Blood Will Have Blood (23 page)

Spraggue frowned. “So the switch was pulled after six. Langford didn't even get back to the theater until after seven—”

“Whoa!” Karen interrupted him quickly. “I saw Langford at a quarter to six. First one there after dinner. Bright and cheerful. Smiled at me and told me how nice I looked. I practically fell on the floor. I remember thinking how great it was that even an old-timer like John could get so high about a preview.”

“Karen, at seven o'clock Langford came down to his dressing room, in his street clothes, no makeup. He slammed doors, cut the director's pep talk—”

“His performance was off,” said Karen thoughtfully.

“So,” said Spraggue, “what upset Langford between five forty-five and seven? Do the police know?”

“If they do, they didn't share the information.”

“Maybe Eddie knows. Gene. He's on his way here?”

“He's got nobody to turn to. I thought he might call—”

“And he did?”

“Yeah.”

Spraggue leaned over, took her hand. “There's no place he can hide, Karen.”

She nodded briefly.

“Now I want you to watch me open this box. Closely. So if any police officer should ask you about it—”

She rubbed her eyes, folded one leg under her, and sank back into the chair. “Okay.”

“You know how the orchids get to the theater, Karen?”

“Some messenger service. I think they're flown in from Colombia to Florida, from Florida to Logan. On De Renza's own planes, no less. A delivery company picks them up at the airport and whisks them off to Our Lady. What the whole setup costs—”

“You'd think he'd send them from a local florist.”

“Orchids are one of De Renza's well-publicized hobbies. You couldn't duplicate his flowers anywhere in this country.”

“Shall we see what kind of blooms the lady is missing today?” The sides of the plain white box were taped to the bottom. Carefully, Spraggue slit the tape with his pocketknife and lifted the lid. Creamy white tissue overlaid the inner box. He shook it out and placed it to the side. A layer of clear cellophane was stretched taut over the flowers, a half-dozen delicate white blooms with blushing violet centers. They lay on a bed of crimson tissue, held in place by long pins camouflaged in background greenery.

“If you slit the cellophane, Caroline will have a fit.”

“Good idea.” Using the knife, Spraggue neatly removed the thin plastic from the edges of the box and added the square to the pile of tissue.

“Do they smell?” Karen asked.

“Hardly.”

She got up, leaned over the box, inhaled deeply, and sneezed.

“Bless you,” Spraggue said automatically, a corner of his mouth twitching with a repressed grin.

“It tickled!”

Spraggue rummaged in his pocket. A tiny magnifying lens appeared. He examined the flowers, peered closely at the red tissue backing, the greenery. He removed the pins, then the orchids, one by one. He lifted the tissue.

“Here's what made you sneeze,” he said. “In the bottom of the box. Just a few grains of powder.”

“Why take it apart so completely?”

Spraggue moistened his finger, dabbed it around the edges of the box, licked it. “The rest must actually be
in
the box. Stuffed in those little corrugated ridges.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What's Colombia's major export crop, Karen? Coke.”

Her eyes widened. “Cocaine? In the orchids?”

“We just found the secret backer. An absolutely regular supply. Christ, De Renza's like a saint over there. Nobody would question his private plane—”

“Then he and Caroline …?”

“I don't know. Could be him, could be someone who works for him,” Spraggue said.

“Caroline never unpacks the flowers herself, Michael.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you expect to find drugs?” Karen had to strain to hear Spraggue's muffled response.

“Hurley warned me. When I first took this job, he said to watch out for cocaine.…”

“Hurley?”

Spraggue looked up, realized that he'd been thinking aloud. “Lieutenant Hurley. A good cop. If he plays his cards right, he'll make captain over this uproar.”

“Michael, how much is there?”

“In this box? Probably not more than a couple of ounces. But if it's pure, you can double that. Cut it with milk sugar. Street coke's never more than fifty-percent pure. Twenty-eight grams to the ounce. Maybe $100 a gram. Fresh shipments coming in every day—”

“In other words,” Karen said bluntly, “a hell of a motive for murder—”

The soft knock on the front door interrupted her. Karen's hand jumped to her mouth. “Michael, he's so scared. If he sees you, he'll run.”

“He's doing okay. He must have waited until somebody else came in. No buzzer. At least he's still thinking.”

“Go into the kitchen, Michael.”

Spraggue grabbed her by the arm, spoke softly in her ear. “Remember, Karen, there's no place else he'd be safe. Don't get any ideas about slipping him five hundred dollars for a quick flight to Mexico. The cops are watching the airport, watching the bus stations. They could be watching this place.”

“But I didn't tell them anything about Gene. The cop who questioned me was such a—”

“Menlo?” She nodded. “Say no more. But even if the police aren't on to him, the killer could be. I figured he'd turn up here. Everyone in the company knows you're close to Eddie. Answer the door.”

“Michael? Can he get out of this? Do you see any way—”

“If he can help me nail Langford's killer, that should go over big with the cops.”

“It'll be dangerous,” she protested.

The knock came again, more urgent this time.

“For Christ's sake, Karen! Let him in! We've got a lot to do.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

“For Christ's sake,” Hurley echoed some eighteen hours later. “Stay the hell out of sight! If he's early—”

Spraggue plunked an aged and enormous Irish walking hat over his slicked-back hair. “Would you recognize me?”

Hurley curled his lip in disgust. “Where'd you find that suit?”

Spraggue tugged at a greasy lapel. “Want one for Christmas? I could probably arrange it since you've been so cooperative.…” He sneezed; the jacket was redolent of ancient cigar smoke and modern mothballs.

Hurley gazed at him severely. “Just be back in this van no later than one-thirty. Otherwise, I pack up the road show and wheel it back to headquarters.”

Spraggue held out a wrinkled brown paper bag that cradled a $1.98 bottle of muscatel. “Last chance for a hit before I leave,” he warned.

“Get out of here.”

Spraggue extricated himself from the rear door of the van, taking care to slide unobtrusively into the shadows. His down-and-out drunk act didn't fit with the inconspicuous gray vehicle parked on one side of the Charles Street entrance to the Boston Public Garden. He was grateful for the crummy hat; it was just starting to rain.

He made a wayward circuit of the Garden, pausing often to hoist the muscatel. When, he wondered, had the neat signs describing each tree given way to clumsily gouged and intertwined initials signifying undying love? An occasional wino tipped his hat, but the drizzle served as a convenient shield. Man couldn't be expected to socialize with his head buried in his collar, shoulders hunched to ward off the chill raindrops.

All quiet along Charles, along Beacon Street, Arlington, Boylston. The glistening windows of the Ritz-Carlton dining room seemed worlds away, not just across the road. The rocking gait Spraggue had adopted for his skid-row character got more comfortable, felt more real. He traversed the central Garden paths, headed for the lagoon.

In the bright daytime, the lagoon was the bustling center of the Garden. Popcorn and ice-cream hawkers shared the bridge with the tourists, the field-tripping schoolchildren, the hurrying businessmen and women who craved the half-hour's sunshine more than their lunchtime tuna-on-rye. Clouds of colored balloons decorated the green bridge railings. Below, the graceful, elderly swan boats, bicycle-pedaled by vacationing Harvard students, steered precarious paths through V-shaped duck formations.

At 1:15
A.M
. the bridge was empty. A semi-deflated pink balloon, string slip-knotted to an iron piling, hung forlornly down toward the dark water. An occasional courting couple strolled by, reflected in the glow of the high globular bridge lamps; the bums passed more frequently. Spraggue imitated their tottering steps as he descended the stairs on the Charles Street side, taking care to shield his face from the intrusive lights.

No one familiar in the Garden tonight. Not yet. The sudden noise of a cracking twig spun him around to face emptiness. His face relaxed into a grin. Less chance than usual of getting mugged in the Garden, with every other tramp a plainclothes cop. He wondered about that last entwined twosome crossing the bridge. Very romantic. If they weren't undercover cops, the police would probably find them breaking several statutes in the bushes by the lagoon.

The small tunnel under the bridge was the meeting place. Spraggue walked through casually, his eyes photographing the graffiti-blotched gray stone. An empty bottle of Southern Comfort adorned the path. For a moment the mist cleared, then he was back in the open again. He circled the lagoon once, dawdled by the Edward Everett Hale statue, headed back toward the van.

“Jesus,” said the recruit who answered his discreet knock, “I was gonna tell ya the Salvation Army's up the road.” He gave Spraggue a wide smile and a hand up. “You're soaked. Guys out there'll be bitchin' for days.”

“Lieutenant up front?” Spraggue cut him off.

“Yeah.”

One twenty-eight: Hurley was staring at his watch when Spraggue came in. One of eight walkie-talkies lined up on a narrow table suddenly crackled into life.

“Target One entering now from Boylston Street. On time.”

“Any sign of—” Spraggue began.

“No,” Hurley snapped. “Bad night for this. Drizzle makes it hard to see. Maybe nobody'll show.”

“Maybe,” Spraggue agreed. “Did any of them call the cops?”

“Just your Miss Ambrose. She came wailing in about dinnertime, going like a siren. We should have filmed the scene and sold it.”

“Others?”

“Nope. We could draw a crowd—or a blank.”

“Lieutenant?” The big tape deck, set up against the right-hand wall of the van, began to whirl. Eddie's whisper filled the van. “I'm going under the bridge now. Nobody in sight.”

Hurley slammed his fists down on the table. “I told that kid not to contact me! I should have used a decoy!”

“A double could lure your murderer into the park, under the bridge, but he couldn't trap him,” said Spraggue coolly. “I can see it in a courtroom. ‘Naturally, I was curious, Your Honor. I wanted to know what could be in that box to make it worth fifty thousand dollars. I should have called in the police, I know, but—'”

“We'd have the money,” Hurley said. “That's confession enough.”

“
If
he brings any money. He might just bring his trusty knife. If at first you
do
succeed—”

Hurley wiped his big hands on his pants' legs. “I bet the kid'll blow it.”

“I coached him. He's not a bad actor—should remember his lines—”

“He'd better.”

“He's got a hell of a lot of motivation,” Spraggue said quietly.

“Why doesn't somebody report in?”

“Stop stewing, Hurley! Think you'd never been on a stakeout before—”

“My ass is the one in a sling if anything goes wrong, Spraggue. You know what old Captain Menlo's like.”

“Menlo's busy.”

“Yeah. Working on a phoned-in hot tip. I'd just like to know if it was you phoned it in.”

“He's out of the way, right? And if you cop Langford's murderer—”

“My life's going to be just peachy no matter how this plays out.” Hurley looked so glum, Spraggue wanted to laugh.

Another walkie-talkie sputtered. “We got a guy entering from Arlington Street. Looks good. Nervous. Collar pulled up, hat pulled down—”

“A big, fat man?” Spraggue demanded.

“You know the talkies only go one way, Spraggue. You'll find out soon enough.”

“How long do you figure it'll take him to get to Eddie?”

“
If
it's not some lonesome dude setting off for an evening's frolic in the Combat Zone—”

“Come on, Hurley!”

“Depends. He may be cautious, circle the park first. He may just decide to get the damn thing over with.”

Sound came from the tape-deck speaker: someone clearing his throat. Spraggue concentrated on relaxing his neck and shoulder muscles. Time passed. Bells chimed out two o'clock. Something would have to happen soon or—

“I ought to turn you in to the cops.” The voice over the speaker was low, whispery, but recognizable.

“Who the hell is it?” Hurley thundered.

Spraggue swallowed audibly.

“I brought you along on his little outing 'cause I can't tell the players without a program.
Who is it, Spraggue
?”

“Darien,” he said.

“You thought it was the house manager, the one they call Spider, didn't you?” There was a shade of triumph in Hurley's deep voice.

“No,” Spraggue answered flatly. “I knew it was Darien.”

“Do that.” Eddie's light tenor was surprisingly, tauntingly loud. “Call the police.”

No noise. Darien hesitating? Maybe all the figures added up to a wrong conclusion. Damn tape recorders, anyway. Spraggue longed for a TV screen, a way to note the subtle shift in a forced smile, the sudden lift of an eyebrow.

“Why did you phone?” Darien asked.