Solitary Dancer (30 page)

He shook his head. “I just dealt with Grizzly. And the guy who ran the Flamingo, Dewey. They . . . they told me Django had given you something from Heather, when they heard she was dead. They thought
you
did it, like everybody did. I figured maybe it was something that might connect me with her. DeMontford, him and I, we talked it over, he called me from Florida when he got the message that Tim wanted to talk to him, and he thought it'd be a good idea to check your place out. I wanted Grizzly or Dewey, one of
them
, to score your place but they wouldn't touch it, and then that night, after you beat up on the guy who was killing that hooker, I heard . . . well, I heard you were back on the pills, outta circulation for a while. . . .”

He cleared his throat, swallowed hard and wiped his eyes dry. “I'm in there, I'm lookin' in your bathroom and there's somebody on the steps. I figure if it's you I bluff, if it's not I show the gun. I talked to enough witnesses, you show 'em a gun and that's all they remember, they never remember your face. Then this guy looks like he's chargin' through the door at me and it's Timmy and he's only stumbling, kinda fallin' forward but I don't
know
it's Timmy, not yet, and it's a reflex, Joe, it's a goddamn reflex and I . . . I shoot him. Jesus, Joe . . .”

McGuire saw the cop step out of his car, standing on Hanover Street, watching them over the roof of the cruiser, speaking into his radio.

“What happened to Billie?” McGuire asked.

“Django. It all had to do with Django.”

“He saw you leave. When you shot Timmy.”

Scrignoli nodded. “Grizzly told me Django'd confessed to him that he told Donovan he saw me, recognized me. Grizzly passed the word along . . .”

“Where's Django?”

A shrug. “Grizzly said he'd look after everything for me.” Scrignoli smiled, embarrassed. “He said not to worry about you, what you'd do. He'd take care of you, pay back what he owed me. I'm, uh, I'm glad he didn't get to you. If that means anything . . .”

“Grizzly's dead.”

Scrignoli looked at McGuire as though he had been told it would rain later that day, started to speak, then shrugged again as though it didn't matter. “I'm sorry about Billie,” Scrignoli said. “I lost it, Joe.” Scrignoli was shaking his head. “I lost it with her. I wanted to know what Donovan knew, how much he told her. She wouldn't tell me anything and I started to choke her and . . . I just lost it.”

McGuire heard the squeal of brakes on the street behind the Old North Church, then the slamming of several car doors and a series of quick, cautious steps approaching.

“You know . . .” Scrignoli hadn't seen the cop on Hanover Street, didn't respond now to the sounds from behind the church. He smiled, staring across the plaza at the pigeons. “You . . . you were the guy I always wanted to be. I got out of the academy and I watched you working, even before you and Ollie were a team, I decided you were the best kind of cop. When I came to see you on Nashua Street, I just wanted to find out if you'd be fallin' with the charge, you know? Because that's what I'd heard, you'd be takin' it and that was too bad for you but real, real good for us, right? And then, Jesus, Joe, you looked so bad, I felt so goddamn sorry for you, I got some Demerol slipped on your tray and I . . .”

“You carrying?” McGuire snapped.

“What?” Scrignoli seemed to be waking from a dream.

“Are you armed, for Christ's sake?” McGuire hissed.

“Oh, Jesus.” Scrignoli looked down toward Hanover Street for the first time. A second cruiser had joined the first and was angled across the road, three uniformed officers poised behind it, their guns aimed down the Mall at McGuire and Scrignoli.

“Put your weapon on the ground and your hands over—” McGuire began.

“Yeah, yeah.” Scrignoli spoke like a man in a trance, dropping his head again and reaching inside his jacket.

“
Hold it, asshole!
” Donovan's voice cut the air from behind McGuire.

Without turning, McGuire waved a hand in Donovan's direction, a gesture of dismissal, more concerned about the police officers at the other end of the Mallon Hanover Street.

“Listen, Joe . . .” Scrignoli began, his hand half out of his jacket, gripping the pistol, when his words were cut off by a sudden exhalation of air, like a man punched in the stomach, and the crack of three quick shots from Donovan's gun.

McGuire reached out to catch Scrignoli as he fell forward off the bench, his face contorted in shock and surprise.

“
Get away from him!
”
Donovan screamed. McGuire knelt to catch Scrignoli and, holding him by the shoulders, lowered him gently to the ground. Another shot cut the air like a whip-crack and the ground beyond the bench exploded with the impact of the bullet.

McGuire was still gripping Scrignoli, trying to avoid the volcano of blood erupting from his abdomen, staring into the other man's eyes, watching them grow dull and distant. Footsteps clattered behind him, a knot of men running toward him. He heard more footsteps from the direction of Hanover Street and then Donovan's voice near his ear, screaming at him again.

“
Move!
”
Donovan shouted like a man on the edge of control. “
Now, goddamn it!
”

McGuire lowered Scrignoli to the pavement, rose slowly and turned to face Donovan who was standing ten feet away, red-faced in his firing stance, feet set wide apart, his Police Special thirty-eight in a two-handed grip, arms extended. “He was giving me his gun, Phil,” McGuire said.

“He was preparing to use his weapon.” Donovan angled his head toward Scrignoli, who was rolling from side to side in agony. Two police officers broke from the group, knelt next to the wounded man and began loosening his jacket.

“You gonna call an ambulance?” McGuire asked. Behind Donovan he saw Zelinka approaching, speaking rapidly into a hand-held radio.

“You're under arrest.” Donovan kept his gun aimed at McGuire.

“Are you gonna call an ambulance?” McGuire said again.

“I said you're under arrest.”

“And you're a pathetic prick.” McGuire turned his back and began walking away.

“
McGuire!
”
Donovan screamed.

Zelinka approached Donovan from behind, positioned himself directly in front of the detective and raised one large hand to gently push Donovan's gun aside. He stared into the younger man's eyes with a solemn, weary expression until Donovan lowered the gun and glanced down at Scrignoli. “Get him an ambulance,” Donovan snapped, and Zelinka said, “There is already one on the way.”

Zelinka exhaled, a long, noisy sigh. He shook his head in sorrow and resignation, and watched McGuire round the corner alone onto Hanover Street, his shoulders hunched, his head down. Above the Mall the flock of pigeons that had exploded into flight at the sound of the shots whirled in panic, around and around.

John Lawrence Reynolds is the author of more than two dozen works of fiction and non-fiction. He has previously written six mystery novels—most recently, 
Beach Strip—
and is a two-time winner of the Arthur Ellis Award (for 
The Man Who Murdered God
 and 
Gypsy Sins
). His many non-fiction books include
Leaving Home
, 
Free Rider
 (winner of the National Business Book Award), 
The Naked Investor
 and 
Bubbles, Bankers & Bailouts
. 
Shadow People
, his bestselling book on secret societies, has been published in sixteen countries. A former president of the Crime Writers of Canada, he lives in Burlington, Ontario. Visit him online at 
johnlawrencereynolds.com
.

Solitary Dancer
© 1994 John Lawrence Reynolds

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EPub Edition May 2015 ISBN: 9781443443708

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

Originally published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd in hardcover in 1994. This HarperCollins Publishers Ltd ePub edition: 2015.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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