“You have a message,” Ronnie Schantz told McGuire over the telephone.
McGuire lifted a coffee cup to his lips. From upstairs he could hear the sound of the shower. “What is it?” he asked.
“Somebody invited you to dinner tonight. He just called a few moments ago, said this was the number Berkeley Street gave him.”
“Who?”
“Man named Harley DeMontford. Ever heard of him?”
“Yeah,” McGuire said. “I’ve heard of him.”
It swept over him again, propelled by the prospect of pain, the knowledge that Micki was already planning another departure from him, the awareness that he would be able to hold back the distress and depression for only a few hours until it crushed him again.
And he wanted a taste, a ripple of the wave that the meperidine could ride to him. He wanted to escape with it on the warm wave of vertigo he had ridden for so many weeks. . . .
Ronnie was speaking to him. He rubbed his forehead, told himself to dredge up some goddamn courage and listen to her voice.
“Sounded very nice on the telephone. Very cultured. If you go, you may have to come up and change into one of your suits. Dinner’s at six o’clock. In the dining room at the Four Seasons.”
McGuire released a slow whistle. “Let me talk to Ollie.”
He heard a click on the line before Ollie’s voice rasped through his speaker phone. “Joseph!” his former partner barked. “Where are you?”
“Newbury Street,” McGuire said. “Heather Lorenzo’s apartment.”
“Scene of the crime. One of ’em anyway. What the hell you doin’ there?”
“I’m with Micki.”
Ollie waited a beat or two before speaking, more slowly, more gently now. “Ronnie tell you about your dinner date?”
“She told me.”
“Who’s Harley DeMontford?”
“Owns a stock brokerage. Dan Scrignoli fingered him in a Green Team operation and turned him, got him to name some names.”
“And DeMontford gets off the hook.”
“Scrignoli says he’s one guy in a big bunch, he’s a small price to pay.”
“So what’s he want with you?”
“Heather Lorenzo was blackmailing DeMontford. There’s no evidence, no paper trail. Scrignoli told me about it.”
“This guy DeMontford, he married?”
“So I hear.”
“Lemme guess. Once a month his accountant adds up his net worth, pays him a visit and says, ‘Harley, you really love your wife, don’t you?’ and old Harley looks at the balance sheet and says, ‘Sure as hell do.’”
McGuire smiled. “That’s what it sounds like.”
“And if it spills that DeMontford was doing elbow push-ups on Heather Lorenzo, DeMontford threatens to take his chances in court instead of testifying against his country club buddies, that the way it works?”
“Without DeMontford, Scrignoli’s case might not even make it to the grand jury.”
“Who talked to him from Fat Eddie’s group?”
“According to Scrignoli, nobody.”
“They nuts over there? Timmy Fox is dead, it’s got something to do with the Lorenzo thing, he’s banging her for bucks and nobody’s talked to him?”
“Calm down, Ollie,” McGuire began.
To McGuire’s surprise, Ollie did. McGuire heard three long noisy breaths drawn in and exhaled, then Ollie’s voice again. “You know something, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do,” McGuire said.
“What?”
“I know DeMontford’s involved.”
“Where was he that night the Lorenzo woman was killed?”
“On Cape Cod with Dan Scrignoli, pulling all the parts of Danny’s case together.”
“So what’re you saying, DeMontford got some goon to do her?”
“No,” McGuire said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
Billie was out of cigarettes, which was a royal pain in the ass. She was also on her second pot of coffee, sitting there watching the goddamn television, bunch of crazy people on talk shows, where the hell do they get these freaks?
Maybe the telephone wasn’t working. It had happened before, Dewey trying to reach her one afternoon and some jerk working on the roof clipped the telephone lines, didn’t tell anybody about it.
Don’t be stupid. The telephone’s working.
So why hasn’t he called?
Go out and get some cigarettes and he’ll call for sure. Why didn’t she get an answering machine last month when she saw them on sale, fifty bucks? Could use one now.
Maybe she’d have a drink, a little taste of Wild Turkey from the bottle in the cupboard behind the oatmeal.
She stood up, took three steps toward the kitchen and detoured past the telephone, picked up the receiver.
Damn thing’s working.
“I’m going for a walk.” Micki handed McGuire a brass key. “Take this in case . . . in case I’m not here when you get back, okay?”
Micki stood in the open bedroom doorway watching McGuire, who lay back with his hands clasped behind his head. He had been thinking of small white pills.
“I don’t belong here anymore.” Her face shattered like a fearful child’s. “No, don’t, please,” she added as McGuire began to rise from the bed to reach for her. “I’m going back to Florida tomorrow. I’ll let you know where I am, what I’m doing. Okay?”
“What happened?”
The question seemed to stun her. “What?”
“What are you afraid of?” McGuire said gently. “What’s the worst that can happen? We try to make it work again and it doesn’t? Is that what scares you?”
“Yes.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling and bit her lower lip.
“But isn’t it worth trying anyway?”
“No.” She shook her head vigorously, like a terrier. “Not unless I know for sure.”
“There’s nothing to know for sure.”
“I never knew you!” She held her small hands at her waist, her fists clenched like an angry schoolgirl’s, and when she spoke she kept her eyes closed, maybe concentrating on her words, maybe blocking out the sight of McGuire, he didn’t know. “I don’t know who you are. Who are you? Do you know? Are you some tough son of a bitch like other people, the ones you work with, think you are? But you’re not. There were times when I wanted you to get angry with me, just to let it out, but you didn’t or you couldn’t, you just withdrew, over and over, until something would happen, I never knew what, and you’d put your head on my chest and cry like a baby and . . .”
“Micki—”
“. . . and I never knew why, you’d never tell me. Who the hell are you anyway? I mean really, inside? Do you know yourself?”
“Maybe I never gave a damn. About knowing who I was.”
“Yes, you did, yes, you did. You were just scared to find out. You were scared, and it frightened me, it scared the hell out of me. That’s what made you dangerous, can’t you see that? Other men, they can hit me or threaten me, I can deal with that because . . . because it’s there, it’s in front of me, but you . . . It was all hidden, it’s still all hidden and . . . Can’t you see?”
McGuire couldn’t see. Looking that deeply and darkly within himself would be like asking him to see the back of his head without a mirror. “Why are you saying all of this now?” he said. “Why now?”
“Because . . . because I started feeling something for you all over again and I had to remind myself that . . . that I need somebody who knows who he is, not some big kid who acts tough and really isn’t and will never know. Don’t you understand how that can scare somebody close to you? Don’t you?”
McGuire lay there for a very long time after she turned and descended the steps, after the door at the bottom of the stairs had closed and after his body had shook with spasms of sadness and despair.
“You will at least have an enjoyable meal.”
Rudy Zelinka smiled at McGuire across his untidy desk. Outside, on the square in front of the old courthouse, a weak sun cast pale shadows across empty concrete walks and over flower beds crowded with frost-killed flowers.
“And a wonderful view of the Public Garden,” Zelinka added. “I understand DeMontford has a table reserved for his exclusive use in one of the bay windows on Boylston Street.”
“I didn’t expect him to do something like this,” McGuire said. “Inviting me to dinner. I called just to poke him a little, see if he’d panic.”
Zelinka thrust out a bottom lip. “It fits the man’s personality, from what I know of him. Stay aloof, in control. You come at him in a vulgar manner, he responds with formality.”
“What do you figure he’ll talk about?”
“He’ll want to impress you with his power. Discover perhaps how much you know, in an atmosphere where he cannot incriminate himself.” The cold smile returned. “Perhaps he will offer you a job. He’ll certainly want to protect himself.” Zelinka made a tent with his hands. “I should tell you that enquiries have been made at Berkeley Street, delicate discreet enquiries by a prominent criminal lawyer acting on Mr. DeMontford’s behalf.”
“Wondering what you’ve got on his client,” McGuire said.
“Yes, but more pointed than that. The lawyer is aware of DeMontford’s agreement to cooperate with Scrignoli’s investigation and suggested that he could advise his client to cease such activities unless Dan Scrignoli is the only officer dealing with him. Anybody else approaches him and he’ll simply refuse to cooperate.”
“Scrignoli’s the only one he trusts?”
Zelinka smiled and watched McGuire.
“Still doesn’t make sense,” McGuire said. “I’m on the fringe of things. All I know is what you and Scrignoli tell me.”
“I believe you know more than anyone else, perhaps even me.”
“I’ve got some suspicions, ideas. . . .”
“You have far more than that,” Zelinka said. “I think you have worked many problems out in your head to this point, hmm?” The Hungarian pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.
“A few.” McGuire was hesitant, unsure about how much he should share with Zelinka. “Tell me again why DeMontford, who probably never heard of me before I called him, invites me to dinner.”
“Never heard of you?” Zelinka spread his arms wide. “Don’t be so modest. He knows of you. Mr. DeMontford is very active in church diocese activities and he remembers your involvement in the serial killer of priests several years ago. To him, you are perhaps a minor celebrity.”
Zelinka lowered his hands and leaned forward, fixing McGuire with his dark eyes.
“But I suspect it’s because you are unthreatening to him. And you may be a source of information, a conduit even. The man is fearful, McGuire. He maintains a cool exterior but beneath it he is panic-stricken. Within a few months he could find himself bereft of his marriage, his business and his freedom.” He smiled. “I love that word, bereft. It addresses the feelings the man will have while pondering his foolishness.”
“How do you know so much about DeMontford?” McGuire said. “You’re Internal Affairs, DeMontford’s a Team Green source.”
“I said I despise computers, McGuire. I did not say I refuse to use them. You may have noticed the terminal in the outer office.”
“Somebody’s opening files for you, sending you reports from Berkeley Street.”
“I’m learning all I need to know without leaving any fingerprints.”
“From who? Brookmyer?”
“It doesn’t matter who.” Zelinka looked away, smiled to himself, looked back at McGuire. “Brookmyer handles the transmissions and the commissioner has authorized his cooperation. Brookmyer himself is not accessing the files. You may be surprised at who is.”
“So tell me.”
“Captain Vance.”
It was McGuire’s turn to smile. “Fat Eddie? He’s running things for you?”
“Don’t underestimate him.” Zelinka shrugged. “Due to the complexities of this case, access to information must be restricted to higher levels of authority. Whenever higher levels of authority are involved, Eddie Vance suddenly discovers new abilities neither he nor the rest of us were aware of.” Zelinka withdrew a pen from the inside pocket of his worn tweed jacket. “Now if you’ll tell me what you know of Tim Fox’s death and any related information, I will tell you what you may want to know before having dinner with the elegant Mr. DeMontford.”
At the door, Zelinka touched McGuire on the shoulder. “Have you won?” he said.
“Won what?”
“Whatever you win when you divest yourself of something that is destroying you.”
“Nothing to win,” McGuire said. “Nothing to lose.”
Descending the stairs, McGuire realized that Zelinka had been referring to his meperidine addiction and not to Micki.
Well, she’d be damned if she’d call him. Phoned him twice this morning, left messages both times, how much more can a girl do?
Billie rose from her chair, fell back, rose again and reached out to steady herself against the battered walnut end table.
Out of cigarettes, out of bourbon, out of men, she thought. Then she grinned. Hell, I’m out of a job too. So what do I need first?
“Cigarettes and bourbon,” she said aloud. Then look for a job. Get a job, get out and around, find another man, men’re the easiest part. It’s the good men, the decent ones, guys you can trust, they’re the hard ones to find and hold on to.
She dressed in an old pair of slacks, heavy sweater, flat shoes. Ran a brush through her hair, smeared a little lipstick on her mouth, sprayed some L’Air du Temps on her neck, never know who you might meet on the street. Checked herself in the mirror, frowned, pulled her sweater up to her neck and removed her bra. Walked into the bedroom to find another one, a French model with wire under the cups, give her a better bust line.
She had the old bra off and the new one in her hands when she heard the knock at the door.
Well, hot damn, she thought. About time. She tossed the lace bra back in the drawer, pulled the sweater down over her breasts, her nipples getting hard already, you could see them poking against the fabric.
She walked to the door, fluffing her hair on the way. She had something to get off her chest at him, damn it, and swung the door open, a pained expression on her face but remembering to keep her stomach pulled in, her shoulders back, let him know what he’s been missing, how close he came to losing it for good.
McGuire rode the Blue MBTA line to Revere Beach, arriving in the late afternoon, the sky gray and grieving. There was little wind but the sea beyond the breakwater roiled and threatened, and the sound of the waves and whitecaps were a constant background noise, like machinery humming on a distant production line.
Ronnie greeted him at the front door of the small white house, ushering him quickly into the warmth and ducking with concern at his light jacket, inadequate against the dampness and cold. “I pressed your gray trousers and sports jacket,” she said. “I picked out one of Ollie’s ties, a red and gray stripe, and ironed a white shirt for you. Want some coffee?”
McGuire kissed her on the forehead, a gesture he knew she disliked, and took the mug of coffee into Ollie’s room.
“You see Zelinka?” Ollie demanded without greeting McGuire first.
McGuire said he had.
“You tell him what you told me, what we talked about this morning?”
“Most of it,” McGuire said. He settled himself in the chair next to Ollie’s bed.
“He buy it?”
McGuire nodded. “He suspected it all along.”
“So what’s he gonna do?”
“Wait and see what happens tonight with DeMontford.”
“Doesn’t have proof,” Ollie said.
“And DeMontford’s got some heavy lawyers.” McGuire took a long swallow of coffee, set the mug aside, crossed his legs, folded his arms.
“DeMontford’ll try to figure out what you know.”
“Zelinka wants me to spook him a little bit.”
Ollie grinned; the action creasing his face until his eyes almost disappeared. “You’re good at that, Joseph. You’ll spook him ’til he’s like a half-fucked fox in a forest fire.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” McGuire smiled.
“Oh, I’d love to be there and watch you work. God, what I’d give to be there.”
“I’ll tell you all about it, soon as it’s over.” McGuire stood up. “I’d better get showered and dressed.”
“The Four Seasons, huh?” Ollie watched McGuire. “Might as well hold back, get yourself a good meal out of it first. And don’t you forget to call me, give me all the dirt, damn it!”
At the door Ronnie caught up with him and said, “Take this.” She tucked some money into McGuire’s worn woollen topcoat, the dull gray garment smelling faintly of mothballs. McGuire tried to brush her hand away but she fixed him with those black Irish eyes and said, “Take it and let me and Ollie know you’re all right, you hear me?”
McGuire said he heard her and kissed her on the forehead again. “You know I hate it when you do that,” she said, and slapped his arm in mock anger as he turned to leave.
“I’m really proud of you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For doing what you did. Giving up those pills. You’re a pretty tough guy.”
McGuire studied her face, grunted and leaned to kiss her gently again.
“How’s Micki?” she called to his back as he walked into tile night, and he shrugged his shoulders in reply.
Lily Cathcart, who lived in apartment two, never cared for Billie Chandler, never wanted anything to do with a woman who made her living parading around naked in front of a bunch of men, what kind of way was that to live? Lily Cathcart had raised three children and never slept with anyone except her dear late husband for thirty-eight years, and in all that time nobody ever saw her naked except Mr. Cathcart, bless his soul, and her family doctor.
Maybe Billie Chandler was at heart a good person, Mrs. Cathcart told herself, just another nice girl caught in a bad situation. Mrs. Cathcart heard that Billie lost her job when the terrible place she worked in was closed down because the black detective was killed there, gives you some idea of the kind of people Billie associated with, doesn’t it? And then that police officer knocking on her door the other day, he looked mean enough to . . . well, as mean as anybody Lily might expect to meet on the street.
Goodness knows Billie was always pleasant enough and kept to herself, Lily Cathcart admitted. Usually had a smile for her and the other tenants in the building. Never played her radio or TV too loud either. Although sometimes Mrs. Cathcart would hear Billie come in late at night and there’d be somebody with her, Lily could hear a man talking and Billie telling him to keep his voice down. And later, if Mrs. Cathcart got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and the kettle wasn’t boiling and Mrs. Cathcart sat on the far side of the room closest to Billie’s apartment, she could hear their voices in Billie’s bedroom on the other side of the wall, sometimes talking low and sometimes making groans, animal sounds.
That’s what she thought she heard late that afternoon. Groans, animal sounds, doing it in broad daylight for goodness’ sake. And then the man going downstairs, his footsteps clump-clump-clump onto the street, just like that. No goodbyes, not a thing.
Well.
Billie taking off her clothes in some dirty club downtown was one thing. But if she was trying to make money as a prostitute in her own apartment, men coming up to her room like that, if Mrs. Cathcart discovered that’s what she was doing to make ends meet, there would be nothing for her to do except tell the landlord and insist that Billie be evicted.
In a city justly famous for its many old and elegant hotels, the Four Seasons sits like an overly confident and audacious newcomer, occupying almost an entire city block on Boylston Street across from the Public Garden. Heavy with brass and polished walnut, the ground-floor dining room is on display through a series of smoked-glass bay windows, and it was these windows that McGuire studied, standing in the shadows of the Public Garden, hunched against the cold in his topcoat.
Four of the six window tables were occupied. McGuire scanned them from the other side of Boylston Street, squinting to identify the diners. A middle-aged couple eating dinner without speaking to or acknowledging the other, three men and a woman in business suits sampling drinks and opinions, a young couple studying a menu nervously, two elderly women sipping tea.
One of the tables held a small discreet white card and McGuire walked along the garden pathway to position himself opposite it just as a tall man in a shiny gray suit appeared in the window accompanied by two men in tuxedos, a waiter and the maître d’. The waiter pulled the chair out for the man and whisked the white tent card away while the maître d’, his white-gloved hands holding each other at waist level, bowed and spoke to the hotel guest. The man in the shining suit nodded and smiled. Both hotel staff quickly disappeared from view, leaving him alone at his table.
The man at the table smoothed his tie and looked casually out the window, his position slightly elevated above the level of pedestrians hurrying by, shopkeepers and office workers on their way toward the subway or to dinner at less prestigious establishments where there would be no view of the Public Garden and no white-gloved waiters to pull out their chairs.
Despite the best efforts of Boston’s arguably best hotel, social realities abided beyond the double-insulated glass windows, and while they could not intrude they at least remained visible and vexing to the guests.
McGuire watched one of them: a street beggar of indeterminate age shuffling along Boylston Street an arm’s length from the dining-room windows. He wore a long, graying beard, and thatches of unkempt hair spilled out from beneath a knitted cap while he shook a paper cup at passing pedestrians, pleading for spare change. A filthy cloth jacket was buttoned to the neck, and as he walked his oversized shoes slapped the pavement, revealing scabrous bare feet black with dirt. On his hands were mismatched knitted gloves, and when he wasn’t begging for coins, he would turn his back to the hotel windows, a street person retaining his dignity in the presence of ostentatious wealth barely a short distance, but several levels of society, away.
The beggar paused at the window where the man in the shiny suit studied him with expressions of interest and disgust. At that moment the waiter arrived with a crystal glass to set in front of him before glaring out the window at the homeless street person. His customer smiled and shook his head at something the waiter said and in an instant the waiter was out of sight again.
The homeless man, unaware of the minor distress he had caused behind him, resumed shuffling by, shaking his paper cup at pedestrians and imploring with watery eyes for handouts.
McGuire crossed the street, the collar of his worn gray wool topcoat turned up and his hands thrust deeply in his pockets. From the corner of his eye he saw the man in the window watch him approach.
At the hotel entrance the doorman avoided eye contact with McGuire who swept past and into the lobby, crossing to the dining room where the maître d’ smiled pleasantly and asked how he could help McGuire.
“DeMontford’s expecting me,” McGuire said, and the maître d’ closed his eyes long enough to bow his head and turn to lead the way.
DeMontford rose from his chair as McGuire approached. Various parts of the man reflected light in the dimness of the room—a glitter of diamonds in the face of the heavy watch on his wrist, a sheen from the silk fabric of his suit, a twinkle from the gleaming cuff links, a luster from the starched white shirt and a flash from the man’s clear lively eyes.
“Joe McGuire,” DeMontford said, reaching past the maître d’ to seize McGuire’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you finally.” His words were carefully modulated and, in place of the expected broad Boston accent, DeMontford enunciated with a vaguely British delivery. “I’ve been aware of your police career for many years.”
“Your coat, Mr. McGuire?” the maître d’ asked.
“I’ll hold onto it,” McGuire said. He shrugged out of his topcoat as the maître d’ pulled McGuire’s chair out for him. McGuire tossed his coat on one of the empty chairs, generating a wave of mothball aroma, and sat down.
“Glenfiddich, neat.” DeMontford, who had returned to his chair, held the crystal tumbler up for McGuire’s inspection. “Join me?” His voice was deep and raspy with a texture like tree bark.
“Got any Kronenbourg?” McGuire asked. The maître d’ lowered his eyes and nodded. “Make it a cold one,” McGuire said.
“I ordered the salmon,” DeMontford said to McGuire. “Poached in Chablis with béarnaise sauce. Magnificent. Will you have some?”
McGuire said sure, and the waiter nodded again and half backed away, half turned to disappear into the measured gloom of the dining room.
“You certainly got my secretary’s attention with your telephone message,” DeMontford said. “I assume that was your objective. It worked.”
McGuire sat back in his chair and drank in the man’s appearance for the first time. The eyes, unwavering and fastened on McGuire’s own, were pale blue and McGuire thought inexplicably of cornflowers. The skin was taut and tanned, framing a firm nose, slightly humped, set above a pewter mustache and thin lips. When the lips parted in a wide smile they revealed unnaturally white and even teeth.
“It wasn’t what I planned to say to her,” McGuire said. He glanced around the half-filled dining room, the tables set far enough apart to prevent eavesdropping, the diners at each table adding to the atmosphere of discretion by speaking in low tones like conspirators.
“And what would that have been?” DeMontford appeared amused, watching McGuire as though he were a stand-up comic about to deliver a monologue.
“I wanted to tell her your nuts were on an anvil and I had a hammer in my hand,” McGuire said.
At first, DeMontford responded as though he hadn’t heard McGuire. His smile, if anything, grew slightly wider but he gave himself away by narrowing his eyes ever so slightly before shaking his head and lifting his glass to sample the expensive single-malt Scotch. “Well, well,” he said, sipping from the glass and looking casually around the room. “Well, well, well.”
This was all together too much.
Some other man had come bounding up the stairs, making far more noise than necessary, and began pounding on Billie Chandler’s door as though he were trying to wake the dead. Then he began shouting her name over and over, saying, “I know you’re in there, let me in.”
Lily Cathcart opened her door, leaving the chain attached, and spoke across the second-floor landing at him. “Please,” she said. “There are others living here, you know.”
The man turned his head to glare at her and Mrs. Cathcart retreated slightly from the open door, recognizing his sharp features. “She in there?” he demanded.
“I have no idea,” Mrs. Cathcart said, “but I do wish—”
“She’s in there, isn’t she?” the man said angrily. He took a step toward her and Mrs. Cathcart backed away even further, preparing to slam the door if necessary, frightened by the fury in his eyes. “You hear her go out today?”
“I have no idea who comes and goes,” Mrs. Cathcart said.
“That’s a load of crap,” the man said. “I’ll bet you know everything. You see anybody come in here today?”
“If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police,” Mrs. Cathcart said.
The man glared at her for a moment, then turned back to the door. “Billie!” he shouted. “Goddamn it, open up.”
Mrs. Cathcart closed the door and returned to her living room. If he doesn’t leave in one minute I’ll do it, she promised herself. I will call the police. This is outrageous.
But the man left shortly afterward and she remained where she was, shaking with anger and remembering that she had seen the same man at Billie’s door recently, perhaps just a day or so ago. And she would tell the police all about it if he should ever return.
“How much do you know about my association with the police department?” DeMontford asked. He was sitting back in his chair, watching McGuire expectantly, as though waiting for an amusing play to begin.
“You’re supposedly cooperating in an undercover investigation concerning fraud,” McGuire said. “In exchange for immunity from prosecution.”
“Not quite.” DeMontford leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “The fact is, there is no record of my having broken any law. Or committed any transgression. None at all. So there is no risk of prosecution. By working with Dan Scrignoli, I am fulfilling my duty as a concerned and involved citizen.”
“Sure, there’s no record,” McGuire said. “All part of the deal.”
“No record.” DeMontford’s hand cut the air in a horizontal motion across the table. “Nothing. Remember that.”
“All right,” McGuire said. “So talk to me about Heather Lorenzo.”
DeMontford sat back again as the waiter arrived carrying McGuire’s beer and a chilled Pilsner glass on a silver tray. “Thank you, Vincent,” DeMontford smiled, and he watched the waiter leave before speaking to McGuire. “Any idea how many women Jack Kennedy screwed in the White House?”
McGuire shrugged, pouring the beer into the tall glass. “The hell’s that got to do with Heather Lorenzo?”
“I heard close to two hundred,” DeMontford said. His voice was tinged with admiration, as though measuring an associate’s wealth. “Considering he was in office less than three years, that’s a new one about every five days.”
McGuire watched DeMontford, waited for him to continue.
“And a lot of people still think he may be the best president we ever had. Don’t you find that interesting?”
“Not really.” McGuire sipped his beer.
“The point is,” DeMontford said, “what a man does with his libido isn’t important. Not nearly as important as what he does with his mind.”
“Heather Lorenzo,” McGuire said, setting the beer glass down, “was not killed by somebody’s mind. She was killed by a baseball bat swung at her body and by a knife plunged into her gut. A particularly brutal death.”
“Brutal?” DeMontford said. “You’re shocked by brutality? A Boston homicide cop? I suspect you don’t read much history, do you?” Before McGuire could respond, he waved the question away with his hand. “Of course you don’t. You’re probably too practical, or consider yourself to be.”
DeMontford sat back and stroked his mustache with his fingertips.
“In World War Two, the toughest resistance fighters against the Nazis were the Serbian Chetniks, the meanest, most fanatic guerillas of the war, and when they weren’t setting up massacres of the Germans, they were fighting among themselves or wiping out Croats and Muslims.”
DeMontford shrugged. “Things haven’t changed that much, have they? Anyway, the Chetniks had a favourite method of executing prisoners. Do you know what it was? I’ll tell you what it was. They would choose two men of equal weight or better yet, a man and a woman, that was a favourite, and they would hang them from opposite ends of the same short length of rope tossed over a tree limb. Then they would remove the binds from their hands.”
DeMontford paused to watch McGuire’s reaction. When he saw none, he continued.
“The poor devils would start clawing at each other, trying to pull themselves up for another breath or two while the Chetniks stood around and laughed. Now that’s brutal, McGuire.”
“And I hear the Turks had a special way of punishing unfaithful women,” McGuire offered. “Something about tomcats.”
“Yes.” DeMontford smiled again. “I’m impressed. You’re more widely read than I thought. The Turks would strip the woman naked, place her in a gunnysack with two tomcats and a heavy stone, tie it all up and throw it in the sea. I’ve always found that fascinating. What went on inside the gunnysack, I mean. The tomcats in a frenzy, the woman hysterical . . . Every death is filled with terror, McGuire. Of one kind or another. You of all men should know that.”
“How much terror did Heather Lorenzo suffer before she died?” McGuire asked.
“I have no idea.”
“There was blood everywhere. In the foyer, down the hall, in her office, back up the hall. Everywhere.”
“You know quite a lot about her death. How much did you know about her life?”
“I was related to her,” McGuire said. “By marriage.”
“I know that. I meant the little scheme she had. The music piped into her room. The camera aimed at the bed. The special lighting she used, invisible to the human eye but very good at creating images on infrared film. The cute little way she had of threatening to destroy a man’s life, his reputation. The woman had no feelings at all, McGuire. Except anger. No compassion. She wanted only to sell her dirty pictures like they were some sort of . . . some kind of commodity, for God’s sake.”
“Just another business deal,” McGuire said.
“It was blackmail, McGuire.” DeMontford’s face had grown red with anger but he still managed to smile. “What made it so good, what made her so effective, was that she could be romantic about it. I mean, she wasn’t interested in one night stands. She went after a kind of commitment, relationship. The kind a married man cannot easily explain away. The kind that leads to confrontations and lawsuits. The kind he’ll pay thousands to avoid.”
“The kind that would drive him to kill her,” McGuire said.
DeMontford nodded. “Agreed. And there were dozens of men who might have. You know that. She told me when she showed me the pictures. Our pictures. She said there were dozens of other men, all wealthy, all successful and all weak enough to be seduced by her. All carefully selected and used. Trying to make it easier for me to capitulate, sign the check, chalk it up to experience.”
He shook his head in admiration.
“You know, when Heather first came to me with those pictures and sprang everything on me, she was so cool and specific about the terms I considered hiring her on the spot. The idea actually crossed my mind. I thought, ‘This woman could outperform every securities salesman on my staff.’”
“You didn’t offer her a job.”
DeMontford drained his glass.
“You killed her,” McGuire said.
DeMontford lowered the glass and looked out the window at the pedestrians scurrying past on Boylston Street, their collars turned up against the chill. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. His amused expression had faded. “I was at my home on the Cape with Dan Scrignoli all night. Preparing material for the investigation.”
“Bullshit.” McGuire sat back in his chair.
DeMontford looked back at McGuire, visibly annoyed. “You’re a damn fool,” he said angrily. “What makes you think you can intimidate me? You have no legal standing, you have no respect, you have nothing.”
McGuire shrugged.
“You used to be a hero,” DeMontford said. “I remember reading about you in the newspapers. How you went up against that priest killer a few years ago. Now you’re just a bum. They wouldn’t have let you through the front door of this place if I hadn’t told them to.”
DeMontford’s words seemed to amuse him and the anger faded, replaced with a dry smile.
“I thought I would do you a favour. Dan Scrignoli told me what a good man you once were. He said you’d had a string of bad luck and now you were trying to turn things around. I’m a good Catholic, I remember how you solved those priest killings. And I’m concerned about maintaining my reputation as a civic leader. So I thought perhaps we could talk. I might even be able to offer you something, a helping hand perhaps. But you don’t deserve it. You deserve nothing but my contempt. You’re just another street bum.”
McGuire watched DeMontford carefully and in silence, which appeared to annoy the other man. His words tumbled out in longer sentences.
“Remember when I said the things a man does with his libido aren’t nearly as important as what he does with his mind?” The elegant tone had vanished from DeMontford’s voice, replaced by an edge, a low growl that was both measured and relentless. “Well, I built the best privately owned securities operation in the northeast. The very best. I count the governor, three United States senators and a former president among my friends. All these connections were made by me, my hard work, my energy, all of it with my mind. I have status, McGuire, something you’re not even within shouting distance of. Status and standing and responsibilities, and I am married to a woman from a family that represents the finest of American society. And I would not risk any of it, not a shadow of it, for another woman, especially one like Heather Lorenzo.”
“But you did,” McGuire said. “You slept with her.”
DeMontford dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. “I’ve slept with many women without risking my position. She was just one more.”
DeMontford leaned toward McGuire and dropped his voice even lower. “You may have been related to her, McGuire, but unless you were intimate with her, you wouldn’t know. You’d never know what that woman could do for a man. Heather Lorenzo had more qualities that attract a man than you could ever imagine. I don’t mean just physical qualities. I mean a kind of total package, a vibrancy, a . . . an insatiability, if that’s the word—”
“She was a hot fuck,” McGuire said.
DeMontford smiled tightly. “I suppose that’s the kind of phrase you prefer.”
“And I’ll bet your wife’s about as much fun in bed as a bag of lobsters.”
DeMontford sat back in his chair and inhaled with fast, shallow breaths. “I was mistaken,” he said. “You’re not a bum, McGuire. You are a pig.”
The two men continued staring at each other, DeMontford with indignation, McGuire with a cool detachment, wondering how much more it would take to trigger an explosion in the other man. Before either could speak, the maître d’ arrived at the table and presented a cordless telephone receiver to McGuire.
“A call for you, sir,” he said, then turned to DeMontford. “The salmon is on its way.”
DeMontford nodded, still glaring at McGuire, who brought the receiver to his ear and spoke into it.
The voice at the other end was Zelinka’s. “Have I interrupted the main course?” the Hungarian asked, but his voice said he didn’t care if he had.
“I hear it’s on the way,” McGuire said, watching the waiter approach, pushing a teak and silver serving cart toward the table.
“Perhaps you should ask for a doggy bag then,” Zelinka said. “I am in my car, turning onto Arlington Street. I will be there in three or four minutes.”
The waiter arrived and with a flourish removed the ornate sterling silver cover from the serving dish revealing two large salmon fillets, pink islands in a sea of thick lemon-coloured sauce. DeMontford kept his eyes on McGuire and gave the waiter a flick of the hand that could have been a gesture of either approval or dismissal.
“You want us to set a place for you?” McGuire asked.
“No,” Zelinka said. “Meet me outside. At the curb.” Zelinka’s cellular telephone crackled. “There has been a murder reported. I am heading there now.”
“Who?” McGuire said.
He heard a moment or two of traffic noise, another crackle in his ear, and the line died.
McGuire reached for his topcoat, stood up and shrugged into it. Then he stood over DeMontford. “You killed her,” he said, staring into the other man’s eyes.
The waiter continued to prepare DeMontford’s plate as though he were totally deaf to the words being passed back and forth between the two men.
“I know why,” McGuire said. “And I know how. And I know that when Zelinka and I pull everything together, a herd of lawyers won’t be able to save your rich status-seeking well-connected ass, DeMontford.”
If anything, McGuire’s words seemed to calm the other man. “I don’t believe we have any reason to talk further.” The waiter set a plate of salmon in front of him. “I have said everything I wanted to say and you have said everything you need to say.”
McGuire glanced to his left, through the bay window that looked out onto Boylston Street. The beggar was returning, shaking his battered paper cup and thrusting it toward passersby. “No, I haven’t,” he said, and spun on his heel toward the door.
Outside, the air had the sharpness of a knife’s edge and McGuire buttoned his coat to his neck before trotting along the sidewalk to catch up with the beggar. He spoke a few words to him, thankful that the brisk wind carried the man’s body aroma away from him. The beggar glanced back at the bay window where DeMontford sat watching McGuire. Then he exposed a mouth of brown teeth with his smile and extended a hand to McGuire who placed a ten-dollar bill in it.
At the sound of a horn, McGuire glanced around to see a gray Plymouth waiting at the curb, Zelinka behind the wheel. He jogged toward it, opened the door and slid into the car’s musty warm interior, but before Zelinka could pull away, McGuire touched his shoulder and said, “Wait a second.”
Zelinka followed McGuire’s eyes back to the bay window of the hotel where Harley DeMontford had just placed the first morsel of Chablis-poached salmon into his mouth. All three men watched the beggar, his eyes gleaming and his mouth working in silent laughter as he approached the window, his hands at his hips. Then, in a gesture as explicit as it was timeless, the beggar pulled his trousers down to his knees and backed up to press his buttocks against the window inches from DeMontford who ceased his chewing and turned his head away, an expression of disgust visible on his face just before he covered it with his starched white dinner napkin.