Part 22 (2/2)
”They didn't seem to mind your questions today.”
”They didn't answer the important ones.”
The candles in the candelabra had burned to stubs, and one of them had gone out. I relit it with my lighter.
”When are you going to tell Captain Parisi that Sal is alive?” I asked.
”Tomorrow, if the roads are better,” she said. ”It's something I should do face-to-face.”
”Taking Sal with you?”
”No.”
”Parisi's going to want to question him.”
”I'm not going to allow that,” she said.
”Mind if I call the captain in the morning and give him the news myself?”
”Why would you want to do that?”
”Because it would amuse me.”
”I'd rather you didn't, but I can't stop you.” She paused and then added, ”I guess it wouldn't do any harm.”
I picked up the decanter of bourbon from the table and thought about how good it would feel on the way down. Then I thought about what would happen when it hit bottom and returned the container to the table.
”Patricia Smith is going to be at the Cantab in Cambridge the second week in January,” I said.
”Is that so?”
”They say her readings are amazing. We should go.”
”Maybe, but not together.”
”Separate cars would waste gasoline,” I said. ”Don't you care about the environment?”
”Going together would just encourage you,” she said.
Vanessa stepped into the library to announce that our beds would be ready shortly. Then she noticed the way I was looking at Yolanda and asked, ”Will you be wanting one room or two?”
”One,” I said.
”Two,” Yolanda said.
Vanessa chuckled and slipped out of the room.
In the morning, Sal stood on the front porch with his wife and daughter and waved good-bye as Yolanda and I headed down the snow-covered dirt road to our cars. I helped her clear the snow from hers. Then I brushed off Secretariat. I locked my .45 in the glove box and placed a plastic bag holding Grant's two-volume memoir on the floor by the front pa.s.senger seat. I started the car, turned on the heater, and let the engine warm while I made the call to Parisi.
”Guess who I was just talking to,” I said.
”I don't play guessing games, Mulligan.”
”Sal Maniella.”
That five-second pause, and then: ”You talking to dead people now?”
”Sometimes I do,” I said. ”But he looked alive to me. He was walking and talking, and his breath turned white in the cold.”
”Seriously?”
”Yeah.”
”Because if this is your idea of a joke...”
”It's not.”
”Then who the h.e.l.l is in the morgue?”
”A retired Navy SEAL named Dante Puglisi. Sal had been using him as a double. They looked a lot alike, and Puglisi had some plastic surgery a few years back to perfect the illusion.”
A five-second pause again. ”Plastic surgery scars were noted in the autopsy report, but we chalked it up to vanity.”
”I would have, too.”
”Sal's been playing dead because somebody tried to kill him?”
”Yeah.”
”His wife played along by falsely identifying the body?”
”Sal's lawyer claims she was distraught and confused.”
”You met her?”
”I did.”
”She seem confused to you?”
”No.”
”Did Sal tell you who wants him dead?”
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