Liam Mulligan: Cliff Walk Part 24

"Some are."

"Yeah," he said. "They're the ones who keep me in business."

"So," I said, "are we done?"

"Not yet."

He took off his gla.s.ses, rubbed his eyes, and put them back on again.

"In fifteen years as a detective, I never had a homicide case with a p.o.r.nographer as the intended victim. Now I've got two of them."

"Think this case and the hit on Maniella's double are related?" I asked.

"There's no evidence tying them together, but I don't believe in coincidences."

"Why do cops always say that? Coincidences happen every day."

We sat quietly and thought about that for a minute.

"So," I said, "are we done now?"

"Not just yet. Sit tight."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone from my hand to stop me from calling the Dispatch with what I knew, sprang to his feet, and went through the door.

Time crawled. My ulcer growled. Someone had left a newspaper on the floor. I picked it up, opened it to the sports section to pa.s.s the time, and found a feature on the Boston Bruins' new forward, a Slovak named Miro Satan. The third paragraph read: Satan looks fit and is skating fluidly.

After today, I couldn't argue with that.

It was nearly an hour before Parisi returned and placed my phone, car keys, and camera on the table. He took the Nikon out of its case, switched it on, examined all the photos on the LED screen, said, "Humph," and put it back in the case.

"Mulligan," he said, "I'm going to ask you not to write about what you saw inside that apartment."

"But you know I have to."

He sighed. "Would it kill you to omit a few details-some things only the perps could know?"

"Perps? You think there was more than one?"

"Slip of the tongue," he said. "Don't read anything into it."

"Okay."

"So can you leave some things out for me?"

"Such as?"

"The snuff film."

"Sorry, but I have to mention that."

"Ah, s.h.i.+t. Well, how about this? Can you leave out the smashed laptops? And the note that was left for you? And the fact that there were no sh.e.l.l casings at the scene?"

"Meaning the killer used a revolver or picked up his bra.s.s," I said.

"Yeah."

I'd been too much in shock to notice that. "Sure," I said, "I can leave those things out."

"Screw me on this, and you and I are done."

"Understood," I said. "Can you release the names of the shooting victims?"

A five-second pause. "Local lowlifes. Can't release the names till we notify their lowlife next of kin. And no way we're gonna release the names of the kids we pulled out of there alive."

"We wouldn't print them if you did," I said. "What about the little girl in the snuff film?"

"Not a clue."

"Think maybe she got fed to Scalici's pigs?"

"I won't speculate."

"So, can I go now?"

"Not yet. Wargat and Freitas want a crack at you. When they finish playing detective, I'll have a trooper drive you back to your car."

By the time I got back to the newsroom that evening, it was too late to update the sketchy murder story Mason had written for the next day's paper.

"The cops are keeping a lid on this one," Lomax said. "All they're saying is they've got three bodies, and foul play is suspected."

"I've got a few details I can add," I said.

"Give it to Mason so he can update our Web site."

"You don't want me to write it?"

"No way," Lomax said. "You found the bodies, so you're part of the story now. Mason's gonna interview you-treat you as a source."

"Okay," I said. "Soon as I get something in my stomach."

The something was Maalox chugged straight from the bottle. Earlier, I'd retrieved my Nikon's memory card from its hiding place. Now I carried my laptop to a vacant office off the newsroom for privacy, slipped the card in a card reader, plugged it into the computer, and downloaded the photographs. I spent ten minutes studying them, jotting down a few notes for my chat with Mason. When I was done, I sprinted for the bathroom. The dry heaves reminded me I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

When I finally got home it was after ten. I picked up a Michael Connelly novel, hoping it would take my mind off the snuff film. It didn't work, but I kept reading anyway. Harry Bosch was about to lose his temper with his by-the-book boss when "b.i.t.c.h" started playing on my cell phone. Not even Dorcas could make this day any worse, so I picked up the phone and said, "h.e.l.lo."

"You sent them, didn't you, you sonuvab.i.t.c.h!"

"Sent who?"

"You know who!"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I thought they were gonna kill me."

"What? Okay, why don't you calm down and tell me what happened?"

"Like you don't f.u.c.kin' know!"

"I really don't."

She drew a deep breath. "There were two of them," she said. "They knocked on the door, and when I opened it they pushed me aside and forced their way in."

"Are you hurt?"

"No, but I'm still shaking."

"What did they look like?"

"Big. Really, really big."

"John Goodman big or WWF SmackDown! big?"

"You trying to tell me you don't know anything about this?"

"Of course I don't."

"You're a f.u.c.king liar," she said. And then she hung up.

What the h.e.l.l was that about?

I went to my bedroom window, opened it, sucked in a lungful of frigid air, and slowly let it out. I'm not sure how long I stood there before I heard a police siren cut the dark. It sounded close, but all I could see were the black windows of the tenement next door. I closed the window, flopped on my bed, and read for an hour. Then I put down the book and fiddled with the cell phone, trying to decide on a ringtone for Yolanda. I finally settled on a spare acoustic version of "Dance with Me" by Tuck & Patti. Of course, I had no reason to think Yolanda would call.

First thing next morning, she did.

36.

"Mulligan? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Yolanda."

"You don't sound fine. Where are you?"

I was slumped on a stool at my favorite diner, reading Mason's update about the murders on the paper's Web site and struggling to keep Charlie's scrambled eggs down.

"Sit tight," she said. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

I finished Mason's story and then checked the other headlines. The bishop was enraged at an enterprising young man who had leased an abandoned Fotomat drive-through across the street from St. Mark's in Cranston, laid in a new line of merchandise, and renamed it the Condom Shed. According to a survey of top fas.h.i.+on designers, cleavage was back in style again. And a national newsmagazine was reporting that New Jersey was the most corrupt state in the Union but that Little Rhody led the nation in scandals per capita. Finally we were number one at something besides doughnut shops. I was checking the betting line for the Patriots-Panthers game when Yolanda strolled in on those long, long legs.

She was wearing a frown and a gray business suit with the top two b.u.t.tons of her blouse undone. When she bent to kiss my cheek, Charlie sneaked a peek. She plopped her alligator tote on the counter, took the stool next to mine, and asked for black coffee.

"I read the story on the Web this morning," she said.

"The one about how cleavage is in this season?"

"Good news for the fry cook," she said, "but it's not the one I meant."

Mason had done a fine job with the murder update, laying out the facts and going easy on the gore. Still, it was grim reading.

"It must have been horrible for you," she said.

"A police reporter sees lots of blood, Yolanda. You get used to it."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. This wasn't a car crash or a Mob hit. A murdered child is not something you get used to. It's haunting you. I can hear it in your voice."

My phone was on the counter beside my cold, half-empty mug of coffee. It began to play "Dirty Laundry." I reached for it and grabbed a fistful of air.

"Mr. Mulligan's office," Yolanda said. "How may I be of a.s.sistance?... I'm a friend of his.... Yes, I'm with him now.... He says he's fine, but he's not.... Actually, I think a couple of days would be better.... Okay, I'll let him know," she said, and flipped the cell closed.

"What did Lomax want?" I asked.

"He said to take today off. I tried to get you a couple of days, but he insisted he can't spare you that long."

"Of course he can't. I'm indispensable."

"Is 'Dirty Laundry' your ringtone for everything, or just for your editor?"

"Just him."

"Perfect choice," she said. "Do you have a special one for me, too?"

"Maybe I do."

She dug her BlackBerry out of her purse and punched in my number.

"That sounds like 'Dance with Me' by Tuck and Patti," she said.

"It is."