Part 26 (1/2)
In the morning, I awoke early. The condo was silent, so I pulled on my running shoes and let myself out, making sure the door locked behind me. I needed a shower and fresh clothes, so I drove to my apartment, parked illegally on the street, tromped up the stairs, and found eight cardboard boxes-each big enough to hold a child's head-stacked against my front door.
37.
I unlocked the door and dragged the boxes inside. Then I rummaged in the kitchen drawer, pulled out a steak knife, knelt on the floor, and carefully slit open the first box. I reached in and pulled out the June 1935 issue of Black Mask-the one with a Raymond Chandler story, ”Nevada Gas,” listed on the front cover.
I unpacked the rest of my pulp magazine collection from the box, and as far as I could tell it was all there. I slit open the other boxes and found my turntable, my old blues records, and my h.o.a.rd of paperback novels from the 1940s and 1950s.
I showered, pulled on fresh jeans, plucked a relatively odorless Tommy Castro Band T-s.h.i.+rt from the laundry basket, and headed to the diner for a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast and a mug of Charlie's decaf. I took a sip, pulled my phone out of my jeans, and punched in a number.
”Sal Maniella.”
”It's Mulligan.”
”What can I do for you?”
”I found some boxes on my doorstep this morning.”
”Is that so?”
”It is. Apparently a couple of big guys forced their way into my almost-ex's place and retrieved them for me. Scared the woman half to death.”
”Must have been terrible for her.”
”I don't suppose you know anything about this.”
”Of course not.”
”I didn't think so.”
”The boxes. Was everything in them?”
”Yes.”
”That's good,” he said. ”Be a shame if somebody had to go back and scare the poor woman all over again.”
Maniella had done me a favor, and his banter showed that he wanted me to know it. I wondered why he'd thought it was worth his while. Call me a cynic, but I couldn't buy the possibility that he was just being nice.
”Hear about the murders at Chad Brown?” I asked.
”I did.”
”Something you can shed light on?”
”All I know is what I read in your paper.”
I signed off, finished my eggs, and walked to the Dispatch. The a.s.sistant business editor had called in sick, so I spent the morning and half the afternoon editing banking and technology stories I didn't understand. It was past two o'clock before I was able to break away to check in with my sources.
I tore open a bag of Beggin' Strips, pulled one out, and tossed it to Shortstop. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the air, wolfed it down, and laid his head in my lap. I scratched him behind the ears. He rumbled contentedly and drooled on my jeans.
”Give me a dime on Miami to cover,” I said. I hated betting against New England, but the Dolphins' wildcat offense usually gave the Patriots fits. Zerilli jotted my bet on a sc.r.a.p of flash paper and tossed it into his washtub.
”Nice of you to bring something for the mutt,” he said.
”No problem.”
”He likes you.”
”Good somebody does.”
”Yeah,” he said, drawing the word out. ”Nothin' gets your head straight like spending time with a good dog.”
I reached into the bag and gave the pooch another treat. He swallowed it whole, tore the bag from my hand, retreated to a corner, and helped himself to the rest.
”So what are you hearing?” I asked.
”The Chad Brown murders?”
”Yeah.”
”Not a f.u.c.kin' thing.”
He opened his file drawer and presented me with a fresh box of Cohibas.
”Thanks, Whoosh,” I said, and laid the box on the floor by my chair.
”Not lighting one up?”
”Not right now. My doc says I gotta cut down.”
”That sucks.”
”It does.”
”Think the child p.o.r.n racket was Maniella's?” he asked.
”I was gonna ask you.”
”No idea.”
”Did Arena and Gra.s.so try to have Sal whacked?” I asked.
”And risk a war with the ex-SEALs? No f.u.c.kin' way.”