Harmful Intent (46 page)

“I won't be able to get out there until later this afternoon,” the man said.

“Make it as soon as you can,” Devlin said.

That taken care of, Devlin drove to the North End. After double parking on Hanover Street, he went into the Via Veneto Café.

As soon as Devlin entered, there was a shuffle of feet toward the back of the café, just beyond the mural depicting a section of the Roman Forum. A wire-backed chair fell to the floor. Devlin heard the strands of a beaded curtain tinkle against each other.

Wasting no time, Devlin sprinted from the café to the street. He wove his way around pedestrians to Bennet Street and took a left. Turning into a narrow alleyway, he plowed into a short, balding man with round features.

The man tried to elude Devlin, but Devlin grabbed his jacket before he had taken two steps. Still squirming, the man tried to slip out of the jacket, but Devlin pinned him against the wall.

“Not so happy to see me, are you, Dominic?” Devlin said. Dominic was a small part of Devlin's network of informers. Devlin was now particularly interested in talking with him because of his longtime association with Frank Feranno.

“I had nothing to do with Frank's shooting you,” Dominic
said, visibly quaking. He and Devlin went back a long way as well.

“If I thought you had, I wouldn't be talking with you,” Devlin said with a smile that Dominic immediately understood. “But I'm interested to know what Frank is up to these days. I figured you'd be the one to tell me.”

“I can't tell you anything about Frank,” Dominic said. “Give me a break. You know what would happen to me.”

“That's only if I say anything to anybody,” Devlin said. “Have I ever said anything about you to anybody, even the police?”

Dominic didn't respond.

“Besides,” Devlin said, “for the moment, Frank is a hypothetical concern. Right this minute, I'm your worry. And I have to tell you, Dominic, I'm not a happy camper.” Devlin reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. He knew it would make its intended impression.

“I don't know much,” Dominic said nervously.

Devlin slipped the gun back into its holster. “What might not be much to you might mean a lot to me. Who is Frank working for? Who got him to waste that kid last night on the Esplanade?”

“I don't know.”

Devlin reached in to grasp his gun for the second time.

“Matt,” Dominic said. “That's all I know. Tony told me before they went to the Esplanade. He's working for some guy named Matt. From St. Louis.”

“What was the deal? Drugs, something like that?”

“I don't know. I don't think it was drugs. They were supposed to kill the kid and send the doctor to St. Louis.”

“You're not yanking my chain, are you, Dominic?” Devlin asked menacingly. This was a far cry from the scenario he'd imagined.

“I'm telling it to you straight,” Dominic said. “Why should I lie?”

“Did Frank send the doctor to St. Louis?” Devlin asked.

“No, they missed him. Frank took Nicky after Tony was shot. This time the doctor's girlfriend clipped him with her car. Broke his arm.”

Devlin was impressed. At least he wasn't the only pro having trouble with the doctor. “So Frank's still involved?” Devlin asked.

“Yeah, as far as I know,” Dominic said. “I understand he's
talked to Vinnie D'Agostino. There's supposed to be big money involved.”

“I want to know about this guy from St. Louis,” Devlin said. “And I want to know what Frank and Vinnie are up to. Use the usual phone numbers. And, Dominic, if you don't call, my feelings will be hurt. I think you know how I get when I have hurt feelings. I don't suppose I have to draw you any pictures.”

Devlin let Dominic go. He turned and left the alley without looking back. The guy had better deliver. Devlin was in no mood to dick around, and he was determined to find out what Frank Feranno was up to.

 

Frank's euphoria evaporated when he caught sight of Kelly's house. The place looked deserted, with all the curtains drawn. Frank sighed. That seventy-five grand was further away than he'd thought.

For about half an hour he just sat and watched the place. No one came in or out. There was no sign of life except for a Siamese cat lolling in the middle of the front lawn like he owned the place.

Finally Frank got out of the car. First he walked around the side of the house to see if there were any windows in the garage. There were. Cupping his hands, he peered in. No red Honda Accord like he'd hounded last night on Beacon Hill. Returning to the front of the house, Frank decided to ring the bell and see what happened. For reassurance, he felt his gun. Then he rang the bell.

When nothing happened, he put his ear to the door and pushed the button again. He could hear the chimes within, so at least the doorbell worked. Cupping his hands again, he looked through the sidelight of the door. He couldn't see much because of a lacy curtain on the other side.

Damn, he thought as he turned to face the street. The Siamese was still crouched in the middle of the lawn.

Walking out onto the grass, Frank bent down and stroked the large cat. Samson eyed him suspiciously, but didn't dart away.

“You like that, huh, pussy?” Frank said. Just then a woman came out of the house next door and walked toward him.

“Have you made a friend, Samson?” she asked.

“Your kitty, ma'am?” Frank asked in his most gracious voice.

“Hardly,” the woman said with a chuckle. “He's the mortal enemy of my Burmese. But as neighbors, we have to learn to get along.”

“Nice big cat,” Frank said, standing up. He was about to ask the woman about Kelly Everson, when she started for Kelly's front door.

“Come on, Samson,” she called to the Siamese. “Let's go check Delilah.”

“Are you going into Kelly's house?” Frank asked.

“Yes, I am,” she said.

“Wonderful,” Frank said. He walked over to her. “I'm Frank Carter, a cousin of Kelly's. I took a chance on finding her home.”

“I'm Kay Buchanan,” she said, extending her hand. “I'm Kelly's neighbor and sometime cat-sitter. I'm afraid you're going to have some wait. Kelly's gone away for the weekend.”

“Darn,” Frank said, snapping his fingers. “My mother gave me her address so I could say hello. I'm from out of town. Here just for a couple of days on business. When will Kelly be coming back?”

“She didn't say exactly,” Kay said. “What a pity.”

“Especially with my not having much to do today,” Frank said. “Any idea where she went?”

“Just out to Martha's Vineyard. Edgartown, I think,” Kay said. “She said she had to go. I have a sneaking suspicion it was more of a romantic thing. But I didn't complain. To tell the truth, I was glad for her. She needs to get out more. She's been in mourning long enough, don't you think?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Frank said, hoping not to get further into it than that.

“Well, nice meeting you,” Kay said. “I've got to see to these cats. It's the other one who's the big worry. You think Samson's big, you should see Delilah. She gives new meaning to the term ‘fat cat.' Due any day. Say, maybe you should stop back on Monday if you're still in town. I imagine Kelly will be back by then. She better be. I'm not playing nursemaid to a whole litter!”

“Maybe I could give her a call,” Frank said. He liked the idea of her trip being romantic. That probably meant the doctor had probably gone along as well. “Any idea where she's staying?”

“She told me the Charlotte Inn,” Kay said. “Come on, Samson, let's go.”

Frank flashed Kay one of his most sincere smiles as she went to the front porch and fished the key from the carriage lamp. Frank went back to his car.

Once he had the car started, he made a quick U-turn. One thing he'd decided about the seventy-five grand was that he
wasn't going to tell Donna about it. He'd stash it someplace. Maybe take a trip down to the Caymans.

The idea of a little side trip to Martha's Vineyard also appealed. And he had a bright idea. Since he had to put the doctor on Matt's plane, why not take the plane to the island? That was called using your noodle, he told himself.

As he drove back into town, Frank started to think about whom he should take with him if he couldn't find Vinnie D'Agostino. There was no doubt he would miss Tony. It was a shame what had happened. Frank also wondered about Devlin and whether he should go visit him in the hospital to tell him there were no hard feelings. But he decided against it. There just wasn't time.

Driving down Hanover Street, Frank pulled up and triple-parked in front of the Via Veneto Café. He leaned on his horn. Before long, someone ran out of the café and moved his car, allowing Frank to pull in. The traffic that had backed up on Hanover Street funneled past. Several of the cars honked at him for delaying them. “Hey, screw you!” Frank called out his window. It was amazing how inconsiderate some people were, he thought.

Frank walked into the café and shook hands with the owner, who'd rushed out from behind his register to greet him. Frank took a table near the front which had a little reserved sign on it. He ordered a double espresso and lit a cigarette.

When his eyes had adjusted to the dim light in the café, Frank twisted around and scanned the room. He didn't see Vinnie, but he did see Dominic. Frank motioned for the owner. He told him to ask Dominic to come and talk to him.

A nervous Dominic approached Frank's table.

“What's the matter with you?” Frank asked, looking at Dominic.

“Nothing,” Dominic said. “Maybe I've had too much coffee.”

“Know where Vinnie is?” Frank asked.

“He's at home,” Dominic said. “He was in here half an hour ago.”

“Go ask him to come over. Tell him it's important,” Frank said.

Dominic nodded and went out the front door.

“How about a sandwich?” Frank said to the owner. While Frank ate, he tried to remember where the Charlotte Inn was in Edgartown. He'd only been there a couple of times. It wasn't
that big a town, the way he remembered it. In fact, the biggest thing was the cemetery.

Vinnie came in with Dominic. Vinnie was a young, muscle-bound guy who thought that all women were after him. Frank had always been a little afraid to use him because he seemed a little reckless, like he was always trying to prove himself. But with Tony gone and Nicky out of commission, Frank was getting down to the bottom of the barrel. He knew he couldn't use Dominic. Dominic was an ass. He'd always been too nervous. He was a liability, especially if anything went wrong. Frank had found that out the hard way.

“Sit down, Vinnie,” Frank said. “How'd you like a free trip to the Charlotte Inn in Edgartown?”

Vinnie took a chair and sat on it backwards, hunching forward over the back so that his muscles bulged. Frank thought he had a lot to learn.

“Dominic,” Frank said, “how about you take a powder?”

Dominic slipped out of the back of the café and ran over to the candy store on Salem Street. There was a pay phone in the back of the magazines. He took out Devlin's numbers and dialed the first of the two. When Devlin came on the line, he cupped the receiver with his hand before he started speaking. He didn't want anyone to hear.

“It's a good thing we didn't try to fly,” Kelly said to Jeffrey as a jet rumbled in the distance. “We wouldn't have gotten here yet. It looks like the fog is just lifting now.”

“At least it stopped raining,” Jeffrey said. He watched the scoop of the backhoe dig into the soft earth.

They had come across to the island on the Steamship Authority ferry from Woods Hole. It was a good thing they'd taken Seibert's official Medical Examiner's van, complete with the official seal on the door. They never would have managed to get on the ship with a vehicle had it not been for Seibert's insisting they were traveling on official business. Having his truck rather than Kelly's Honda helped him make his case. Even then, there had been some grumbling. Theirs was the very last vehicle to board.

The trip had been uneventful. Between the fog and slight drizzle they had stayed belowdecks, finding a nonsmoking corner to sit in. Jeffrey and Kelly had spent most of the time going over Trent's address book, but they hadn't turned up any clues.

The only listing that had caught Jeffrey's attention was a Matt, listed under the Ds. Jeffrey wondered if it was the same Matt who'd left a message on Trent's machine when Jeffrey had been there the first time. The area code was 314.

“Where's 314?” Jeffrey asked Kelly.

Kelly didn't know. Jeffrey asked Seibert, who was skimming one of the dozen professional journals he'd brought along for the ride.

“Missouri,” Seibert said. “I have an aunt in St. Louis.”

Once they had arrived at Vineyard Haven, the largest town on Martha's Vineyard, they'd gone directly to the Boscowaney
Funeral Home. Thanks to Seibert's call that morning, Chester Boscowaney had been expecting them.

Chester was in his late fifties, overweight, with cheeks so ruddy they looked rouged. He was dressed in a dark suit and vest complete with pocket watch and fob. His manner was unctuous, even servile. He'd snapped up the several hundred dollars that Jeffrey had offered on Seibert's advice with the eagerness of a hungry dog.

“Everything's been arranged,” he'd said in a whisper as if a funeral was in progress. “I'll meet you out there at the site.”

Kelly, Jeffrey, and Warren had driven to Edgartown and had checked into the Charlotte Inn. Kelly and Jeffrey registered as Mr. and Mrs. Everson.

The only remaining stumbling block had been the backhoe operator, Harvey Tabor. He'd been out on Chappaquiddick digging a septic system for a beach house and couldn't get back to Edgartown until after four. And even then, he'd not been able to get to the cemetery. He'd explained that his wife had made a special dinner for his daughter's birthday, and that he couldn't join them at the cemetery until after that.

The whole affair had gotten under way a little after seven. The first thing Jeffrey had pointed out to Seibert was that no one had asked to see the permits. Boscowaney hadn't even asked if they had them. Seibert had said that it was still good to have them in hand. “It ain't over till it's over,” he'd added.

The sexton of the cemetery was a man named Martin Cabot. His face was craggy, his build slim. He looked more like a weathered mariner than a cemetery caretaker. He'd eyed Seibert for a full minute before saying: “You're kind of a young fella to be a coroner.”

Warren told him that he'd managed to skip the third grade, so that he'd been able to cut the duration of his schooling. He also told him that he was a physician and a medical examiner and not a coroner. Jeffrey guessed that Warren was sensitive about the issue.

The sexton and the backhoe operator obviously didn't get along too well. Martin kept telling Harvey where he should be and what he should be doing. Harvey told Martin that he'd been operating his backhoe long enough and didn't need any advice.

Groundbreaking had occurred just past seven-thirty, behind Henry Noble's granite headstone. It was a pleasant site under a large maple tree. “This is encouraging,” Seibert had said.
“With this shade, there should be less deterioration and putrefaction.”

Kelly had felt her stomach turn.

There was a sharp screech from the ground.

“Ease up!” Martin shouted. “You'll bust through the top of the vault.” A line of stained concrete appeared in the fresh earth.

“Shut up, Martin,” Harvey said as he lowered the backhoe into the pit. It struck the concrete gently. Harvey drew the hoe toward him and up. A large portion of the top of the vault became visible.

“Don't break the handles,” Martin cried.

Kelly, Jeffrey, and Seibert were standing on one side of the grave, Chester and Martin on the other. The sun was still up, although low in the sky, and it was obscured by dark rain clouds. Wisps of fog swirled about the cemetery grounds by the force of the sea breeze. Martin had looped an extension cord around one of the maple tree's branches. The sight of it made Jeffrey think of a hangman's knot, even though the only thing dangling was the solitary bare bulb of a drop light. Its light shone directly down into the trench that the backhoe was digging.

Kelly shivered, more from the endeavor than from cold, although it had grown progressively cooler. The cozy room with its Victorian wallpaper at the Charlotte Inn seemed a long way away. She reached out and clutched Jeffrey's hand.

It took another fifteen minutes to clear away the rest of the dirt covering the cement slab. When it was clear enough, Harvey and Martin got down on its surface to shovel the remaining dirt from the grave.

Then Harvey climbed back onto his backhoe and positioned the scoop directly above the slab. He and Martin scrambled back into the hole to run steel cables from the slab's handles to the teeth of the scoop.

“All right, Martin, out of the hole,” Harvey said, taking pleasure in giving Martin an order for a change. He climbed back on his machine. Then, looking at Jeffrey, Kelly, and Seibert, he said: “You folks will have to move. I'm going to swing the top your way.” The three of them did as they were told. Once they were out of the way, Harvey again set to work.

The backhoe engine grunted and strained. Then, with a popping noise, the top of the vault came away. Jeffrey could see that it had been sealed with a tarlike substance. The backhoe swung the slab to the side and lowered it to the earth.

Everyone crowded to the edge of the hole. Within the vault rested a silver coffin.

“Isn't it a beauty?” Chester Boscowaney said. “It's one of our top of the line. Nothing better than a Millbronne casket.”

“No water in the vault,” Seibert said. “That's another good sign.”

Jeffrey's eyes swept the graveyard. It was an eerie sight. Night was falling fast. The headstones cast narrow, purple shadows across the cemetery.

“Well, what do you want us to do, Doc?” Martin asked Seibert. “You want us to lift the coffin out or you want to jump down there and open it in place?”

Jeffrey could tell Seibert was debating.

“I never have liked to get down in those vaults,” he said, “but lifting the coffin will only take more time. I say the sooner we get this over with, the better. I'm looking forward to a nice dinner.”

Kelly's stomach turned again.

“Can I help?” Jeffrey asked.

Seibert looked at Jeffrey. “Have you ever done anything like this before? It might be a little gruesome, and I can't guarantee what it will smell like, especially if there's any water inside.”

“I'll be okay,” Jeffrey said, despite his misgivings.

“That's a Millbronne casket,” Chester Boscowaney said with pride. “It's got a rubber gasket all the way around. There won't be any water.”

“I've heard that before,” Seibert whispered. “All right, let's do it.”

Jeffrey and Seibert stepped down to the concrete edge of the vault and lowered themselves in at either end of the casket. Seibert was at the casket's foot, Jeffrey at its head.

“Let me have the crank,” Seibert said.

Chester handed it down to him.

Seibert felt along the back of the casket with his hand until he felt the spot. Then, inserting the crank into the hole, he tried to turn it. He had to put his weight into it before it would budge. Finally it turned with an agonizing screech. Kelly winced.

The coffin's seal broke with a hissing sound.

“Hear that air?” Chester Boscowaney said. “There's not going to be any water in there, mark my word.”

“Get your fingers under the edge,” Seibert said to Jeffrey, “and lift.”

With a creaking sound the lid of the coffin opened. Everyone
looked in. Henry Noble's face and hands were covered by a fine web of white fuzz. Beneath, his skin was a dark gray. He was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and paisley tie. His shoes appeared shiny and new. On the white satin of the interior was a rash of green mildew.

Jeffrey tried to breathe through his mouth to avoid the odor, but to his surprise, it wasn't all that bad. The smell was musty rather than rank, like a cellar that hadn't been opened for a long time.

“Looks very good,” Seibert said. “My compliments to the funeral director. No water whatsoever.”

“Thank you,” Chester Boscowaney said. “And I can assure you that you are looking at the body of Henry Noble.”

“What's the white fuzz?” Jeffrey asked.

“Some kind of fungus,” Seibert said. He asked Kelly to hand him down his kit. Kelly passed him his black bag.

Seibert worked his way along the side of the coffin. There was barely enough room for his feet, but he managed. Setting his bag down on Henry Noble's thighs, he opened it and took out a pair of heavy rubber gloves. After putting on the gloves, he began to unbutton the man's shirt.

“What can I do?” Jeffrey asked.

“Nothing right now,” Seibert said. He exposed the sutured incision made at the time of the man's autopsy. Taking a pair of scissors from his bag, he cut the sutures, then spread the sides of the wound. The tissue was dry.

Jeffrey straightened up. The smell was more obnoxious now, but Seibert seemed indifferent to it.

Seibert got the wound open, then reached inside the body cavity and pulled out a heavy clear plastic bag. The contents were darkened. The bag contained a good deal of fluid. Holding the bag up to the light, Seibert twirled it slowly, examining its contents.

“Eureka!” Seibert said. “Here's the liver.” He pointed, for Jeffrey's benefit. Jeffrey wasn't sure he wanted to look, but he humored Seibert. “My guess is that the gallbladder will still be attached.”

Seibert rested the bag on Henry Noble's torso and undid the cinch. A very disagreeable odor filled the damp night air. Seibert reached in and pulled out the liver. Turning it over, he showed Jeffrey the gallbladder. “Perfect,” he said. “It's even still moist. I thought it would be dried out.” He palpated the small organ. “It's got some fluid in it, too.” Putting the liver and the
gallbladder down on top of the plastic bag, Seibert went back into his black bag and pulled out a syringe and several specimen bottles. He punctured the gallbladder and suctioned as much bile as he was able. He squirted some in each of the sample jars.

Everyone had been watching Seibert's efforts so intently, they were oblivious to other goings-on. They hadn't noticed a blue rental Chevrolet Celebrity pull into the cemetery with its lights out. They hadn't heard the doors open, or the sound of the two men approaching.

 

For Frank it had not been a smooth afternoon. Once again what he thought would be an easy operation had turned into a major headache. He'd looked forward to riding in a private jet, something he'd never done before. But after getting into the plane and strapping himself into the seat, he'd had a bout of claustrophobia. He'd never realized just how small these private planes were. And then to make matters worse, they weren't able to take off right away because of the volume of incoming traffic at Logan. Then the weather changed.

At first, a fog bank had engulfed the Cape and the islands, then a severe thunderstorm had swept in from the west, pelting the city with marble-sized hailstones. Frank had gotten off the plane to wait out the storm in the general aviation terminal. By the time they had clearance to leave and adequate visibility to land on the Vineyard, it was almost six o'clock.

Then, to make matters worse, the flight had been a nightmare. With all the turbulence, the plane had bounced around like a cork in a bubbling brook. Frank had gotten airsick and had to puke in a paper bag. The whole time, Vinnie had been carrying on about how great the plane was. He'd munched on peanuts and potato chips nonstop.

By the time they'd arrived on Martha's Vineyard, Frank was weak. He'd sent Vinnie to get the rental car while he stayed in the men's room. Only after eating some soda crackers and drinking a Coke had he started to feel like his old self again.

They'd gone directly to the Charlotte Inn. At the front desk they'd inquired about Kelly Everson. Frank had used the same ploy about being a relative, but now he'd embellished his story by saying he was trying to surprise his cousin. He and Vinnie had exchanged winks at that little ruse. They certainly did have a surprise in mind. Both were armed with guns discreetly hidden in shoulder holsters, and Frank had another dose of the tranquilizer in his pocket.

But the surprise had turned out to be for Frank. The woman at the desk at the Charlotte Inn had told them that she believed the Eversons were in the Edgartown cemetery. She said that Mr. Everson had spent some time on the phone next to the check-in desk, trying to arrange a rendezvous with Harvey Tabor, the backhoe operator.

Back in the car, Frank had said to Vinnie: “The cemetery? I don't like the sound of this.”

They'd circled the cemetery first. It was a big place, but it was easy to see the group in the center. There was a light in a tree that illuminated the four people standing in front of a backhoe.