Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud.

“I’m confused,” I said. “Who is it I killed again? Phil Templeton or Mario Zerilli?”

“We’re thinking both,” Freitas said.

“I already told you,” I said. “The gun was stolen.”

“You reported it stolen after Templeton was killed,” Wargart said.

“True,” I said.

“So even if we believed your bullshit story, which we don’t,” Freitas said, “you could have used it on him.”

“Why would I kill Templeton? Did I want to bang his girlfriend, too? Oh, wait. That can’t be it. Templeton was gay.”

“You shot him because he was a key supporter of the governor’s gambling bill,” Wargart said.

“Why would I care about that?” I asked.

“Because you’re scheming to take over Dominic Zerilli’s bookmaking business,” Freitas said.

“ What? Where the hell did you get that?”

I figured they weren’t going to tell me, and they didn’t. It must have been something else they got from Mario’s girlfriend.

“We hear Mario was mad as hell about it,” Freitas said. “We think that’s why you killed him, too.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re losing me again. I thought I killed Mario because I wanted to hump his girlfriend.”

“Two motives are better than one,” Wargart said.

I tried to come up with a snappy riposte, but nothing came to me, so I picked up the paper cup and swallowed the last of my coffee.

“Where were you when Templeton was shot?” Freitas asked.

“No idea.”

“And why is that?” she asked.

“Because I don’t know when he was shot,” I said. “Nobody does. Nobody knows what he was shot with either. No way you linked my gun to it. That’s bullshit.”

“What makes you say that?” Wargart asked.

“Because the slug was never found.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I’m a reporter,” I said. “I hear all kinds of stuff.”

I picked up the photo with my cuffed hands and took a closer look at Frances Mirabelli’s split lip and blackened eyes.

“Poor thing,” I said. “You know Mario’s been abusing her for years, right? He even did six months in the state pen for it. This time, he must have told her to blame it on me.”

“Why would he do that?” Wargart said.

“You’d have to ask him.”

“Dead men don’t talk,” Freitas said.

I placed the photo back on the table.

“Look, when does she say this happened?” I asked.

“Last night,” Wargart said.

“What time?”

“You got to her apartment at nine thirty and left about ten minutes later.”

I rattled off a ten-digit number.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Freitas asked.

“My alibi,” I said. “And when you call it, please tell attorney Yolanda Mosley-Jones I’m very sorry I had to miss our lunch date today. I was unavoidably detained.”

“Lunch would have been nice,” I said, “but dinner is better.”

“Why is that?” Yolonda asked.

“Because we’ve got the whole night ahead of us.”

She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she picked up her fork and went to work on her lobster and crab cakes. I shoveled in a forkful of the wagyu beef with wasabi arugula. The Capital Grille, located in the city’s renovated old Union Station, was Yolanda’s kind of place. She’d chosen a bottle of La Crema Pinot Noir from the wine list. They didn’t carry Killian’s, so I settled for Samuel Adams Summer Ale that was served in a tall glass instead of the bottle I preferred.

When she finally spoke, she changed the subject.

“You should have called me, baby. It’s not smart to talk to homicide without a lawyer present.”

“I don’t like lawyers, present company excepted,” I said. “Besides, if I asked for one, the interrogation would have ended, and I wouldn’t have learned anything.”

“And you learned what?”

“That Mario Zerilli tried to frame me. He stole my gun, planted it in his girlfriend’s apartment to place me there, beat her up, and got her to lie to the cops.”

“What’s he got against you?” she asked.

I took out my wallet, removed a five-dollar bill, and slid it across the table.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A retainer. We are now covered by attorney-client privilege.”

“It’s like that?” she said.

“It is,” I said, and then told her about Whoosh’s offer.

“Don’t tell me you’re seriously considering this,” she said.

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“When I get it worked out, I’ll let you know.”

“It sounds like Mario isn’t the only one out to get you,” she said. “Wargart and Freitas seem to have it in for you, too.”

“They do. They’ve been eager to pin something on me for a couple of years now.”

“Why?”

“I’ve written a lot of unflattering stuff about the Providence PD over the years. The homicide twins always seem to take it personally.”

“Let me help,” she said.

“How?”

“I can get a restraining order against Mario. Might be able to get one against the Providence PD, too.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but no thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want them to go away,” I said. “Every time they show up, there’s a chance I might learn something.”

Later, as we sipped our coffee and shared a slice of coconut cream pie, Yolanda turned the conversation back to us.

“Ever dated a black woman before?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me.”

“A few years ago, I was seeing a devastatingly beautiful black lawyer, but she dumped me for a Brown chemistry professor. Oh, and I had a few dates with a Jamaican girl when I was in college.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“The Jamaican girl? Yeah. The lawyer? Not yet, but I haven’t given up hope.”

“You’re not one of those white guys who’s obsessed with the sisters, are you?”

“Just with one of them.”

“Serious question.”

“I gave you a serious answer.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but I think it requires elaboration.”

I leaned forward, right into those big, dark eyes.

“You love baseball. You know your way around the blues. When you’re not reading, you’re talking about something you’ve read. You’re smart and tough and one of the best there is at what you do. You always do the right thing, even when it’s difficult. When we talk, there’s an intimacy I don’t feel with anyone else. And I love the bluesy sound of your voice. It’s got smoke in it.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, “but I wonder if there’s more to it.”

“A lot more,” I said. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Those incredible legs. The curve of your neck. The way your skin shimmers even in this low light. Yes, I love it that you’re black, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“It is,” she said.

“And you want to know why.”

“I do.”

This was treacherous territory. Taking my cue from Captain Parisi, I took five seconds to frame my response.

“Having things in common is important,” I said. “Most guys think that, and good looks, are the only things that matter. They want a woman who likes the same kind of music, roots for the same team, eats the same kind of food, worships in the same church. Not me. I prefer women who are different from me in at least a few important ways.”

“Why?”

“The differences are what make life interesting,” I said. “When I’m with you, I see the world through fresh eyes. I can’t tell you how much I treasure that. I could learn something new from you every day of my life.”

She smiled, reached across the table, and took my hand. “Baby, you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”