Deadly Diamonds (8 page)

“Are you threatening a public official?”

“No, Angela. I'm giving you a very accurate prediction. You're playing with the life of a man who's worth ten of you on your best day. And make no mistake. I am personally involved. And, Angela, keep this in mind. You're not the only one with access to the boys at the
Globe
.”

Mr. D's phone hit the cradle, and I could see the steam go out of
him. He'd been looking more tired in the late afternoons than I liked to see, but this time he seemed more depleted than ever.

“How's Monsignor Ryan taking all of this?'

That brought him up a bit. “A hell of a lot better than I am.”

He finished telling me about his encounter with Casey and his wife when his phone rang. His secretary of many years, Lois Drury, knew to put the call directly through.

“Tom, what did you find out?”

“Your instincts were, as always, on target. A man went out the back door about five minutes after you left. My man followed him to a bar on Prince Street in the North End. Collini's.”

Mr. D. and I exchanged confused looks.

“My man did some discreet checking. His name is Tony Napolitano. He's mid-level muscle for the North End Mafia.”

Tom interpreted the silence that followed. “You're wondering what a lush in Irish Charlestown has to do with the boys in the Italian North End. Do you want me to do some more checking, Mr. Devlin?”

“Not yet, Tom. This is very delicate. I'll be in touch.”

Mr. D. hung up and did a lap between his desk and the window that gives a long view of Boston Harbor. I knew this was a time to clam up and let his gray cells connect.

It took twenty seconds for him to reach a decision. He was back at the phone dialing numbers with the speakerphone on. Apparently, I was invited to listen in. I wasn't completely surprised to hear him connect with his old friend and former don of the Boston family, Dominic Santangelo.

“Dominic, I said I wouldn't do this. Your old business is laid to rest. And thank God.”

“My friend, when you call me ‘Dominic' instead of ‘Dom,' I get nervous.”

“I need one more favor. Some inside information. If you can. It'll go no further. And Dom, this is for Matt. Have you heard?”

“He called me. He didn't want me to hear it on the television and not know what to think. Can you imagine? That I wouldn't know what to think about Matt.”

“I know.”

“Someone's behind this despicable lie. I could find out who it is and handle this in the old way. You understand, Lex? It's only my promise to you and to Matt that's keeping blood off my hands in this matter.”

“I do understand, Dom. And no one would want you to live up to that promise more than Matt. You can help in another way. I'm representing Matt. I need some unorthodox information.”

“Like what?”

“I'm going to mention a name. I need background, and—I'm sorry, Dom—an assurance that I won't read his name in tomorrow's obituaries.”

“I gave you my vow once, Lex. Don't dishonor me by asking for it again.”

“I won't. Forgive me, Dom. I'll never ask again.”

“What's the name?”

“Tony Napolitano.”

There was a heavy hanging silence for five seconds.

“What do you have to do with this man, Lex?”

“I'm sorry. I can't say. Someday I'll explain. What can you tell me?”

“Stay as far away from him as you can.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes. Tony Nap. He's, we say
pazzo
. He's crazy. I'll be frank. There are those in our organization who will kill for business. This man will kill for no reason. For his pleasure. The slightest insult. You do well to fear this man.”

“Who does he work for?”

“This goes no further?”

“Of course.”

“I'm out of the organization, but I still hear things. He's a ‘mechanic,' a ‘cleaner.' You know these words?”

“I can guess. For whom?”

“He was number one boy for Sal Barone. Barone was a
capo
, a big shot in the organization. He was the one found dead in the trunk
of his car. I have to assume that Tony Nap works for Barone's successor, Pasqual Salviti. Packy, they call him.”

“And where can I find this Packy?”

“You haven't been listening to me, Lex.”

“I've been listening. This is for Matt.”

I could hear another five seconds of silence.

“I'll tell you two things, Lex. Packy does his business from a bar on Prince Street in the North End. It's called Collini's.”

“Thank you, Dom. What's the second thing?”

“Just this. As I promised you and Matt, I'll restrain myself as far as humanly possible. You understand? A man can be pushed beyond his limits. I'll be clear. If anything should happen to you or Matt, the rules of the game will change.”

He hung up and we were back in conference.

“Michael, I know we handle every case together, but this one's mine. I know what I have to do. You've got your hands full with the O'Byrne kid anyway. Just one thing I'd like you to do with me.”

“Anything.”

“I want to set up a meeting with Billy Coyne. I need to work with someone in that D.A.'s office with an ounce of sense and an eye on something other than her career.”

“Agreed.”

“Let's meet at Marliave's for dinner. Six o'clock. I'd like you there. You sometimes see things these old eyes miss.”

He said it as a passing thought, but if I live through the next century, I'll remember every nuance of how he said it. It was Babe Ruth asking a rookie for batting tips.

I left the office about four thirty. I had a few things to do, but I made sure that I was at Marliave's before six o'clock. Roy, the maître d', part owner, and occasional chef, brought me up to the private room on the second floor. I always got special treatment because I stood in the shadow of Lex Devlin.

Billy Coyne, who to my knowledge has never been either late or
early for an appointment, appeared shortly, and I could set my watch at six o'clock on the dot.

We both ordered club soda and deliberately kept the conversation to the Bruins, the Celtics, and the Patriots until Mr. Devlin might appear.

That never happened. By six thirty, I had tarantulas in my stomach the size of groundhogs. Billy Coyne's increasingly sour mood showed that he had his share as well.

I excused myself and went into the hallway to make a call. There was no answer at the office. Mr. D. never carried a cell phone, so I dialed up the cell phone of my secretary, Julie.

“Julie, was Mr. Devlin at the office when you left?”

“No. He left right after you. He said he had something to do before meeting you.”

“And that was what?”

“He never said. He'd made a couple of calls on his private line. I could see the lights on my phone. Then he left.”

“How was he?”

Silence.

“Julie, how was he? Speak.”

“I didn't like how he looked. His face was red. He looked like he could have a stroke any minute. I even tried to get him to sit, but—Then he said—”

“What, Julie?”

“Tell Michael this one's all mine.”

CHAPTER NINE

When Michael left the office, Lex decided there was no time for anything but the direct approach. The longer the lie about Matt was allowed to fester, the more indelibly the stain would set.

He called the number for Collini's bar in the North End. The bartender took his name and put him through to Packy Salviti.

“Yeah, what?”

“Mr. Salviti, My name's Lex Devlin. You and I have some business to do. I suggest we meet.”

“Oh, yeah? Just like that. What business do I have with you?”

“I represent Monsignor Matt Ryan.”

Silence.

“I want you to understand two things. I know you've got your hand in this. Frankly, I don't give a damn about your business. You have nothing to be concerned about from me.”

“Oh, there's a relief. I can stop shakin' in my boots.”

Lex heard laughter on the other end. That meant he was on speakerphone, and Salviti was playing to his gang of thugs. It also meant that nothing constructive would come of that conversation. He needed Salviti alone.

“I'm a lawyer, Salviti. I'll give you some advice. No charge. If I were you, I'd take that phone off speaker and treat this as a personal call. I told you I represent Father Ryan. Like I said, we have business. It's personal business you may not want broadcast to every baboon in the cage over there.”

“Who the hell do you think—?”

“I'm the one who can do you some good if we sit down and talk. We can do it alone or it can happen in a police interrogation room
under an arrest warrant for subornation of perjury. I prefer alone, but the other's looking more attractive all the time.”

There were three seconds before Lex heard the speakerphone click off.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Let's meet and see how the conversation develops.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

A few seconds' pause.

“I'll be here.”

“I won't. The sooner you get over the idea you're dealing with the class idiot, the more we'll be able to do for each other. Someplace neutral and public. Boston Common. Corner of Charles and Beacon Streets. I'll be on the bench. Five o'clock.”

The beginning of rush hour brought a flow of professional suits and tourists by the bench area on one of the busiest sections of Boston Common. Lex knew none of them, but he got a feeling of security in their presence.

The sun was just down. The chill that followed made it all the more difficult to control the urge to catch the first cab out of there. This was not an arena in which he felt on solid ground. He knew he was about to bargain with the devil on a matter in which he was blind-sided from every direction.

It was a quarter past five, and the prospect of a dead end was looming, when he heard the repeated blast of a horn from a black Lincoln stopped at the curb on Charles Street. The driver seemed to be summoning him to the passenger side with the window down.

Lex walked to within five feet and leaned down to check it out.

“Get in, Mr. Devlin.”

“Like hell. Where's Salviti?”

“He's waiting. I'll take you to him.”

“That wasn't the deal.”

The driver held his coat open to show that there was no hardware
hidden. “I'm just the driver. Mr. Salviti said you wanted someplace private so's you could talk freely. C'mon. We're holdin' up traffic.”

The horns of the Boston drivers behind the Lincoln were in fact getting into the conversation. Lex knew that Salviti had put the decision squarely on his back under pressure. The odds that a decision to get into the car would insure that he'd seen his last Boston sunset were overwhelming. On the other hand, a decision to walk away might quench the last spark of hope for Matt's redemption. Without weighing the matter too rationally, he went against the odds and slipped into the backseat.

The Lincoln jumped into the flow of traffic on Beacon Street toward the Berkeley Street entrance to Storrow Drive. With one hand on the wheel, the driver reached an open hand toward the backseat.

“I'll take your cell phone, Mr. Devlin. Just a precaution.”

“Against what?”

“Like I said. Mr. Salviti wants to keep this little meeting private.”

“I don't have a cell phone.”

The driver gave that a few seconds' thought. “Just so you know. I'll be watching you. I got my orders. Mr. Salviti was very particular. If I see you doin' anything funny, do I need to spell it out?”

There was no need to answer.

The man at the wheel had the Boston driver's knack of cutting across lanes and slipping into openings barely a foot or two larger than the Lincoln. Their speed was well above that of the flow of traffic as they passed Mass. General Hospital and made the circular lane changes that put them in the fast lane heading north on Route 1.

They were over the Danvers line when the driver used an exit to make a U-turn. He went a mile before making a second U-turn back onto Route 1 north. This time he cut a sharp right-hand turn into the darkness that covered a strip of parking spaces in front of a set of wooden cabins that made up the Seaborn Motel. The “No Vacancy” sign was dimly lit, but there was only one car parked on the strip in front of the cabins. The driver of the Lincoln pulled in beside it.

“Let's go, Mr. Devlin.”

There was no point in conversation. Lex knew from the moment he shut the door of the Lincoln on Charles Street that he was completely in the hands of the devil. Whatever bargaining power he thought he had vanished with the locking click of the car door.

Lex forced his mind to squelch nerves that approached the panic level with the constant reminder that he was Matt's last frail chance. He followed the driver to the door of the cabin. The driver gave three knocks, then two. The door was opened by a trim man in a dark suit with the eyes of a barracuda.