“Hi, baby. Sorry I didn’t return your calls the last couple of days. I was busy.”
That word again.
“I gather you’ve decided to take Woodward’s advice.”
“I want to be with you, but we’ll have to be discreet. Logan Bedford bursting in on us at Hopes freaked me out. But this is all going to blow over soon, right? I miss you, baby.”
“I miss you, too.”
“Any news about Rosie today?”
“I called the hospital a half hour ago. She’s still critical.”
“She’s gonna beat this, baby. She’s a fighter.”
“That she is.”
“Where are you, anyway?”
I almost blurted the truth before realizing she’d be safer if she didn’t know.
“Tampa,” I said.
“What are you doing
“Following the Red Sox.”
“I should have known. When are you getting back?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Damn.”
“What?”
“I was hoping we could have a secret rendezvous this weekend. Next week I start at
Shit. Could we manage a long-distance relationship? Woodward certainly wouldn’t be hiring me now. I was damaged goods.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, as soon as I get the mess I’m in straightened away, how about I come down there for a weekend of unbridled lust?”
“I’d really like that.”
After we hung up, I strolled around the park some more. It was shortly after six when a statuesque black woman came through the Textron Tower’s revolving door, cut across the park, and entered the Capital Grille. I recognized her from her photo on the law firm’s Web site. I waited a few minutes, then followed her in.
Yolanda Mosley-Jones was sitting alone at the end of the bar, looking both professional and lusty in a hunter-green business suit. I chose a stool at the other end, asked the bartender for a club soda, and feigned interest in the menu. Mosley-Jones picked up what looked like a martini, took a small sip, and set it back down on a cocktail napkin.
Behind her, four suits were crammed into a booth, consuming vile, neon-colored drinks from highball glasses. From their furtive glances, it was apparent they were interested. Finally one of them got up, lurched over to the bar, and sat down beside her. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but whatever it was didn’t take. He got back up, shoulders slumping a little, and rejoined his friends.
A half hour ticked by. She never checked her watch. Never looked up at the clock over the bar. She didn’t seem to be waiting for anybody. I walked over, sat down next to her, and asked the bartender to bring her another on me.
“Sorry,” she said, “but I don’t date white guys.”
“Neither do I.”
She spun the bar stool to face me, looked me over, and frowned. Suddenly I didn’t feel fashionable anymore.
“Oh,” she said. “I know who you are. I saw you on the news. You were in handcuffs.”
“Not my finest moment.”
“Brady Coyle said you might try to pump me for information. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“So don’t say anything. Just listen.”
“I don’t think so.”
She twisted away, stood, and gathered her purse and BlackBerry from the bar.
“You filed the incorporation papers for Little Rhody Realty.”
She looked back over her shoulder.
“What if I did?”
“Little Rhody is a front for mobsters who are buying up property in Mount Hope. They’re the ones behind the fires.”
That got her attention. Eyes fixed on mine, she settled back onto the bar stool.
“They’re burning out the families that won’t sell. They’re burning down the buildings they buy to collect the insurance. And they don’t care who gets killed.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, but she kept her seat.
The bartender placed a fresh martini in front of her and cleared away her empty glass. I waited for him to wander down the bar before I gave her the rest of it.
When I was done, she shook her head slowly like maybe she still didn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to.
“Why tell me?” she said.
“Because I did my homework. I know your best friend Amy’s place burned down on Hell Night, and I thought you might want to do something about it. I need you to get something for me.”
When I told her what it was, she shook her head so hard her hair bounced.
“Not a chance. Maybe I believe you and maybe I don’t, but what you’re asking could get me fired. Even disbarred.”
“There are worse fates,” I said.
I told her how I watched Rosie carry Tony DePrisco’s burned and broken body out of a smoldering triple- decker. I told her what Rosie looked like when they slid her out of the ambulance. I described what it must have been like for my favorite English teacher, old Mr. McCready, when he drew his last lungful of smoke. I told her about Efrain and Graciela Rueda’s dreams for their children. I told her how Scott’s body looked when the fireman carried him down the ladder. I told her how the smoke rose right through the sheet Melissa was wrapped in. I told her what it was like to watch them go into the ground.
I was starting to tell her about the bullet holes in Scibelli’s corpse when she said, “Please stop.” She picked up her drink and took a long swallow.
“Why me?” she said. “Why don’t you talk to the lawyers who filed the papers for the other four dummy corporations?”
“I tried them already.”
She didn’t say anything, just fingered the stem of her martini glass. She had beautiful eyes. Her voice had smoke in it. And as best I could tell in that suit, her legs went on awhile.
“I’m not really white,” I said. “I’m passing.”
She laughed softly, but there was no joy in it. I took out one of my business cards, crossed out the address, wrote in another, and slid it into her purse. Then I took a twenty from my wallet and laid it on the bar.
70
McCracken’s secretary celebrated an unseasonably warm Thursday in April by squeezing into a short, low-cut yellow sundress. Her nipples showed dark against the thin fabric.
“She might as well have come to work naked,” he said, after closing his inner door.
“Maybe she’s working her way up to that.”
“Something to look forward to,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been worried about you. Are you all right?”
“I’ve got four broken ribs. I’ve been identified as a person of interest in a series of heinous crimes. The paper has suspended me without pay. My best friend is in the hospital. My best girl doesn’t want to be seen with me. And I’m pretty sure Vinnie Giordano is planning to shoot me. But the Sox are in first place, so on balance I guess I’m doing okay.”
“Why would Giordano want to shoot you?”
