He hung up, jotted the bet down on a piece of flash paper, and dropped it into a washtub at his feet. If the cops ever raided the place, he’d drop his cigarette into the tub and, whoosh! Good-bye, evidence. Which was how the seventy-seven-year-old bookie had gotten his nickname. But the cops, content with their payoffs, hadn’t bothered him in years.
“How are you, Whoosh?”
“Rheumatism’s been acting up again, and my fuckin’ prostate’s the size of a softball. Takes me ten minutes just to take a piss.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Maggie’s been buggin’ me to turn the book over to my no-good nephew and move us into one of them gated retirement communities down in Florida. I told her no way. Them fuckin’ places are full of old people.”
Zerilli got up, opened the door to his storeroom, and disappeared inside. A minute later, he reappeared with a box of illegal Cubans and handed it to Mulligan. The reporter pried it open, took out a Partagás Presidente, snipped the end with his cigar cutter, and stuck it in his mouth. Zerilli leaned over to give him a light.
It was their rituaclass="underline" Zerilli presenting Mulligan with cigars and asking him to swear that he’d never tell anyone what went on inside the bookie’s inner sanctum. Mulligan swearing and getting a cigar going. About a year ago, the bookie finally dispensed with administering the oath, but they both understood it was implied.
“So what odds are you giving on the Bruins surviving the first round?” Mulligan asked.
“They’re three to two favorites.”
“Give me a hundred on the Capitals.”
“You sure? I mean, no way Boston’s going all the way again, but Washington ain’t that good.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. Your funeral.”
“So listen,” Mulligan said. “This time, I brought you a present. Something that might help draw customers into the store.”
“I don’t see nothin’ in your hands.”
“I left it in the car.”
Together they walked outside and fetched the cage from the Bronco. Mulligan carried it inside, set it on the candy counter, and pulled off the towel.
“Now ain’t that a fine-lookin’ specimen,” Zerilli said.
“It is.”
“He got a name?”
“Larry Bird.”
“Does it talk?”
“Doesn’t say much, but maybe you can teach him.”
“Thanks, Mulligan. I’m gonna leave it right here so folks will see it right off when they come in.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Come on back to the office,” Zerilli said. “Got something I need to tell you.”
As they stepped back through the steel door, Shortstop growled. A low rumble.
“Easy, boy,” Zerilli said. “Mulligan doesn’t want your fuckin’ bone.”
“So what’s up?” Mulligan asked.
“Gordon Freeman was in here the other day.”
“That right?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
“A gun.”
“Aw, hell. You didn’t sell him one, did you?”
Zerilli shrugged. “He woulda just bought one off somebody else.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A piece-of-shit twenty-five-cal. Raven.”
“He’ll be lucky if it doesn’t blow up in his hand,” Mulligan said.
“If he fires it a lot, yeah, but I get the feelin’ he’s only planning to use it once.”
“I don’t give a shit about the guy he’s planning to shoot,” Mulligan said, “but I’d hate to see the old guy get in trouble.”
“Me too, but there’s no way I can go to the fuckin’ cops. Figured maybe this was something you could handle.”
“I’m on it,” Mulligan said. He rose, opened the door, and then turned back. “I don’t suppose he bought anything else when he was in here.”
“Just a few groceries.”
“Do you remember what exactly?”
“Four cans of Hormel chili, some eggplant, and a bottle of olive oil.”
Chili? It was probably nothing, Mulligan told himself. But on the drive back to the office, he couldn’t help wondering.
Fifteen minutes later, Mulligan dropped into his chair in the newsroom, called the Hopkinton Police Department, and asked for Chief Matea.
“What is it, Mulligan? We’re pretty busy here.”
“Really? Did somebody shoplift a Snickers bar from the 7-Eleven? Some kids leaving burning bags of dog poop on doorsteps again?”
“Screw you.”
“Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
“So why the call?”
“I was hoping you could tell me what Hormel chili, eggplant, and olive oil mean to you.”
Matea’s stony silence told Mulligan he was on to something.
“It’s Eric Kessler’s recipe, isn’t it?”
“Don’t take this as confirmation, but where in hell did you hear that?”
“Can’t say, but I think you should see if you’re missing something.”
“Just a second.”
It was five minutes before the chief came back on the line.
“Sonovabitch.”
“The journal’s gone?”
“Yeah. Did you take it?”
“Of course not.”
“Better tell me what you know.”
“I know that Gordon Freeman went shopping the other day with Kessler’s grocery list. I also know he bought a handgun.”
“Oh, shit. You know what kind?”
“A Raven 25.”
“And you know this how?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Did you find tool marks on the drawer you had the journal in?”
“Yeah.”
“How could he have gotten inside your office?”
“No idea.”
“Still just one guy manning the station overnight?”
“Yeah.”
“Think he dozes on the job?”
“I think maybe I should have a word with him. And I guess I better bring the old man in.”
“What if he doesn’t cooperate?”
“Probably won’t.”
“Can you search his place?”
“Not without a warrant.”
“What I told you isn’t enough to get one?”
“Not even close.”
“Okay,” Mulligan said. “Let’s talk about what we can do.”
25
According to the telephone directories, there were three Susan Ashcrofts living in Rhode Island. Gloria picked up her desk phone and placed some calls.
“Hello.” A man’s voice.
“Hi. My name is Gloria Costa. I’m a newsperson at the Dispatch.”
“Yes?”
“I’m trying to locate a woman named Susan Ashcroft who lived on Inez Avenue in Warwick back in 1991.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve reached the wrong party. We moved here from Connecticut three years ago. My wife grew up in New Jersey. She never lived in Warwick.”
“I see. Could the person I’m looking for be a relative?”
“No. I’m sorry I can’t be helpful.”
“Okay, then. Thank you for your time.”
That was strike three.
Gloria hung up, grabbed her camera bag, tugged on her leather jacket, and headed for the elevator.
“Where you off to?” the picture editor called to her. “The council meeting doesn’t start till seven.”
“It might go long,” Gloria said. “I thought I’d grab a burger first.”
“Okay, then.”
She’d drawn the assignment to shoot the Warwick City Council, where the first reading of an ordinance to slash the pensions of city workers was on the agenda. If she hurried, she could get there before the town offices closed for the day.
Twenty minutes later, she stood at the counter in the city clerk’s office, peering at a marriage certificate. Susan Ashcroft of 66 Inez Avenue, Warwick, had married Timothy Zucchi of 22 Sunapee Ct., Coventry, and she’d taken his name. The ceremony was held at Norwood Baptist Church, just down the road on Budlong Avenue, on May 3, 1996.
Just five years after the woman was attacked. Maybe there’s hope for me yet, Gloria thought.