Lie Down with the Devil (22 page)

“Your car still there?” Thurlow asked. “Good. I hate it when crooks boost cars from the cop lot.”

Mooney settled into a chair. “That old Indian guy, Farmer, the one who said he had something to tell you, he call?”

“I’ll go by and visit later, once I check with the Boston ME about his granddaughter.” Thurlow opened a file drawer and started rummaging. “Kyle, right?”

“Your Amy sure didn’t have much use for Danielle Wilder.”

“Yeah, but don’t go looking at her for the killing; she has a great alibi.”

Sleeping with the chief, Mooney assumed from the
wink. “People at Farmer’s house last night, most of them Indians?”

“Hard to tell, huh?” Thurlow seemed amused.

“Lay off about the feathers, okay?”

“Remember those seven federal criteria I was talking about? For being a tribe? One of them goes something like this: All those on the current tribal roll must have documented their descent from people identified as Nausett Indians by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts back in the 1800s when the Nausett nation was administered as a tribe. Okay? Well, you can imagine, there are problems.”

“With the documentation part?”

“Hell, yeah. See, lots of folks intermarried with the Indians back then, but they weren’t proud of it. Changed their names, so people wouldn’t guess, so the kids wouldn’t be called half-breeds. Wasn’t real fashionable to be an Indian then. Not like now when they got claimants coming out of the woodwork because everybody knows how much money the Connecticut Pequod are raking in. But the government’s got it figured. You have to be one-sixteenth Nausett to qualify.”

Mooney shook his head. “Sounds like octoroons down in New Orleans.”

“Worse. I don’t even know a name for one-sixteenths. And I don’t see anybody named Kyle in these files.”

“Me neither,” Mooney said. “But I never got to read anything from the feds.”

“That makes two of us,” said Thurlow.

“I wonder if the DA feels like sharing.”

“Doubt it.”

“Still …” Mooney let the word hang there.

“Haven’t I paid off that favor yet? Let’s go through
these one more time before you get me in more hot water. And then we’ll ask Rosemary.”

“The receptionist?”

“Hell of a gossip. Usually, I try not to encourage her.”

They were almost three-quarters of the way through Nausett’s accumulated paper on the Wilder case when the phone rang. Thurlow picked up and his head snapped back. He said yes and no, hung up, blurted, “Hang on to your hat.”

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway, followed by a knock on a door that opened before Thurlow had finished saying, “Come in.”

Today’s suit was gray, not blue, but Mooney recognized the first man anyway; he’d been at Mitchell Farmer’s house, supposedly paying his respects to the bereaved Indian. He was closely followed by Dailey, the red-faced special agent from Boston, and Thurlow’s big office seemed suddenly too small.

“Can I help you?” Thurlow said. “My receptionist—”

“We asked her not to bother you.”

“That’s her job, bothering me. You Boston or Washington?” Thurlow, bristling, wanted them to know he knew who they were, men dressed like that, shoulder holsters bulging their left armpits.

The man in gray said, “Washington. Agent Farrell. Indian Affairs.” Farrell not only displayed credentials, he doled out business cards as well.

Dailey didn’t have the chance to introduce himself, because Thurlow stood and said, “Let’s go to the conference room. That way you can sit down.”

“We don’t mind standing.” The beefy Dailey shifted his feet to a wider stance. He looked like an offensive lineman gone to seed.

“I mind,” Thurlow said. “Hurts my neck looking up.”

To help the police chief seize control, Mooney stood, too. He eased out the door and hung a right, figuring the others would follow, figuring the conference room would have to be farther down the corridor. It was two doors down and looked like it did double duty as a lunchroom. A small refrigerator hummed in the back left corner.

The four men stood, one to each side of the rectangular table, and finished the introductions. Thurlow asked whether anyone wanted coffee. No one did, but the dynamics of the situation had changed. The visitors subsided into squeaky metal folding chairs. Thurlow and Mooney did likewise and the tension eased slightly.

“Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?” Thurlow asked.

“We’re a little curious about BPD’s involvement.” The Indian Affairs man had a voice as bland as his accent. A cookie-cutter of a man, he seemed to have no oddities. If he turned to crime, Mooney thought, he’d be a shoo-in; no one would be able to identify him.

Dailey said, “What he means is what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

Thurlow said, “I thought Washington was running this, not Boston.”

Dailey said, “I asked him a question.” Meaning Mooney.

Mooney ignored the Boston fed, focused instead on Gray Suit. “How’s this? I’ll tell, if you’ll tell. What’s BIA’s interest in Wilder?”

“You don’t owe him any fucking explanation.”

If Dailey hadn’t protested, the BIA man might not
have told. Dislike of Dailey registered in Gray Suit’s eyes, and his voice grew even blander. “Hearings are currently under way in the District concerning the legitimacy of the Nausett tribe. A Miss Julie Farmer requested a meeting. And since she said she was a close friend of Danielle Wilder’s, we intended to listen to what she had to say.”

“Why is that?” Thurlow said.

“You don’t know?”

“Too many secrets around here.”

“Danielle Wilder was scheduled to testify before a Senate committee.”

“State senate?” Thurlow sounded surprised.

“U.S. Senate. Washington. Concerning the influence of organized crime in Indian affairs. Originally, Miss Wilder was scheduled to appear as a witness for the tribe, to assure the senators that there was no mob influence in the Nausett nation.”

“Originally.” Mooney caught the man’s emphasis and tossed it back.

“Miss Wilder had changed her position. Mid-December she said she could produce evidence that certain mobsters were working to gain control of the tribe. Real evidence. Possibly tape recordings.”

“Shit,” Mooney said under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What happened to Wilder makes it difficult for us to accept that the Farmer girl was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The Indian Affairs man looked straight at Mooney. “I assume Boston Homicide must have a hot lead, sending in somebody of your stature.”

“A hit and run is a wrongful death,” Mooney said.

“Yeah, well, your boss seems to think you went AWOL,” Dailey said. “He wants you back in harness.
Now, as in today. And we don’t want you mucking around in our case.”

“That doesn’t include me, does it?” Thurlow said. “Mucking around? Our case? Seems to me both these girls were Nausett girls, my girls, and now you’re telling me they were both killed by organized crime? Both by this Gianelli bastard?”

“Second one can’t be Gianelli,” Dailey said.

“Why not?”

“Ask your pal.” He turned his eyes on Mooney and lowered his voice. “Some of the guys don’t believe you tipped Gianelli off, say it isn’t your style, but I think you’re just the sort to pull a play like that.”

Mooney clamped his jaw.

“And once I prove it, you can kiss the job goodbye. Pension, too. The BPD will take the hit on this, and it’s time. The bureau’s taken a lot of crap about keeping mobsters out of jail. This time we’re going to put one in.”

Mooney decided not to ask whether any mobster would do.

Thurlow said, “Look, we just got a possible lead on one of Wilder’s former boyfriends, name of Kyle?”

Farrell, the Indian Affairs man, turned on Dailey. “For chrissakes, you mean nobody at the Boston office has told them? If you guys didn’t try to play it so close to the vest, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”

Thurlow said, “Yeah, why not tell me? You got the goods on Gianelli? CW? Or what?”

Farrell folded his arms across his chest, and a look that might have been faint satisfaction flitted across his inexpressive face. “I don’t think we’ll have to rely on any confidential witnesses. Not when we’ve got DNA.”

“Well, okay, that’s pretty final.” Thurlow nodded.
“Wish I’d known so I could spread the word around, calm folks down when they start ranting about how the killer’s still out on the streets. That’s pretty final, all right. All they had in the Worthington case was DNA and that guy sure got nailed. Jury convicted first-degree.”

DNA. Dammit all to hell. Mooney, who’d been listening with increasing dismay, swore inwardly and thoroughly.

He’d been right, but he’d been wrong, too. Danielle Wilder’s death hadn’t struck the right note as a sex crime. So much for his vaunted street smarts and investigative skills: Turns out it wasn’t a sex crime. He had tried to eliminate Gianelli as a suspect and he had discovered the man’s true motive instead. Gianelli must have been trying to move in on the tribe, trying to find a way to use them as a gateway to get the mob “legitimately” involved in Massachusetts’s casino gambling future. Wilder, clever girl, had found out. Wilder had threatened to expose him.

There was solid DNA evidence. He might as well go home.

What would he tell Carlotta?

I had already lifted my hand to knock when I noticed the small button to the right of the door. The high-roller suite sported a doorbell and why not at the going price? I sucked in a deep breath and pressed my index finger to the glowing disk.

The woman who answered the bell looked every bit as expensive as the high-ceilinged room and the sweep of deep pile carpeting. She wore a clingy silk sheath in an icy blue that matched her eyes, and for a moment I thought of Katharine, Big Tony Gianelli’s latest wife, Jonno’s mother. This woman, just as formidably well-groomed, was younger.

“Solange,” I said.

Her wide eyes did a careful survey of the hallway. The penthouse suite was on a key-only floor. She had every right to demand how I’d gotten access, but instead she regarded me with calculating eyes in which I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition.

“But don’t I know you?”

When I gave my name, she nodded gravely, and opened the door wide. The vast living room, by far the most sumptuous rental accommodation I’d ever set eyes on, was ivory and gold, with furniture in the style of some former king of France, all swirly and
gilded. Plump pink cushions dotted overstuffed gold sofas that contrasted nicely with heavy rose velour drapes. A fur throw rug decorated the marble floor in front of the gas fireplace. Classical music played, a light air, piano and orchestra.

I won’t lie; I’d thought about faking it, offering a phony business card with a new name, wearing a wig. But I’d seen Solange once before. Her face was burned into my memory and I’d thought it possible that she would remember me as well.

Sam travels to Las Vegas fairly often. I’d accompanied him twice, once more than I should have. I’m a slow learner when it comes to men.

The first time I was nineteen and it was easy to forget exactly what kind of business meeting his business trip fronted. There were plenty of other conventioneers, guys from United Fruit and amalgamated arms, and I sold myself on the story that there were worse things in the world than some quaint old-country protection racket. The first time, I gawked my way along the Strip, amazed that so many grown-up kids wanted to see gaudy replicas of real places. The Venetian only gave me the itch to see the real Venice, minus costumed actors steering phony gondolas.

I got bored as hell during the day. The nights were fine; we had tickets to any and every show around, but, tell the truth, the town’s attraction eluded me. Too many lights and mirrors. It seemed garish and cheap, a smooth gigolo with no soul.

The next time I went back, I was a grown-up. I stuck too close to Sam and saw things I wished I hadn’t.

There was this woman, a pseudo-Frenchwoman named Solange, probably Susan at home, who looked at Sam with ice-blue eyes that altered when I entered
the room. When she wasn’t aware of me, Solange regarded Sam with a proprietary gaze that told me volumes about what he did when my cop work kept me home. When I brought it up, he said he wouldn’t be questioned, wouldn’t be treated like one of my suspects. I got angry, left off being a suspicious cop, became judge and jury instead. We broke up, not for the last time.

If “something happened in Las Vegas,” I had decided Solange might know about it. I was grateful for her unusual name.

I was able to describe her; I doubt there was a woman I could have described better. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, the way Las Vegas showgirls are tall, with long tawny hair. I thought she was a pro, a demi at least, a showgirl who rented out for the occasional evening or two with a top-of-the-line clientele.

I thought I could find her quickly. I did.

She worked the Bellagio and she was very little the worse for wear. I thought her eyes were harder now, but my own aren’t baby soft anymore, so who am I to talk?

“You are not here to make trouble?” she said coolly.

“Not for you.”

Her mouth smiled but her eyes stayed wary. “I have not a lot of time.”

“Mr. Strathmore never leaves the gaming tables till one.”

She pivoted on a pair of the highest heels imaginable, glided over to a wall of fancy stereo equipment, pondered a variety of dials before choosing one and lowering the volume of the music so that it faded into the background. When she turned to face me, her features were expressionless. “What is it you want?”

“Sam was here in December?”

“You should ask him. You are going to marry him. So you can ask him.” Her face was curiously immobile, but her eyes seemed to mock me.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.

“I cannot leave the room.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. They have room service, right?”

She considered the gold wristwatch on her slim left arm before deciding. “White wine and do not put it on Strathmore’s tab. He will check.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”