“Did you get it?”
“I did. It’s in the glove box.”
She leaned forward, and the pressure from the seat belt made her yelp again. She opened the box and pulled out a canister of pepper spray.
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
What does
“Nothing, Gloria. Whoosh had a carton of them lying around, and he wanted you to have it. He would have given you a revolver, but I didn’t think that was a good idea.”
She raised her good hand, her thumb a cocked hammer and her index finger a gun barrel, mulling it over.
“You survived, Gloria. You beat him.”
“What if he comes back?”
“He won’t. He’s running for his life now.”
“Are they going to catch him?”
“They will.” The police hadn’t found a match for the fingerprints, but Gloria didn’t need to hear that. She needed to think justice was coming.
It started to rain as I cruised through Cranston on the interstate. When I flipped on the wipers, Gloria tensed. Then she began to moan.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong, Gloria?”
“The rain!” Screaming now. “MAKE IT STOP!” She beat her good hand on the dash.
There was no place to pull over and nothing I could do to comfort her.
“Make it stop!”
As I turned onto the East Avenue exit in Warwick, it did. Gloria’s scream turned to a whimper as I drove a few miles to Vera Street and parked at the curb in front of the little yellow ranch house where she grew up. Her mother was waiting on the sidewalk to help me take her daughter into the house.
55
The lawyers who’d filed the incorporation papers had each signed their names with a self-important flourish of swirls and curlicues. It was easier to read the type below the signatures: Beth J. Harpaz, Irwin M. Fletcher, Patrick R. Connelly III, Yolanda Mosley-Jones, and Daniel Q. Haney.
I’d hoped to find that the same lawyer had filed for all five companies. That would have tied them together, given me something to go on. Instead, all my return trip to the secretary of state’s office had gotten me was five more names I’d never heard of. But I knew somebody who might recognize them.
I got to the newsroom shortly after noon and found Veronica sitting in her cubicle nibbling something green and leafy. I flipped my notebook open to the right page and dropped it on her desk.
“Take a look at these names and tell me if you know any of them.”
She stared at the page for a moment. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t have the time for this. I’ve got to get to the courthouse. Word is the Arena indictment could be handed up today.”
She pushed herself up from her ergonomically correct desk chair, gave me a peck on the cheek, and headed for the elevators.
An investigative reporter must be resourceful. When the first source fails, he must find another. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my secret file. Beth J. Harpaz, attorney at law, was listed in the Providence telephone directory.
“McDougall, Young, Coyle, and Limone. How may I direct your call?”
“Beth Harpaz, please,”
“May I ask your name and what this is regarding?”
“My name is Jeb Stuart Magruder. My wife of twenty-two years has taken a lesbian lover, and I wish to initiate divorce proceedings immediately.”
“I am sorry, sir, but Ms. Harpaz doesn’t handle divorce work. I suggest you try a smaller firm.”
I thanked her, hung up, opened the phone book, and started to look up the number for Daniel Q. Haney. Then I thought better of it and hit the redial button.
“McDougall, Young, Coyle, and Limone. How may I direct your call?”
“How ya doin’, sweetheart. I’m wondering if my good buddy Dan Haney is in this afternoon.”
“May I ask your name and what this is regarding?”
“Tell Danny that Chuck Colson is calling to make sure he’s not thinking of chickening out of our Saturday- morning golf date. He bet a grand that he can beat me, and I’ve already spent the money.”
“I see,” she said. “Hold a moment, please, and let me see if he’ll take your call.”
She put me on hold, and I hung up. I spent a couple of minutes practicing another telephone voice and hit redial.
“McDougall, Young, Coyle, and Limone. How may I direct your call?”
“Irwin M. Fletcher, please.”
“May I ask your name and what this is regarding?”
“This is James W. McCord. I need to speak with Mr. Fletcher immediately on a matter of some urgency.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Fletcher is out of town on business. Perhaps someone else can assist you.”
“The prick’s never around when I need him,” I said, and hung up.
Ten minutes later, the redial button again.
“McDougall, Young, Coyle, and Limone. How may I direct your call?”
“Patrick Connelly, please.”
“Would that be Patrick R. Connelly Junior or Patrick R. Connelly the Third?”
“Damn! I didn’t know the old man was still alive.”
“The elder Mr. Connelly is only fifty-five, sir.”
“So the antibiotics have his syphilis under control, then?”
“Excuse me, sir?” she said, and I hung up.
I was fresh out of telephone voices, and I figured the disembodied voice on the other end would be checking caller ID now. I got up and wandered over to Mason’s desk.
“I need a favor.”
“So do I.”
“Me first,” I said, and told him what I needed him to do.
* * *
“Yolanda Mosley-Jones, please.”
Pause.
“My name is Gordon Liddy, and I am calling in regard to a criminal case she is handling for me.”
Pause.
“But it’s urgent I speak with her this afternoon.”
Pause.
“I see. No, no. I’m on the road. I’ll call back later this afternoon.” he said, and hung up.
“So?”
“So Ms. Mosley-Jones is currently assisting Brady Coyle in a criminal matter at the federal courthouse and won’t be available till this afternoon.”
“You did good, Thanks-Dad.”
“Who the hell is Gordon Liddy?”
“Never mind that. What is it I can do for you?”
“I found out what they’re doing with the manhole covers.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I asked around and found out that a lot of the guys from the highway department like to hang out after work
