27

Maria Vasquez called Javier Castro.

“I think we should act tomorrow,” she said. “DeMarco’s a sure thing, but when it comes to Callahan, I’m going to have to improvise. What I’m saying is I’ll have to look for some opportunity after noon when he’s alone, and then we’ll take him. Then we’ll have to hold him until DeMarco is where I want him to be. If an opportunity doesn’t present itself tomorrow, then we’ll try again the next day.”

“What if Callahan’s reported missing?” Castro asked. “I’m sure he has things scheduled in the afternoon, and someone will begin looking for him.”

“That won’t be a problem. We’ll make him call whoever he’s supposed to be with and give some excuse for why he can’t make his appointments.”

“Okay,” Castro finally said.

He didn’t like improvising—but in the end, Callahan made it easy for them.

Sean Callahan was sitting in his office, glad that fucking phone call was over with. It was seven thirty p.m. and he was tired and wanted to go home. Thank God Rachel didn’t have anything planned for tonight, so he could just kick back and relax. That was one problem with having such a young wife: sometimes she just wore his old ass out.

He was still in his office because he’d had to talk to a man in Japan, where it was eight a.m. The man was thinking about investing in a project that was still in the pie-in-the-sky stage, and he had money to burn. The problem was the guy thought he could speak English, so instead of using an interpreter, he insisted on speaking himself, which just about drove Sean crazy. He couldn’t understand about every other word the guy said, and kept having to ask him to repeat himself.

But other than the irritation of having to talk to the Japanese investor, things were going well and he had no complaints. He’d stopped by Delaney Square earlier in the day, and now that Elinore Dobbs was out of his hair, things were moving forward and the project was almost back on schedule. The only thing he felt bad about was the McNultys. What on earth had possessed those dumb shits to get involved with selling machine guns? Their lawyer had called him about a week ago, saying the brothers wanted to see him, and he’d told the lawyer that he would but wasn’t sure when he’d have time to drive up to the Essex County jail. He really didn’t want to talk to them but he thought it might be a good idea; they were such maniacs he didn’t want to get on their bad side.

He heard the phone ring in the outer office and thought maybe it was Rachel calling to ask where he was, although Rachel usually sent him text messages when she wanted to bug him. He hit the lighted button on his phone and said, “Hello.”

“Oh, Mr. Callahan, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was calling to speak to your secretary about scheduling a meeting for next week.”

“She’s not here,” Callahan said. “I’m here by myself and you really need to talk to her about scheduling anything. My calendar’s on her computer.” Actually, his calendar was in his phone but he didn’t feel like dealing with this right now.

“I’ll call back tomorrow,” the man said.

Callahan wondered where the guy was from—he had an accent—and what meeting he was talking about. Whatever. It was time to go.

He turned out the lights and walked out the door, checking to make sure it was locked. As he was walking down the hall, he noticed three young guys standing by the elevator. They looked Hispanic and were hard-looking SOBs but they were all wearing suits and ties. They didn’t look like gangbangers, or anything like that. He wondered who they’d been meeting with in the building. There were a couple lawyers on this floor; maybe they were here to see one of them.

He reached the elevator, nodded at the three men, then noticed the DOWN button wasn’t pushed. Why hadn’t they pushed the button? Then he found out.

One of the men took out a silenced automatic pistol and pointed it at his chest. “Mr. Callahan, we’re going to return to your office. If you do anything foolish, I’ll kill you.”

He realized then that the guy speaking was the same guy who’d just called asking to speak to his secretary. Who the hell were these people?

They walked back to his office and the man with the gun told him to unlock the door. As he was doing so, Sean said, “I don’t keep any money here in my office. But I have about five hundred in my wallet, and credit cards, of course.”

The man just prodded him in the back with the gun and said, “Go to your office.”

He was told to sit in the chair behind his desk, then the man with the gun said, “Now call your wife and tell her you’re going to be very late. Put the phone in speaker mode. If you say anything to alarm your wife, we’ll kill you, then go to your house on Beacon Street and rape your wife before we kill her.”

“Jesus. What do you guys want?”

“Make the call.”

He hit the SPEAKER button on the phone and punched in Rachel’s cell phone number. When she answered, he said, “Uh, hi, it’s me. I’m going to be pretty late tonight.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

Sean couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t sound all that disappointed that he was going to be late.

“I’m supposed to talk to a guy in Japan and he’s late calling here.”

“At this time of night?” she said.

“It’s morning in Japan. Anyway, the guy’s been delayed and I need to wait for his call, then after I talk to him I may need to go see one of my lawyers. So I’ll be late.”

“Okay,” Rachel said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

He started to say I love you, but she’d already hung up.

DeMarco changed into a pair of dress slacks for dinner and a nice short-sleeved blue shirt that he thought matched his eyes. He’d been wearing shorts and a T-shirt all day because of the heat but decided to dress up a bit for dinner, as he wasn’t sure where he planned to go. He’d have a drink in the hotel bar and chat with the bartender—a kid named Sam who he was getting to know way too well—about where he might dine this evening.

The lounge in the Park Plaza hotel was a rather funky place, but DeMarco had grown used to it. There was a dark bar with enough high-backed stools for a dozen drinkers—which was normal enough—but in the seating area were low tables surrounded by armchairs patterned with cloth resembling a giraffe’s hide. The oddest thing was the photos: large photos of models who—based on the women’s hairstyles—looked like they might be from the late fifties or early sixties. The men in the photos wore suits with narrow ties and fedoras and carried umbrellas and had dark-framed Clark Kent glasses. The most striking photo was of a pretty brunette with a Jackie Kennedy hairdo wearing a hat, a polka-dot dress, high heels, and holding two Hula-Hoops in her white-gloved hands. DeMarco wondered if the Hula-Hoops were supposed to be symbolic of something.

He took a seat at the bar and Sam—a young stud who looked like a serious weightlifter—came over to take his order. Sam had so many muscles in his neck it made his head look particularly small; it made DeMarco think of the Michael Keaton character in Beetlejuice whose head was shrunk by a witch doctor.

“Your usual?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, why not,” DeMarco said.

Sam brought him a Stoli martini with a lemon twist, and said, “So how was your day?”

DeMarco figured Sam didn’t want to hear him bitch about Boston and the heat and the fact he had an asshole for a boss, so he said, “Great.”

DeMarco toasted the photo of the lady with the Hula-Hoops, and was just taking the first sip of his martini when he heard a woman standing next to him say, “Janet, you do this all the time. Why do you do this? We make plans and then that jerk calls and you drop everything and run to him. He’s never going to leave his wife, and you know it!” There was a brief pause, and she said, “No, Janet, I don’t want to hear it. Good-bye.”

As she was talking she’d taken a seat on the barstool next to DeMarco and dropped a large purse on the bar that landed with a thump like it contained a bowling ball. DeMarco turned to look at her, initially irritated she was talking so loud and practically in his ear—and then he saw what she looked like. Wow!

She was absolutely gorgeous. She was probably thirty-five, about five foot six and built: heavy breasts pressing against the thin material of a white sleeveless blouse and slim, tanned legs emerging from a black skirt that was halfway up her thighs when she was sitting. She had honey-colored blond hair that reached her shoulders and a complexion that also made him think of honey.

She turned to DeMarco, looking exasperated, and said, “My sister. She was supposed to meet me here for a drink and we were going to have dinner together, and then she stands me up. She’s going out with this married guy and . . . Oh, never mind. I’m sorry.” Then she looked around and said, “Does this place have a bartender? I need a drink.”

DeMarco saw Sam and waved like crazy. He did not want this woman to leave. “Hey, Sam! Sam!”

Sam ambled over and DeMarco said, “This lady desperately needs a drink.”

“What would you like, miss?” Sam said.

“I’ll have a vodka gimlet.”

“And it’s on me, Sam,” DeMarco said. “She’s having a bad day, and it’s the least I can do.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said, touching DeMarco’s forearm with a soft, warm hand.

“I’m Joe,” he said.

“Maria,” she said.

Maria said that she did marketing for a pharmaceutical company. DeMarco and Emma had once had a nearly fatal experience investigating a pharmaceutical company, and he consequently did not hold the industry in high esteem. But Maria could have said that she euthanized parakeets for a living and he would have forgiven her. He’d thought her eyes were brown, but it turned out they were more green than brown, and she had the most perfect lips he’d ever seen.

He told her he was a lawyer, and although he lived in D.C., he was in Boston all the time—all the time—on business. When she asked what kind of law he practiced he said he didn’t exactly practice law; he was more of a political troubleshooter. She seemed suitably impressed—and God knows he would have done handstands to impress her.

They finished their drinks and he said, “I was just about to go out to dinner. There’s an Italian place a couple blocks from here. I’ve been there before and it’s good. I was thinking since your sister stood you up . . .”

“I’d love to,” she said, again touching his forearm. “Let me just go touch up my makeup.”

She didn’t need makeup.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes,” she said.

He waited two minutes and walked out to the lobby and a couple minutes later she was coming toward him, like a vision on high heels. God, what a body she had. She took his arm and as they walked toward the door, he felt a little pinch in his right arm, the arm she was holding.

“Ow,” he said.

“Is something wrong?” she said.

“No, I just felt something.” They proceeded toward the lobby doors and he noticed he was feeling lightheaded. He didn’t understand it; he’d only had one drink. He took a few more steps and his legs started to feel rubbery and he felt like he was about to pass out. “I think I need to sit . . .”

The last thing he remembered was two men standing next to him—he didn’t know where Maria had gone—and they were supporting him, helping him walk toward the door.