Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 7

Billy found Brock Harmony sitting on the steps of the historic Arcade Mall, leaning a shoulder against a granite pillar and picking his cuticles. He noticed Billy but looked away and said nothing. Billy sat beside him, on a granite step laid long ago by the sons of the men who had fought Cornwallis. Millions of footsteps over nearly two hundred years had eroded a saddle into the rock.

They sat in silence. The air smelled like fried food and tailpipes.

In front of them, private cars, box-style delivery trucks, and students on old bicycles jiggled over the rough combination of cobblestones and potholes on the one-way road. Street people hustled quarters from customers pouring out of Dunkin Donuts. Businesspeople clicked spiked heels and dress shoes up the granite stairs, heading for afternoon snacks in the Arcade.

"Your father put a lot of pressure on you back there," Billy said, once he had decided Brock had accepted his presence and would not flee from him.

"Hes dead," Brock said. He bit off a tiny chunk of cuticle and spat it away. "Which means now I have to become somebody."

Billy considered for a moment what he had said. "You mean, its time to become something other than Gil Harmonys kid?"

Brock looked at him. He said, "What do you really do for Mr. Smothers? Youre no clerk."

"Is it that obvious?"

"If a sixty-year-old lawyer does his own hiring, his clerks will tend to be young, hot, and stacked. Youre zero-for-three."

"Maybe his wife hired me for him."

"Maybe youre his investigator."

Zing. Okay, this kid is sharp. Of course Brock would be bright; he was descended from the genius who was everybodys favorite law professor.

An old man sc.r.a.ped along the sidewalk, painfully dragging a bad leg. He wore a long, grimy T-s.h.i.+rt stained with yellow circles under the armpits where his sweat had repeatedly soaked and dried. He sipped from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.

"That guy limps worse than I do," Brock said. "Do you ever just pick somebody out of a crowd and wonder what the h.e.l.l happened to them? You know, somebody with a deformity, or in a wheelchair or on crutches? Or somebody like this dude, who obviously lives on the street. Some happy new mom, maybe seventy years ago, nursed this guy in the middle of the night. She loved him. So what the h.e.l.l happened to him?"

They watched the old man cross the street toward them. He blocked a line of five cars for a full minute. When he pa.s.sed near them, Brock called out, "Hey, buddy-whatchu drinking there?"

The guy squinted at them, suspicious. His lower jaw was offset from the top, as though it had been dislocated long ago and never properly reset. The odor of p.i.s.s and cigarettes surrounded the man. Billy wanted to look away. Is there possibly a person in the world who loves this man? He felt the lightness at the corners of his mouth that preceded that G.o.d-awful, uncontrollable, ironic, evil smile. He bit hard on his lip.

"Im not making fun of you," Brock a.s.sured the man. He nodded to the bottle. "I want to buy a sip."

The b.u.m closed one eye and looked down into the bottle, then reached it toward Brock. "Its bad," he warned in a growl.

Brock s.n.a.t.c.hed it, bag and all, swirled it with gusto, and took a long tug. "Ahhh!" Then his face wrinkled. "Oh, my Christ! Peach schnapps? Nasty. How about one shot for my friend?" he asked. He handed the bottle to Billy, saying, "Its my treat. One sip wont kill ya."

No time to argue-Billy needed this interview with Brock. He put the bottle to his lips, let the sickly sweet liquor touch his tongue, and then handed it back to its owner. "Awful," he confirmed.

Brock pulled two fives from his pocket and gave the cash to the startled b.u.m. "Theres a liquor store on Westminster Street," he advised. "Get yourself some better booze."

They watched the b.u.m shuffle off. Brock called after him, "Dont you be wasting that money on food!"

"You have an unusual philanthropic streak," Billy said.

Brock smiled and nodded toward the man. "Did you see what he just did? He wiped the bottle with his T-s.h.i.+rt."

Billy laughed. "Hes cleaning our germs?"

"Theres nothing unusual about making people happy," Brock said. "What does it matter how you do it, so long as you do?" He folded his hands over his chest and leaned back on his elbows. He stared at the upper floors of the bank tower across the street for a minute. Then suddenly he started a new conversation. "I used to think that the reason Im on the planet would become obvious for me one day."

"As it did for your father?"

"Mm-hm. My father was here to serve the law. Period. Youre not as dumb as I feel, Mr. Povich."

"I dont like people in their twenties calling me Mr. Povich," Billy said. "Why do you feel dumb?"

"Because I cant imagine why I survived that night." His eyes scanned the streetscape, looking for answers in the windows of the downtown offices. "You heard the judge on the video. He sentenced me to be a great man, like he was-but I havent a clue how to do that. I thought Id have more time to figure it out. More time to deliberate in his shadow, a cool and cozy place, where not much was expected of me. But now hes gone, the spotlight s.h.i.+nes, and the time for figuring is here."

"No thought of law school?" Billy asked, to keep the conversation alive. Interviews are fires that must be stoked with questions.

"Me? Follow in those footsteps? f.u.c.k no. Uncle Linc tried that. You see how well that turned out."

"Why dont your uncle and your mother get along?"

"Because shes not in love with him, and never has been."

"Ah."

Brock licked his lips. "I can still taste that awful schnapps," he said. He closed his eyes. "I can still hear the shot."

"You were asleep?"

"You must have read the police report."

"Id like to hear it from you," Billy said, feeling a pang of guilt for pus.h.i.+ng him, and then adding to sooth his conscience, "if youre up to it."

Brock shrugged, eyes still closed. "Im not going to cry, if thats what youre afraid of."

"That wouldnt scare me."

"It seemed," Brock began, "like the bang was still echoing when I opened my eyes." He opened them now and looked at Billy. "No confusion, no thought that this might be a dream, you know? That shot was real. A crack, like from a forty cal, not the chunky boom from my dads favorite forty-four. I flung myself out of bed and listened for a few seconds. Had my dad misfired a pistol into a wall or something, he would have yelled to let me know everything was all right. As I walked toward my door, I was surprised not to hear his voice. I could hear footsteps downstairs, walking around, not quite frantic ... more like urgent. Like somebody was looking for something, maybe the cordless phone or the first-aid kit. So as Im running down the stairs, Im thinking he hurt himself, and Im bracing for some horror show in the reading room, while still a.s.suming everything was probably fine. And thats when I ran into ... you know ... him. Literally b.u.mped into him at the bottom of the stairs. Dont know which of us was more shocked."

"What did he look like?"

"Like his picture in the paper, except no goatee, and not all bruised."

"That was Adam Rackerss old mug shot in the newspaper," Billy said, instantly cursing himself for saying aloud a name Brock had gone out of his way not to mention. "I mean, how did he carry himself ?"

Brock searched inside for the memory for a few moments. "Outwardly calm at all times, if you can imagine," he said. "Held the gun with a steady hand. But his voice sounded tightly wound and intense. I thought maybe he was c.o.ked up."

"Maybe he was."

"I just stared at him and stuttered, and not too diplomatically. My mouth had disconnected from my brain and I think I asked him what the f.u.c.k was going on down here. Something like that."

Billy monitored Brocks face and voice for signs of stress-signs that Billy was pus.h.i.+ng too hard. He was a strong kid, and Billy pressed for more. "So he asked you about a wall safe?"

"Which we dont even have at the house in Charlestown," Brock said. His face wrinkled at a memory that did not make sense. "And thats what I told him. Funny thing, he didnt accuse me of lying ... . I think he believed I just didnt know what I was talking about. And at this point, I realized I hadnt heard or seen my dad. I got real cold and my vision blurred and I may have started to black out. Next thing I remember, he was telling me that a wall safe would be behind a painting or a bookcase or something. He told me to lead him through the house."

Brock s.h.i.+fted on the stairs, leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands, elbows on his knees. He didnt seem in danger of tears, but his eyes were flat.

A portly middle-aged guy lumbered down the sidewalk, shouting into a wireless cell phone earpiece. " ... St. Louis advised that Anchorage inside-ops would review the core competencies vis--vis the vendors distribution models. I say its a value-ad ..."

Brock raised an eyebrow behind the mans back and chuckled.

Billy shrugged. "Is he speaking Norwegian?"

Then Brock asked, "Why does Mr. Smothers want you to ask me these questions? Does he think he can protect my moms a.s.sets from Uncle Linc?"

Now, Billy was a nimble liar. How many times had the words Ill have your money tomorrow rolled off his lips, sounding as pure as the popes bedtime prayer? Sometimes such a lie would free him from the steroid-inflated arms of a debt collector, without so much as having his fingers purposely slammed a few times in a car door. Billy had lied so well, his ex-wife hadnt known he was gambling again until the repo men came for the house.

Yet, when facing the fatherless son of a jurist-a father who had made a career of hacking through lies like an adventurer swinging a machete through the jungle-Billy reflexively offered the truth: "Martin Smothers doesnt think Rackers broke in to rob any wall safe. He thinks somebody paid Rackers to shoot your dad."

The words. .h.i.t Brock like a flick of cold water in the face-a slight jerk of the head from mild shock, and then a heavy-browed scowl, more annoyed than angry. Brock leaned back on his elbows and stared straight ahead.

"A little more than two weeks before the shooting, you scared an intruder from your familys condo-where the judge often stayed when he was working in Providence," Billy said. "Three days later, the police noticed Rackers hanging around your beach house in Charlestown. It looks like he was stalking the judge."

Brock seemed unimpressed. "Theres a break-in every night somewhere in this city. Some crack addict was probably trying to steal my CD collection."

Billy plowed forward. "Rackers was a full-time shoplifter, and a sadly ordinary burglar," he explained, in an excited voice that pumped life into Martins hypothesis, even though Billy did not entirely accept the theory. "Never shot anyone before."

"That you know of."

This kid sounds like my old man.

"Point given," Billy said. "But theres no other violence on his record ... well, except a bar fight or something, um-"

"You dont need my permission to investigate," Brock said, cutting him off.

"But I need your memories."

Brock rolled his eyes. "Youre dramatic, Billy," he said. "You should come to art school and sit in my drama cla.s.s."

"Oh, so youre going back to school?"

"You heard the judge." He sounded resigned to a fate he did not choose, but had no earthly power to change.

"Yeah, the judge," Billy said. "Is it wrong for Martin to want justice for his friend?"

Brock lobbed an imaginary football to a man jogging down the street. "My father thought Martin Smothers was foolish," he said.

Hes trying to hurt me, Billy realized. Brock wanted to punish Billy for suggesting somebody might have gotten away with Judge Harmonys murder. The comment glanced off Billy with no damage. Martin was Billys best friend, but, yeah, the odd little vegan was a bit foolish. Instead of ama.s.sing wealth, Martin performed a disrespected virtue-he legitimized justice. By defending villains who inflicted their sick dreams on the community, Martin redeemed all of us who lived under the law. Criminals brutalize us; in return, we brutalize them, by ending their lives in steel cages. The difference between what we do and what the villains do is the criminal defense lawyer.

"Hes a little foolish," Billy conceded. "But hes not a fool. And you cannot look me in the eye and say your father didnt respect Martin Smothers as much as any other lawyer."

Brock deflated a bit. "Point given," he mumbled. He looked away, cast a lingering glance at a pa.s.sing businesswoman in a tight skirt, and then offered, "If I tell you the rest, can you do this without upsetting my mom? Shes wrecked on the inside. She wants me to go to law school. Wants me to disown Uncle Linc. Wants me to visit the cemetery every day, even though she hasnt gone since the funeral. And shes nagging me to visit the other guy who survived the crash."

"Stu Tracy?"

"I dont think I can walk into that hospital room with just a few scars and a sore foot, and see him lying there, all smashed," he said, a s.h.i.+ver in his voice. "I just cant f.u.c.king do it, Billy."

Billy promised, "Everything I do is under the radar. Your mom wont even know. So take me back into the house."

Brocks eyes widened for a moment as he searched for where he had left off. "Really isnt that much more to tell," he said. "I wandered through the house with a gun at my spine, lifting the artwork so he could see there was no wall safe. When I turned down the hall toward the reading room, he yelled, 'I already checked down there ... . Get away from there. But it was too late to stop me from seeing. The judge was facedown over his desk. In blood."

Brocks voice was strong, if a little detached. Billy noticed he used the term "the judge" to put emotional distance between himself and what he had witnessed.

"I didnt scream, exactly. I chattered, like in the monkey cage at the zoo. He got rough, shoved me into a few walls until I shut up. Then he suddenly decided wed leave."

"Just like that?"

Brock nodded. He looked away and told the next part of the story to an imaginary audience on the sidewalk.

"We left out the back door. He told me to guide him through the woods to the road. I was numb from the neck up-I didnt even think of getting a flashlight. He followed me into the woods. It was slow, by just the light of the moon. I was afraid hed shoot me and leave me in the swamp. Even though I was leading the way, I was afraid to stumble into a shallow grave he had prepared for me. Or that hed force me to dig my own. The mind comes up with all kinds of scenarios."

"Im sure," Billy croaked. He cleared his throat and blinked the starchy feeling from his eyes, for what the kid had gone through. He also felt a stir in his belly. His newsmans instincts were buried, but not dead. This would be a h.e.l.l of a story.

"Wanna hear the worst of these scenarios?" Brock asked.

With a nod, Billy accepted the penance.

"Out there in the woods, I got to thinking ... if a killer forces you to dig your own grave, should you do a good job?"

He went on to describe the carjacking-how Rackers dragged Stu Tracy out of the old Lincoln and forced Brock to drive. He described the harrowing fight against the cars sloppy steering, through snaking country roads, with Stu and Adam Rackers in the backseat. He recalled the moment he realized Rackers would never let them walk away alive, and he described his dangerous gamble, to drive ever faster in a last-gasp effort to force Rackers to hand over the gun.

The crash? A patchwork of visions in his mind, he told Billy, but no memories he could trust.

Billy prodded him with questions. They were probing, intelligent questions, and they belied the thought ringing relentlessly through Billys skull.

Should you do a good job digging your own grave?

"So he just forced you into the woods?" Billy asked. "Without taking anything? No silverware or jewelry or even the judges wallet?"

"He had come for a safe. Maybe he didnt want to scavenge for the little stuff."

"Like your moms diamond earrings?" Billy replied, shooting the kid a raised eyebrow. "Rackers took nothing except you, and your fathers life." In trying to convince Brock that Rackers was a hired killer, Billy was beginning to convince himself, and he argued with a breathy pa.s.sion. "Thats why we think somebody paid him."

Brock thought it over. He shrugged. "He might have just missed the earrings."

"He missed the stones," Billy agreed. "And how a sharp-eyed thief like Adam Rackers could do that is a mystery. Thats why its important you tell me everything that happened."

The color drained from Brocks cheeks. He slid a finger slowly down the line of st.i.tches on his face, slowly enough to count each st.i.tch. Then he said in a low voice, "Something he said didnt make sense at the time."

He paused, waiting for Billy.

"Something you didnt mention to the police?" Billy prompted.

"I didnt think it mattered," Brock confessed. "But when he suddenly decided he was leaving, and that I was coming with him, I was surprised. He hadnt even checked upstairs for a safe. He just looked at his watch, cursed under his breath, and told me, 'The man gets mean when you make him wait. At the time I thought he was talking about himself, like he was telling me he was the man."