By the time we did put the cuffs on Mullen’s wrists, Jack Derby was confident he had a winnable case on multiple levels-and an all-but-guaranteed victory against James Dunn in the primary.
Not that the fate of a lowly SA could compete with the publicity stirred up by Danny’s jailing. He-and his relation to a gubernatorial candidate-dominated every front page in New England, and in many cases beyond.
This was not solely due to their simply being brothers, although that was bad enough as far as Mark Mullen’s political handlers were concerned. Far worse was the revelation by one of Danny’s nervous employees that as we’d been assembling facts against Danny, he’d burned a box of documents labeled with Mark’s name-not a good sign in a man claiming that the sole tie between himself and the speaker was familial.
Unfortunately, there was little we could do about this report after the fact. As far as we could prove, Danny had ordered and participated in the killing of Phil Resnick without the knowledge or complicity of his brother.
The press did not suffer such constraints. To them, Danny’s actions were so obviously linked to his brother’s political ambitions as to make the truth of the connection a foregone conclusion-proof or no proof. As a result, as Primary Day loomed near, Mark Mullen’s previously assured victory-even given his humiliation of Jim Reynolds over the law enforcement bill-began to look weak in the knees. Reynolds, for his part, simply kept to the high ground he’d staked out with his speech following the conference committee. It was a little hard watching him act the martyred saint, but I couldn’t help enjoying the irony of the situation. Reynolds had started his run for governor on the murdered bodies of innocent children and was now regaining momentum on the corpse of a Mob-connected truck driver-all while standing like a hero amid the ruins of a bill that had never stood a chance from the start. As one editorial put it, the man had achieved nothing and was about to ride that fact to the state’s top job.
Reynolds, however, wasn’t my concern. Mark Mullen was.
It was too much to believe that Danny’s bonfire hadn’t involved more than old business papers and embarrassing love letters, as Danny had claimed when confronted. Unfortunately, that point was now moot. The task ahead was to distinguish whether Danny had acted on his brother’s behalf spontaneously or on Mark’s outright bidding. The first would allow Mark to claim face-saving innocence, the second would not. We needed to know for sure where the line was drawn.
And so we dug into Mark Mullen’s life as we’d just finished doing with his brother’s. And almost as soon as we started, we rediscovered a name from the recent past.
I was on the phone with the sheriff of Orleans County, where the Mullens had grown up, asking him what he knew about Mark, when he suggested instead, “You ought to talk with Win Johnston. He came pokin’ around months ago askin’ the same questions. He’s probably way ahead of you-could save you a bunch of time. You know him?”
“Oh, yeah,” I admitted, already looking up Win’s number.
I called him moments later. “Win, it’s Joe. I think we ought to talk.”
He laughed quietly, needing no more of a preamble. “I was wondering how long it would take you. Chelsea Royal in half an hour?”
Gail often claims that I’ve trained my system to survive solely on Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s a joke, of course, made somewhat cruel by the recent closing of the downtown outlet of that gourmet chain-conveniently a stone’s throw from the office. But in fact, it’s Mom’s Meatloaf at the Chelsea Royal that I’d happily mainline well into my dotage, especially if followed by apple pie.
The setting, admittedly, adds greatly to the appeal. The Chelsea Royal, located on the edge of West Brattleboro, almost directly opposite the state police barracks, is as close to a real diner as is available nowadays. The original shiny steel railroad car stands proud and distinct-complete with old neon sign-although adulterated somewhat by the usual modern attachments of an additional dining area, bathrooms, and a kitchen. And it is justifiably popular, offering not just the kinds of food that fill me with joy and make Gail roll her eyes, but more offbeat fare for more sophisticated palates. It was a credit to Win and our friendship that he’d suggested it for a meet.
Unfortunately, I’d already had lunch at my desk and had to settle for the pie and some coffee.
Win Johnston was a pleasant-looking man, neither fat nor thin, short nor tall, with the kind of face people could never recall and a manner and voice best described as bland. When he was a state cop, he could make almost anyone open up. Now as a private investigator, he could nose around without drawing attention or leaving much of an impression. He was very good.
He joined me in ordering some pie for himself.
“Nice work you been doing,” he said once the waitress had delivered our orders.
“Which might’ve been speeded up if you’d shared a little.”
He smiled and cut into his pie. “And violated a contract in the process.”
“Can you tell me now what you were up to?” I asked.
“Some of it, sure. Not all.” He took time to savor a mouthful with a contented smile. I didn’t press him.
“The initial investigation you know about,” he finally resumed. “To dig into that office break-in. But it wasn’t quite as unfocused as I implied when you asked me. Reynolds suspected Mullen from the start. He’d known for a couple of years the two of them were in competition, and that sooner or later things might turn nasty. The break-in was like a warning shot.”
“Which Mullen are you talking about?”
“Either one. They’re joined at the hip. Danny feels he owes his younger brother pretty much everything, so there’s not much he wouldn’t do for him, and Mark’s come to rely on his always being there. They’re like two halves of a pair of scissors that way.”
“Very poetic,” I said sourly. “Does that make Mark a killer, too?”
“I don’t know,” he answered candidly. “I suppose it’s a possibility.”
“You sure you don’t know?” I asked pointedly.
“Me? Yes, I’m sure. I’d be straight about that.”
“Tell me about the break-in, then. You called it a warning shot. Was that its intention?”
“Oh, no. Our guess is it was something like Watergate-plant a bug or two for a little competitive eavesdropping. I found out later Danny had bought some miniature audio equipment through a mail-order catalog.”
“What about the open filing cabinets?”
Win raised his eyebrows, looking bemused. “Like Jim told you-sloppy housekeeping. As far as we know-or at least according to Reynolds-there were no signs that whoever jimmied that door ever got into the office. Your boys scared ’em off.”
I moved on, curiously disappointed. “Why is Danny so beholden to Mark?”
He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds before admitting, “That I can’t say.”
The body language was eloquent enough, but I asked anyway. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t. That part is confidential and involves nothing prosecutable.”
I didn’t push him. He’d said what he could, and I wanted to keep him talking.
I retreated to firmer ground. “We have a tape proving the office break-in was Danny’s doing, and you just mentioned his buying some bugs, but given their closeness, you think Mark was behind it?”
He took a sip of coffee. “That’s one of the amazing things about them. According to people who’ve known them since they were kids, they’ve always been like Siamese twins, at least when it comes to sharing information. But I dug till I thought I’d disappear from view, and I couldn’t find any business documents linking them together, or anyone who’d been privy to their private conversations. I read about the papers Danny was supposed to have burned-it didn’t surprise me he could fit them all into a single box. Probably wasn’t half full. As far as I could tell, everything was spoken, and kept strictly between the two of them. They were like their own secret society, with Danny handling the money and Mark the power.”