the news, and she’s been worrying about you.”
Gloria rose from the couch, where she’d been watching TV, met me in the middle of the living room, wrapped her arms around me, and gave me a squeeze. That’s when it dawned on me that my ribs were feeling better. I guess hers were too.
We sat together on the couch and caught up. I told her there was still no news about Rosie but that I hoped to be exonerated and back to work soon. She told me the surgery on her hand had gone well and that she was scheduled for her first plastic surgery next week. Her bruises were faded now, and the fear was no longer in her eyes. She was animated. She seemed hopeful. Her smile was lopsided, but it was still a smile.
Before I left, I asked her if I could borrow her car.
“Keep it as long as you like,” she said. “With one good eye, it’ll be a while before I get up the nerve to drive.”
She took the keys from her purse and dropped them in my palm.
72
That afternoon I hid out in McCracken’s office, smoking and killing time. I fiddled with my cell, changing the ringtone to the “Peter Gunn Theme.” By five, I still hadn’t heard from Mason, and I was starting to get anxious.
Then the orchestra began to play: “Waaaaah, wah! Waaaaah,
“So how’d it go?”
“Not good.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Yeah. After Lomax and Pemberton killed the story, I went upstairs to see Dad and got the same song and dance.”
“Start from the beginning and give me all of it, Edward.”
“Hey! That’s the first time you called me by my real name.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just tell me what happened.”
“First off, Lomax kept asking if I had really come up with all this on my own. Wanted to know, did I have help from you.”
“And you said?”
“That it was my work.”
“He believe you?”
“I don’t think so, but he let it slide.”
“Then what?”
“He had a lot of questions about sourcing. Where did I get the architectural drawings? Where did the billing records come from? How did I know they were genuine?”
“And you said?”
“That I couldn’t reveal my confidential sources.”
“And then?”
“Lomax said there was no way the paper would put its reputation on the line based on the work of a cub reporter who couldn’t disclose his sources. Not even a cub reporter whose daddy was the publisher. When I pressed the argument, he backed off and said he’d discuss it with Pemberton. He walked into the aquarium, and the two of them went into a huddle. In the middle of it, Pemberton took a call, talked for a few minutes, and hung up. After a half hour or so, they both walked over to my cubicle looking pretty mad.”
“Why mad?”
“Pemberton asked, did I know that my story was based on documents you had stolen from Brady Coyle’s office?”
“How the hell did he know
“That call he took? It was Coyle threatening to sue the paper for invasion of privacy, libel, and a couple of other things Pemberton told me that I can’t remember just now.”
“What? How did Coyle know about the story?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. At that point, I lost my temper. Said some things I shouldn’t have.”
“Like what?”
“That Giordano, Dio, and Coyne are scum. That they are arsonists and murderers. That the three of them were going to get away with it because we didn’t have the balls to take them on.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Yeah. I was loud about it, too. Pemberton just shook his head and said I had some growing up to do. When I went upstairs to see Dad, he said the same thing.”
“Thanks for trying, Mason.”
“This isn’t over, is it?”
“Maybe not,” I said, “but there are two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and we’re down by ten.”
McCracken and I were commiserating when the cell rang again.
“Hello, asshole.”
“Brady! How good of you to call.”
“Glad to hear from me, are you?”
“It’s always a pleasure to talk with an old teammate.”
“Forgive me if I doubt your sincerity. After all, I’m scum. I’m an arsonist and a murderer. Isn’t that what your lapdog says? That’s malice per se, Mulligan. I almost hope the paper
And then he guffawed. He was still at it when I hung up. That was the first time I’d ever heard anyone guffaw. I didn’t like it much.
I called Mason back.
“This is important,” I said. “Who overheard your rant about Giordano, Dio, and Coyle?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It was just a few minutes ago, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Stand up and look around. Who’s there now?”
“Uh … Lomax and Pemberton, of course. Abbruzzi, Sullivan, Bakst, Kukielski, Richards, Jones, Gonzales, Friedman, Kiffney, Ionata, Young, Worcester. And Veronica’s here. It’s her last day.”
“What about Hardcastle?”
“I don’t see him. Wait a minute. Yeah, there he is. He’s just coming out of the men’s room.”
“That it?”
“There are some others, but they’re too far away to have overheard.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, and hung up.
73
Ten minutes later, I was double-parked on Fountain Street with the motor running. At 6:45, a gray Mitsubishi Eclipse pulled out of the parking lot across from the newspaper. I let a few cars go by and then followed. The Eclipse turned right on Dyer, lurched onto I-195, and zoomed across the Providence River.
TV cop shows make a big deal over how hard it is to tail somebody. It’s bull. When you’re driving a nondescript subcompact in light traffic and the person you’re following has no reason to be suspicious, it’s as easy as stealing on Wakefield’s knuckleball.
In East Providence, we turned south on Route 114 toward the fashionable suburb of Barrington. Fifteen minutes later, the Eclipse stopped in front of a big Tudor-style house with a well-manicured lawn.
I idled half a block away as Veronica got out of her car, locked it, and started up the front walk. As she rang
