“You know a woman named Billie Chandler.” Zelinka shifted the car into gear and pulled into the evening traffic.
“Billie?” McGuire turned away from the scene at the hotel window. “What about her?”
“She is dead.”
McGuire stared at Zelinka, waiting for him to continue.
Zelinka swung the car to the right, down Charles Street. “She was found strangled in her bed. It happened some time this afternoon.”
“Who found her?”
“Your friend Donovan and two uniformed officers he flagged down in the street. They broke in, on Donovan’s suspicions.”
“We’re going there now?”
Zelinka grunted.
“Why do you want me along?” Billie. Jesus, poor Billie.
“Because things are beginning to come together very quickly and I’m certain this woman’s death is part of it,” Zelinka said.
“I don’t see how,” McGuire said.
“Patience.” Zelinka swung right again, turning west. “I think Donovan is prepared to explain many things.”
McGuire sat in silence for another moment or two. Then, “You said you were looking into a lot of different stuff to do with Heather Lorenzo’s murder.”
“I was.”
“Did that include Scrignoli’s investigation into fraud charges, the Green Team stuff that started with DeMontford and spread to a bunch of other heavyweights in town?”
Zelinka smiled and nodded.
“So what’d you find?”
“Minor indiscretions by DeMontford’s company.”
“And the rest?”
Zelinka shook his head. “Smoke. Suspicions. That’s all.”
It was McGuire’s turn to nod. “I thought so,” he said more to himself than to the other man. “I thought so.”
Zelinka flashed his ID and the two men swept past the uniformed officers at the door to Billie’s apartment building and through a knot of tenants gathered in the lower foyer. At the top of the stairs Mel Doitch stood unwrapping a stick of gum which he wadded into his mouth before greeting Zelinka with a nod and McGuire with a sudden arching of his eyebrows.
“Got a time?” Zelinka asked.
“Between noon and two.” Doitch was watching McGuire. “What’s he doing here?” he asked Zelinka.
“I’m researching a book,” McGuire said, stepping around the medical examiner.
He walked down the corridor past Billie’s kitchen to her large bedroom with the double bay windows and the oversized brass bed with its ivory lace duvet and matching pillow shams.
Billie lay on her back, fully dressed in sweater and slacks. One leg was pulled up as though she were making herself comfortable. Both arms were bent at the elbows, her hands alongside her head in a position that said I give up, I surrender. Her eyes were partially open, staring somewhere beyond the ceiling. A pair of pantyhose had been pulled so furiously around her neck that deep blue furrows had been carved into the flesh.
Two forensic men, newcomers unknown to McGuire, were lifting fingerprints from the surface of the bed, the night table and the telephone, speaking in low tones to each other as they worked.
Leaning against the wall, staring out the window, was Phil Donovan. He looked at McGuire without expression and turned his head away.
“You know her?” McGuire asked Donovan.
Donovan turned slowly around to look first at McGuire, then at Zelinka. “Get him out of here,” he said to the I.A. man.
Zelinka said nothing. He walked to the foot of the bed, his hands in the pockets of his topcoat, and stared down at Billie with great sadness.
“Hey.”
It was Donovan glaring at Zelinka, who looked at Donovan as though seeing him for the first time.
“McGuire is here because he is involved,” Zelinka said. “You know that.”
“He’s here because he used to fuck her,” Donovan said.
The two ID men paused to glance at Donovan, then at each other, before resuming their work.
McGuire felt weary, beaten. In some other world, a better one, Billie would have married an insurance man a few years ago and be living in Needham, raising kids and crabgrass, and the biggest danger she’d face would be a leaky microwave oven.
And some other woman would be here now, a voice reminded him. You don’t eliminate this stuff, you just change names and faces.
“You were as well, I understand,” Zelinka replied to Donovan. He raised a hand to stroke his mustache. “Is that why you were here today?”
“She got pissed at me last night.” Donovan was staring out the window again. “I needed to check some stuff I picked up.” He jerked his head in McGuire’s direction. “From his drug pusher, his street connection.”
“Django?” McGuire said. “You talking about Django?”
“Little black bastard was followin’ us last night and I nailed him outside the Convention Center. Prick acts tough but he’s a cream puff. Put the squeeze on him and he’ll squeal on his own grandmother.”
“What did he tell you?” Zelinka asked.
The ID men had finished and were putting their instruments in oversized black briefcases. Donovan watched them snap the cases closed and leave the room before pushing himself away from the window and walking to the bed where he stared down at Billie as he spoke.
“Django, whatever his name is, he was at the Flamingo the night Fox got it.” He breathed deeply and McGuire realized the detective was on the edge of tears. “He was going up to your room,” he said to McGuire without looking up, “and saw Fox open your door, goin’ in. He turned to leave, heard the shot and ducked into the shadows near the fence. The perp came out, ran down the stairs and vaulted the fence maybe ten feet from your friend. Never knew his black ass was there.”
“But he saw the man?” Zelinka asked. “He was able to describe him?”
Donovan nodded.
“Danny Scrignoli,” McGuire said.
Donovan turned to him. “You knew?”
“Figured it out. Zelinka and I, we figured it out.”
“So why didn’t you do somethin’?” Donovan’s voice was a howl of anger and pain.
“We needed more,” Zelinka said. “More time, more proof. More assurance that there was no one else with him. We couldn’t risk making a false accusation.”
“He killed her,” Donovan said, extending a hand toward Billie’s body. “He came up here at noon and killed her, probably to learn what Django’d told me. The little bastard’s missin’ and the guy who was runnin’ him, Grizzly, he’s dead, down near the JFK, his loony girlfriend’s bouncin’ off walls at Mass General and Django’s probably chopped into cat food by now. Or haulin’ his ass to California.”
McGuire looked over at Zelinka. It’s not all coming together, McGuire said silently. It’s all falling apart.
“Where were you today?” Zelinka asked Donovan. “Before you found her?”
Donovan released a deep breath. “Chatham. On the Cape. Checkin’ out how long it took to drive from Newbury Street to there. Talked to a waitress, works the early morning shift at Denny’s. Asked if she remembered seeing Scrignoli and DeMontford there.”
“And she did.”
“Sure she did. Said they were both like a couple a monkeys in heat. Couldn’t sit still. Ordered breakfast, hardly touched a thing. But here’s the kicker. I found an Exxon attendant, station near Hyannis, who remembered seein’ DeMontford about midnight, sittin’ in a Buick, fits the description of Scrignoli’s car. The guy used to work at a station near DeMontford’s place so he sees him in the passenger seat, Scrignoli’s drivin’, positive identification, both of them. Scrignoli fills up, comes in the booth and pays cash. The guy watches DeMontford through the window but doesn’t say anythin’ because he knows DeMontford’s got the big bucks, except he doesn’t look it.”
“Doesn’t look it?” McGuire asked.
“Dressed like a labourer, that’s what the gas attendant says. I told you, the attendant used to work at a station near DeMontford’s place on the Cape, years before. He sees him from inside the booth this night and thinks the poor bastard’s lost it all, maybe he’s doin’ construction work, somethin’ like that. So he’s a decent guy, he’s not gonna embarrass DeMontford who sure as hell didn’t know this guy anyway. DeMontford’s hardly the type to buddy up with a gas station attendant.”
“Why does DeMontford look like a labourer?” Zelinka asked.
“Both of them did.” Donovan turned away and stared at the floor. His voice was lower, as though telling the tale had drained him of energy. “Scrignoli and DeMontford. They were wearin’ coveralls and old sweatshirts. And that’s why the attendant remembered. Never saw DeMontford in anythin’ but Brooks Brothers.”
“And six hours later they’re back ordering breakfast at Denny’s,” McGuire said.
Donovan nodded.
“But they weren’t wearing coveralls.”
“Golf sweaters and sports jackets,” Donovan said. “And smellin’ of smoke. That’s what the waitress remembered. They had this odour of smoke comin’ off them.”
“One provided an alibi for the other,” Zelinka said.
“They both killed her, that’s what I figure.” Donovan walked back to look out the window, down at the evening traffic.
“That’s why she ran, all through the apartment,” McGuire said. “That’s why Heather didn’t try for the door. She wasn’t killed by one man. She was killed by two men. They stalked her, taking turns beating her with baseball bats probably. Then they stabbed her and left.”
“Burned the clothes somewhere between here and Chatham,” Donovan said. “They’d be covered in blood, the clothes.”
“And the baseball bats,” Zelinka added. “They would have burned them too.”
“There’s a record of a telephone call from DeMontford’s place to Berkeley Street at two fifteen in the morning,” Donovan said. “But that’s a chickenshit alibi these days. Any two-bit computer with a modem could make the call, right? Programmed to access Scrignoli’s electronic mail, Berkeley Street computer picks it up at the other end, telephone company registers it as a call. Danny figured he could use it, prove they called for messages, another nail in the story.”
“Why Scrignoli?” McGuire asked. “What got him involved?”
The question seemed to amuse Donovan. “You kiddin’ me? Guy beats up on a broad like that, it’s gotta be for one of two things, am I right? Love or money. Am I right? And with that bitch it was always both.”
“Have you placed a call to Berkeley for Scrignoli?” Zelinka asked.
“Goddamn right,” Donovan said. He was staring at Billie’s body again. “Goddamn right. I’m not sittin’ on my ass like you guys did. Look what happened.” He gestured toward the bed, but there was neither malice nor anger in his voice. “Look what it did for Billie.”
“Good work,” McGuire said as he left the room. “You did good work, out on the Cape.”
“Fuck off, McGuire,” Donovan said. “You think I need you tellin’ me what a good cop I am? Huh? Well, fuck you, asshole, because I don’t.”
Zelinka told Donovan to calm down, relax a little bit, and the red-haired detective swore and turned away, leaning against a wall and lowering his head.
There was no response at Scrignoli’s apartment and a squad car was assigned to watch it through the night. McGuire rode with Zelinka through the streets, monitoring reports that Scrignoli had been sighted at various locations in Boston and Cambridge, all of them proving empty and futile.
At midnight McGuire accompanied Zelinka to Berkeley Street where the Task Force facility set up to find the killer of Tim Fox was now the nerve center of the hunt for Boston Police Sergeant Daniel Scrignoli.
“Where is Captain Vance?” Zelinka asked one of the detectives.
“With the commissioner.” The detective popped the remaining half of a jelly doughnut in his mouth.
“Plotting strategy?” Zelinka said.
The detective shifted the doughnut to one side of his mouth. “Drafting news releases,” he said around the wad of pastry.
“Stay here,” Zelinka said to McGuire and left the room, striding down the corridor toward the commissioner’s office.
McGuire walked to the coffee machine, nodding in response to muted greetings from the officers who recognized him. He was pouring a second cup when Zelinka returned and collapsed on a chair at a nearby table. He waved McGuire over.
“General agreement is, Scrignoli killed Fox.” Zelinka looked toward the front of the room where three officers were bent over a city map. “As you suggested.” He shook his head sadly. “Figured there was something in your room that might point to him and DeMontford. Fox surprised him, Dan panicked and shot.”
“How did he get involved in the first place?” McGuire asked. “With Heather?”
“Danny was squeezing DeMontford, that’s what we figure. Uncovered some dirt on DeMontford, maybe threatened to widen the investigation, or maybe DeMontford made the first move by offering a bribe. Anyway, Danny took it. Dan’s been looking the other way on a bunch of stuff for a while now. That’s why I got involved in the first place. We were collecting evidence, getting ready to call him in, show what we had and give him the opportunity for a graceful exit. Then the Lorenzo woman was murdered. When DeMontford’s name turned up in both Danny’s green file and the Lorenzo woman’s telephone records, the connection seemed more than coincidental. What if Heather had learned about Danny’s deals with DeMontford and some others? Maybe the news got back to Heather Lorenzo from other sources, or maybe DeMontford himself couldn’t resist bragging that he had a cop in his hip pocket. That he was buying whatever he needed from Danny. Time, information, whatever.”
Zelinka angled his head, reacting to a thought, and when he spoke it was more slowly and distinctly, as though he were describing a new and complex machine. “I’m willing to bet that Heather Lorenzo tried putting the squeeze on Danny herself. Anyway, it’s almost certain that they had a relationship, if that’s the term. All three of them. Heather and DeMontford. Heather and Scrignoli. Scrignoli and DeMontford. Variations on the same old triangle. Except that two sides joined forces against the third when Heather sought something from both.”
“Jesus,” McGuire said. He thought of Heather, remembered her intensity, her drive to seize every advantage, gain every benefit offered to her. Then he smiled in dark admiration. “That’d be her style. Blackmail DeMontford for the pictures. Then blackmail Danny for taking a payoff from DeMontford.”
“Remember, we have no proof that she slept with him,” Zelinka said. “Danny, I mean. But that’s not important.”
“She puts the squeeze on both, DeMontford and Scrignoli get together, each tells the other what she’s doing to him and they work out the idea.”
“One provides an alibi for the other,” Zelinka said.
McGuire drained his coffee, set the cup aside and rubbed his eyes as he spoke. “One of them gets into Heather’s apartment, maybe promising another pay-off, then he lets the second one in and they take turns chasing her through her apartment, beating her with baseball bats. Probably toying with her, letting her think she’s getting away, making a break for the office or for the door, but there’s always one of them there, herding her like a couple of collie dogs.”
He sat in silence for a minute. “You really had him early like you said, didn’t you? You had Scrignoli down.”
“A little. Just a little perhaps.”
“That’s why you got in this. As an I.A. man.”
“I had some help.”
“From who?”
“Captain Vance.”
“Fat Eddie? Fat Eddie knew about this?”
“He did more than gain access to the computer. It was the captain’s idea to float the rumour. About Heather’s involvement with a police officer. To see what might happen. Although I must tell you, he said starting the rumour was the kind of thing you would do. He felt it was underhanded but effective. Said you and Ollie Schantz would start unfounded rumours like runaway trains and watch to see who jumped from the path.”
“Fat Eddie?” McGuire said again. He shook his head and smiled, then looked up at the clock. It was almost one o’clock. “What do you figure Danny’s doing now?”
“Running.” Zelinka sat in a chair too small for the bulk of his large body, like a parent in his child’s kindergarten class. “Sleeping. Maybe dead.” He swiveled his head toward the door behind McGuire. “Something come up, Captain?”
McGuire turned to see Fat Eddie Vance watching him with sleepy curiosity. Vance’s eyelids were half closed, his face was puffy and his shoulders sagged. He reminded McGuire of an overweight dog just awakened for dinner and pondering whether it would be worth the effort to move.
“Joe,” Vance said, nodding at McGuire. He lowered himself into the chair next to Zelinka, passed a hand over his eyes and said, “We just received a call from a lawyer representing DeMontford. He told us he’ll be accompanying his client here in the morning, nine o’clock, to discuss DeMontford’s possible involvement in Heather Lorenzo’s murder.”
“He’ll try to cop a plea,” Zelinka said.
Vance yawned and nodded.
“And throw Danny to the dogs,” McGuire said. “Turn on him to save his ass.”
“One more off the slate,” Vance said. “Nothing on Scrignoli?”
“Nothing we’ve heard,” Zelinka said.
Vance nodded again and stood up.
“Hey, Eddie,” McGuire said.
The captain turned to look at McGuire.
“You lost some weight?”
“A little.” Vance frowned, watching McGuire carefully.
“Looks good,” McGuire said. “You’re really looking good these days.”
“Thanks.” The captain glanced at Zelinka and smiled, almost shyly, before shuffling away to his office.
Zelinka drove McGuire to Heather’s apartment, promising to call the moment he heard anything about Scrignoli.
As soon as McGuire entered the third-floor foyer, even before he saw the note on the small kitchen table, he knew she was gone.
He walked to the cabinet in the office area, poured three fingers of J&B into a glass tumbler, walked back to the kitchen, sat at the table, ran his hand through his hair and drank half the Scotch. Then he picked up the note.
Joe:
I wrote you like this once before, didn’t I? Maybe I’m getting good at it. That was a joke by the way. Not very funny, is it? Anyway, I guess this doesn’t make a lot of sense but I got so scared and I don’t know why because I was having so much fun and it felt so good to be with you again. So why should it scare me? But it did anyway. I tried to tell you why last night and this morning, but I don’t think I made much sense.
Maybe I can take you just in small doses. I hope you understand and if you do maybe you can explain it someday. I’ve got a seven o’clock flight to West Palm in the morning. It was all I could get, so I’m staying at a motel near the airport. Please don’t call me. Some men are coming for the furniture tomorrow. I sold them everything, I don’t want a bit of it. I promise to let you know when I’m settled. I’ll call or write Ollie and Ronnie. They love you, Joe. Just in case you hadn’t noticed.
Micki
P.S. So do I.
“Hell of a way to show it,” McGuire said aloud. He drank the rest of the Scotch, walked to the outer office and lay on a floral-patterned settee, recalling all the motels he knew near the airport, wondering which one she had chosen and why.
It seemed only a moment after he closed his eyes. He opened them at the sound of what? A telephone? Gray light seeped through the windows off Newbury Street, another cold goddamn November dawn.
The telephone rang again. McGuire sat upright and lowered his head while the room settled around him, then he stumbled to the kitchen.
“I am starting to feel like some kind of immoral chauffeur,” Zelinka said in his ear. “Picking you up from your evil assignations.”
“What’s going on?” McGuire asked. He saw Micki’s note on the table where he had left it a few hours ago and he snatched it up and stuffed it in his pocket.
“They located Scrignoli’s car on Hull Street. No sign of him. Do you care to join me and the rest of the tired posse?”
McGuire nodded. Speak, you dumb bastard, he told himself. “Yeah,” he said. “When’ll you be here?”
“When?” Zelinka said. “I am downstairs now. Let’s go.”
“We know a little more,” Zelinka said after pulling away from the curb. “About Dan Scrignoli.”
“How much more?” McGuire looked at the clock on the car’s dashboard. It wasn’t yet seven. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a garbage pail.
“He cultivated some contacts among narcotics dealers.” Zelinka glanced across at McGuire who was leaning his head against the window glass. “Among them was the man everyone seems to know as Grizzly.”
McGuire stared straight ahead. “Danny was working with Grizzly?”
“Passively.”
“What, he’d pass the word along when the pressure was on, when a roundup was coming?”
“It appears that way. Danny, of course, never handled narcotics himself.”
McGuire nodded. “And you can bet it wasn’t a one-way street.”
Zelinka glanced briefly at McGuire.
“Grizzly would tell Danny what he needed to know,” McGuire said. “What was happening on the street, who he was dealing with maybe.” McGuire remembered the meperidine pills on his food tray in the jail. “He would’ve told Danny what Django told Donovan. The same thing Donovan probably told Billie. About Django seeing Danny leaving my place the night Tim Fox was shot.”
Zelinka grunted and wheeled the car onto Commercial Street.
And about me, McGuire realized. He would have told Heather about me and Django and the pills he sold me. That’s how she knew.
“What about Django?” McGuire asked. “Anybody seen him?” Ahead two cruisers blocked Hull Street, the gumball lights on their roof flashing red and blue. A police officer, his hand raised, began walking toward the car before recognizing Zelinka and waving him through.
“I have heard nothing.” Zelinka pulled to the curb. “There may be nothing here except his car,” he said to McGuire, nodding at Scrignoli’s Buick. “But the engine was still warm when it was located half an hour ago.”
“You been to sleep yet?” McGuire said, opening the door.
Zelinka smiled and shrugged. “Soon, maybe.”
Three more police vehicles and two detective cars were parked at angles on the narrow street which abutted Copps Hill Burying Ground, the pre-revolutionary cemetery whose ancient gravestones still bear the scars of bullets fired by British soldiers using the markers for target practice.
Phil Donovan stood in the middle of the street writing in a wire-bound notebook. Knots of police officers were knocking on doors of the old brick houses facing the burial ground, rousing the residents from sleep or breakfast to ask questions. Some neighbours stood watching the activity from their windows, dressing gowns and bathrobes gathered about them, absorbing the street drama.
McGuire walked through the scene. Donovan nodded curtly at him before barking commands to a newly arrived group of police officers. Zelinka was conferring with Brookmyer and another ID specialist seated in a blue sedan next to Dan Scrignoli’s Buick.
He’s not here, McGuire realized. Not in any of these houses, not on any of these streets.
He turned on his heel, brushed between two cops and walked south through the dull morning air down the hill toward the Old North Church. He skirted the building and entered Unity Street where the Paul Revere Mall stretched behind the church down to Hanover Street.
A white-haired man was crossing the tiled plaza, walking a golden retriever on a long leash. They were about to pass a younger man who sat on a concrete bench set against the east wall holding his head in his hands. The dog paused to sniff the man’s shoes and wag its tail in greeting as he passed but when the man on the bench failed to respond, the dog found other things to interest him, encouraged by a tug on the leash from his white-haired owner who looked back at the man on the bench with a sad expression before nodding to McGuire as he and the dog continued their early morning walk.
McGuire approached the bench, halting a few feet away to scan the plaza, empty except for the seated man and a knot of pigeons scratching for food beneath the concrete benches. A police car sped down Hanover Street at the opposite end of the Mall. When it disappeared from view, McGuire said, “How you doing, Danny?”
Dan Scrignoli raised his face to meet McGuire’s. His eyes were red-rimmed and a facial muscle twitched with an irregular rhythm, pulling one corner of his mouth aside like a stuttering half-smile. He was wearing a black leather bomber jacket over worn corduroy trousers and scuffed tennis shoes.
“Hey, Joe.” He smiled, turned his head away. His voice was weak, reedy. “I been better, you know?”
“They found your car on Hull Street.” McGuire raised a foot and rested it on the bench. “Donovan’s got twenty, maybe thirty guys up there, rousing the neighbours. Figures you’re inside with a buddy, maybe went in through a window or something.”
Scrignoli bit down hard on his lower lip and nodded, staring across the plaza at the pigeons. “They’re gonna be pissed,” he said. “The neighbours. Bunch of cops peeking in their closets and stuff. Early in the morning.”
“DeMontford’s showing up at Berkeley Street with his lawyer in a couple of hours,” McGuire said.
“He . . .” Scrignoli cleared his throat and began again. “He told me. Called me last night. After he heard about . . .” He closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Billie?”
Scrignoli nodded. “That was too much. Too much for him.”
“Heather I can understand,” McGuire said. “You, me, a dozen other guys, maybe we all could’ve done what you and DeMontford did to her. And Timmy was an accident, right?”
Scrignoli nodded again, avoiding McGuire’s eyes.
“But why Billie? Goddamn it, Danny, why Billie?”
Scrignoli’s shoulders heaved and he lowered his head. “I lost it, Joe.” He breathed deeply and raised his head again, tears glistening on his face. “After . . . after DeMontford, what . . . what we did to Heather that night, we were . . . we were standing around a barbecue pit at some abandoned farm near Rockland . . .”
“Burning the overalls and baseball bats.”
“Yeah. And the pictures and stuff we took out of her files. Threw the camera and other stuff into the pond there.” Scrignoli cleared his throat. “And it hit us, you know? I mean it felt good bashing her at the time, it was so fucking easy because God, she was such a bitch, Joe, she was ready to ruin everybody and everything, me, DeMontford, our careers. . . . I showed up first and she laughed at me, she told us she’d love to see us on our asses. And then I let DeMontford in and in a couple minutes it was over and I remember thinking Jesus, we did it, we actually killed her, and I got the shakes. I couldn’t believe we did it. And then Timmy, Christ, I almost died when I saw it was Timmy. . . .”
“You thought it was me.”
“I didn’t think at all. That’s the point. I had the gun in my hand, a stupid thing to do, but I figured if anybody found me going through your stuff, I’d either bluff my way out or maybe just fire one in the air, scare their asses down the steps, I don’t know. . . .”
McGuire waited for him to continue. On Hanover Street a police car cruised past. McGuire watched as its brake lights flashed red and the driver suddenly shifted into reverse, providing him with a clear view of the Mall.
Scrignoli smiled coldly. “DeMontford, he was happy when he heard about Timmy. Timmy’d called his office, Timmy’d found something on him. I kill Timmy and DeMontford’s in Florida somewhere when it happens, smelling like a rose.”
“What were you doing in my place anyway?” McGuire said.
“I had somebody feeding me, on the street. . . .”
“Grizzly.”
“Yeah.”
“And Django.”
He shook his head. “I just dealt with Grizzly. And the guy who ran the Flamingo, Dewey. They . . . they told me Django had given you something from Heather, when they heard she was dead. They thought you did it, like everybody did. I figured maybe it was something that might connect me with her. DeMontford, him and I, we talked it over, he called me from Florida when he got the message that Tim wanted to talk to him, and he thought it’d be a good idea to check your place out. I wanted Grizzly or Dewey, one of them, to score your place but they wouldn’t touch it, and then that night, after you beat up on the guy who was killing that hooker, I heard . . . well, I heard you were back on the pills, outta circulation for a while. . . .”
He cleared his throat, swallowed hard and wiped his eyes dry. “I’m in there, I’m lookin’ in your bathroom and there’s somebody on the steps. I figure if it’s you I bluff, if it’s not I show the gun. I talked to enough witnesses, you show ’em a gun and that’s all they remember, they never remember your face. Then this guy looks like he’s chargin’ through the door at me and it’s Timmy and he’s only stumbling, kinda fallin’ forward but I don’t know it’s Timmy, not yet, and it’s a reflex, Joe, it’s a goddamn reflex and I . . . I shoot him. Jesus, Joe . . .”
McGuire saw the cop step out of his car, standing on Hanover Street, watching them over the roof of the cruiser, speaking into his radio.
“What happened to Billie?” McGuire asked.
“Django. It all had to do with Django.”
“He saw you leave. When you shot Timmy.”
Scrignoli nodded. “Grizzly told me Django’d confessed to him that he told Donovan he saw me, recognized me. Grizzly passed the word along . . .”
“Where’s Django?”
A shrug. “Grizzly said he’d look after everything for me.” Scrignoli smiled, embarrassed. “He said not to worry about you, what you’d do. He’d take care of you, pay back what he owed me. I’m, uh, I’m glad he didn’t get to you. If that means anything . . .”
“Grizzly’s dead.”
Scrignoli looked at McGuire as though he had been told it would rain later that day, started to speak, then shrugged again as though it didn’t matter. “I’m sorry about Billie,” Scrignoli said. “I lost it, Joe.” Scrignoli was shaking his head. “I lost it with her. I wanted to know what Donovan knew, how much he told her. She wouldn’t tell me anything and I started to choke her and . . . I just lost it.”
McGuire heard the squeal of brakes on the street behind the Old North Church, then the slamming of several car doors and a series of quick, cautious steps approaching.
“You know . . .” Scrignoli hadn’t seen the cop on Hanover Street, didn’t respond now to the sounds from behind the church. He smiled, staring across the plaza at the pigeons. “You . . . you were the guy I always wanted to be. I got out of the academy and I watched you working, even before you and Ollie were a team, I decided you were the best kind of cop. When I came to see you on Nashua Street, I just wanted to find out if you’d be fallin’ with the charge, you know? Because that’s what I’d heard, you’d be takin’ it and that was too bad for you but real, real good for us, right? And then, Jesus, Joe, you looked so bad, I felt so goddamn sorry for you, I got some Demerol slipped on your tray and I . . .”
“You carrying?” McGuire snapped.
“What?” Scrignoli seemed to be waking from a dream.
“Are you armed, for Christ’s sake?” McGuire hissed.
“Oh, Jesus.” Scrignoli looked down toward Hanover Street for the first time. A second cruiser had joined the first and was angled across the road, three uniformed officers poised behind it, their guns aimed down the Mall at McGuire and Scrignoli.
“Put your weapon on the ground and your hands over—” McGuire began.
“Yeah, yeah.” Scrignoli spoke like a man in a trance, dropping his head again and reaching inside his jacket.
“Hold it, asshole!” Donovan’s voice cut the air from behind McGuire.
Without turning, McGuire waved a hand in Donovan’s direction, a gesture of dismissal, more concerned about the police officers at the other end of the Mallon Hanover Street.
“Listen, Joe . . .” Scrignoli began, his hand half out of his jacket, gripping the pistol, when his words were cut off by a sudden exhalation of air, like a man punched in the stomach, and the crack of three quick shots from Donovan’s gun.
McGuire reached out to catch Scrignoli as he fell forward off the bench, his face contorted in shock and surprise.
“Get away from him!” Donovan screamed. McGuire knelt to catch Scrignoli and, holding him by the shoulders, lowered him gently to the ground. Another shot cut the air like a whip-crack and the ground beyond the bench exploded with the impact of the bullet.
McGuire was still gripping Scrignoli, trying to avoid the volcano of blood erupting from his abdomen, staring into the other man’s eyes, watching them grow dull and distant. Footsteps clattered behind him, a knot of men running toward him. He heard more footsteps from the direction of Hanover Street and then Donovan’s voice near his ear, screaming at him again.
“Move!” Donovan shouted like a man on the edge of control. “Now, goddamn it!”
McGuire lowered Scrignoli to the pavement, rose slowly and turned to face Donovan who was standing ten feet away, red-faced in his firing stance, feet set wide apart, his Police Special thirty-eight in a two-handed grip, arms extended. “He was giving me his gun, Phil,” McGuire said.
“He was preparing to use his weapon.” Donovan angled his head toward Scrignoli, who was rolling from side to side in agony. Two police officers broke from the group, knelt next to the wounded man and began loosening his jacket.
“You gonna call an ambulance?” McGuire asked. Behind Donovan he saw Zelinka approaching, speaking rapidly into a hand-held radio.
“You’re under arrest.” Donovan kept his gun aimed at McGuire.
“Are you gonna call an ambulance?” McGuire said again.
“I said you’re under arrest.”
“And you’re a pathetic prick.” McGuire turned his back and began walking away.
“McGuire!” Donovan screamed.
Zelinka approached Donovan from behind, positioned himself directly in front of the detective and raised one large hand to gently push Donovan’s gun aside. He stared into the younger man’s eyes with a solemn, weary expression until Donovan lowered the gun and glanced down at Scrignoli. “Get him an ambulance,” Donovan snapped, and Zelinka said, “There is already one on the way.”
Zelinka exhaled, a long, noisy sigh. He shook his head in sorrow and resignation, and watched McGuire round the corner alone onto Hanover Street, his shoulders hunched, his head down. Above the Mall the flock of pigeons that had exploded into flight at the sound of the shots whirled in panic, around and around.