was a handwritten organizational chart:
A series of arrows pointed from G-Mac to Veris to Braxton. That was apparently the route Danziger intended to follow: straight to the top.
The keys to the Honda were still in the ignition, still attached to a two-inch ring holding ten or fifteen other keys. Driver’s seat pushed as far back as it would go, although Danziger could not have been more than five-ten. Other flotsam in the car: a pair of running shoes, an oversize road atlas, a suitcase.
Dick ran the plate. It came back to Robert M. Danziger of West Roxbury, Massachusetts. He ran the names on Danziger’s folder through the NCIC computer too. The computer reported a substantial record for Harold Braxton, including a conviction for assault with intent to murder (five to seven years at MCI–Cedar Junction) and a dismissal on a charge of first-degree murder. Nothing on the other names. Of course, the NCIC computer was notoriously unreliable; submit the same suspect’s name ten times and you could get ten different results. I would have to call Boston to confirm the criminal records.
My eye was drawn to two stickers on Danziger’s back bumper. One was for a political campaign. Its message was simple enough: ANDREW LOWERY, DISTRICT ATTORNEY. The other featured the crest of the Boston
Police Patrolmen’s Association and the motto I SUPPORT THE BOSTON POLICE.
Of course, I ought to have turned all this over to the Game-Show Hosts. The car, the files, everything. It was their case, not mine. But I decided to keep them to myself for a little while. In the last twenty-four hours, my father’s command had taken root. Or perhaps it was my idea — in a sense, this was my case. I could not simply do nothing. I had a duty. Like it or not, I would have to see this through.
10
By a little pond near Sebago, John Kelly’s cottage hid in the selvage of the forest, with unpainted cedar shingles that mimicked the brown setting, tree bark and a bristly carpet of pine needles. The structure might have disappeared altogether into the piney gloom, camouflaged like a green toad on a green leaf, if not for Kelly’s white Toyota and a satellite dish — the state flower of Maine — out front. I drove past the house twice before I found it, and when I did finally track it down, it occurred to me that this hermit’s cave was not a fit home for Kelly, to whom I’d already ascribed any number of heroic characteristics. It seemed to represent a sort of failure on his part — a fatigue of the spirit, a retreat from the world.
I hauled Danziger’s briefcase, still heavy with lake water, to the front door. A window at my right was bearded with pollen and dust. I tried to peek in and still had not got around to knocking when Kelly came around the side of the cottage. He held a newspaper rolled into a tube.
‘Chief Truman,’ he said.
‘Can I show you something, Mr Kelly?’
‘Depends what it is.’
I held up the ruined bag. ‘Danziger’s briefcase.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Want to have a look?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Why do I have this feeling you’re about to convert me into a witness, Ben Truman? I’d rather not be.’
‘No, I-’
‘Where did you get that bag, anyway?’
‘We found Danziger’s car. It was sunk in the lake. The bag was inside.’
‘And now you’re just carrying it around? Please tell me you didn’t go rummaging around inside it.’
I did not answer.
Kelly kneaded the hollows of his cheeks then his jaw with one long-fingered hand, a gesture of checked frustration. He looked like a father whose son has just cracked up the family car.
‘I know where the case is going. I have a lead.’
‘A lead. May I make a suggestion, Ben Truman? Go back to Ver-sigh — ’
‘Ver-sales.’
‘Go back to Ver-sales, call the AG, tell him you found Danziger’s briefcase and car and he should send somebody over to pick them up.’
‘Don’t you want to know what we found?’
‘No. I’ll read about it in the newspaper, thank you.’
‘I’ve already handled the thing. Whatever damage I might’ve done is already done.’
He shook his head no. ‘I thought this wasn’t your case.’
‘It’s not.’
‘So you’re playing detective.’
‘No, just an interested observer.’
‘And what do you intend to do now, as an interested observer?’
‘I’m going to Boston.’
‘To observe.’
‘To stay informed, yes. I have to. The murder happened in my town. I have a responsibility’
Kelly gave me an indulgent paternal smile. He swung the door open. ‘Perhaps we’d better have a chat, Ben Truman.’
Inside, the rooms were furnished with delicate pieces, all spindle legs and needlework pillows and flowery chintz. I assumed his wife had picked them out many years before. There were no signs of a wife now, though. Kelly appeared to live here alone, still sitting on his wife’s furniture. I tried, as guests invariably do, to gain some glimpse of my host’s inner life from the belongings on display, but Kelly wasn’t giving much away. There were very few pictures and no books at all in the living room where we settled. Kelly did have a collection of old vinyl LPs. His tastes ran toward big bands and mainstream jazz: Bing Crosby, lots of Sinatra, Dean Martin, Perry Como, Louis Prima, Louis Armstrong, with a few Aretha Franklins thrown in. There were two photos on a low chest. An older, faded picture showed a little girl, one of those grade-school portraits with a marbled blue sheet for a backdrop. The girl in the picture was strikingly pale. Her dark hair draped around her face like a cowl. She stared out with a grave expression. The newer photo showed a woman in her early thirties, pretty in a stern, dark-browed way.
‘Is this your daughter?’ I gestured to the photos.
‘Daughters. That’s Caroline on the right. And this’ — he picked up the older photo, dragged the top of the frame across his shirt to dust it, then replaced it — ’this is Theresa Rose. She passed away’
‘Jesus, I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
Kelly poured himself a tumbler of brown whiskey. He offered me one, which I refused. He gave it to me anyway. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It sounds like you need it.’ I sipped, and struggled to keep a poker face while the whiskey scalded its way down my throat.
‘Now, what are you talking about, Ben?’
From the briefcase I pulled out the file on Gerald McNeese and laid it on the coffee table. The file was corrugated from soaking in the lake. It looked like a napoleon.
‘Danziger was getting ready to prosecute this guy Gerald McNeese, or G-Mac, whatever his name is. But that was just the start. Really Danziger was going after Braxton. He was starting with one of the low-level guys in Braxton’s gang, then he was going to work his way up the ladder to Braxton. He drew this chart here. Look.’
Kelly made a skeptical grimace, as if I were a kook insisting that the end of the world was nigh. ‘Chief Truman, am I correct in assuming you’ve never handled a case like this before?’
‘Yes. Well — yes.’
‘What is the most serious case you’ve had?’
‘I had a mayhem once.’
‘Mayhem.’
‘It was a fight. Joe Beaulieu bit off Lenny Kennett’s pinky finger. They were drunk. It never got to trial. Lenny
