorenzo tried putting the squeeze on Danny herself. Anyway, it's almost certain that they had a relationship, if that's the term. All three of them. Heather and DeMontford. Heather and Scrignoli. Scrignoli and DeMontford. Variations on the same old triangle. Except that two sides joined forces against the third when Heather sought something from both.”