Providence Rag: A Liam Mulligan Novel (24 page)

“Have you asked him about the murders?” Mulligan asked.

“I have. He still says he’s innocent.… So, do you think I have enough to write the abuse of power story yet?”

“If I understood you correctly,” Lomax said, “you’ve got one on-the-record source for the Galloway case and one not-for-attribution source for the Araujo assault.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re not even close.”

Mason’s shoulders slumped. That profile might be the only thing he’d be able to get in print after all.

“Your turn, Mulligan,” Lomax said. “Rundown what you’ve got.”

“A year before the Medeiros murders,” Mulligan said, “somebody broke into a house three miles from where Diggs lived and stabbed a woman named Susan Ashcroft.”

He quickly ran through the details of the crime, the circumstantial evidence linking Diggs to it, and his hope that the killer’s DNA might still be found on something stored away in the evidence boxes.

“How long since you asked the Warwick cops to look for them?” Lomax asked.

“A week.”

“And they still haven’t located them?”

“Not yet. Chief Hernandez says a lot of evidence from old cases has been lost or thrown out.”

“If this doesn’t pan out,” Mason butted in, “I might have something that could keep Diggs locked up for a while.”

“Out with it,” Lomax said.

“A few months before Becky Medeiros was killed, Diggs torched her car. It’s only fourth-degree arson, though. The most he could get for it is three years.”

“Where’d you get that?” Lomax asked.

“Diggs told me about it.”

“Did he say
why
he torched her car?”

“He said she called him the n-word, and it made him mad.”

“Why the hell would he tell you this?” Mulligan asked.

“We were talking about how angry he used to get when people disrespected him. That was one of the examples he gave me.”

“Interesting,” Mulligan said. “One problem with it, though.”

“What’s that?”

“It never happened.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Gloria and I searched the news archives for all the crimes that occurred in Diggs’s neighborhood around the time of the murders. The
Dispatch
printed every police incident in the West Bay edition back then, and there was no mention of this.”

“Maybe the reporter missed it,” Mason said. “Or maybe the item was cut for space.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Mulligan said. “But I’ve also been talking to a retired cop who was the lead detective on the murders. If it had happened, he would have known about it. But he never mentioned it either.”

“Maybe it slipped his mind,” Mason said. “Or maybe he didn’t think it was important.”

Mulligan pulled the cell phone from his shirt pocket and made a call.

“Andy? It’s Mulligan.… No, I haven’t heard anything from Hernandez yet either. Listen, someone just told me that Becky’s car was torched a few months before the murder.… You sure?… Okay, thanks.”

Mulligan ended the call and glared at Mason.

“Like I said. It never happened. That should make you wonder what else Diggs has been lying to you about.”

“It does. I’ll try to be more careful.”

“See that you do,” Lomax said. “And Edward?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Next time you talk to Diggs, ask him about Susan Ashcroft. Now get the hell out of my office.… Not you, Mulligan. We need to talk.”

As soon as Mason left, Lomax asked Mulligan to close the office door.

“So what do you think?”

“Thanks-Dad wants this story so bad that it’s blinded him to some things,” Mulligan said. “But the kid’s a hell of a reporter. A lot better than I thought. He’s just a couple of sources shy of nailing it.”

“You taught him too damn well,” Lomax said.

“So this is
my
fault?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Lomax removed his glasses, wiped them clean on his shirtsleeve, put them back on, and said, “Aw, shit.”

“You don’t have to print it,” Mulligan said.

“Crossing the publisher’s son might not be the best thing for my job security.”

“Hell, Ed,” Mulligan said, “the way things are going, none of us will be working here much longer.”

Lomax leaned back in his chair and plunked his feet on his desk.

“Three more years is all I need,” he said. “After that, I’m putting in for my pension. Doris has it all figured out. Says we’re gonna sell the house in Cumberland, buy a used RV, and spend our golden years touring the country.”

Mulligan knew Lomax wasn’t going to get those three years. The veteran reporter was sorely tempted to spill what Mason had told him in confidence. Lomax deserved to know.

But all Mulligan said was, “Nice plan.”

“What will
you
do, Mulligan, when the paper finally goes under?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll invest my meager life savings in a case of Bushmills, hole up somewhere, and try to write the Great American Novel.”

“In other words, you got no fuckin’ idea.”

44

“Citizens of the state of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, the hour is nigh. Truth, courage, honor, justice, and the American Way have returned once again to the public airwaves. Stay with us now for the singular voice that makes godless liberals and America-hating socialists pee their pants. The voice that makes God-fearing patriots stand up and cheer.”

“Hey, Charlie,” Mulligan said, “would you mind turning the radio up?”

“Really?” the fry cook said. He turned from the grill to glance first at Mulligan and then at Mason, seated side by side at the lunch counter. “You two pinkos care what Iggy has to say?”

“Not usually,” Mulligan said, “but he’s going to be talking about the
Dispatch
this morning.”

Iggy Rock’s theme music was playing now, a medley that began with a few bars of “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” segued to Jimmy Cagney’s rendition of “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” and concluded with the last verse of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.”

To Mulligan, that always seemed like enough of an introduction, but Iggy apparently didn’t think so.

“Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages, hold on to your hats and buckle your seat belts. Get ready for a rollicking three hours of news and commentary from the prince of pundits, the champion of liberty, the voice of conservatism, and the defender of the Republic. The one! The only!
Iggy Rock!
”

But still no Iggy. First, listeners were treated to Ronan Tynan singing the first verse of “God Bless America,” followed by the opening trumpet blast of the theme from
Rocky
. Only then did Iggy’s voice boom from the radio speakers.

“Good morning, Row Dyelin! This is your host, Iggy Rock. Today, we’ll expose what the bloodsucking teachers union is doing to bankrupt our cities and towns. But first, a WTOP exclusive report on a shocking plan by the liberal-loving
Providence Dispatch
to spring serial killer Kwame Diggs from his rightful place in the state prison.

“You remember Diggs, don’t you? In the 1990s, he terrorized the city of Warwick, brutally murdering two young women and three little girls. Since then, he’s been caught with marijuana in his cell and been convicted of beating two prison guards.

“But now, I have learned from unimpeachable sources, the
Dispatch
is attempting to prove that the state of Rhode Island framed Diggs on those drug and assault charges. For the last several months, the newspaper has been interviewing prison guards, and perhaps others as well, in an irresponsible attempt to impeach the testimony of witnesses who testified for the prosecution in those cases.

“My sources tell me the
Dispatch
may be only days away from publishing its report. And if the newspaper succeeds in throwing doubt on Diggs’s convictions, Rhode Island could be forced to set this monster loose to roam free among us.

“I know what’s going through your minds. What in the name of God are the editors of the
Dispatch
thinking? To find out, I invited the newspaper’s managing editor, Ed Lomax, to appear on the show this morning to answer your questions.

“The editor of a newspaper that expects other people to answer
its
questions ought to be willing to come here and answer a few himself, don’t you think? After all, refusing would be the epitome of hypocrisy. Well, it turns out that Ed Lomax
is
a hypocrite. He flatly refused to appear on this program. Instead, he sent over this three-sentence prepared statement,” Iggy said, and then read the text.

“So what do you make of that?” he asked. “Yeah, I know. Sounds like bullshit to me, too. So why don’t we give him a call and see if we can drag a little more out of him.”

The touch-tone sound of a telephone being dialed, and then: “
Providence Dispatch,
Ed Lomax speaking.”

“This is Iggy Rock at WTOP, and you are on the air. The people of Row Dyelin are deeply concerned about your plan to help Kwame Diggs get out of prison so that he can kill again, and we demand that you answer our questions.”

“You have my statement on this matter, Mr. Bardakjian. I have nothing further to say at this time,” Lomax said. And then he hung up.

“Well, there you have it,” Iggy said. “Once again,
The Providence Dispatch
demonstrates that it has nothing but contempt for the people of Row Dyelin. The board is lit up like a Christmas tree, so let’s take some calls. Sal from North Providence, you are on the air.”

“This is freaking nuts, Iggy. If Diggs gets released, the editors of the
Dispatch
should be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Soon as I hang up, I’m calling them up and canceling my subscription.”

“Great idea, Sal. Let’s everybody do that. Show them that we mean business! Natalie from Pawtucket, you are on the air.”

Mulligan finished his coffee, turned to Mason, and said, “Well, that could have gone worse.”

“How do you mean?”

“At least he didn’t give Sal from North Providence and Natalie from Pawtucket your name.”

“Why do you suppose he didn’t?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to put a target on your back,” Mulligan said.

“He didn’t mind putting one on Lomax. Not that it makes much difference, I guess. I’ve got a target on my back already. Here, take a look at this.”

He handed Mulligan his iPhone. On the screen was a photo of a car door with a message written in what appeared to be alphabet refrigerator magnets.

STOP NOW

OR ELZE

“Else with a
z
?” Mulligan said. “Nobody’s spelling is that bad. Looks like your correspondent ran out of the letter
s
.”

“That’s how I figure it.”

“This was left on your car?”

“It was.”

“When?”

“Last night. There was another one, too. Scroll back to the previous picture.”

“How the hell do I do that?”

“Give it here,” Mason said.

He took the phone from Mulligan, flicked a finger across the screen, and handed it back to him. This time, the message on the car door read:

B SMART MASON

WE C U

“That one’s from a week ago,” Mason said.

Mulligan took a minute to think it over. In his mind, he compared it with the threatening note Mason had gotten in the mail:

WE KNOW WHAT YOUR DOING, RICHIE RICH.

IF YOU KNOW WHATS GOOD FOR YOU, YOU’LL STOP.

“Any more threatening letters?” he asked.

“A couple more, yes.”

“What did they say?”

“Pretty much the same thing as the first one.”

“Somebody obviously wants you to stop
something,
” Mulligan said. “Do the messages ever say what?”

“I just assumed it was the Diggs story,” Mason said. “I mean, what else could it be?”

“I don’t know, Thanks-Dad. You tell me.”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Not screwing somebody’s wife, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Ripping somebody off in some sort of business deal?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Okay, then,” Mulligan said. “Let me poke into this. See what I can find out.”

As he walked back to the newspaper, Mulligan puzzled over the threats. Refrigerator magnets were an awfully polite way of leaving threatening messages. Why weren’t they just scratched into the paint? The more he thought about it, the more it felt as though those brightly colored magnets were something a woman would use.

*   *   *

Mulligan had just stepped off the elevator when “Confused” by a San Francisco punk band called the Nuns began playing in his shirt pocket. His ring tone for the governor.

“Mulligan.”

“Is it true?”

“Just between us?”

“Yes.”

“Can I actually
trust
you this time, Fiona?”

“I promise.”

“The story’s not nailed down yet, but it’s in the works.”

“Who’s reporting this? Is it you?”

“Hell, no.”

“The
Dispatch
would actually
print
it?”

“The publisher’s son is the one working on it, so I gotta think yes.”

“Holy Mother of God.”

“My feeling exactly, although I’d be prone to use more colorful language.”

“When is the story likely to break?”

“Hard to say. Maybe in a couple of weeks. Maybe never. Thanks-Dad doesn’t have enough sources yet.”

“How likely is it that he’ll pull this off?”

“If I were a betting man, I’d put the odds at fifty-fifty.”

“You
are
a betting man.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

“Is my name going to surface in this?”

“You were the A.G. when Diggs was prosecuted for Galloway, so your fingerprints are all over it. I doubt Thanks-Dad will be able to prove it, though. The kid’s good, but he’s not that good. He’s close to nailing the warden for subornation of perjury and obstruction of justice, but I doubt he’ll be able to take it any higher.”

“If he does, will you give me a heads-up?”

“Maybe. No guarantees.”

“I know I promised to keep this confidential, Mulligan, but I’m going to have to share it with the attorney general.”