shows.”
I winced at his choice of words and asked, “Who was this girl?”
“Don’t remember her name, but she gave me her fuckin’ card.”
He pulled a warped leather wallet out of his hip pocket, extracted a dog-eared business card, and shoved it at me. Raised navy blue letters printed on good stock read “Cheryl Scibelli, Registered Agent, Little Rhody Realty Co.” Below it, a phone number but no address.
Little Rhody. One of the mystery real estate companies.
“Mind if I keep this?
“Knock yourself out.”
I stabled Secretariat in front of Joseph’s house and walked around the neighborhood knocking on the doors of single-family homes, the buildings most likely to be owner-occupied. That got me three slammed doors, four nobody-homes, two renters, and six homeowners. Turned out I knew them all—a former gym teacher, three old classmates from Hope High, Annie’s mom, and Jack Hart, the guy who took over Dad’s milk route when his eyesight failed. Five of the six said they’d been approached about selling. Two already had and were about to move out. Four of them still had business cards from Cheryl Scibelli of Little Rhody Realty.
I crossed Camp Street, leaving the fire-plagued southeast quadrant of the neighborhood behind, and knocked on more doors. That turned up five more home owners, none of whom had ever heard of Cheryl Scibelli or Little Rhody Realty.
On my way back to the Bronco, I cut up Catalpa Street and passed a crew from Dio Construction loading what was left of the rooming house into a dump truck. That’s when it hit me. Why was Johnny Dio’s company the only one I’d seen knocking down torched buildings in Mount Hope?
52
“Little Rhody Realty!” The voice was perky and eager to be helpful.
“May I speak with Mr. Dio, please?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but there is no one here by that name.”
“Well, may I speak to Mr. Giordano then?”
“I’m sorry”—the voice colder now—“but there is no one here by that name, either.”
“How about Charlie Radbourn or Barney Gilligan? Actually, any dead member of the Providence Grays will do.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Is Cheryl Scibelli available?”
“I’m afraid she’s gone for the day, sir.”
“Do me a favor, then. Next time Johnny Dio or Vinnie Giordano come in, tell them Mulligan called looking for them.”
She told me again that she’d never heard of them, and maybe she hadn’t. I said good-bye and hung up.
If Little Rhody had anything to do with the fires …
And if Dio or Giordano had anything to do with Little Rhody …
And if the receptionist gave one of them my message …
And if the little thug worked for one of them …
Well, then maybe I’d be getting another visit from him soon.
53
That night I picked up Chinese takeout and drove to Veronica’s place in Fox Point. We ate chicken with garlic sauce and shrimp lo mein straight from the cartons as she talked about her day. The evening was a blur of food and chat until we got naked and tumbled into bed.
Again, Veronica guided my head to her chest, but not so I could relax. I took my time exploring, and by the time our bodies locked in rhythm, the woman had become a full-blown addiction.
When my breathing returned to normal I twisted away from her, snatched my jeans off the carpet, and fumbled for something in the side pocket.
“Here. I want you to have this.”
She sat up in bed, opened the little blue box, and lifted the necklace out on a finger. It wasn’t much, but it managed to glisten a little. A tiny sterling Underwood typewriter on a silver chain.
“It’s beautiful. L. S. A. Mulligan showing his sweet side?”
I shrugged and lifted her hair as she fastened the clasp behind her neck. And then she kissed me.
Later, there was a new kind of pillow talk. Veronica wanted to discuss the future.
“What’s next for you, Mulligan?”
“I’ve got some incorporation papers to recheck.”
“No, no, not that. What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”
“Oh. First off, I want to get my divorce finalized.”
“That would be good place to start.”
“Then I want to sit in the center-field bleachers at Fenway Park with my best girl and watch the Red Sox win the World Series again.”
“Your best girl? Would that be me?”
“It would.”
“Then what?”
“Then I can die happy.”
“Hey, be serious for a minute, okay?”
I thought I
“You’ve been in Rhode Island for a long time, Mulligan.”
“All my life.”
“Isn’t it time you moved on to something better?”
“Like what?”
“
“Move someplace where I can’t get the Red Sox on free TV? Besides, you know what the newspaper job market is like. Those rags aren’t hiring; they’re laying off.”
“Yeah, but they always have room for an investigative reporter with a drawer full of awards.”
“Nobody wants to hear about a ten-year-old Pulitzer, Veronica.”
“Yes, they do,” she said. “And your Polk was just two years ago.”
“Um.”
“What about television news? CNN, maybe.”
“With
I waited for her to protest, but she didn’t. Instead she said, “Wolf Blitzer is no prize either.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Think about it, baby? What would you be doing with your life if you could do anything you wanted?”
“I’m doing it,” I said.
“You actually
“Naked next to you? Are you kidding?”
“Be serious!”
I grinned. “Do you know how Rhode Island got its name, Veronica?”
“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“Actually, I’m not. Fact is, nobody knows for sure. Historians have poked into it for years, but all they’ve come up with are a few half-baked theories.”
“So?”
