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“He managed to kill someone last night.”
“Bullshit.”
“Sorry, Nelson, but there must be a way out of there that we don’t know about.”
“Where’d the vic live?”
“She was staying in Canton. They pulled her out of the Mystic this afternoon.”
“Bullshit,” he said again, this time twice as hard. “Patrick, the cops finished up with him last night, it was, like, almost four in the morning. He went to work at seven. How’s he gonna slip out of the building without me seeing, somehow get all the way down to fucking Canton, ace someone, transport the body up to the North fucking Shore, and then, then he’s-what?-he’s gonna come back , slip by me again and get ready for work? Whistle while he’s fucking shaving and shit? How’s he going to do all that?”
“It’s not possible,” I said.
“You’re fucking A, it ain’t. He mighta done a lotta bad shit, Patrick, but in the last ten hours, he ain’t done nothing at all.”
I hung up, put the heels of my hands over my eyes.
“What?” Angie asked.
I told her.
“And Nelson’s sure?” she said when I finished.
I nodded.
“So if Pearse didn’t kill her, who did?”
I resisted the urge to bang my swelling head against the desktop. “I don’t know.”
“Carrie?”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Carrie. Why?”
“Maybe she figured out that Siobhan was working for Pearse.”
“How? We didn’t tell her.”
“But she’s a smart woman. Maybe she…” She held up her hands, then dropped them. “Shit. I don’t know.”
I shook my head. “I can’t see it. Carrie goes over to Canton, whacks Siobhan, drives her to the Mystic, and dumps her body in? How’s she going to lift the body? The woman weighs less than you do. Hell, why would she even think to drive clear across to the other side of the city and dump the body?”
“Maybe she didn’t kill her in Canton. Maybe she drew her out to a meeting place.”
“I’ll buy that someone drew her out. Carrie just doesn’t fit. I’m not saying she couldn’t kill-she could. But it’s the dumping of the body that bothers me. It’s too cool. It’s too methodical.”
Angie leaned back in her chair, lifted the phone off the cradle, and hit speed dial.
“Hey,” she said into the phone, “I don’t have Patriots tickets to trade, but can you answer me one question?”
She listened as Devin said something back.
“No, nothing like that. The woman they just pulled out of the Mystic, what was the cause of death?” She nodded. “To the back of the head? Okay. Why’d she come to the surface so fast?” She nodded again, several times. “Thanks. Huh? I’ll ask Patrick on that one and get back to you.” She smiled, looked at me. “Yes, Dev, we’re back together.” She put her hand over the phone, said to me, “He wants to know for how long.”
“At least till prom,” I said.
“At least till prom. Aren’t I lucky?” she told him. “Talk to you soon.”
She hung up. “Siobhan was found with a rope dangling from her waist. The operating theory is she was tied to something heavy and dropped to the bottom, where something ate through the rope and part of her hip. She wasn’t supposed to come up.”
I banged my chair back as I stood and went to the window, looked down at the avenue.
“Whatever his move is, he’s going to make it soon.”
“Yet we’re agreed he couldn’t have killed her.”
“But he’s behind it,” I said. “Fucker’s behind everything.”
We left the belfry and went across to my apartment, entered the living room to a ringing phone. Just as I had that early evening on City Hall Plaza, I knew it was him before I picked up the receiver.
“That was pretty funny,” he said, “getting me suspended from my job. Ha, Patrick! Ha ha!”
“Doesn’t feel good, does it?”
“Getting suspended?”
“Knowing someone’s fucking with you and might not let up for a while.”
“I can appreciate the irony, just so you know. Someday, I’m sure, I’ll look back on this and just laugh and laugh and laugh.”
“Or maybe you won’t.”
“Whatever,” he said calmly. “Look, let’s say we’re square now. Okay? You go your way, I’ll go mine.”
“Sure, Scott,” I said. “Okay.”
For a minute he didn’t say anything.
“You still there?” I asked.
“Yeah. Honestly, Patrick, I’m surprised. Are you serious, or are you fucking with me?”
“I’m serious,” I said. “I’m losing money here, and you can’t get to the Dawes’ money anymore, so I’d say it’s a draw.”
“If that was the case, why’d you shoot up my apartment, buddy? Why’d you steal my truck?”
“To make sure I drove the point home.”
He chuckled. “You did. You certainly did. Outstanding, sir. Outstanding. Let me ask you-am I going to blow up the next time I start my car?” He laughed.
I laughed with him. “Why would you think that, Scott?”
“Well,” he said happily, “you went after my home, then my job, I figure the next logical step would have been my car.”
“It won’t blow up when you start it, Scott.”
“No?”
“No. But, then, I’m pretty sure it’ll never start again.”
His laugh boomed. “You fucked up my car?”
“Hate to break the news to you, but yeah.”
“Oh, Jesus!” His laughter grew louder for about a minute, then decreased until it was a barely connected string of soft chuckles. “Sugar in the gas tank, acid in the engine?” he asked. “That sort of thing?”
“Sugar, yeah. Acid, no.”
“Then what was it, huh?” I could hear his frozen smile. “I figure you for the inventive type.”
“Chocolate syrup,” I said, “and about a pound of unconverted rice.”
He roared with glee. “In the engine?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you run it for a while, you wacky bastard?”
“It was running when I left it,” I said. “Didn’t sound real good, but it was running.”
