"Who leaves his house before dawn, with his wife still in bed, to go see a girlfriend? Or a blackmailer?"
"Shit, Jay, who leaves his house before dawn for any reason?"
"That's my point. You don't. Unless you have to. And unless you don't care if your wife finds out you're doing something screwy."
"So maybe he didn't care. Maybe he was leaving her."
"Billy, it's not the way people like that work. Somebody like Ronald leaves like that because he has no choice. Because he doesn't see any other way. The alternative-say something or just stay-is worse."
"You know rich people better than I do, Jay, I'll grant you that."
"With all the graft you've taken, I'll bet your bank account's bigger than most of the people paying you off."
"I resent that." Billy grinned his best wolfish smile. "But I wouldn't take the bet."
"So you gonna stick with your borderline-insane theory or are you going to follow this up and see what really happened?"
"You ever know me to let a murderer get away with something in my town?"
"No," Justin said. "Never. Unless he paid you enough."
"They couldn't pay me enough on this one."
Justin cocked his head. Billy sounded serious. "And why's that?"
"'Cause this one's nasty."
"How nasty?"
"The ME said most of LaSalle's organs were crushed." When Justin winced involuntarily, Billy said, "Yeah, I know. It had to be excruciating. And slow."
"Beaten to death?"
"Except hardly any marks on him."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Tell me somethin' about murder and death that makes sense," Billy said.
Justin took a sip from the small glass of single malt scotch that Billy had put in front of him when they'd sat down. Most conversations in Billy's office were conducted over a glass of single malt. Didn't matter whether it was morning, afternoon, or night. "Were you this philosophical when you were young?" Justin asked.
"I was never young," Billy DiPezio said. "You and me, we were born old. We're just gonna die young."
They sat in silence for a moment, pondering the truth of Billy's statement. Justin finally said, "You do talk a lot of bullshit."
"Yes, I do," Billy said. "And why are you carryin' around a Rhode Island guidebook? Doing some sightseeing while you're up here?"
Justin held up the book, still partially wrapped in the white and red cloth napkin from Dolce. "Can you run this for fingerprints?"
"I can do anything I want. What's it about?"
"Nothing connected to Ron LaSalle. Just something to help me out."
"Always happy to help you out, Jay. But am I missing something? Don't you have a little police station of your own with, you know, all those modern accoutrements?"
"I've been suspended."
"What a bunch of assholes."
"No argument there. Will you run the prints?"
"If you tell me you're not bein' an asshole, too. We don't lie to our friends, do we?"
"No, we don't. This has nothing to do with Ron LaSalle."
"All right. I'll run 'em."
"And, Billy…"
The Providence police chief shook his head. "What else do you want?"
"Are you kind of shorthanded these days?"
"I'm always shorthanded. Why?"
"You interested in a pretty good cop who needs a job?"
"Talk to the goddamn politicians. They control the budget."
"Luckily, I don't need the money," Justin said.
"You? You want to come back here?"
"In a way," Justin said.
"What the hell kind of way?"
Justin told him. It was what he'd come up here to say, why he'd come back home. When he was done explaining, Billy had the biggest smile on his face that Justin had seen in a long time.
Justin was feeling extremely clever. He'd gotten Billy to agree to pay him the princely sum of one whole dollar a week. For that sum, he was now a consultant to the Providence PD and, as such, had an official way in to the murder of Evan Harmon. And, as a side benefit, of Ron LaSalle as well. Larry Silverbush could go to hell. Justin was going to get to H. R. Harmon and Lincoln Berdon, the head of Rockworth and Williams, and anyone else he wanted to reach. And Silverbush couldn't stop him now. The only thing Justin was feeling a little bad about was that he hadn't planted a big kiss on the top of Billy DiPizio's silver-haired head. He'd just gone ahead and shaken his hand and said thanks.
As Justin was walking down the imposing cement steps from the station house, he was enjoying his own cleverness. And he was picturing breaking the news to DA Silverbush. That was the reason he didn't see the man walking up quickly behind him on his left. The man's eyes were hidden by Ray-Ban sunglasses and he was wearing a lightweight gray suit. As he came upon Justin, the man in the gray suit said, quietly, "Just keep walking." And when Justin instinctively hesitated, the man said, just a little bit louder, "Don't stop. Walk. There's someone who wants to talk to you."
Justin glanced to his left, took the man in-the dirty blond hair in a near buzz cut; the thin, wiry nature of his body; the fact that he was probably in his late forties or early fifties; that he was in good shape; looked confidently strong. Justin also saw the gun that was sitting in the man's shoulder holster, tucked neatly under the lightweight suit. He heard Bruno's warning in his head: You might want to think about watchin' your back-so he nodded; took one more step in compliance with the man's wishes; and as he did so his left elbow came up hard, very hard, and connected with the man's jaw. Justin saw an ugly, thin stream of blood fly out from the man's mouth and he saw the man already reaching inside his suit as he began to topple over, but Justin's hand was there first. When it emerged, Justin's right hand was holding the pistol that had been holstered. With a quick motion, he slashed the gun across the side of the man's head, sending him sprawling. The man in the suit tumbled two or three steps, used one hand to stop himself from falling any farther. As the man lay there, Justin turned the gun on him, told him not to move. And that's when Justin heard the shouts. Men screaming: "Drop the weapon! Drop the fucking gun!" Justin could see maybe a dozen cops-all of whom had been coming in or out of the station, catching a quick smoke, buying a coffee or a hot dog from a street vendor-dotting the entire plaza in front of the building. Guns were drawn, pointing at Justin, who was now yelling back at them, "I'm a cop! Don't shoot, I'm a cop!" And the man in the suit, still stunned and sprawled on the steps, was also screaming: "I'm a federal agent! Put your fucking gun down!"
Justin considered his options, saw the dozen or more guns pointing straight at him, threw his left hand high in the air and with his right tossed the gun a few feet away, watched it skitter down the cement steps. He raised his right hand high in the air to match his left. He was swarmed upon by the surrounding cops, two of whom were helping the man in the gray suit up to a standing position. The man in the suit stepped over to Justin, said, "You asshole," but he didn't say it very well because his jaw was out of whack and already swelling up, and then he swung at Justin, punched him hard on the side of his head. Justin went down, stunned. And he offered very little resistance after that as he was escorted down the steps by two cops and the man in the gray suit. In less than a minute, he was sitting in the front seat of a beat-up Honda. Sitting beside him was Wanda Chinkle, the head of the New England branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose first words to him were, "Jesus, Jay, can't you do anything without screwing it up totally?"
Justin sipped from a small bottle of warm Fiji water. Wanda kept a supply in the backseat of her car. After his first sip, Justin asked her if she'd ever heard of a cooler. He offered to give her ten bucks so she could buy a nice Styrofoam one. Wanda didn't answer or even acknowledge his offer.
They were alone, parked on a small street around the corner from the station. The man in the gray suit, who was indeed one of Wanda's agents, Norman Korkes, had been taken to the nearest hospital. At the very least, his jaw was sprained and he'd lost one tooth. The jaw probably wasn't broken, although Justin decided he wouldn't be overly sorry if it was.