The Whole Lie (14 page)

“Are you Mr. Sax?” a man's voice said. I turned left, saw a guy who seemed familiar—either because I knew him or because he looked exactly like a sawed-off Ernest Borgnine. Even had the big split between his front teeth. “Conway!” he said, reaching through my rolled-down window to shake. He saw I was drawing a blank. “I'm a friend of Bill's,” he said, not seeming offended that I didn't quite know him. “I'm a regular with the High Steppers in Natick. We've visited you Barnburners at Saint Anne's many a time.”

Small click. “Shep?” I said. “You the one tells the story about the family of possums lived under the bar?”

“That's me! I've worked here seventeen years now.”

“I figured from the getup.” He looked like a bellhop from a 1946 movie, right up to the navy-and-gold hat. “But I thought you were a contractor.”

“I am. A contractor with one customer. There's always a project needs doing…” he waved at the building behind him “… and you can't beat the pay.”

“Hope she lets you change clothes when you're working. Be a shame to dirty up that uniform.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I've heard all the jokes. And yeah, I'm a driver and even a butler, kinda, when there's no
real
work to do. But it's a good living and she's a good boss, believe me.” He looked me over. “You're the Mr. Sax come to see Miz Tinker? No offense, but you should've worn a suit coat. I'm supposed to park your car … truck, but I can run upstairs and grab you one. Say the word.”

“You're dressed nice enough for both of us, Shep.” I clapped his shoulder as I stepped from the truck, looked at the marble steps and six-panel door before me. “Which apartment's hers?”

“Apartment?”
Shep had been halfway into my idling truck, but he climbed out and grabbed my sleeve, pointing, his voice a harsh whisper. “Jesus Christ, she owns from there … all the way down to there! Something like fifteen thousand square feet in Louisburg Square. You need to know who you're dealing with, my friend.”

“Big coin.”

“The biggest.”

As I climbed the steps I remembered something about Shep, something a lot less funny than the possums under the bar: He'd lost his wife and kid in a house fire five, six years ago. The kid had been in his twenties but had never moved out—retarded, maybe, or just unable to hack it. A rough break. We'd all passed the hat for Shep a few times. I wondered if he lived here now. Had to be rooms for the hired help.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Five minutes later I was sitting in a parlor with pale pink walls, pale pink floor-length drapes, and a tiny fireplace with a tiny fire that smelled like tiny apples. I half-expected the little man from the Monopoly board to walk in.

Instead: Elizabeth Tinker. I had the presence of mind to stand. Too fast—damn near knocked my chair over with the backs of my thighs. Even up close she looked much younger than I knew she was, rich, and fit. She wore blue jeans, God bless her. Had likely changed into them after a huddle with the maid who showed me in. Another victory for the great unwashed.

“Miz Tinker,” I said, feeling oafish and oversized even in a room with nine-foot ceilings.

“Betsy,” she said, shaking my hand, looking me in the eye though it probably hurt her neck. Short little thing. “May I call you Conway?”

I said she could. These politicians, the good ones anyway, make you feel like you're the most important person in the world. You know it's artificial, that in forty-five seconds they'll be doing the same routine for someone else, but you like it anyway. I wondered what the trick was.

We sat. A different maid showed up with a tray. Soon I was drinking coffee from a cup whose handle my pinkie didn't fit through.

“I'm given to understand you're a man of few words and fast action,” she said. Then she leaned far enough to put a hand on my forearm. “So I'll belay my politician's instincts and keep this short. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

She leaned back. “Pete Krall says you're doing good work for the campaign.”

“Mostly,” I said, “for Bert Saginaw.”

Something passed across her eyes. Anger? Worry? Hard to say. She was a pro—it passed quickly. “Yes, well,” she said. “What's good for Bert is good for me, I daresay.”

I took a deep breath.
Time to screw with these people.
“For now.”

“Pardon?”

“The way I hear it,” I said, “the plan is to drag you across the finish line, then move you aside. You must know Bert Saginaw doesn't want to be a pissant lieutenant governor.”

It got to her, I could see from narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. “Drag
me
across the finish line? Good Lord, Mr. Sax. Conway. I invite you here to thank you, in person, for your derring-do. And you respond by hurling warmed-over rumors from the
Herald
?”

I said nothing.

“It is entirely possible Bert Saginaw has his eye on the governorship,” she said. “No man worth his salt would be after less, and whatever else you want to say about Bert, he is … he is indeed … a competitor, of the sharp-elbowed genus.”

A young guy in a uniform just like Shep's came in, waited for his boss to nod, crossed the room silently, punched up the apple-wood fire, and left.

“It may be hard for you to grasp this given your proximity to Bert and his sister and their acolytes,” Tinker said. “But what Bert Saginaw wants and what Bert Saginaw gets will turn out to be very different things.”

“I brought it up,” I said, “to throw you for a loop.”

“And?”

“I didn't throw you far.”

She laughed a little and looked over my shoulder, where I knew there was a fancy table clock. I wondered how much time I had before the polite bum's rush.

“Speaking of Bert,” Tinker said, “he and I are speaking to a group of teachers in Holyoke this evening. It's quite a long drive.”

There it was. I didn't have much time.

“The reason I wanted to throw you for a loop,” I said, “was Savannah Kane.”

“Bert's paramour. A former flame rekindled.”

“A former flame of mine, too.”

Raised eyebrows told me I'd finally surprised Betsy Tinker, at least a little. “Do tell.”

“Somebody killed her yesterday.”

“I heard, and I'm sorry. I'm given to understand the case is being investigated with vigor, and that her death was likely an accident.”

“What if Bert Saginaw killed her?”

“Be careful what you say, please.”

“No. What if he killed her, or had it done? The whole reason she showed up was blackmail. What if she was blackmailing him over those weird Jesus pics? What if she leaked them to the
Globe,
then told him out of spite?”

“If she did,” Tinker said, “and I don't believe it for a moment, but stipulating that for argument's sake, it's impossible to conceive a more indiscreet murder.”

“By the time somebody's good and ready to kill,” I said, “discretion is pretty much out the window.”

“You say that with conviction,” she said. “Even personal experience, I daresay.”

She raised one index finger in a
just a minute
gesture. I turned. Shep had silently appeared in the doorway. Sheesh, the rugs here were thick. I'm not easy to sneak up on.

“What is it you hope to gain,” Tinker said, “by informing me of Bert's history with the tragic Ms. Kane, not to mention your own?”

“I'm going to find out who killed Savvy Kane.” I felt a hint of red mist as I said it. Clouding my eyes, clogging my brain.

“As previously mentioned, I'm told the police are investigating.”

“Sure. But cops are big fans of the path of least resistance.”

“My.”

“And rich folks can put up a lot of resistance.”

Behind me, Shep cleared his throat. “We should get on the road soon.”

“Rich folks,” Tinker said, “such as those who use pocket change to buy Cambridge hotels?”

“And those who own a full block on Beacon Hill.”

“We should get on the road soon,” Shep said, touching my elbow.

Part of me, the red-mist part, wanted to spin and slug. But there was no sense taking anything out on Shep.

I left the room. Behind me, an apple-wood knot popped.

It took two different maids to show me out.

*   *   *

Forty minutes later, at about five thirty, I backed my truck against a chain-link fence that separated a busted-tarmac parking lot from the east-west railroad tracks.

This was the wrong side of those tracks.

It was the section of Framingham I knew well: methadone clinics, halfway houses, two- and three-deckers overflowing with illegals. I'd done some good work down here for Barnburners who found themselves in a pinch. I'd busted people up down here. Most of them deserved it.

I looked at Lacross Security World Headquarters. It was a dump: an old warehouse subdivided into a couple dozen offices, a martial arts studio that seemed legit, and a modeling agency that did not. In the parking lot were a couple of Accords with rusted-out wheel wells, an ugly GM bomber from the '70s—closest you'd find to a classic car down here—and a snack truck with its logo painted over. From where I sat I got an eyeful of moms fetching their kiddies from martial arts. They rolled up in sixty-thousand-dollar SUVs. Funny world.

A train rattled west behind me, happy commuters headed home.

I waited, watched, thought. Why talk to Vic Lacross? Why take a chance busting into his place? Hard to say. It was a dumb risk: Getting popped for B&E would send me back for more state time at MCI Cedar Junction, even if I
was
pals with my parole officer's son.

But.

Lacross wasn't a guy who hung around political rallies for yuks. And his half-assed little Web site hinted at dirty tricks. What were they calling it these days? Oppo research. There was a reason he'd been at that high school gym in Braxton. It was a thread I needed to tug. Maybe the thread led back to Saginaw's blackmail problem.

And maybe the blackmail and Savvy's death were connected.

When Lacross helped me with a thing a few years back, he'd been a hard guy to figure out. He was a homicide detective for the staties then, which placed him high on the cop totem pole, but he didn't have
CAREERIST HACK
stamped on his forehead like most of those guys.

Lacross told a funny story about how he started out as a hostage negotiator. His first gig was a half-assed bank robbery out in Sterling, two meth heads holding a teller hostage. Rookie Lacross, trained in all the latest psychological mumbo-jumbo, expert on defusing tense situations, strolled in and told the punks he was going to blow their fucking heads off. One of them took a wild swing with a straight razor and amputated Lacross's ear.

Lacross blew their fucking heads off.

The hostage was unharmed.

Lacross's bosses were not pleased with his bedside manner. No more hostage negotiator. He grew his black hair into a Pete Rose bowl cut to cover the missing ear.

With a first impression like that, he must have been damn good to work his way up to detective. But by the time I knew him, Lacross seemed half-dirty. My vibe: He loved the investigating part of his job but didn't feel duty bound to hand the dirt to his bosses and prosecutors. He was a freelancer at heart.

Me too.

To my right, the sun dropped. I got cold. I texted Sophie that I wouldn't be home for dinner. She texted back:
K. Miss u.
And another frowny face. Why had I texted Sophie instead of Charlene? I tried not to think about that.

At quarter of six I was hungry, cold, and cranky enough so that B&E seemed like a good plan. Followed a little Hispanic guy into what passed for a lobby, waited for him to unlock the staircase door, stuck my foot in it while I figured out which suite Lacross rented.

The Hispanic guy saw me just fine. But it wasn't the kind of neighborhood or building where tenants brace a stranger. It was the kind where they hustle to get the hell away from him.

Upstairs, in a hall that smelled like ammonia and mouse turds, I found Lacross's door. Cursed when I saw a dead bolt above the crappy knob-lock. But smiled when I checked: The dead bolt hadn't been thrown. You can tell by how much the door rattles. People go to the hassle of buying and installing their own dead bolt, but then they lose the key or get lazy.

I stood very close to the knob and gripped it with both hands—if you'd watched me from behind you'd have thought I was taking a leak on it—and twisted one way, then the other. Once, twice, gauging the metal fatigue, torqueing against it, up on tiptoes for leverage—

The lock snapped. Just like that.

It ain't rocket science.

The office was bigger than I expected, a full twenty by twenty. At the far end, the original warehouse-style windows could have been cool, a yuppie selling point, if the frames hadn't needed paint and a third of the panes hadn't been cracked. Desk, chair, lamp, filing cabinet, yard-sale rug, futon with a Mexican blanket puddled at one end, dorm-size fridge, microwave. Atop the microwave: Pop-Tarts, ramen noodles.

Home sweet home.

I cracked a box of Pop-Tarts, took one, squatted before the filing cabinet.

And heard a click.

Not a doorknob click. That particular knob would never click again.

No, I heard the
shift-click
of a round being chambered.

Hell.

“Fuckin' Sax,” Lacross said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

First Shep, now Lacross. Two guys had sneaked up on me in the past hour. The grease-monkey life was making me soft.

I rose and turned.

“Stop,” he said. He had an ugly little semiautomatic on me, a nine-millimeter something or other. “Show me the hands and open the … you stole a man's
Pop-Tart
? I've seen people do some shitty things in my time…”