Crime Of Privilege: A Novel Part 9

"Sorry." Cory's appeal took another slight tumble.

"Okay, the three of them, plus you, Paul, and a guy named Jason Stockover-"

"Who?" She blinked, thought about it, then sparked again. "Oh, Jason, I remember him. He was so cute. Okay, it was my graduation year, because that was the last time he ever came and I had such a crush on him and then I never saw him again. So, okay, 1999 it was."

"You know what happened to him? Know where he is?"

"No. Like I said, we never saw him again. He went to Deerfield or Dartmouth. One of those green schools, because he had a dark green baseball hat with a white D on it." She finished, and there was a new clouding on her brow.

I had to ask what was wrong.

"You know, it's kind of funny because we had such a good time. But you think about it and there were, what, six of us, and three of them never sailed again. I mean, like I said, Peter has an excuse, but our two friends, to just never hear from them after that ..."

"Which is why I'm asking if something happened."

And suddenly Cory Gregory was not having such a good time anymore. "George," she said, not Georgie but George, "what is it you do? For a living, I mean."

"I work with Barbara Belbonnet. I thought she told you."

"You're a district attorney?" She seemed shocked. Her hand went to the center of her chest.

"a.s.sistant. I'm an a.s.sistant D.A., like Barbara."

Now her hand started grabbing around her hip, both hands did, she was getting her windbreaker. I started to speak again and she stopped. "No, George. You seem like a really nice guy and all, and I'm sure you only want to get hold of your friend, but we have to be really careful who we talk to and what we talk about. So I thank you for the coffee, but I'm afraid this conversation is over."

I reached across the table and saw the same ice coldness come over her that I had seen when Buzzy grabbed her in the British Beer Company. "Don't," she commanded. "I'm going to leave now and, I swear, if you so much as get out of your seat I'm going to press a b.u.t.ton and a guy is going to come flying through that front door and it is not going to be pretty. Understand?"

I told her I did.

She stood up, did not put on the windbreaker, just tucked it under her arm. She started forward, hesitated in mid-step, said, "Thank you," again and walked out of the cafe.

My date with Cory Gregory was at an end.

CORY GREGORY WAS NOT THE FIRST WOMAN TO DITCH ME ON Cape Cod. Marion had left me with a three-bedroom house, a two-vehicle carport, and a third-of-an-acre yard.

The first time she came down the Cape I took her to the dunes at the National Seash.o.r.e. I had gotten a fire permit, and we went to Marconi Beach and walked far away from the guarded area to a spot where we could lay out a blanket and have n.o.body within a hundred yards of us. As it grew dark, we dug a pit and filled it with driftwood. Then we spent hours huddled next to the flames while she told me all of her frustrations and I told her none of mine. Later, when ours was the only light on the beach and there was nothing else around us but millions of stars in the sky and the sound of waves cras.h.i.+ng on the sh.o.r.e, we made love in the sand and she proclaimed it the most perfect moment of her life.

By the time she went back to Boston on the Sunday of that weekend she had determined to leave her big-city job with its preposterously large paychecks and seventy-hour workweeks and move in with me. She would apply to all the firms on the Cape; somebody would want her. Or she would get a job with a government office, like I did. Or she would just chuck the law altogether and open a tea shop. Wouldn't that be great, never having to worry about billable hours again?

I did nothing to encourage or discourage her. I liked Marion. She was smart and funny and fun, and I had been lonely, especially during the winter months.

So I let her make her plans and tell all her friends, and I didn't complain when she never gave her notice at work. I didn't complain when we bought our house and she only came down on weekends. I didn't even complain when she started skipping weekends.

MUGGSY'S WAS NOT NEAR THE WATER AND WAS NOT ON ANY of the main roads that visitors used. It was in Marstons Mills, and you had to know where it was to find it. Either that or you had to stop for gas at the two pumps outside and notice that the s.h.i.+ngled structure behind the pumps had a neon sign that said Eats in tubular cursive. Then, if you were so inclined, you were in for the best five-dollar breakfast you could find on the Cape.

The owner was the cook, and he didn't seem to care if people ate or not. He had tattoos on his forearms, perpetually smudged gla.s.ses, an unkempt mustache that no doubt discouraged fastidious diners, and he ran the place more like a social club than a restaurant. He would come out from behind the counter and sit with the guys who came in regularly to drink coffee, eat coffee cake, joke about people who were not like them, and mock those who were like them over their golf games, fis.h.i.+ng mishaps, and spending habits.

That same Sat.u.r.day morning that I met with Cory Gregory, the guys with whom Muggsy was sitting consisted of not two but three Macs, and one police chief wearing civilian clothes. There was no waiting list for tables, as there had been at Break A'Day. In fact, there was n.o.body in the place but the cook and the four men, all gathered around one table.

I could hear them talking when I was in the parking lot, which was hard dirt and still contained potholes from the recent spring thaw. I could hear them laughing. I could hear three or four guys trying to get their smack across by shouting over the others. When I walked in, they all shut up.

"Morning," I said, and got a couple of silent nods, none of which was from the chief. I stopped just inside the door and smiled at them. It seemed the best thing to do. The Mac I did not expect to see was an old guy named McCoppin, very tall, with a full head of snowy white hair that stood out because of his bright red V-neck sweater. I knew who he was because he had once been on the Board of a.s.sessors. He did not know me and looked away so he would not have to talk to me. The other two Macs probably said my name, or something close to it, in a manner that indicated they had no reason to talk to a guy like me and I had no reason to be there in their little clubhouse. The chief folded his arms.

"You want something?" Muggsy said. Because he was the owner, he could have been asking if I wanted coffee, orange juice, scrambled eggs with a side of ham. But it didn't sound like that.

"I wanted to speak to the chief for a moment, if I could." I pointed softly at Cello DiMasi, in case someone did not know who the chief was.

"It's my day off, George. Can't it wait till Monday?"

"Sure. But it's only a quick question and I drove all the way over here to ask it." I was still smiling.

McBeth pulled a rolled-up copy of The Herald out of his pocket and spread it out on the table. Everybody but the chief looked at it as if it was really important to see who won the lottery, which Boston city councilor was accused of which impropriety, and whether the Red Sox's new shortstop was too sensitive to perform in Fenway Park.

"All right," said the chief, "I'll give you three minutes," and then he led me outside, away from his friends, who had started debating whether the city councilor really had taken a bribe or was conducting his own investigation when he was videotaped stuffing cash into a computer bag.

He walked all the way to his city-issued SUV and leaned his back against the engine compartment. He folded his arms.

He said, "Yeah?"

I said, "Tell me if this list of names means anything to you: Ned Gregory, Jamie Gregory, Cory Gregory, Peter Gregory Martin, Jason Stockover, Paul McFetridge."

"Sounds like the list Old Man Telford was peddling."

"What did you do with it?"

"Gave it to Detective Landry."

"What did he do with it?"

"You'd have to ask him."

I nodded. The list had not been in the files, at least not that I had seen. I said, "Is he working today, by any chance?"

"Not today. Not any day."

"How come?"

"Took early retirement. Moved to Hawaii."

"Where?"

The chief silently considered whether "Hawaii" was enough. It was very clear I annoyed him. Like Mitch White, however, he was unsure of my connections. He settled his internal debate with a shrug of his shoulders. "Not one of the famous islands. The other one."

"Kauai?"

"That's it."

"When did that happen?"

"About six or seven years ago."

"So the list wasn't something Bill Telford just came up with recently."

"Wasn't recently, wasn't right away, neither. It was just something Anything New came up with somewhere along the line. He was always trying to come up with something."

"Did Detective Landry follow up on it?"

"I believe he did. Couple of people he couldn't find. The ones he did talk to, they said there wasn't any party at the Gregory house that night, and none of them had seen anyone matching Heidi Telford's description."

"And you believed them?"

"Me?" The chief laughed. "I didn't have nothing to do with it. It was Detective Landry's investigation, and if he didn't feel there was anything to Bill's latest theory, well, that was his call." He pushed himself away from his vehicle. "Now, you done with me? Can I go back inside, talk to somebody I want to talk to?"

"One more thing. After Landry left, who took over the investigation?"

"Technically, that would be Detective Iacupucci. But, seriously, kid"-he paused in his departure long enough to poke me in the chest-"what's to investigate?"

CHUCK, CHUCK LARSON, WAS ON THE PHONE. "YOU SHOULDNA scared Cory like that, Georgie." He sounded sadder than I had ever heard him.

"I didn't scare her, or at least I didn't mean to. I was just asking questions."

"Yeah, but about what?"

"I was trying to locate McFetridge. You remember him."

"You wanted to know where someone was, you shoulda come to me, Georgie. I can pretty much always help you with that. What did you want to find Paulie for?"

"He was my roommate, for heaven's sake. At one time he was my best friend. I just wanted to find him, talk to him, see what he's up to."

"Yeah, but you were asking Cory questions about stuff that happened a long time ago."

"Because it turns out that was the last time she saw him."

In court I have learned that it is best not to stick to a script. You ask a question, get an answer, pick that answer apart. It was different when you were the one being questioned. I didn't want be picked apart, to say things that were going to sp.a.w.n whole new areas of inquiry.

"She says she had the feeling you weren't just asking about Paulie. See, what you gotta understand, Georgie-and I know you do, which is what kinda surprised me about what you were asking-is there's a lot of people out there who want to cause harm to the Gregorys. Sometimes it's for political reasons, sometimes it's just nutcases. People who want to make themselves famous at the Gregorys' expense. So, yeah, somebody all of a sudden starts asking about where family members were and what they were doing at certain times, the kids know that's when they have to pull the curtains, lock the doors, call for help. She had help there, Georgie. Did you know that?"

"The black guy."

"Yeah. Recognize him? Pierre Mumford. Used to be my teammate on the 'Skins."

"He wasn't exactly discreet in making his appearance."

"Nope. Wasn't supposed to be. Since the Gregorys have all kinds of issues, all kinds of things to be concerned about, if you will, they use different a.s.sistants for different reasons. Sometimes they want to make a show of being protected, they use someone like Pierre. Sometimes they're more subtle and you don't even know someone's watching out for them. Could be a little old lady walking her dog or something. You understand what I'm saying, Georgie?"

"I do, Chuck."

"So you can also understand that somebody like Cory doesn't necessarily know where everybody fits in. So when she finds she's being questioned by an a.s.sistant district attorney, it kind of freaks her out. And when she goes home and learns that a few years ago some detective was asking her brother and cousins questions about this same weekend you were asking about, well, that's when she calls me. You got something you wanna know about that weekend, Georgie, something that involves the family, you're better off asking me."

"I just want to know where Paul McFetridge is."

"Yeah, but why now? Why after all these years, you suddenly want to find him?"

It crossed my mind to tell him that it had recently occurred to me that I had no friends, that McFetridge was the last close friend I had had, that I just wanted to reach out and talk to someone about the way things used to be. I got rid of those thoughts in a hurry.

"McFetridge," I said, "came up in a discussion I had with a guy named Bill Telford, whose daughter was killed that weekend."

"We know about Anything New, Georgie. His name speaks for itself."

"Yeah, but he keeps contacting me." And here I diverged from the straight and narrow. "I think he's got somebody talking to him."

"The girl in the store."

"Somebody else."

"So that makes you want to talk to Paulie?"

"Let me put it this way, Chuck. It reminded me that I knew him. Made me think that if I made enough calls to enough people, I'd find him."

"Yeah, but why?"

"Because I want to talk to him."

"About what?"