The Dogfather (20 page)

“She interested in him?”

“Very, I’d say.”

“Convenient that her husband’s out of the picture. Like they say, God helps those who help themselves.”

“Carla? If she was in the Loaves and Fishes parking lot or anywhere near there, I didn’t see her. And she’d have been hard to miss. Carla’s quite flamboyant. Or convenient for Guarini? I started to tell you before. That’s what Deitz seems to think. On the one hand, Guarini can obviously hire anyone to do anything, so it’s possible that he arranged to have Joey killed. On the other hand, Deitz is out to get Guarini, and my guess is that as far as Joey’s murder goes, what Deitz has on Guarini is just his own bias. But I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve had two visits from this guy Deitz and his partner, Mazolla, and Kevin, I don’t trust Deitz at all. What he wanted from me, and what he stills wants, is to have me plant listening devices. The first time, I said no. Then my car blew up. And today, there was Deitz again, only this time, he was more vague about what he wanted, and he was making not-so-veiled threats. Against
my dogs.
And I will not tolerate that. Kevin, you and I are good friends. I know how law enforcement works. Legitimate law enforcement. Trying to intimidate innocent dog trainers is not part of the process. Do I strike you as a likely informant? Of course not. The likely informant against Guarini was Blackie Lanigan. Another gangster. He was an FBI informant for years. But me? Do I look to you like Blackie Lanigan?”

CHAPTER 23

“You’re a lot prettier than Blackie,” Kevin said, “judging from what I’ve seen, anyways. I’m going to be able to tell better once I’ve got that picture of Blackie to hang on my wall like someone promised me.”

“Kevin, I’m very sorry. I’ll do it right away. I’ll even buy you a frame for it.”

Like every other cop in Greater Boston and probably half the cops in America, Kevin had studied the photos of Blackie Lanigan until he knew Blackie’s features better than I knew the faces of my own dogs. As I understood Kevin’s desire for a proper portrait of the legendary mobster, it was what Sherlock Holmes would have felt if he’d had the opportunity to acquire a portrait of Professor Moriarty suitable for display on his mantlepiece as a perverse acknowledgment of respect accorded to an archenemy.

The waiter presented us with small dessert menus. With no hesitation, I said, “Tiramisu, please.”

His eyes gleaming, Kevin said, “Sounds like one of those fancy names for soy sauce.”

“That’s miso,” I said. “It’s soup. This is Italian. It’s creamy. You’ll like it.”

Kevin was triumphant. “Gotcha! Hey, I’m Italian myself ” To the waiter, he said, “Tiramisu. Double portion.” When we were alone again, he said, “I been asking a few questions about Joey Cortiniglia. Nosing around.”

“Because Enzio Guarini likes heart attacks.”

“Fact. The man favors heart attacks. Always did. And then the dearly departed Mrs. Guarini's godson goes and becomes a cardiologist, and Mr. G. gets to like heart attacks more than ever. But like I was saying, I started asking around, and one of the things I heard was it happened in Cambridge. And another thing was, I heard a lot of talk about Blackie Lanigan. But this is the first I heard that it happened in shooting distance of my own home. And yours.”

The waiter appeared with our portions of tiramisu. Probably because the restaurant was too new to have built up a clientele, the service was very fast.

“It wasn’t exactly in shooting distance,” I said.

“Close enough. You know, Holly, I’m going to get you out of this. And, yeah, you should’ve told me to begin with. But you were scared of Guarini. You and everybody else that hasn’t got”—he looked down at his plate—“tiramisu for brains. But thinking you could get yourself out of it all by yourself—that was dumb. That was just plain dumb.”

“I know.”

“What I need you to do now is, I need you to give me a picture of what happened. At Loaves and Fishes. Everything. Who was there. Where and when. Everything. Who got there first?”

“I did. The dogs were with me. I got there early, and I parked behind Loaves and Fishes, and the dogs and I went behind the mall and across the railroad tracks, and we walked in the park. And when we got back to the car, Guarini was just getting there. Joey Cortiniglia and Al Favuzza had already arrived, I think. They were in a big silver Chevy Suburban. It was parked parallel to my Bronco, with a space in between. And that’s where Zap parked Guarini’s limo, in that space. Guarini’s bodyguards were with him. They always are. Musclemen. Gunmen. Whatever they are. And the puppy, Frey. I was going to crate Rowdy and Kimi in my car, but Joey didn’t want them locked up. He said they hadn’t done anything to deserve it. So I sort of got talked into leaving them with him. I wasn’t totally comfortable about it, but he was strong enough to manage them, and I was going to be nearby. And I left my car unlocked so he could put the dogs in it if he needed to.” I took a break to have a few bites of dessert. “Anyway, Guarini told Joey to stay by the cars. Favuzza was supposed to walk around and keep an eye out. And Zap was supposed to drive around in the limo. And someone... there was some mention that Joey had money for Guarini. Maybe I heard something at this point, or maybe it was later. At any rate, what happened next was that Guarini and I worked with Frey. The bodyguards were there, too. On either side of Guarini. We went from the back parking lot past the laundromat, along the side of the building, and around the corner by the liquor store. We ended up in front of Loaves and Fishes. Then I went in there to buy some good treats for Frey.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“How long were you in there?”

“I’m not sure. Not too long. But I did wait at the deli counter. And there was a line at the checkout. Ten minutes? Maybe five.”

“Which?”

“I just don’t know. What I’m sure of is that when I got back outside, Guarini was there. He was working with Frey, just the way he was supposed to. If you’re asking whether he could’ve left and come back, I guess so, but I certainly didn’t have that impression at the time.”

“The bodyguards? They were still there?”

“Yes. They’re always with him. So, we worked with Frey. Not for long. He’s just a puppy. And then we headed back toward the cars. And I couldn’t see Rowdy and Kimi. Or Joey, who was supposed to stay right there with my dogs. So as soon as I saw that my dogs weren’t there, I went flying for my car. The dogs weren’t in it. And then I found them. They were hitched in front, tethered to the undercarriage, one dog on one side, one dog on the other, and someone had given them bones. I don’t do that. I’m always afraid that they’ll bite off chunks that’ll lodge in their intestines. So bones are a major treat. Anyway, that’s when I saw Joey. And everyone else showed up more or less at the same time, Guarini, the guards, Favuzza, Zap and the limo. And the twins. They must’ve been around somewhere the whole time, but I’d never seen them before. They’re the ones who did the heavy lifting. They wrapped Joey’s body in plastic and moved him into the Suburban. Meanwhile, Guarini said that it—Joey’s shooting—was a message to him. He wanted to know who’d sent it. Someone mentioned Blackie Lanigan. Guarini said he wanted a name. That’s about it. Guarini told me that it hadn’t happened. He sent me home. I went."

“Okay,” said Kevin. “So we got Joey C. in back of the mall. With the dogs. Zappardino’s cruising around in Guarini’s car. Favuzza’s on foot. And we got Tommy and Timmy Bellano. And for five or ten minutes we got Guarini and his bodyguards out of your sight. Anyone else?”

“It’s a shopping mall. There were other—”

I never finished the sentence. As the final words should have been leaving my mouth, Kevin rose to his big cop feet and hurled himself across the table directly at me. As his bulk slammed into me, gunfire shattered the plate glass storefront window next to us. The next thing I knew, I was flat on the floor with a dead weight across my legs. At the back of the restaurant, people were hollering. Kevin didn’t join in. Good cops don’t panic. And Kevin was a good cop.

Or had been. Blood flowed from a wound in his side. Except for the flow of blood, Kevin was motionless. He was utterly silent.

CHAPTER 24

Kevin and I and the whole area around us were a mess of blood, wine, broken glass, and shattered crockery. White globs of our unfinished dessert, the tiramisu, were spattered everywhere and. looked sickeningly like soft lumps of body fat or pale portions of human brain. Weirdly, I did not scream or cry or utter a single word, not even Kevin’s name, and I made no effort to move my legs, which were pinned beneath Kevin’s bulk. Rather, in what felt even then like a show of pseudo-competence, I managed to sit up, rip off the cotton cardigan I was wearing, and press it hard against the wound in Kevin’s side. By that time, by which I mean almost no time, the wails and flashing lights of cruisers and ambulances spilled through the broken plate glass window and into the restaurant. The proprietor, Jennifer Pasquarelli’s cousin, had had the presence of mind to inform the 911 operator that the shooting victim was a Cambridge police lieutenant. The brand-new eatery, which had been almost empty of customers, was now filled with cops and EMTs.

Three hulking men lifted Kevin off my legs, which were numb. Finding me covered with blood and semiparalyzed, two medics descended on me in search of bullet wounds. They found none. As sensation returned, my legs prickled and hurt. Kevin had collided with my left shoulder and arm, which throbbed. I felt certain that Kevin had deliberately spared my head. About six months earlier, I’d had a concussion. With Kevin and with other friends, I’d kidded around about the main piece of medical advice I’d received, which was, incredibly, to avoid another head trauma. As if on my own I’d have gone out looking for one! Kevin had remembered. With no time to think, he’d instinctively aimed himself at my shoulder and upper arm, which were padded with dog trainer’s muscles, and he’d managed to avoid causing a new concussion. Stupidly, I blurted out my concussion history to the EMTs and thus ended up in an ambulance on my way to Mount Auburn Hospital. By then, I’d gleaned the information that Kevin was already at the hospital.

“He’s breathing,” a cop said, “but his condition’s what they call ‘grave.’ Bad joke.”

Once at the hospital, I spent a lot of time sitting on paper-covered exam tables in the bowels of the building. White-coated people poked, peered, and tapped. They asked questions about me. I asked questions about Kevin and learned only that he was in surgery and that his mother was at the hospital. My own braised condition was all too familiar, as it would’ve been to anyone else who’d lived with strong, rough dogs. Over the years, I’d been knocked down, run through, and slammed into by what felt like jet-propelled brick walls. Kevin was heavier than my two dogs combined, but he’d tried to push me to safety, and he hadn’t had a running start.

After the hospital staff correctly decided that I needed no treatment, I spent a few extra minutes in an exam room with a Cambridge cop named Jimmy O’Flaherty, who was a protégé of Kevin’s and had a hard time questioning me about the shooting because he kept choking up. O’Flaherty had Kevin’s coloring, the same fair skin, freckles, and red hair, but his build was slight, and he looked about fifteen years old.

“I’d give anything to be able to help,” I said, “but I wasn’t looking out the window. I was looking at Kevin. We were talking. Kevin must’ve seen something, though. He moved. Then I heard the shots. One second I was talking to Kevin, and the next second he knocked me to the floor, and I heard the shots. I thought he was dead.”

“You hear anything then?”

“I’ll tell you what I didn’t hear. I didn’t hear a car racing off. If it was a drive-by shooting, wouldn’t you expect that?”

O’Flaherty didn’t answer the question. “Did the lieutenant say anything about expecting trouble?”

“No. And when we were shown to that table by the window, he didn’t seem to mind. But Kevin always expects trouble. He’s a cop. He’s always on high alert. He thinks everyone should be. You know that. Was he carrying a gun?”

O’Flaherty struggled to sound professional. “The lieutenant was armed. And he was the target. They can tell by how the window broke. If he hadn’t’ve moved, he’d be dead.”

“Do you pray?”

The kid looked stunned.

“Do you pray?” I repeated.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then please do.” I believe in delegating essential tasks for which I have no aptitude. Besides, the only sensible response I could expect to my own prayers for Kevin’s survival would be the reminder that Kevin’s life was in danger because of me. If I’d told Kevin everything about Joey Cortiniglia’s killing as soon as it happened, Kevin wouldn’t have had to go nosing around asking questions. If Kevin died, it would be my fault.

O’Flaherty asked whether I needed a ride home. My house is within walking distance of Mount Auburn Hospital, and if the dogs had been with me, I might have gone on foot, Deitz or no Deitz. As it was, I felt vulnerable and accepted the offer.

When the cop in the cruiser asked where I lived, I was so preoccupied with worry and guilt that instead of telling him that I lived next door to Kevin on Appleton Street, I gave my mailing address, 256 Concord Avenue, and consequently got dropped off at the front door of my house. On the porch next to the door was a basket of flowers professionally wrapped in clear plastic and obviously delivered by a florist. Sticking out of the plastic was a green stake that bore a small white envelope. Printed on it was my name. Muttering the Mob’s favorite obscenity under my breath, I kicked the flowers and sent the basket sailing to a corner of the porch. It especially infuriated me to see tall spikes of blue delphiniums in the arrangement. Just as Guarini had sent red wine, which I prefer to white, he’d now sent delphiniums, my favorite flower.