Mausoleum (22 page)

I said, “Wow.”

Tom shrugged. “Funny thing is when I used to drink, never wore a seat belt. Cracked up so many cars, never got hurt, much. But you're so loose—God looks out for drunks, right?”

“Sounds to me like that night He was looking out for the sober.”

“You can say that again.”

“So it was the curb that got you?”

“Skidding's okay as long as you don't hit a tree or another vehicle. But when those wheels stop sliding all of a sudden against the curb you've got nowhere to go but over. Especially in a truck or a SUV. I'm buying a little car when I get the insurance. Something that won't turn over.”

I drove down to Frenchtown to Chevalley Enterprises. Pink, Betty informed me, had gone out to ‘clear his head.' I found him in the White Birch, which was busy with the late afternoon crowd. That long-haired, heavy-set patrons had left two stools empty on either side of him indicated that my cousin was judged to be in a testy mood.

“Remember when Gerard Botsford got killed?”

“Poor old bastard. That was a bitch.”

“You brought the wreck in?”

“Who else?”

“What did it look like?”

“What would you look like if you rolled over three or four times down hill at forty?” The gentleman nearest to Pink's left got off his stool and carried his beer to a distant corner.

“Cops inspect it?”

“Looked it over.”

“Quickie because he was old?”

“No, the troopers looked it over pretty careful.”

“What did they find?”

“Found a car that rolled over three times.”

“What was it? Something tall? Land Rover?”

“You kidding? Those rich old Yankees don't waste money on cars. Just a Chevy Blazer.”

“Did they find any sign of another vehicle?”

“Found a little green paint on the fender from something that hit him. Miss Botsford said it was news to her. But he'd been out all day. They figured he got dinged in a parking lot.”

I called to Wide Greg who was recommending his parking lot to two fellows who had begun shouting at each other. “Couple of more, Greg?” The weather had been so beautiful for so long that it had reached the point it was kind of nice to sit in a loud, dark bar.

“Pink, can I ask you something?”

“What have you been doing so far?”

“I don't want to screw up your contract with the cops.” Chevalley Enterprises held an exclusive towing contract for recovering wrecks, partly because they got there fast and did a good job, partly because competing bidders tended to have terrible things happen to their tires. “Okay? Don't answer if you don't want to.”

“I never do anything I don't want to. What are you asking?”

“Did anybody else ask you about Old Man Botsford's Blazer? Recently? Maybe asked, and told you to keep it under your hat?”

Pink ruminated for a while. Then he tugged his greasy Chevalley Enterprises cap off his head, turned it over, and peered inside. “I'll be damned.”

“What?”

“You know how when you stick your ear in a seashell you hear the ocean?”

“Yeah?”

“Well when you look inside this hat you see a lady with a fine butt.”

I never liked the word butt. Or ass for that matter. Call me old-fashioned. Call me prissy. But just this once, it didn't seem right to tell Pink to leave my friend's anatomy out of it. So all I said was, “Thank you.”

We clinked bottles and my cell rang. I put it to one ear and a finger in the other.

“This is Father Bobby. Charlie Cubrero is ready to turn himself in.”

“Fantastic! Great! Thank you. I'll take him to my lawyer's office and we'll proceed from there. Where is he?”

“We'll meet you in Newbury.”

“Perfect. My lawyer's office is above the General Store. There's a stair on the outside, but I'll be waiting right out front.”

“Hold on,” said Father Bobby.

I heard rapid Spanish. “No, Ben. He's afraid to do that. There's a trooper stationed in Newbury.”

“Resident state trooper Moody, the one you talked out of the speeding ticket.” I saw Pink's eyebrows rise.
Nobody
talked Ollie out of a speeding ticket.

“Charlie's afraid if he sees him he'll arrest him before you get upstairs to the lawyer—he's scared, Ben.”

“Do you want to come to my house? You can pull in the drive and come in the kitchen door.”

The priest hesitated. “Hold on.” I listened to more Spanish.

“Okay, here's where he wants to meet. There's a cemetery where he used to work? You know this place?”

“I know it.”

“He says there's a mausoleum in it? Oh, of course, where the white man was shot,”

“I know it.”

“Charlie wants to meet there. By the mausoleum.”

“You won't be able to drive in,” I said. “The gates are locked at seven.”

Father Bobby said, “Why don't we just meet at the gates?”

“Fine.”

“Hold on.”

I held on.

“No. He says the cops will spot us at the gates.”

“Yeah, well the cops could spot you climbing the fence, too,” I said.

“Charlie knows a safe place to climb—One more thing, Ben. Remember what I said, I'm going to hand him to you and split. Once you have him you are on your own.”

“I'll do it anyway you want, Father. But I gotta tell you, you should take the credit for talking him in, make some friends with cops who could help you next time you need friends.”

“Absolutely not. Under no circumstances do I want to talk to the cops.”

He hung up. I looked at the phone and said, “Later, Pink. Gotta meet a guy. Thanks for everything.”

“Hey, want me to ride along?” asked Pink.

“Why?”

“You look a little worried.”

“No, no, no. Just thinking.” I was thinking the obvious. If Gerard Botsford, who controlled a hundred and sixty-two acres of open land, was deliberately run off the road, then Brian Grose, who wanted to get rich developing those acres, was the man with the motive. It would certainly explain why he kept a stone killer around the house, which made Grose the real villain, and wheelman Angel his instrument. How they had hooked up, God knew. Could have started with Angel mowing his lawn, or a recreational pharmaceuticals purchase. Had they had a falling out? Grose had a consistent record of those. Had Angel extended his stone
killerism to Grose. Had he killed him or had he found him dead? I didn't know. But I knew one thing for sure: Now the instrument is running around loose, scared, angry, murderous. And in deep, deep trouble—until Charlie Cubrero was arrested.

Just as Sherman Chevalley assumed the cops would blame illegal immigrant Angel, Angel could assume that the cops would blame illegal immigrant Charlie Cubrero if he could make poor Charlie his fall guy. Charlie caught meant end of case. I wondered if it was Angel who sent poor fat Al to the Kantor farm, hoping he'd get shot in the ICE raid he'd somehow caught wind of.

I had to sympathize with Father Bobby. Paranoia was catching. Had Angel somehow snookered the priest into setting up Charlie?

“I may take you up on that later, Pink.”

“On what?”

“Riding along with me.”

First things first.

First get Charlie safely booked with a lawyer.

Then go Angel hunting.

Chapter Twenty-two

I couldn't find Tim to come with me to hand Charlie over to the cops. I called Vicky. She said he was over in Hartford at a Connecticut Bar Association meeting. “Actually, I'm on my own for dinner.”

“I'd love to,” I said. “I can't.”

“Heavy date?”

“No, just wrapping up a job—when you talk to him, tell him we're ready to make our move. He'll know what I mean. In fact, Vicky, do me favor? When you talk to Tim, ask him if he'd call Ira Roth to cover, if he can't get here in two hours.”

I got to the cemetery before Donny Butler locked the gate.

“Did a priest go in?”

“Nope.” Donny looked away. Stand-offishness was emanating from him like a Klingon force field.

“You got a problem, Donny?”

“I hear you're my new boss. Mr. President.”

“Donny, for crissakes you've known me since I was born.”

“Planning any changes?”

“Yes, I'm trying to get the trustees to up your salary to half a million dollars a year. If they don't go along I'm hoping you'll stay on anyhow. Did you see a priest?”

“No I didn't, Ben. No one's in there. I gotta lock up, now. Need anything?”

“No, fine, thanks.”

“You know the way out.”

I nodded toward the low stone wall at the wooded end of the old section.

I walked down there through the long shadows of evening light and stopped a moment at my father's grave. Under his name and the dates of his life it said, “First Selectman.” Under that, his friends had persuaded my mother to allow them to have chiseled, “He Served His Town.” In a rare instance of voicing a complaint out loud my mother had remarked while he served the town: she had served warmed-over supper most nights of the week.

He had died, suddenly, when I came home from prison, and we had left most of a lifetime undiscussed. So it was with intense pleasure that I was able to say, “The president hopes you're pleased.” Then I walked up the slope to the new area and sat on the damp grass in front of Brian Grose's mausoleum and watched the low wall that lovers climbed on warm summer nights.

An older Honda Civic came along the dirt road that passed beyond the wall, trailing dust. The black-clad priest jumped out, ran around the car, opened the passenger door, and helped Charlie out. Charlie was limping. He was clutching a gym bag and seemed quite unsteady. The priest helped him over the wall and hurried up the hill.

I ran down and met them part way. “Charlie, you okay?”

“I had to give him a Valium,” said Father Bobby. “He's so scared.”

“A whole bottle?” I said, and then to Charlie, “You're okay, now Charlie. Everything's going to be fine. Thank you, Father Bobby. You can split. I'll take him from here.”

But the priest didn't hear me.

“You brought the cops?”

“No, I didn't.”

He was staring at the road beyond the wall, and I saw Arnie and Marian pull up in their unmarked unit.

“
You brought the cops
!”

My cell phone rang. I looked at it with a sinking heart. “They tracked my phone.” I answered. Sure enough it was Marian, climbing over the wall with her phone pressed to her face. “Don't do anything else stupid. We'll be right there.”

“You fool,” said Father Bobby. “You stupid fool”

Actually, I felt a little stab of pride that two stars like them could think I could get close enough to the killer to make it worth tracking me.

“All right,” said Father Bobby. “Stay with Charlie. I'll deal with them.”

Good, I thought. A priest was almost as good as a lawyer when it came to giving up.

“Hang on to Charlie.” He spoke Spanish to Charlie. Charlie returned a dazed smile.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him to wait here with you. Let me see what I can do with the cops.”

I said, “There's nothing left to do with the cops. Tell them you're turning Charlie in. A priest is almost as good as a lawyer. Tell them my lawyer will meet us at the barracks.”

Father Bobby took the gym bag from Charlie's hand and hurried down the slope toward Arnie and Marian.

“Hey, wait,” I said, “I thought you don't want to talk to the cops.”

He quickened his pace, and waved to Marian and Arnie. It was part hello, part benediction. “Charlie, what's in your bag?”

The snap in my voice penetrated and he said, “No my bag.”

I ran after Father Bobby.

Twenty feet from Marian and Arnie, he reached into the bag.

“Gun!” I yelled. “Not a priest. Not a priest. That's Angel.”

Angel had not snookered the priest into setting up Charlie Cubrero. Angel was the priest. And the priest wasn't a priest, but a stone killer named Angel.

“Gun!”

Marian and Arnie flared apart, Marian reaching for her shoulder holster, Arnie for the pistol on his hip, both shouting, “Stop. Police.”

But he was way too fast for them. God he was fast. He fired three times in a heartbeat. Three heavy caliber
booms
echoed like cannon fire. All three hit. Arnie pinwheeled backwards. Marian went down, clutching her body. Angel was on top of her before I could reach them, jerking her gun out of her hand and leveling both weapons to fire again at Arnie who was trying to stand. Marian flopped back on the grass arms and legs spread wide, thighs flashing white. She pulled her backup gun from her leg holster. But she had been hit too hard to be quick, and before I could get between them, Angel kicked it out of her hand.

She convulsed into a tight ball, rolled toward Arnie with a cry of pain and clutched at the back of her neck. I dove for Angel. He fired at Arnie, then turned both guns on me.

“Angel!” Marian shouted.

He whipped fiery eyes at her. She flicked her arm forward, pointing like a snake tongue.
She's hidden a second backup derringer in her sleeve
, I thought, filling with crazy hope. But her arms were bare and dead silence told me she had no gun.

Something flashed through the failing light. Angel jerked back with a cry, dropped Marian's gun, and clawed at his cheek. A five-inch throwing knife jutted from it at the odd angle of a boar's tusk.

“Bitch,” he screamed, spraying blood. He ripped the blade out of his face and swung his own heavy weapon at Marian.

I got my hand around his wrist.

He was strong and his wrist was slippery with blood. But Marian's knife had sent him into shock and I was motivated.