the finance company that floorplanned his cars. I won’t go into the details, which involved a confederate at the Department of Motor Vehicles, but basically he sold cars while pretending to still have them on one of his many lots. Because it was interstate fraud, the Bureau got involved. I was a newbie with a computer background and they decided to put me undercover as a car salesman, where I might get a chance to examine the paperwork, find out how he was doing it. Which was kind of a joke, me as a car salesman, since I never managed to sell a car. Not one! But I did collect VIN numbers, and figured out who was assisting at the DMV-one of his girlfriends-and we were able to put it all together and prove the fraud.”
“So you sent Taylor Gatling’s father to prison.”
“I wish that was all it amounted to. Despite being a con man, or maybe because of it, Taylor was one of the most charming guys I ever met. You couldn’t help but like him. But he was guilty as sin, there was no way around it, and he was eventually sentenced to five years in a federal lockup. Where he could have practiced his tennis with the rest of the embezzlers and tax cheats. Except that on the day that he was supposed to surrender to the federal marshals he shot himself.”
Naomi shakes her head. “How come we didn’t run into that when we researched Taylor Gatling, Jr.?”
Shane shrugs. “Just a guess, but if he’s been as successful as you suggest, he’s probably had as much of it scrubbed as possible. That takes a lot of money and a lot of effort, siccing lawyers on search engines and archives, but it can be done. Plus you were researching the son, not the father.”
“Plus once we found Gatling Security Group, that’s what we researched, not so much the owner,” I chime in, defending Teddy.
“It’s been less than twelve hours, for cryin’ out loud,” says Dane. “Look at it that way, the kid found a lot. He was the one who made the connection, started the ball rolling.”
Naomi is having none of it, and waves me off. “Thank you, Alice, thank you, Dane, but there’s really no excuse. I don’t blame Teddy, I blame myself.”
She turns back to Shane, who looks puzzled at our exchange. “So let me get this right,” she says. “Taylor Gatling, Jr., blames you for his father’s suicide and is taking his revenge? After all those years?”
“Looks that way. Unless someone is framing him by framing me.”
Naomi sighs. “The very thought of that makes my head hurt.”
“Wheels within wheels, Nantz.” Shane grins, as if enlivened by the idea. “Gatling and company have been working on behalf of the so-called intelligence community. Anything is possible.”
Chapter Forty
“Who scratched your face?” Tolliver wants to know. “Your wife or your girlfriend?”
“Not funny, Glenn.”
“Or maybe it was a threesome. Hey, come to think of it my wife might go for a threesome as long as I wasn’t invited.”
Jack stands up, as if to go.
“C’mon, Jack. You want a beer?”
“Hey, sure. One beer can’t hurt.”
The state police captain has something he wants to impart, supposedly, which is why Jack has agreed to meet his old friend at The Diamondback on Boylston, up the stairs to the rooftop cafe so Glenn can have a smoke if he wants. The D-back being approximately the least coplike bar in this part of Boston, which means they’re unlikely to be overheard by colleagues. Plus Piggy likes the nachos, and the rules of the arrangement mean that Jack will be picking up the tab.
The rush of rescuing Milton, guns blazing, has gone away, leaving Jack cranky and not in the mood for macho camaraderie, but things are breaking so fast that he can’t risk putting Tolliver off until tomorrow. As his friend returns from the bar with a couple of drafts, Jack tries to put on his game face, get into the swing of things.
“Happy hour,” he says, forcing a grin. “Look at these kids. I’m old enough to be their father.”
“Yeah? Be glad you’re not,” Tolliver says, eyes roving over some of the fair young items who’ve come up to the roof to suck on their long white cigarettes. All bright and giggly in short skirts and makeup, primping and priming for a night at the clubs.
“Nachos on the way,” Jack says.
“Good. Great. Seriously, kid, you look like you’ve been running with the wolves.”
Jack shrugs. “Things are happening.”
“You’re not in violation of any statutes, though, right?”
“Not in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, no.”
Tolliver gives him a look. “I never know when you’re kidding.”
“I’m always kidding, Glenn. Cheers.”
They tap glasses, drink.
“Mr. Baked Alaska, the frozen croak at the Bing murder?” Tolliver says, sucking air through the gap in his teeth. “We made the ID. His prints were in the system.”
“Oh yeah?”
“No surprise, a low-level gangbanger out of Chinatown, goes by the name of Micky Lee. Muscle for a protection racket. Look familiar at all?”
Tolliver hands over a small mug shot. Jack studies and returns it. “No,” he says. “Any connection to Jonny Bing?”
“Not that we can find, no. Bing moved in more rarified circles. He might have known the banger’s boss, but probably not the banger.”
“You think Bing was involved with a protection racket?” says Jack, surprised.
“No, no, I’m just saying. It’s a fairly small circle, the rich, connected Chinese in Boston. Bing knew ’em all, at least socially. Liked to show off, throw shindigs on his fancy boat, appear at all the local Chinese charity dinners. So he could have crossed paths with this particular guy’s boss. We’re looking into it.”
“Good to hear. Whoever killed the little dude, it wasn’t Randall Shane.”
“No? Why not?”
Jack lifts an eyebrow, wondering how much the trooper already knows. “Because when Bing was getting whacked Shane was being tortured by the bad guys.”
“Oh yeah? What bad guys?”
“Yet to be determined. All we have are theories at the moment.”
“Which you can’t discuss.”
Jack shrugs, finishes his beer.
Tolliver scoots his chair closer. “Here’s my theory. Shane knows we have him dead to rights, so he tries to put the frame on Jonny Bing somehow, only it all goes wrong when the boat doesn’t burn.”
“It was more like a ship.”
“Whatever. Just because that dyke lawyer of yours has Tommy Costello all hot and bothered, and persuades him to treat the suspect like royalty and not even take him into proper custody or bring him to court for arraignment, that doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty of doing that weirdo professor, even if he didn’t do Bing.”
“
“Hey, they use it, why can’t I?”
“The way you say it.”
Tolliver looks ever so slightly abashed. “Okay, lesbian or gay or whatever. I’m sorry, no offense intended. I get it, Jack, she’s a friend of yours, but it really takes the cake, our suspect getting a deluxe room with a view instead of a holding cell at the Middlesex Courthouse. All because the D.A. has political ambitions and he’s afraid Naomi Nantz will embarrass him somehow.”
“The D.A. gets it that Shane was most likely framed. The gun, the bloody shirt? You said so yourself, it’s way too perfect.”
