Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

Good for him.

First thing Monday morning, Chuckie-boy summoned me to his office.

“How you holding up, grandpa?” he asked.

“My knees are aching, and I’ve got a slight strain in my left calf. Other than that, I guess I’m doin’ okay.”

“Good. The copy’s great. It’s generating a lot of chatter on our website.”

“I saw.”

“Readers are rooting for you and Jefferson to make the team, and they’ve got a big hate on for Sears and Krueger. Sears because he’s a thief and Krueger because he’s an asshole. Heroes and villains always make good copy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Vipers’ management is loving it, too. Now that they’ve seen your first two stories, they’ve made good on their promise to buy a weekly quarter-page ad in the sports section once the season starts.”

“You’re telling me it’s a quid pro quo?”

“Damn straight.”

“I’m not comfortable with that,” I said.

“Like I give a shit.”

I was limping back to my desk when my cell phone rang.

“Mulligan?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Lebowski.”

“Hey, Dude. What’s up?”

“The M.E. finally ID’d the floater, and this one’s a doozy.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It’s a state legislator.”

“Let me guess,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“Phil Templeton.”

“How in hell did you know?”

“He’s been missing for a few weeks,” I said. “Who’s running the investigation now, you or the Lincoln PD?”

“Neither. The staties are big-footing us.”

“Captain Parisi?”

“You got that one right, too.”

“State Police. Parisi speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Captain. It’s Mulligan.”

“I know who you are. What is it this time?”

“Phil Templeton.”

Five seconds of silence, and then, “Usual place in thirty minutes.”

In less than that, we were parked nose-to-tail behind the Johnston City Hall, our driver’s-side windows rolled down.

“What about Templeton?” he asked, not bothering with a hello.

“Turns out it was his corpse that got fished out of the Blackstone.”

A five-second delay, and then, “The Providence cops think it was Mario Zerilli.”

“But we both know it wasn’t,” I said. “You’ve got a high-profile murder case on your hands again, Captain.”

“Worst kind,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

He glanced at me and blew out a long sigh. “Why should I tell you?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation.”

Ten seconds. “Can we talk off the record?”

“Sure.”

“Dunkin’ Donuts on Killingly Street in five minutes.” He cranked the ignition and took off.

A state police captain doesn’t concern himself with speed limits, so he was already sitting in a corner booth when I walked in, his knife-scarred hands cradling an extra large. I picked up a medium regular at the counter and joined him. For a minute or two, neither of us spoke.

Parisi and I had worked different sides of the street on a lot of the same cases over the years, and I’d developed a profound respect for him. If the feeling was mutual, he’d never let on. But a few years ago, when we were both investigating a child pornography ring, we’d nearly had a moment.

The case was so ugly that it tore at our souls. One evening, after we’d both stumbled on a cache of online snuff films, we sat across a table from each other at Hopes. Taking turns buying each other shots of whiskey, we made a feeble stab at talking things out; but neither of us could find the words. That night, I thought there was a chance we might become friends, but Parisi wasn’t the type to let anyone get close.

As I looked at him now, I sensed another moment coming on.

“Jesus, Mulligan. I hate cases like this.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know how it goes. The governor’s office calling the state police superintendent for updates every day. Him all over my ass for results. Assholes with TV cameras trailing me around. Reporters shouting their dumb-ass questions.”

“Some cops love the spotlight.”

“I’m sure as hell not one of them. I was hoping I could avoid another freak show before I put in for retirement, but I guess I should have known better.”

“When are you planning on leaving?”

He gave me a hard stare.

“Sorry. None of my business,” I said, and he softened a little.

“Some days, I’m just so tired of it all. I got another year left in me, I think. Two at the most.”

“What will you do?”

“June and I have been talking about selling the house in Coventry and buying a cottage on the Maine coast. Get ourselves a couple of Labrador retrievers, some fishing gear, maybe a little sailboat.”

“Sounds nice.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m only forty-four.”

“Yeah, but there’s no future in what you’re doing. I hear your buddy McCracken wants to take you on. You’ve got the stuff to be a decent P.I., Mulligan. You ought to jump at it.”

“I’m thinking it over.”

“As P.I.’s go, McCracken’s okay,” Parisi said. “He’s the one who sent Templeton to me.”

“I heard.”

“What else have you heard?”

“Hold on. I’m the reporter here. This is supposed to work the other way around.”

“Humor me.”

This time, I was the one who needed the ten-second delay.

“A few days ago,” I said, “the Lincoln cops responded to a tip that Templeton’s house had been broken into. They found the front door jimmied and signs of a struggle. Sometime today, the ME identified his body. He’d been beaten and then shot through the neck with a large-caliber slug.”

“That all you got?”

“I know Lucan Alfano tried to bribe Templeton. I know Templeton refused the money. And I know Alfano warned him that that things would go badly for him if he didn’t cooperate.”

Five seconds, and then, “Alfano couldn’t have done it. He got dead before Templeton went into the river.”

“Somebody working with Alfano could have done it,” I said.

“Hell, Mulligan. Anybody could have done it.” Five seconds. “But it’s a plausible theory.”

“Do you have a suspect?” I asked.

“If I do, I’m sure as shit not telling you.”

“I bet you don’t.”

“Are we done?”

“One more thing,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Have you looked at the Green Airport surveillance video for March 3?”

Ten seconds this time. “Why would I want to do that?”

“To see who picked Alfano up at the airport that day when he arrived on a late-morning flight from Atlantic City.”

Five seconds. “You’ve seen this video?”

“I have.”

“How the hell did you manage that?”

“By asking nicely.”

“Gonna tell me who’s on it?”

“No,” I said. “It’s something you should see for yourself.”

“That new profession you’ve been nudging Mario into? It’s strong-arm work, isn’t it?”

“What?” Whoosh said. “Where’d you get that idea?”

“I can’t say.”

It was early Tuesday evening, and we were sitting in Whoosh’s office at the back of the convenience store, him in his swivel chair and me on a corner of his keyhole desk. This time, not even a Beggin’ Strip could lure Shortstop’s rump out of the visitor’s chair.

“This ain’t something I can talk about, Mulligan.”

“No?” I said. “Then let’s try it this way. You know this guy?”

He took the cell phone from my hand and studied the photo.

“No,” he said. “Who is he?”