Frame-Up Page 7

  “You have a visitor.”

  My heart went into overdrive. Terry O’Brien must have thought of something else.

  With one deep breath for confidence, I walked to the door of my office. I was focusing on my best entrance, suave but understated. One quick check of my tie, and I looked in. There in the seat once occupied by the auburn-haired Helen of Troy sat the unkempt lump that was Benny Ignola.

  I caught myself in mid-entrance long enough to mouth the words to Julie, “You’re fired.”

  She wrinkled her mouth and thumbed her nose at me, which was her usual response to my firings.

  Benny stood when I came in. I was behind my desk before the need arose to shake hands as if we were colleagues.

  “Benny, sit down. How are you?”

  “Fine, Mikey. And how’s yourself?”

  How can an innocuous question like that be made to sound sleazy and conspiratorial? Benny had the knack.

  “I’m all right. What brings you here?’

  “I’m passing the office, and it occurs to me. We should be cooperating.”

  “Really, Benny. With whom?”

  “With each other. C’mon, Mikey. We’re on the same side. Johnny Mac was my boy. I loved the kid.”

  When he reduced John McKedrick to Johnny Mac, my temperature went up six degrees. He made him sound like one of those parasites in the bowels of society known as wiseguys. I got a grip by taking a gummy bear out of the jar that Julie kept filled on my desk and biting its little head off. Benny continued undeterred.

  “For example, Mikey, did Johnny say anything before he died? Did he give you any idea who might have done it?”

  “Between the explosion and the fire, there wasn’t a lot of conversation.”

  “I mean the day before. Maybe that morning. Even if it doesn’t seem relevant now, could tie into something.”

  “We didn’t talk business, Benny. No offense, but John knew what I thought of what he did for a living. He never brought the subject up. It was mostly Bruins, Celtics, Red Sox, Patriots, whatever the season.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he was disappointed or had had his wish fulfilled. Either way, I guess he felt he had drained this shallow well dry. He rose with a smile and extended a hand. What Benny lacked in charm, he made up in hypocrisy. It was clearly no mutual admiration society, but he played the part of “Uncle Benny” like a pro.

  “Hey, Mikey. If anything comes up, you know my number. By the same token, vice versa.”

  When he turned to go, I let him open the door. I slipped the second locker key, the one to my back-up locker 135E, out of my pocket and pulled open my middle desk drawer. I fumbled around as if I were looking for something that had been thrown in there days ago.

  “Hey, Benny.”

  He turned around. I flipped him the backup key. He stabbed at it with his left hand and missed. The little thing skidded across the floor under Julie’s desk. Like a weasel chasing a rat down its hole, Benny went groveling on his hands and knees under Julie’s desk. Julie came three feet straight up out of her chair.

  She gave me a bewildered look, to which I responded with a shoulder shrug.

  Meanwhile Benny emerged from under Julie’s desk examining his newfound treasure through his bifocals. I added the explanation. “John mailed that to me. I guess the day before the bombing. I got it when I got back from the hospital.”

  That was about as accurate as any information that passed between Benny and myself.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a key, Benny.”

  “I mean what’s it to?”

  “I haven’t a clue. I put it in my desk till I had time to check it out. So far I haven’t had time. It can’t do John any good, and it has nothing to do with me. You might as well have it. It’s probably got something to do with whatever you two were doing.”

  “Yeah. Looks like a locker key. I wonder where.”

  “Beats me, Benny. Looks like one of those train station locker keys. Maybe South Station. I don’t know. It’s no longer my problem.”

  I was already flipping through my Rolodex while Benny beat his little crab-walk retreat to the elevator. I could hear him poking the eye out of the elevator button to speed it up.

  I dialed the phone number of Tom Burns, one-time Navy SEAL, one-time FBI, currently Sam Spade, Spenser, Mike Hammer, and every other full-varsity private eye rolled into one. His rates would make Kobe Bryant seem underpaid, but he was worth every dime of it. He was also a mere five foot ten, and one hundred sixty pounds of Brooks Brothers understated elegance. He could sip cocktails with Hillary at the Four Seasons or slip into jeans and slug down beers with stevedores at a dive on the docks, and blend.

  Tom’s cell phone rang while I watched through the window as Benny scuttled across the sidewalk, examining the little object of mystery in his sweaty fingers. My sincere hope was that with my loosely dropped suggestion, Benny’s devious mind locked onto South Station. I was working on mental telepathy, when Tom’s secretary answered. I had done enough expensive business with Tom so she recognized my voice. My tone of urgency got me through to the man in six seconds.

  “Tom, am I your favorite client?”

  “Definitely. Who is this?”

  “Very funny. Would you drop everything to make me happy?”

  “No.”

  “Would you drop everything to keep me alive?”

  “Possibly, Mike.”

  “Would you drop everything if I double your rate?”

  “Of course.”

  “Get on your horse to South Station, east wing. Call me on your cell phone on the way. I’ll fill you in while you move.”

  My heart leaped for joy when I looked down and saw Benny double time it across Franklin Street and disappear around the corner in the direction of South Station.

  The phone rang, and I had it before the first ring ended.

  “Thanks, Tom. Here’s what I want.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  By two p.m., after soothing the feathers of neglected clients and opposing counsel, my stomach was in a perfect state of acidity to accommodate my weakness for two of those cholesterol torpedoes peddled as hotdogs by the vender a block away on Summer Street.

  The level of acidity got another jolt at the thought of a meeting with Mr. Devlin, in which I could count on catching heat for even dreaming of doing what I was contemplating for the rest of the afternoon.

  But if it were all put together, it would not come near the stomach clenching I was getting at the mere thought of picking up the telephone to ask Terry O’Brien to join me for dinner. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why it had that effect. It was definitely not a date. It was too soon after John’s death, and I had no idea of how deeply they were committed to each other. It was just an occasion to ask a few questions about the case in an atmosphere that might give us both a little break from reality.

  Having reached the foregone conclusion that she would probably turn me down, I was happily stunned when she accepted.

  I set it up for seven o’clock and a drive up to a restaurant on the North Shore. When the receiver hit the cradle, I clamped a lid on the rush of exhilaration with the reminder that she was the possible fiancée of my very recently lost best friend.

  Mr. Devlin took the story of my retrieval from the locker of what could be a significant piece in the puzzle of John’s death with a faint grin. The news that I had passed the key off to Benny Ignola was received somewhat less enthusiastically.

  “What in the damn fires of everlasting hell possessed you to give it to that microbe, Ignola? And without a word to me!”

  At that point he took a breath. I jumped in with a stream of words that left no seams for him to break in.

  “Mr. Devlin, just settle back and listen for ten seconds. I had a reason. Benny came sniffing around as if he thought that John had given something to me. If I read him right, I left him with the idea that I passed it on to him, and he still thinks I never saw anything but the key.
On top of that, what he actually has is useless.”

  “And could you explain that?”

  “He has the key to the wrong locker. I rented the one beside the locker John used. I put in a duplicate envelope with a white card with the same kind of code on it. But it’s the wrong code. It’ll lead them nowhere.”

  He was settled back in his tilt-back desk chair. His Irish flash temper was now replaced by dour concern.

  “Would you bet your life on that, Michael? Because that could be what’s at stake here. There are no rules in this game.”

  I was still catching up, and the look on my face must have shown it.

  “Michael, that number is probably the pass code to a bank vault somewhere. Maybe Switzerland, maybe the Caymans. Is that a fair guess?”

  “Chances are.”

  “And are the chances also that whatever is in that vault is enough to knock the socks off of whoever gets to it?”

  “I’d say.”

  “And when your phony number code runs Benny and his playmates into a deadend, who do you suppose they’ll come looking for, and this time not to play nice?”

  Events had been moving at a pretty fair clip, and I had to admit to myself that I hadn’t plotted the moves that far ahead. I’d been concentrating on the offensive game and neglecting the defense.

  I groped for the bright side.

  “Maybe. But didn’t you tell me that the best defense is a good offense? Benny’s on his way to South Station. I have Tom Burns on his tail right now. Benny’s not subtle. He’ll pick up the envelope and fly direct to whoever’s pulling his strings. If it’s not Dominic Santangelo, and my guess is that it’s not or he’d have asked us about the key, we could be onto a split in Santangelo’s so-called family. That could give us a lead on who’s framing Peter for John’s death. If we strike first, they won’t have time to come back at us.”

  Silence reigned while we both let the air clear. The cease-fire was short lived. In about eight seconds, Mr. D. slammed the arms of his chair on his way up.

  “Damn it, Michael! I don’t like it. None of this is worth—”

  “We’re talking about something that may never happen, Mr. Devlin. I really think that whatever those numbers lead to is the ace John was about to play to buy his way out. We’re the only ones who have the real code number. If John could use it to bargain, so could we.”

  “Could I remind you how much good it did John? And while we’re at it, could you tell me, bargain with whom?”

  “I don’t know. John must have been meeting with someone in Santangelo’s organization that day. Santangelo was out of the country. He didn’t get back from Sicily until the next morning. So who does that leave?”

  He turned back toward the window facing Boston Harbor, his favorite thinking position.

  “You said the envelope was addressed to Tony Aiello. Word has it he’s the number-two man under Dominic. Maybe this is something Aiello was handling alone. He came up through the ranks together with Dominic. Dominic climbed a little faster. But they’re like brothers.”

  “I thought you lost touch with Mr. Santangelo through all those years.”

  I could see a cloud forming.

  “I saw him one other time. Aiello was there.”

  “When was that?”

  He waived the question away with his hand.

  “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.” He turned back to me. “That envelope with the number. You said it was in a public locker. John McKedrick gave the key to this Terry O’Brien. His girlfriend?”

  I felt a strange jump in the stomach that I chose to ignore. “Possibly. Or fiancée. I may know more tonight. I’m having dinner with her.”

  That brought his eyebrows up a quarter-inch higher.

  “Pure business, Mr. Devlin.”

  The eyebrows rose another quarter inch, and his eyes were on me.

  “Where are you having dinner?”

  “North Shore. Maybe the Pegleg up in Rockport.”

  “Uh-huh.” The man was no fool, as the growing smile beneath the eyebrows told me. The hour drive up to Rockport for a conversation that could be held in my office apparently suggested sentiments that I chose not to examine.

  “Anyway, you’re right, Mr. Devlin. John gave the envelope addressed to Aiello to Terry. She was supposed to mail it if anything happened to John. When it did, she didn’t know whom to trust. That’s why she brought it to me.”

  The smile was gone. It was back to the war council.

  “Anything make you feel uncomfortable about that arrangement, Michael?”

  There was something else. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there. On the other hand, if I didn’t, Mr. D. would.

  “Yes. I don’t understand the game John was playing. If he was using that code for leverage, he was playing for his life. If Terry was his fiancée, or something like it, why would he get her involved in something with those risks?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “That was one of the reasons I wanted to get that key into Benny Ignola’s hands with the impression that none of us, Terry included, knew what it was.”

  Mr. D. nodded. “Do you think you brought it off?”

  I gave him a palms-up gesture. “Benny seemed to take the bait. We should be hearing from Tom Burns where he went with it. I’m going to keep an eye on Terry in case things get dicey.”

  “You keep an eye on yourself too, Michael. Quicker minds than Benny’s will probably be asking these same questions. You remember you’re a lawyer. You’re not the Marine Corps.”

  I held up my hands in surrender. “Just taking the lady to dinner.”

  He looked unconvinced.

  “Also, I saved a trump card, Mr. Devlin. I made up another envelope with a card inside of it. The number on that one is the wrong code too. I put it in the original locker and I have the key. If I need a bargaining chip, it might be useful. It still won’t lead them to anything.”

  Time was fleeing, and I knew I had an uncomfortable little call to pay before picking up Terry at seven. The less said to Mr. D. about it the better. I chose that moment to take an obvious glance at my watch and bound out of the chair.

  “I have to run, Mr. Devlin. I’ll let you know what I hear from Tom.”

  “Where are you off to now, Michael?”

  “Dinner. North Shore. Gotta rush.”

  I was into the hall and approaching the elevator

  “Michael, it’s four in the afternoon.”

  “I have one stop in between.”

  I was pushing the elevator button, probably with more force than necessary. Mr. D. was in the doorway of his office with every antenna getting signals that I was up to something he wouldn’t like.

  “What stop, Michael?”

  Thank God, the elevator door swung open. I stepped inside and pushed the ground-floor button. As the door swung slowly shut, I squeezed out the words, “I’m going to drop in on Anthony Tedesco at The Pirate’s Den in Revere. I think we should find out where he got the courage to be an informant on the Mafia.”

  The elevator door mercifully closed and muffled the explosion I had expected. I felt two senses of relief. First, I could pretend not to have heard the absolute edict of Mr. D. to stay out of that rats’ nest. Secondly, I was deep-down thrilled that someone who cared knew where I was going — just in case I didn’t appear in the office the next day. Or ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Revere Beach comes in two delicious varieties. On any hot summer day, the wide sandy beach is blanketed by mostly Italian and Jewish families burning to a crisp in the relentless sun. An occasional sub-teenager with the constitution of an Eskimo will plunge into those Atlantic waters that even in summer are the temperature of a barely melted glacier. For the most part, it’s just families cooking themselves to anything from medium rare to well done.

  In contrast, previous to the nineteen nineties, the street above the beach vibrated to the constant rumble of Harley-Davidsons. The strip of bars and
pizza shops were populated by a subgroup of humanity that looked like extras from the X-Files. The standard uniform was leathers with sawed-off vests that bore the colors of biker gangs and skin tattooed from shoulders to fingernails.

  Sometime in the late eighties, the dealers in real estate woke up to the treasure that was being squandered on cavemen. They had the money, and therefore the political clout, to clean house and put up high-rise glass condos that reaped the value of oceanfront lots with a direct view of England.

  The Cro-Magnons of earlier days were squeezed into pockets of the shoreline north of the new Revere Beach. One of these establishments was the biker bar called “The Pirate’s Den.”

  A quick phone call to an old friend in the Registry of Deeds saved some travel time in confirming Billy Coyne’s statement that The Pirate’s Den was owned by one Anthony Tedesco. What didn’t square, and what had been jangling my sense of the likely, was Billy’s statement that Tony Tedesco had filed a complaint with the police against Sal Marone for extortion.

  The extortion part was self-evident. Every club on the strip, including The Pirate’s Den, was reputed to be paying tribute to the Mafia to avoid an accidental bombing. Any streetwise thirteen-year-old kid in Revere could have told us that. What defied logic was that little Anthony Tedesco had suddenly summoned the suicidal courage to bring a criminal charge against one tentacle of the octopus that had had him in its grip since the club opened.

  Someone clearly had to personally penetrate The Pirate’s Den, and given the cast of characters, it looked as if I were the logical penetrator.

  It was around six o’clock in the evening. The sun was descending on a day that had been unseasonably warm. The line of Harleys racked up on either side of the door of The Pirate’s Den told me that happy hour was underway.

  I pulled my Corvette, top down, to a stop crosswise in the no parking space directly in front of the door. I was flanked on either side by tattooed hulks and their hulkettes, leaning on kick-standed cycles, beer bottles in hand.