“I don’t see why I’d have to tell him,” I said.
“At least until I get my degree,” Ray said.
Chapter 42
In Massachusetts, the record of political campaign contributions for all candidates is available to the public from the Secretary of State’s office. With Millicent and Rosie in the car I parked illegally outside the statehouse. A cop came over. I rolled the window down just enough for Rosie to stick her head out and try to lap the cop.
“Lady,” he said. “Can you read... Sunny darlin’!”
“Tommy, this is Rosie, and this is my friend Millicent. I just have to run in for a couple minutes.”
Tommy Hannigan put his hand out and let Rosie lap it.
“Put yourself right there, darlin’,” Tommy said. “Next to the Buick. Space is reserved for a guy shows up every year for the Christmas party.”
“Good, Tommy. Can you keep an eye on my dog and my friend?”
“Certainly,” he said. “How’s your dad?”
“Just fine,” I said. “You know he’s retired.”
“Two more years for me,” Tommy said. “Take your time. I’ll be right here till then.”
I went in and got the list of political contributors for Brock Patton. I went back, gave Tommy a kiss, got in my car, and went on down the back of Beacon Hill to Cambridge Street. I parked at a hydrant outside the Starbucks on Cambridge, and went in and got two oatmeal maple scones and two cups of Guatemalan coffee. I brought them out, gave coffee and a scone to Millicent, and a half a scone to Rosie, and kept the other half for me.
“We going to sit here while you read that stuff?” Millicent said.
“Yep.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Drink your coffee. Eat your scone. Give bites of it to Rosie. Watch the people passing by. Savor the moment of uncompromised leisure that you’re afforded.”
Millicent sighed loudly.
“Can I play the radio?” she said.
“Sure. Anything but talk radio. I can’t stand talk radio.”
She fiddled with the radio, moving irritably from one station that played hideous music to another station that played hideous music. Where’s Neil Diamond when you need him.
I had just taken a bite of the scone and a short slurp of Guatemalan coffee, and Millicent had just tuned in her fifth hideous heavy metal station, when I came across the name Albert Antonioni, of Providence, Rhode Island. I was two names past it, someone named Amaral, when I stopped and went back. Albert, from Providence. That’s what the driver had said about who was with Cathal Kragan in the back of the limo when they called on Brock Patton. I was orderly and patient. I went through the whole list, which took a second scone and trips for two more cups of coffee. There were other Alberts, and there were other people from Providence. But none that were both.
“Do you know anyone named Albert Antonioni?” I said to Millicent.
“No.”
“He might have been a friend of your father’s?”
“No.”
She fiddled with the dial some more.
Albert Antonioni. The name seemed familiar. There was some kind of Italian movie guy named Antonioni, but the name was familiar in a different context.
“I have to make some calls,” I said to Millicent.
She didn’t react, so I reached over and turned the radio off.
“Just while I call,” I said.
She slumped in the front seat and stared out the window. Rosie climbed around from the back seat and got in her lap. Before she could catch herself Millicent patted her. I picked up the car phone my mother had given me for Christmas last year, and made some phone calls and ended up talking to a detective in the Providence Police Intelligence unit named Kathy DeMarco.
“He’s the man down here,” Kathy told me. “When the old man died, and Junior went to jail, Antonioni was the guy who had to run things for the mob. At first it was temporary but pretty soon Albert was consolidating. And he consolidated the opposition right out of existence. And now he’s the man.”
“The usual way?” I said.
“Of consolidating? Yeah: bang, bang.”
“Might he be expanding?” I said.
“Be his style,” Kathy said.
“Is he connected at all to Brock Patton?” I said. “Who used to be the president of Roger Williams Trust?”
“Not that I know. Lemme bring it up on the screen.”
I waited.
“Got nothing under Antonioni,” Kathy said. “Lemme look under Patton.”
I waited some more.
“No Brock Patton,” Kathy said.
“How about Cathal Kragan?”
“Who?”
I spelled it.
“That his real name?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just a guy I’m trying to locate.”
“What are we,” Kathy said. “A dating service?”
“I don’t want to date Cathal Kragan,” I said.
Kathy looked it up.
“No Cathal Kragan,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I get a picture of Antonioni?”
“Sure, Sunny, all part of the service,” Kathy said.
“Actually,” I said, “I know it isn’t. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
I gave her my address.
“If I come across the elusive Cathal,” Kathy said, “I’ll give you a buzz.”
“Be sure it’s the right Cathal Kragan,” I said.
“I’ll try to sort them out.”
We hung up. I left it in the cradle and pushed the speakerphone button and called the answering machine in my loft. I pictured the empty loft with a new canvas sitting and waiting on the new easel. I felt displaced, drinking yuppie coffee with my yuppie cell phone listening to messages from my empty home.
There was a message from my mother saying that they were worried because I was never home when they called.
The next message said, “If you do not return Millicent Patton to her parents, you will be killed.”
“It’s him,” Millicent said next to me.
“Who.”
“The man in the bathroom that looked right at me. The man was with my mother, when you know... him.”
I rewound the message and we listened again. The voice was deep and contemptuous and full of power.
“It’s him,” Millicent said again. “What are you going to do?”
“Let me just hear my messages,” I said. “Then we’ll talk.”
The last message was from Anderson, the Framingham cop who had let me into Kevin Humphries’ plumbing office.
“Got something you might be interested in,” Anderson said. “Gimme a call.”
I shut off the phone. And sat back and took a breath.
“Clues are pouring in,” I said to Millicent.
“What you going to do about him? The man? He said he was going to kill you.”
“I won’t bring you back,” I said. “If that’s worrying you.”
“No. I knew you wouldn’t,” Millicent said. “But he said he’d kill you.”
“Actually he said I’d be killed.”
“Whatever,” Millicent said. “What are you going to do?”
“Sooner or later,” I said, “I’m going to have to confront him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t. He’ll kill you.”
“I’ll arrange it so he won’t,” I said.
“You know who he is.”
“I believe he’s a man named Cathal Kragan. I think he sent those men that came to our door. I believe he killed a man that I talked with named Bucko Meehan. And he might have killed a man in Framingham named Kevin Humphries.”
“Don’t go.”
“I have to go,” I said. “This is what I do.”
“But what about me? What if he kills you?”
“I won’t go yet,” I said.
Chapter 43
On Thursday nights, I took an art history class at Boston University, and Julie had evening office hours for people who could see her at no other time. Afterward we would usually meet for a glass of wine somewhere in Harvard Square near Julie’s office. Tonight we were at the bar in the new Harvest.