Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

“Bruce McCracken.”

“I meant, who’s the client?”

“Mario Zerilli’s lawyer.”

“Humpf.”

He removed a soft pack from his shirt pocket, shook out a Marlboro, and lit it with a Bic. I took that as permission to clip the tip from an Ashton.

“There’s no smoking in here,” he said.

“Could have fooled me.”

“I make an exception for the hotel detective.”

I put my lighter away, shoved the cigar in my mouth, and gnawed the tip.

“The maids tell you anything?” he asked.

“No.”

“Pretended not to speak English, did they?”

“That they did.”

“Haven’t told me a damned thing either,” he said.

“Think they know something?”

“No, but I suppose it’s possible. I get the feeling a couple of ’em are scared. Like maybe somebody threatened them with deportation.”

“They don’t have green cards?”

“Of course they do, but I don’t look too hard at them. Some of the documents could be phony.”

“I hope you’re gonna keep letting that slide.”

“Long as the INS doesn’t come snooping,” he said.

“Any chance one of the housekeepers grabbed the money? Maybe stuck it under some towels and rolled it downstairs in a laundry cart?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“I don’t suppose one of them up and quit recently.”

“Didn’t happen.”

“Okay, then. Are we done? Your secondhand smoke is thin on nicotine. I need to go outside and light this baby.”

“One last thing,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Remember asking me whether the Providence dicks or the state cop got here first?”

“I do.”

“I been thinking about that. Might be that Parisi beat the homicide twins by a few minutes.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“No.”

The hotel surveillance video would tell the story, but Freitas and Wargart had made off with it, and they weren’t the kind to share.

“The first cop on the scene could have shot Alfano and stolen the money.” I said.

“I doubt that happened.”

“But you’ve got to be wondering.”

“I’m still pretty sure Mario did it,” he said, “but the thought has crossed my mind.”

I left Fergie’s office and strolled slowly across the lobby. Was the hotel dick trying to make me suspicious of Parisi to divert my attention from his old Providence PD pals? I wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time I pushed through the hotel door, the sun had fled to its hideout in the west. The downtown streetlights were burning. I turned right on the sidewalk and was startled to find Parisi leaning, arms crossed, against a new, unmarked Chevy Cruze-the model his department had chosen to phase out the Crown Vics. Why GM decided to spell cruise wrong, I had no idea.

“Good evening, Captain.”

“Not for you, it isn’t. Turn around and place your hands on the wall.”

Across the street, a yellow North Kingstown School District bus was disgorging a swarm of squealing teen girls. The pom-poms they carried told me they’d come to town for the state cheerleader competition at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center.

“What’s this about, Captain?”

“Do as you’re told, Mulligan. I’d hate to have to shoot you in front of the kids.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t shoot me at all.”

I turned and laid my palms flat on the hotel wall. Before I could spread my legs, Parisi kicked them apart, patted me down, and jerked the Kel-Tec from the small of my back. I glanced over my left shoulder and saw the cheerleaders staring wide-eyed at the big-city drama as their handlers tried to hustle them away down the sidewalk.

“Empty your pockets.”

I pulled out my keys, wallet, and cell phone.

“Drop them,” he said, so I let them clatter to the pavement.

Parisi grabbed my right wrist, twisted it behind my back, and cuffed it. Then he did the same with my left.

“I thought this wasn’t your case,” I said.

“Shut up and get in the car.”

He grabbed me by the cuffs, bulled me toward the Cruze, opened the back door, and shoved me inside. After locking me in, he retrieved my belongings from the sidewalk, stuffed them in his pockets, and got in behind the wheel.

I expected him to turn right at the first intersection and work his way toward Route 10 for the dreary forty-minute drive west to state police headquarters in Scituate. Instead, he blew straight through the light.

“You haven’t told me that I’m under arrest.”

He didn’t speak. Ignoring the next opportunity to turn, he kept driving east through downtown Providence.

“You haven’t read me my rights.”

Nothing.

“Hey, Captain?”

Still nothing. I was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

“Where are you taking me?”

No reply.

As we crossed Francis Street, a gray Honda Civic pulled in behind us, but when Parisi swung south onto Dyer, it peeled off. Just south of downtown, Parisi picked up Eddy Street, drove past the entrance to Point Street Bridge, and swung left at the Eddy Street-Allens Avenue split. To our right, a low-end strip club and a few shabby retail stores, some of them boarded up. To our left, the docks, oil tanks, and warehouses of the Port of Providence. Behind us, just a couple of cars on the road now. I couldn’t make out the models or colors through the glare of their headlights.

“Are you planning to shoot me?”

Nothing again. But this time, nothing sounded like an answer.

“You’ll never get away with it, Captain.”

More silence. And then, “Of course I will.”

“At least twenty people saw you scoop me up.”

“I’ve got that covered.”

“How are you going to tell it? That you shot me for resisting arrest? For trying to escape? It won’t pass the smell test, Captain. Too many witnesses saw me cuffed and secured in the backseat.”

Silence.

“Can you at least tell me why?”

Nothing.

“Too bad about your pension, Captain.”

No response.

“But I guess Alfano’s two hundred grand will make up for it.”

So it wasn’t the homicide twins who’d stolen Alfano’s money and set me up to take the fall. But why had Parisi targeted me? Wasn’t Mario a more credible suspect? Oh, wait. When Mario was on the run and living out of stolen cars, there was no way to plant evidence on him. I saw all that clearly now. What I didn’t get was why Parisi need to kill me to make his plan work.

He drove in silence for another minute, maybe two. Then he said, “How did you figure it out?”

“I didn’t. Except for Pope Francis, you were the last one I suspected.”

Ten seconds, and then, “If you didn’t, you would have eventually. You’re way too persistent for your own good.”

Your life is supposed to flash before your eyes in a moment like this, but what I flashed on was the things I’d never done. I’d never strolled the streets of Paris. Never danced at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Never researched my family tree. Never climbed an active volcano. Never learned to ski. Never swam with dolphins. Never walked on the Great Wall of China. Never fathered a child. But it was too late for a bucket list.

“You don’t want to do this,” I said. “It violates everything your life has stood for.”

Ten seconds, and then, “I know.” His voice was a mix of regret and determination.

“Let me out, and we can both walk away. I don’t have a thing on you. Nothing I can prove, anyway.”

Silence.

“I’ll never mention my suspicions to anyone.”

Five seconds. “Sure you will.”

“No I won’t,” I said, and I might even have meant it. “The state screwed you out of your retirement by mismanaging the pension system. You saw a chance to secure your future, and you grabbed it. I’m glad you took that money, Captain. It’s not like it belonged somebody who deserves to get it back.”