Deadly Diamonds (21 page)

They were drawn in closer to catch every word.

“I care because I think you young gentlemen and your buddy, Kevin, are three of the lyingest scumbags I've had the displeasure of meeting this month. This little tale of a boys' night out is a crock. Damn! You boys are in college. Couldn't you do better than that fairy tale? Don't they teach you creative writing these days?”

No answer. None was expected. The blank stares were fixed, but the level of tension was clearly rising.

“Now, gentlemen—forgive the inappropriate title—here's the score. Both of you are looking at a possible stretch of prison life as accessories to murder. I mentioned that before. It's true. But it doesn't have to be that way. One of you can bail out. The price is the truth. All of it. And the prize goes to the swiftest. Whichever one calls me first at this phone number gets the best get-out-of-jail-free card I can offer. Are we clear so far?”

Neither one wanted to be the first to put it in words. I took the pained, blanched expression on their faces as an affirmative answer.

“Good. Then here's what I need to know. When did you really talk to Kevin last? Where was he? And what did he say? So far, so good?”

Same nonresponse response.

“Also good. And here's the last question. What in the hell were you three really doing at Patrini's that night? And if the word ‘pizza' pops up in the answer, there'll be no prize.”

I stood slowly and dropped the price of the Cokes on the table. “It's been a pleasure getting together with you boys. One way or another, we'll talk soon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It was a two-horse race, and my money was on Chuck Dixon to crack first. There was, however, no point in babysitting the phone. Given the tight lips I'd run into on the Irish side of this weeklong debacle, the odds were against either of them cracking the wall of silence.

That's why I was surprised when I got back to the office to hear from Julie that the phone had been ringing like a telethon. It was the same voice each time, but no name and no callback number. The second surprise was that when I answered the next ring myself, I recognized the voice of Bob Murphy—not Chuck Dixon. Live and learn.

“Mr. Knight, don't use any names. You know who this is?”

“I do. Go, Paws.”

I figured the mention of the Northeastern University mascot, Paws the Husky, would establish contact without compromising anyone.

“I need to see you. Has the other guy called?”

“Nope. You won the race. If you give me something worth it, you've got me in your corner.”

There was a pause while he seemed to be weighing what he had to give against what I could do for him. That latter was a mystery to both of us, and I let it hang that way.

“Okay, let's talk.”

“Shoot. You have my full attention.”

“Not here. I can't over the phone. Will you meet me tonight?”

“Done. Where and when?”

“Midnight. You know that strip of land off Storrow Drive just below the Hatch Shell?”

“I do. Beside the Charles River.”

“Right. There's a bench under some trees. I'll be there at midnight.”

That was promising. It also gave me a chance to make a down payment on a debt. Seamus Burke, the Irish quasi-angel who had pulled my chestnuts out of the fire in Pi Alley and then staged a Navy SEAL rescue of Mr. Devlin at the Seaborn Motel, deserved something for the effort. I called him at his home in Dorchester. No answer. I left a message vague enough to seem innocuous to anyone else, but specific enough to tip him off to the midnight rendezvous with a person of interest.

That done, I could fully appreciate the fact that for the first time since I was favored with the invitation to O'Byrne's office at the point of a switchblade, I had an entire six hours apparently goon-free. There was no question about how I'd spend them. That was my second call.

For well over a year, Terry O'Brien had been the only girl I'd dated, considered dating, or wanted to date. I reached her at her home in Winthrop and asked if I could pick her up in twenty minutes for a quiet dinner at a seashore restaurant that I'd been saving for a special date.

Her answer was yes. The next question that popped to my mind, but that I didn't ask, was why? Why on earth would she still say yes? It had been a year of catch-as-catch-can dates sandwiched between the embroilments of a practice that would make Jack Reacher's life look like that of an accountant. In fact, on several occasions, our dates ended with Terry being slipped into the backseat of the car of one of Tom Burns's operatives just to keep her alive. She was truly the front-runner for the
Guinness World Records
for courageous endurance.

I picked Terry up at her home by the ocean on the north shore of Winthrop. We drove north along the rocky coastal drive to the Molly Waldo Restaurant in Marblehead. She absolutely glowed. It happened to me the first time we went out on an actual date, and it happened to me every time since. The breath seemed to squeeze out
of me at the thought that all of this mind-bending vibrancy and beauty was to be with me alone for the entire evening. Just having her beside me in the Corvette on that glorious stretch of seacoast put every unpleasant detail of the previous week on another planet.

When Paul at the desk of the Molly Waldo showed us to our table, I could feel the eyes of other diners turn in our direction. I knew I wasn't the one drawing the attention.

Chef Anthony came out to our table shortly after drink orders. He took the menus out of our hands, and said, “Please, Michael, allow me.”

I'd known him for years, but this was the first time he'd done that. The answer, of course, was, “Yes, by all means.” I could tell by her smile that Terry was just radiating pleasure in a perfect evening.

About eight thirty, just after the main course, the sweet gentle sounds of the Hammond organ began with “It Had to Be You.” I asked Terry to dance, and she had her hand in mine on the way to the small floor before I finished asking.

In the middle of the next song, I couldn't resist asking Terry my favorite sports question. “What player actually played for the Boston Celtics, the Boston Bruins, and the Boston Red Sox?” It was a setup. Not just because Terry knew about as much about sports as I did about molecular physics, but because I was enjoying another small surprise. She did this cute thing with her nose and eyes that said, “Surely, you jest.”

By this time I had danced us to a spot directly beside the organist. I whispered in Terry's ear, “This is the guy. He's the one who played for the Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins.”

She whispered back, “He doesn't look athletic.”

“He's not. He's John Kiley, the organist.”

She gave her face a wrinkled smile that could have greeted a bad pun. John Kiley leaned over without missing a beat and said in that baritone voice, “Michael, are you pulling that old gag on this beautiful lady?”

“You caught me, John. Meet Terry O'Brien.”

John played with his left hand while he reached down for Terry's
hand with his right. “My dear, but for your choice of dining companions, you are absolutely impeccable.”

Terry burst into a smile that illuminated the room. “Thank you, Mr. Kiley. But I thought my choice was the best part of the evening.”

John just leaned back and looked at the ceiling, “Oh, my God, Michael. If you don't ask this lady to marry you tonight, I'll personally have you committed.”

Before Terry could turn a deeper shade of red, I danced her out of range. We danced in silence through the song John was playing while I did a fast but deep life calculation.

We were alone on the floor. I could see John signal the waiter to turn down the lights. As only John could, he played the most romantic rendition I have ever heard of “There Will Never Be Another You.” I held Terry close through the first verse. When he began the second verse, I caught his look over Terry's shoulder. His scrunchedup forehead and wrinkled eyebrows beamed directly in my direction could not more clearly have said “Now!”

I had to say it quickly before my legs buckled beneath me. I whispered, but made it loud enough so I couldn't be misunderstood. “Terry, I think I've loved you since the first moment I saw you. I know I do now. And I will for the rest of my life. I know I'm not good at this. But will you please marry me?”

The whisper was so soft, I didn't really take it in. “Of course I will, Michael. Don't you know I love you too?”

“Terry, you don't have to answer right away. You can—What did you say?”

“I said, of course, I will.”

We were dancing, and kissing, and grinning, and almost leaping in the air. John Kiley went into a jazzed up version of the “Wedding March,” and all of the other diners, the maître d', and even the waiters gave us a standing ovation. When we finally walked back to our table, I could see John give me the fighter's victory sign with his hands over his head. At our table was a bottle of champagne, open with two glasses.

We toasted the night, and the music, and mostly a love so strong
you could almost taste it, and we danced to John's music until ten thirty.

And then the carriage turned back to a pumpkin, and the white horses became mice again. I remembered my meeting with Bob Murphy at midnight by the Hatch Shell.

We said our good-byes to John, who could not stop grinning, and to our other hosts. We were back in the Corvette starting to head south along the coast. Terry was holding my right hand and just seemed to be floating in a silent dream. My own state of euphoria was slightly jarred when I noticed headlights pull in behind us as soon as we left the parking lot.

Something was triggering a definite alert. It might have been the uncomfortable closeness of the car behind us or the fact that it appeared as soon as we were on the road. Without alarming Terry, I turned right at the next street. The car followed. I made two more rights and a left to head back toward the Molly Waldo. The car followed.

If I were alone, I'd have floored the Corvette and used familiar streets to lose him, but not with Terry aboard. I kept the speed moderate and turned into the Molly Waldo parking lot. By now Terry knew this was not an average ride home from a date. She kept her amazing cool. It was not the first time a date with me ended in more excitement than necessary.

I spoke as calmly as possible. “Here's the plan. When I stop the car, you run back into the restaurant. And don't worry. I can handle this.”

“What are you going to do, Michael?”

“I have an idea.”

I tapped out a number on my cell phone. John Kiley answered. “John, I need a favor. Terry's coming back in at top speed. Will you call the Marblehead police? Get them to the parking lot as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Michael, not again. Do you ever live like a normal person?”

“Sometimes. Not today.”

“I'm on it. Send her in. I'll stay with her.”

I pulled back into the parking lot at an unhurried speed as if I'd forgotten something. I saw other diners just leaving the restaurant. The car behind pulled in right after me. When I reached the door, I stopped and told Terry, “Go. Now. I'll be in to pick you up.”

I saw Terry run the ten feet to the door and get safely inside. I hit the gas and swung around a half circle to the right to come in behind the car following me. I was deliberately blocking the only exit from the parking lot. I just sat there. The car that had been following me was boxed in between my Corvette and the other cars leaving the restaurant. I figured that in full view of that crowd, whoever it might be was unlikely to get violent. In less than thirty seconds, two distinct sirens announced the arrival of police cars.

The two men in the blocked-in car made a panicky choice to get out and run. They were both a couple of beefy-looking hoods who were not about to set Olympic speed records. The four officers were quick to respond to my shouted allegations of assault and harassment. They had the two of them in custody before they could make it across the parking lot.

I complimented the officers with a vague suggestion that I was a local resident. In a high-income, low-crime area like Marblehead, pleasing the residents is second only to pleasing the tourists. They agreed to hold the two thugs overnight until I came in to proffer charges in the morning.

I got a good look at the two in the backseat of the police car glaring back at me. They were both of the thuggish cut, but I didn't recognize either of them. I said through the window, “You boys out for the sea air?”

I said it because I wanted to hear the voices to see if they carried a South Boston Irish or a North End Italian accent. The response was salty, and the accent was definitely South Boston Irish.

That was a jolt. Clearly the two thugs were not ambassadors of goodwill. Equally clearly, if I pegged the Irish accents right, they'd be doing nothing without the orders of Frank O'Byrne. I had thought we were playing for that team—at least in a limited way. It made me wonder if O'Byrne was following Shakespeare's proposal
in
Henry VI
—“The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.” Starting with his own.