Evelyn David - Sullivan Investigations 02 - Murder Takes the Cake (10 page)

“
It worked didn’t it? And now who is exaggerating. I never waved any notepad at him. I told him I’d have to go back to the car and–”

“
She doesn’t look like she sounded.” Edgar leaned closer to the body, his head level with the casket opening. “You think that’s really her? Or maybe it’s a body double.”

“
Are you crazy?” JJ looked around the empty room, relieved they didn’t have an audience. She lowered her voice. “She’s Martha Martinelli, old man, not Evita Peron.”

“
Surprised you even know who Evita Peron was.” Edgar reached out a hand towards the body. “Martha was well-known in her own right. Quite a lady! She made plenty of enemies during her career. The politicians in this town loved her when she was going after the other party, hated her when she came after them. Awfully young to be in this here box.”

“
I know who Martha Martinelli was.” JJ flinched as Edgar poked the woman’s hand with one gnarly finger.

“
Sure you do.”

“
I do.” She slapped at Edgar’s arm. “Stop touching her, that’s not wax. For your information Martha Martinelli was kind of a female political shock jock! A cross between Bob Woodward and Howard Stern with an Elizabeth Dole facade. She was a big deal in the 80’s.”

“
What else do you know?”

JJ stared at the dead woman.
“She had bad taste in clothes?”

Edgar started his scooterchair and turned around, almost running over JJ as she scrambled in her high heels to get out of his way.

“Damn it, Edgar, will you watch where you are–”

“
Thirty-some odd years ago Martha ruined the career of an up-and-coming member of the House. Interviewed someone on air who claimed the Representative was implicated in the disappearance of a young Virginia mother and her newborn baby.”

“
What’s your point? Why should I care about something that happened 30 years ago?”

“
The guy she interviewed–a young legislative aide–his last name was Lasky.”

***

“What’s the detective’s name again?”

Mac negotiated the parking spot and turned off the motor. It was only the second time Rachel had trusted him to drive her Jeep–the first time in city traffic–and he considered it quite a milestone in their relationship.
“Will Banks–I’ve known him about 15 years. He used to work narcotics in D.C.”

“
Why did he want to meet in a bar?”

“
Actually that was my suggestion. Too many eyes and ears at the police station. If a cop is behind Bridget’s problems, I don’t want him or her knowing I’m looking into it.”

“
But you said this bar was a cop hangout.”

“
It’s a compromise, okay? Not perfect, but if anyone sees us, it will look casual. Especially with you there. Will is bringing someone too.”

Rachel flipped down the passenger visor and checked her reflection in the lighted mirror.
“Where did you go while I was at the newspaper office?”

“
The bar where Ken Edelstein had his last drink. I talked to the bartender who was on duty that evening. He admitted to making all the passion fruit margaritas, but swears there were no extra ingredients, at least that he added. Of course because there was such a crowd and that was the special–he hardly looked up from his blender. He was making gallons of the stuff and the waitresses were taking fully loaded drink trays out to the tables. Wouldn’t have been hard for someone to slip a little poison in one of them.”

Mac watched as she added some lipstick. After they had both gotten some sleep, he
‘d dropped her off at the Boston Globe offices. She had researched and copied all the news stories about the police corruption story and the one brief blurb about Edelstein’s death. They now had an inch thick folder of material to go through once they got back to D.C.

“
How would someone know which drink Bridget would end up with?” She rolled the glossy red wax downwards in the gold tube, then glanced at him.

“
Good question. Either they made a mistake or they really didn’t care who at her table got the drink. Maybe it was planned to be a warning to Bridget. Maybe Edelstein was just supposed to get sick; not keel over dead in front of everyone.”

She dropped the lipstick in her purse and then flipped up the visor.
“Too many maybes. Maybe none of this is connected. Or maybe it all is and while we’re here hitting the Boston bars, the killer is in D.C. plotting his next attack.”

“
Whatever is going on–it started here. So we need to start here.” He opened the Jeep’s door, handed her the keys, then added, “But you’re right. I’m taking a chance the killer is moving quicker than I am. That I’m going to be in the wrong place, when he or she attacks again.”

“
It’s a he,” Rachel asserted, following him and locking the Jeep with a beep of the remote. “I know it’s a he.”

***

Mac put a firm hand on Rachel’s shoulder stopping her as she was about to go through the well-worn wooden door of Silkie’s Saloon. “Let me do the talking.”

Annoyed, but unsurprised, Rachel nodded and walked into a small room. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Silkie
‘s was on a small street in Charlestown, an enclave that was part of the city, but located north of Boston proper. Originally known for the Irish Mob presence, the area had undergone massive gentrification in the late 1980s. Charlestown was a mix of upper-middle class residences next to housing projects, and a large working class of Irish-Americans still lived in the area. Silkie’s had evidently missed the memo about upscale, yuppie bars. The latest incarnation probably dated back to the 1960s, Rachel decided, judging from the tired linoleum on the floor. She remembered that same pattern in her grandparents’ kitchen. Originally white with flecks of color, intended to hide the dirt, the floor at Silkie’s had long lost whatever colorful dots it had. Instead, it was the same drab brown as the walls, and gouged from years of wooden chairs scraping across it. A long oak bar ran the length of one wall, with a dozen small wooden tables scattered around the room. A quick glance at the tabletops convinced her that whatever the menu listed, the only food Silkie served were Buffalo wings with a side order of white glop, presumably some type of dressing for the spicy poultry. The only other choice to be made was which of the many beers on tap would be your drink of the evening. The undercurrent of a half-dozen disparate conversations was almost drowned out by the sound, emanating from a scratched jukebox in the corner, of Frank Sinatra singing about flying to the moon.

Mac scanned the room, then with a light touch at the small of her back, guided her to a table across the room. Seated were a man about Mac
‘s age and a woman a good ten years younger than herself. The remains of a large order of wings were heaped on a dirty table; two glasses of beer were half full. “Hey, Sullivan. Good to see you.” Will Banks waved to the two open seats at the table. “What’s your pleasure?” The Boston cop motioned to a middle-aged waitress leaning against the bar.

“
Two of whatever’s good on tap, but none of that lite stuff.”

Rachel slid into a seat next to the younger woman, who was methodically chipping the blood red polish from the nails on her left hand.

“Rachel Brenner,” Mac turned to face her. “This is Will Banks and?”

“
Sally Silver,” the woman paused from her impromptu manicure to introduce herself, then returned to picking the color off the last two nails on her left hand. Rachel noted the lack of a wedding ring. She quickly glanced across the table. Will sported a gold band on his left hand.

“
So what brings you to Beantown? You said something about a dead reporter and a poisoned margarita?”

Mac took a long draw of the fresh suds the waitress had put in front of him.
“Could you find out anything about Ken Edelstein? He worked for the Globe and died about a week ago.”

Banks slid an arm around Sally
‘s shoulders. The younger woman started working on the polish on her right hand.

“
I checked the police report. The guy was 58 years old, a workaholic, with chronic high blood pressure, and never met a chicken wing he didn’t eat. He was at least 40 pounds overweight. What’s the big deal? He keeled over. End of story.”

“
Any possibility the death might have been more than just an unfortunate heart attack? Maybe somebody was mad about his stories on the District A-1 cops?”

Banks sat up and leaned across the table.
“What do you know I don’t know? Edelstein wasn’t even the lead reporter on those stories. It was a bitch named Bridget something Irish.”

Mac
‘s face got red and he started to rise. “Watch your mouth. She’s not a bitch. She’s my goddaughter and the best damn reporter this town has ever seen.”

Rachel saw the other couples in the bar were staring. She put her hand on Mac
‘s arm and he reluctantly sat back down.

“
Settle down,” Banks said in a harsh whisper. “You gotta know this isn’t the headquarters of your goddaughter’s fan club.”

Mac took another drink of his beer.
“Why are you defending them? You never liked dirty cops.”

“
Too many good cops got tarred with the same brush when that b.…” Banks stopped himself when he caught the look on Mac’s face, then continued. “Guys who were close to retirement and maybe had a couple too many free donuts are being handed their walking papers along with the guys who were dealing cocaine.”

“
That’s not Bridget’s fault,” Mac insisted. Rachel tightened the grip on his arm and he lowered his voice. “That’s not her fault. That’s the brass at headquarters putting on a show to cover up turning a blind eye all those years.”

“
Look. I didn’t come here to argue with you about your goddaughter’s career. But from what I could see, the Edelstein guy died of natural causes.”

Sally finished the last of her nails and stood up.
“Excuse me. I gotta pee.”

Banks checked his watch.
“I’m leaving in ten minutes so make it fast if you want me to drop you off.”

“
Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” The young woman sashayed across the floor, dramatically rolling her hips and catching the attention of two men nursing beers at the bar.

“
How’s Mary Anne?” Mac asked, once Sally was out of earshot.

“
Great. Great. She’s babysitting our newest grandson. Had you heard she had breast cancer last spring?”

“
Man, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“
Yeah, it was pretty bad, the chemo and all. But last week, all the tests came back clean.” Banks took another drag of his beer. “I gotta pick her up at 5:30. She’s got a list a mile long for Thanksgiving and we’re doing the shopping tonight. All the kids are coming home.”

Mac smiled.
“Your boy join the force?”

“
Yeah. He’s working the gang unit. I think he’ll make detective a lot faster than his old man.”

Mac laughed.
“Give ‘em all my best. I got one more question. What do you know about Scott Merrell?”

Banks
‘ face darkened. “You don’t want to mess with that.”

“
I don’t have much choice. He made some ugly threats.”

“
I can’t talk.…” Banks looked pointedly at Rachel.

“
Nah, she’s cool. We’re–”

“
Excuse me, gentlemen.” Rachel smiled, but pushed back her chair. “You know I think I’d better check in with Carrie. I left her in charge and that’s always a dicey proposition. I’ll be at the bar.”

***

Banks waited until Rachel had cleared the table, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “Merrell is more dangerous than a junkie on a cocktail of crack, PCP, and ecstasy. He’s got a temper and a plan. Mess with either and you’re a dead man.”

“
He threatened Bridget.”

“
He probably thinks she’s the source of all his troubles.”

“
Being a dirty cop with expensive tastes is his problem. Throwing parties for drug dealers is his problem.”

“
That was the least of it,” Banks admitted. “He’s been suspended and a grand jury’s about to come down with an indictment longer than Mary Anne’s shopping list. I heard he went underground once he turned in his badge.”

“
Any idea where he might be?”

“
The department wants him more than you do. I hear he’s got some relatives in Virginia so he might have headed down your way. Nobody’s seen him for more than a week.”

Mac stiffened.
“Where in Virginia?”

“
Don’t know. I’m betting some of the guys in our old division back in D.C. have been on the lookout for him. Informally, of course, since the grand jury hasn’t returned with charges yet.” Banks smiled unconvincingly. “Lieutenant Greeley owe you any favors?”