reasonable, that we‟d done nothing really wrong, nothing illegal. Then he talked to Harry.”
“Did Raines say anything?”
“He just listened for a minute and then said, „All right, I‟ll see you there.‟ Then he hung up and left.
He didn‟t say anything else to me, just turned around and stalked out of here. That‟s the way Harry
Raines was. He couldn‟t forgive anything. Mister Perfect. All he ever cared about was his career, his
goddamn career. He wouldn‟t have been anything if he hadn‟t married Findley‟s money.”
“And you were sitting here all by yourself when he was shot,” I said.
He nodded.
“That‟s your alibi, is it? Mister, if I were the jury, you‟d have one foot strapped in the chair already.
You have a motive, you had the opportunity, and you haven‟t got an alibi.”
His shoulders sagged. He looked out the window again and then dry-washed his hands, like a funeral
director pitching for the solid copper casket. Sweat twinkled on his upper lip and across his forehead.
“I didn‟t kill Harry Raines,” he repeated. “Neither did Sam. He was miles away when it happened. We
don‟t know who killed him or why. I assumed it had something to do with these other killings.”
“I‟m sure it does, in some way or another,” I said.
The phone rang, startling both of us. He stared at it for several rings, then picked it up as if he were
afraid it would burn him.
“Hello? Yes He looked over at me wild-eyed and mouthed the word “Sam.”
I held out my hand and he gave me the phone.
“Sam, this is Jake Kilmer.”
Silence. Ten or twenty seconds of silence. When he finally answered he was quite pleasant.
“Sorry about our lunch date, old man,” he said.
“It‟s been a pretty grim day all the way around,” I said. I looked up at the warehouse. The lights in the
corner office were on. “Where are you now?”
“As a matter of fact, I‟m in my office. You can see it from Charlie‟s window. The river corner.”
“Do you have a minute or two now?” I asked.
Another silence.
“I was planning to go over to the funeral home,” he said. “But I can take a few minutes.”
“I‟ll be right over,” I said. I gave the phone back to Seaborn.
“He hung up,” Seaborn said, with surprise.
“I‟m sure he found out what he wanted to know”
“What do you mean?”
“He wanted to know who you were talking to.”
Seaborn looked over at the warehouse his face caved in.
“What do we do now?” he said, almost to himself.
“Go home, Mr. Seaborn,” I said. “You can‟t do anything here, so go on home.”
He stared at the big, bare desktop for a second and then said, “Yes, I suppose so.”
We left the bank together. Seaborn went to his car; I returned to the pier.
Baker was sitting on the edge of the concrete dock sipping coffee from a Thermos.
“No luck, eh?” I said.
He shook his head. “I‟ll make one more attempt before dark,” Baker said.
“1 appreciate your effort, Mr. Baker,” I said, then to Stick, “Did you find out what I wanted to
know?”
“Nothing to it. A silver-plated S&W .38, two-inch barrel, black handles.”
“I‟m going upstairs,” I said. “You got the number?”
“Yep.”
“Give me fifteen minutes”
“You got it.”
As I turned to leave, he said, “Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Love your style,” he said with a grin.
69
THANK YOU, MA BELL
Number Three Warehouse was a three-story brick building dating back to the late 1700s with nothing
between it and the river but the narrow cobblestone walkway behind it leading from the park. A small
sign over the wreath told me the company was closed because of Harry Raines‟ death. The door was
unlocked.
I remembered coming there with Teddy and marveling at how clean and polished everything was.
Nothing had changed. The brass hand railings and doorknobs were dazzling and the wood looked
oiled and elegant. There was about the place, as there is with most old buildings, that kind of musky
odour that comes with age and care.
Donleavy‟s office occupied most of one corner of the third floor, overlooking both park and river. He
was wearing his dark blue mourning suit but had taken off the jacket and was in his shirtsleeves. The
air conditioning was off and he had the office windows open; although the rain had stopped and the
sun had peeked out before dropping to the horizon, it was still warm and muggy in the office. His
smile was sad but sincere and his handshake was so vigorous it was almost painful.
That was quick” was his greeting. “Sorry it‟s so hot in here. The air conditioning‟s been off all day.”
I told him I could live with it and peeled my jacket off too.
“I‟ll just put on the answering machine so we won‟t be disturbed,” he said.
“Would you mind leaving the line open?” I said. “I don‟t have my beeper with me. I had to leave this
number.”
“No problem,” he said amiably.
From his window I could see the park below. A small group of people clustered around the spot where
Harry Raines was shot and a couple of pretty girls sat on one of the park benches, giggling and
knocking shoulders. The river sparkled brightly in the dying sun.
On the other side of the park was the darkened Seacoast National Bank. It reminded me of DeeDee
Lukatis, her own grief all but forgotten in the wake of Harry Raines‟ death, and the bitter irony that
linked Doe and DeeDee with death. Altogether, a sad view on this particular day.
“The last twenty-four hours have been insane,” Donleavy said with a sigh.
“Yeah,” I said, watching George Baker appear over the side of the pier, pull off his face mask, and
start talking to Stick. “It‟s been one thing after another.”
He followed my gaze down to the waterfront.
“I hear they‟ve been diving down there all day,” he said.
“We‟re looking for the gun that killed Harry Raines.”
“What makes you think it‟s in the river?” he asked.
“Logic,” I said.
“Logic?”
“Sometimes it‟s all we have to go on. A young couple was nearby and heard the shot. She screamed. I
figure the killer ran in the opposite direction, toward the river. Not knowing who else might be nearby
in the fog, he tossed the gun in the river.”
“Any luck so far?” he queried, showing only mild interest.
“Not yet,” I said.
“You say „he.‟ Are you sure the killer is a man?”
“Figure of speech,” I said. “It could be a woman.”
“Humph,” he said, and dismissed the subject of murder temporarily. “I was thinking,” he said.
“Perhaps these mobsters had phony credit profiles. Maybe that‟s how they got by us. It‟s not
uncommon, you know.”
He reached into a small refrigerator, took out a couple of Cokes, popped the tops off them, and
handed me one.
“It‟s possible,” I said, although it was obvious I didn‟t believe
“Well, I‟m jumping ahead of you,” he said. “You should be doing the talking.”
“Did you ever find that book with those dates?” I asked. His eyes rolled with embarrassment.
“My God,” he said, “with everything that‟s been happening, I completely forgot it. I‟ll make a note to
myself to dig it up.”
“That‟s all right,” I said. “I may not need the information after
Baker slid down over the side of the pier and dropped out of view. Good man, he was making one last
effort.
“Do you think Harry‟s death is connected to these other killings?” Donleavy asked.