Liam Mulligan: Cliff Walk Part 33

"Have a drink with me," Fiona said.

"My doctor has advised against it."

"Would a little wine hurt? Come on, Mulligan. I've got a couple of things to celebrate."

"A couple? What's the other one?"

"Rome finally weighed in on my, uh, situation."

"And?"

"And it's politics or the church. I've been given a week to decide."

"Aw, c.r.a.p."

"I couldn't have put it better," she said, and then she threw her head back and laughed.

"What are you going to do?"

Fiona drained her can of Bud and placed it on the bar. She slipped the gold band from her finger and held it before her eyes for a moment. Then she dropped the ring into the empty. She picked up the can and shook it, the ring clattering inside, and suddenly the mischievous smile I remembered from two decades ago was back. "So whaddaya say, Mulligan? Wanna f.u.c.k?"

"Uh ... what?"

"Don't look so scared," she said. "I'm just kidding. Besides, you're not my type."

"I'm not?"

"No."

"Why is that?"

"Can you turn the governor into a pillar of salt?"

"Guess not."

"Bring a rain of burning sulfur down on the statehouse?"

"Only metaphorically."

"Well, there you go." She laughed hard and long, the sound mirthful but with a hint of hysteria around the edges.

"Going to hold a press conference?" I said.

"No. I thought I'd just give you the scoop. Pull your pad out and I'll answer all your questions."

So I did. But I already had my lead: the clink of a gold wedding ring hitting the bottom of an empty beer can.

47.

The "Who Are You?" ringtone interrupted my breakfast.

"I'm only going to say this once," the caller said, "so listen up." The voice was m.u.f.fled-a man trying to disguise his voice. The gravel in it again reminded me of Joseph, but I still couldn't be sure.

"You again," I said.

"Shut up and write down this address: 8 Harwich Street. That's H-a-r-w-i-c-h. Got it?"

"Off Blackstone Boulevard?"

"Yeah."

"Then you must mean Harwich Road."

"Yeah, yeah, Harwich Road."

"Nice neighborhood," I said.

"f.u.c.kin' posh."

Would Joseph say "posh"? Would he even know what it meant?

"Do a little redecorating there, did you?" I asked.

"You'll find out when you show up. Another big story in it for you, so move your a.s.s."

So that's what I did. I'd just pulled Secretariat out of the Mob-owned parking lot across from the newspaper when the cell started playing "Who Let the Dogs Out?"

"Hi, Peggi."

"Something's wrong at Dr. Wayne's house," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't come to work this morning. Blew off an eight o'clock appointment with a big donor, which isn't like him at all. I tried his cell phone and it went to voice mail, so I called the house and a policeman answered the phone."

"A policeman?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"That Dr. Wayne couldn't come to the phone right now. Then he asked me who I was and why I was calling."

"Did you get his name?"

"Parisi. Captain Parisi of the Rhode Island State Police."

"Where does Dr. Wayne live, Peggi?"

"Eight Harwich Road."

Dr. Charles Bruce Wayne's place was a two-story red-brick colonial with thick hedges on three sides and a wrought iron fence across the front. Three unmarked Crown Vics, two Providence PD squad cars, and the state medical examiner's wagon were parked at the curb out front. An ambulance waited in the driveway, nose out but in no apparent hurry. Three stay-at-home moms and their preschool toddlers gawked from the sidewalk across the street. I parked Secretariat behind one of the squad cars, and as I climbed out, Patrolman O'Banion of the Providence PD waddled in my direction. He didn't look happy to see me.

"Top of the mornin' to ya, Officer."

"Get back in your piece-of-s.h.i.+t Bronco and get the f.u.c.k out of here," he said, "or I'll arrest you and call for a tow." My story about him filching joints from the Providence PD evidence locker was six years old now, but we Irish know how to nurse a grudge.

"While you're doing all that," I said, "please let my friend Steve Parisi know that I'm here with information pertinent to this case."

"And what information would that be?"

"After I give it to Parisi, you can ask him."

O'Banion folded his arms, rested them on the top shelf of his potbelly, and gave me a hard look. I shrugged, took out my cell, and hit speed dial.

"Parisi."

"Morning, Captain."

"Sorry, but I'm a little busy right now."

"I know. I'm right outside."

"Aw, h.e.l.l. Who tipped you this time?"

"An anonymous caller."

That made him pause. "Not the same one who tipped you off about the Chad Brown murders," he said.

"Sure sounded like him."

"Well, then stay right there until I can get to you, okay?"

"If I do, Officer O'Banion is going to arrest me and have my car towed."

"Let me talk to him."

O'Banion raised an eyebrow as I handed him the cell. He put it to his ear, said, "Yes, sir," a couple of times, and clicked off. Then he glared at me, swung his arm back as if he thought he was Josh Beckett, and hurled the phone across the street. I walked over, picked it up, and brushed the snow from it. It still worked.

I got behind the wheel of the Bronco, eased the seat halfway back, cracked the window, and set fire to a Cohiba. I'd finished the cigar and was a third of the way through my prost.i.tution playlist when two EMTs rolled a s.h.i.+ny black body bag out of the house and loaded it into the ambulance. The driver was in no hurry. He took a few moments to savor his cigarette before tossing it aside, climbing behind the wheel, and driving away. Fifteen minutes later, a crime scene investigator from Tedesco's office came out of the house, spotted the cigarette b.u.t.t, picked it up with tweezers, and deposited it in a clear plastic evidence bag.

It was well past noon when Parisi exited the house. I slid down the pa.s.senger-side window as he headed my way.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"I'm buying," he said. He opened the car door, swept some newspapers and empty coffee cups off the pa.s.senger seat, and got in. "Head downtown and find a parking spot near city hall."

Parisi's idea of springing for lunch turned out to be hot dogs and c.o.kes at Haven Brothers, one of the oldest lunch wagons in America. An immigrant woman named Anne Philomena Haven founded it in 1893 with money from her late husband's insurance policy. Originally it was a horse-drawn wagon, but it reluctantly joined the internal combustion age about ninety years ago. For longer than anyone could remember, Haven Brothers has been a fixture on the street just outside the entrance to city hall. For a time, it is said, the lunch wagon drew its electricity by illegally tapping into the government building's power line. Every now and then, the city fathers denounce the place as an eyesore and drug addict hangout and try to close it down. Each time they do, loyal customers including drug addicts, Brown students, bikers, cops, hookers, reporters, and former mayor Vincent A. "Buddy" Cianci Jr. ride to the rescue. Buddy recommends the beans, one of the things he missed during his four years in federal prison on a racketeering conviction.

Haven Brothers has no seats, but it does offer a choice of dining accommodations. You can inhale grease-flecked air while eating standing up in a cramped and gritty indoor s.p.a.ce near the grill, or you can take your food outside and join the pigeons by the equestrian statue of Civil War general Ambrose Burnside in the little park that bears his name. Most people prefer the park, even when it rains. Parisi and I walked through what remained of the snow and sat on the concrete base of the statue.

"Tell me about the call," he said.

"It was pretty much the same as the first one-a m.u.f.fled voice giving me the address and saying there was a big story in it if I got there first."

"But this time you didn't."

"No."

"Put the phone on speaker and hit redial."

It rang eight times and went to a recorded message saying the voice mail mailbox had not been set up. Same as the last time.

"How'd you beat me to the scene?" I asked.

Parisi took five seconds to compose his response. "The good doctor's wife was out of town visiting family. She called the home phone and her husband's cell several times, got no answer, and became concerned. About six this morning, she called the Providence police and asked them to check on him."

"And they did?"

"Yeah. It's the kind of call they would normally blow off, but Wayne's an important guy, and the family has been a big donor to police charities; so they sent a two-man patrol car to the house. The officers found the back door jimmied, called for backup, went inside before it arrived, and found Wayne slumped in his desk chair in the den. He'd been shot once in the back of the head."

"Was there a computer in the den?"

"A desktop, yeah."

"Anything interesting on it?"

"Besides Wayne's blood and brains, you mean?"

"Yeah, besides that."

"No note left on it for you, if that's what you're asking."

"Anything on the screen?"

"It was dark. I didn't want to mess with it until the crime scene guys finished their evidence collection, but they should be done about now."

"Mind if I tag along?"