John Dobbyn - Neon Dragon

“One more question. And you’d better find an answer for this one. This is the deal-breaker. Who put the pieces together to fix that juror? The money, the contact, all of it. Who actually did it?”

The sheet of moisture that covered his forehead beaded into drops that began coursing down his cheeks. I could see his hands clutch the edge of the table to stop the shaking. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“He could… destroy me.”

He was stymied with fear. The only thing that could drive him through it was a smack in the rear with a greater fear. I blocked out the overwhelming urge to cave in out of pity by focusing on the ten years of pain he had caused Mr. Devlin without a thought.

I leaned over the table.

“Look in my eyes, Mr. Shortbridge, and read the truth. He could destroy you. I will destroy you.”

He shook until even the table couldn’t steady him. It came out of him in a whisper.

I leaned closer. “What?”

“Loring. Robert Loring. He put it together. We all agreed to the plan, but he put it together.”

It was like releasing a pressure valve. His whole body sank back in the chair as if it had been deflated. I recognized the name. Loring was the general partner of the limited partnership that owned the buildings that burned with the one that had been torched.

I let him catch his breath while I took out a legal pad and pen. I put it in front of him and told him to write it in detail. He took the pen and looked up.

“You said…”

“I said I may not have to make it public. I have just one interest in this business. Where it goes from there is out of my hands.”

He nodded and started to write.

It was two thirty in the afternoon when Shortbridge and I parted company under a giant grinning cutout of Ronald McDonald. I had one more part to play before I could get my mind fully back to the Bradley case.

Information gave me the number for Robert Loring’s office on Federal Street. I had gotten the address earlier from Gene Martino.

Loring’s secretary had an upscale coolness in her voice.

“Mr. Loring’s office.”

“Hello. May I speak to Mr. Loring?”

“I’m afraid not. Mr. Loring is out of the office for the afternoon. May I inquire what this is in reference to?”

I overlooked the fact that she was unashamed of ending a sentence with a preposition.

“It’s in reference to his meeting with me in the Public Garden tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not possible. Mr. Loring has appointments in-house through tomorrow afternoon. Who is this speaking?”

“This is a man who wants Mr. Loring to know that he’ll meet him tomorrow morning at nine o’clock at the bench in the Public Garden where they start the swan boats.”

There was a little condescending laugh that sent my Latino blood well above 98.6. I nonetheless cooled it and let her finish.

“I’m afraid you’ll be waiting there alone, whoever you are. Mr. Loring has no intention…”

“I’m not in the habit of giving legal advice freely, miss, so consider yourself among the elect. My very best advice to you is that you treat this as a 911 call and reach Mr. Loring as if his life depended on it. Tell him about the appointment at the swan boats tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. And in the course of the conversation, mention the name of Frank Dolson to him. When you do, have a chair behind him and two aspirin in your hot little hand. Have you got all that?”

There was nothing but pause on the other end. I figured I got her attention. I wished her a delightful afternoon and hung up.

There was one last base that I wanted to touch before Anthony’s trial began. I drove over to Harvard and found Terry Blocher just coming back to Dunster House from class. It seemed like the first time all day I’d talked to another human being without trying to trick or coerce him into saying something he’d rather keep deeply buried.

Terry seemed open and anxious to help any way he could. His first words were a sincere inquiry about Anthony. It struck me that he really cared as a friend, but then, my experience so far with this case had forced me to reevaluate my intuitive judgment of character.

He invited me in, and we settled down behind a couple of Cokes.

“Terry, I’m trying to piece together exactly what happened on that Sunday. Could you give it to me again? Give me all the details.”

I appreciated the fact that he thought about it before beginning.

“I went down to Anthony’s room here at Dunster about two in the afternoon. I think I asked what he wanted to do. He said he wanted to go into Chinatown for the New Year’s celebration and have dinner. I said OK, so we went.”

“And Anthony picked the Ming Tree restaurant?”

“That’s right. It was new to me.”

“Think back, Terry. Did anyone join you at the dinner?”

“No. Well, actually what happened was during the dinner Anthony excused himself and went into the back room. It looked like he was going into the kitchen.”

“Could it have been the men’s room?”

“No. That was off to the side. He was there for a few minutes. Then he came back to the table. There was a Chinese man with him. He introduced him, but I can’t remember his name.”

“Tall, thin fellow? Well dressed? Speaks excellent English?”

“Right. Exactly. Anyway, he asked if I was staying in Chinatown for the celebration. I had to tell him I was probably going back to Cambridge right after dinner. The noise when we came in was too much for my ears.”

“So then?”

“That was it. We finished. We split the bill. Anthony and I walked downstairs. I left Anthony on the sidewalk. He wanted to see the dragon or lion or whatever it was coming up the street.”

“What about the Chinese man?”

He thought for a minute.

“He walked downstairs with us. They were together on the sidewalk when I left.”

I had a better picture of that afternoon. Unfortunately, it could have suited either Anthony’s or the witnesses’ version of the killing that followed.

“One last question, Terry. Are you a member of that group called ‘The Point’”?

He shook his head. “No. I have trouble enough getting myself through the courses.”

Tuesday morning was a little milder than it had been, but the chill and the clouds let you know that it was clearly still February.

It was also the day Anthony Bradley’s trial was to begin, at Mr. Devlin’s request. I knew I should have been meeting Mr. Devlin at the courthouse, but I had to do this one other thing while momentum was overcoming the fact that I was petrified. They’d use the morning to pick a jury, and then Angela Lamb would come to bat for the prosecution. Heaven knows Mr. Devlin didn’t need my help for that.

At nine o’clock, I was standing by the swan-boat pond in the Public Garden. It was frozen over with the exception of a few circles of moisture that reminded me that someday this long winter would end.

The walking Boston office workers had passed earlier along the paths that led to the office buildings that ring the garden. I was alone, except for a woman on a bench a distance along the pond.

At exactly two minutes past nine, I saw an older man walking a little faster than what I imagined his usual gate might be. From the gray hair and the way the flesh hung on the bones of his face I figured that he looked a good bit older than he was. It made me wonder what had aged him. The Chesterfield coat over a gray, pin-striped suit of the finest wool said it certainly wasn’t poverty.

He looked at me uneasily and took a seat on the bench. I walked over. No need prolonging his purgatory.