Robert B. Parker's Lullaby Page 5

“Excellent point,” I said. “Then what?”

  “What do you think?” Mattie asked. “I jumped into a fucking ditch.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “I don’t know. Car was blue or silver.”

  “You see the license plate?”

  “As I was jumping into the ditch?”

  “Wouldn’t matter,” I said. “Probably stolen. What did they do after they passed?”

  “They braked real hard and doubled back,” she said. “Ditch was outside a construction site on Dorchester, and I ran like hell through it. I cut over to G Street through some people’s backyards, and that’s how come I tore my pants.”

  “And still made school on time.”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s dedication,” I said.

  We sat quietly for a while. A homeless man in an Army jacket wandered in and shelled out dimes and pennies for an old-fashioned and two donut holes. Several city buses passed the big plate-glass window, spewing black smoke and churning slush. The teenage girl at the counter looked bored until a couple teen boys walked up to the counter.

  “How’s Grandma?”

  “She didn’t come home last night.”

  “That okay with you?” I asked.

  “Sometimes it’s better when she’s gone.”

  “You got other family?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anyone who can help?”

  “Help with what?”

  “You and your sisters.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “You raising them?”

  “I don’t raise them,” Mattie said. “I look out for them.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I’m their big sister,” she said. “It’s what you do. I don’t really have a lot of time to think about it. You just do it.”

  I watched her finish the donut. I sipped some more coffee. One of the boys at the counter was trying to make time with the girl selling donuts. He said he’d love to have her number in his cell. She turned him down flat.

  Mattie was listening and grinned a bit. She was a very good listener, aware of everything around her.

  “How do you guys make do?” I asked.

  “We get a government check,” Mattie said. “Grandma cleans houses and offices some.”

  “Has she always been a drunk?”

  “Not like now,” Mattie said. “She didn’t drink so much after my mom died. We had social workers dropping in and stuff. People from church bringing food and whatever. She can dry out if she wants.”

  “What happened to them?”

  Mattie shrugged. We watched more cars pass by the window and the homeless guy artfully begging for more change. The kid at the counter would not give the donut girl a rest. She finally gave up her number. Persistence.

  “What do you do for fun?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You like sports or going to Mass? You belong to any clubs? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She made a snort that could almost have been a laugh. I smiled at her.

  “No boyfriend?”

  Her pudgy face colored a bit as she readjusted her elbows on the counter. She reached up to chew a black nail.

  “But you do like the Sox?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you think about Adrian Gonzalez?”

  “For a hundred and fifty mil, he better pull his weight.”

  “You ever been to Fenway?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “With all my extra money. I got season tickets.”

  “You know you’ve got to quit asking around about these guys without me,” I said. “That’s not a good idea right now. Not very safe.”

  She shrugged.

  “I’ll drive you to and from school,” I said. “Something happens at home, you call me and then you call nine-one-one. I’m going to try and work out something with a patrol officer I know.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “How are you feeling right now?”

  “Fine.”

  “You think we could stop by the local station house and look at some photos?” I asked. “Have you file a report?”

  She nodded.

  “After that, let’s do something about those clothes. I can run you back to your apartment to change.”

  “Where we headed?”

  “Field trip,” I said.

  11

  I had made many visits to Walpole and its lovely state prison. It had opened sometime back in the fifties and had that classic prison feel. Big concrete walls, concertina wire, heavy iron doors with brass handles. The entire place stank of funk and sweat. The Boston Strangler had once called it home. They still made license plates.

  Mattie had been there, too. She knew the drill.

  I’d arranged for us to meet with Mickey Green during visiting hours. I’d called while waiting outside Mattie’s apartment for her to change. We walked through metal detectors and a hand search. I checked my .38 at the door.

  Mattie was impressed. The guard was not, and he asked for my permit.

  “You carry that gun all the time?” she asked.

  “I have a slight inferiority complex.”

  A guard motioned for us to enter through another door into a long room lined with Plexiglas windows and telephone handsets. A thick-barred window had been opened a crack on the visitors’ side to let in fresh cold air.

  I let Mattie take the seat. I stood behind her.

  Mickey Green wasn’t much to look at. Average height and skinny, he wore some sparse blond hair on his face that some might describe as a beard. He eyed me with hooded, hawkish eyes and then sat in front of Mattie. He picked up the phone gingerly, as if it could be bugged.

  He figured me for the fuzz.

  I thought that word had gone out of fashion a long time ago. Mattie told him that I wasn’t. She explained the situation. Green began to relax, eyes flicking up to my face and nodding. Mattie asked him if he needed anything and if he was taking care of himself. Green smiled at Mattie. She smiled back. He looked up again at me and nodded his approval.

  I switched places with her, and she moved to stand behind my right shoulder.

  “Mattie says you got a raw deal,” I said.

  “She knows I got fucked,” Green said, scratching his neck. “You gonna get me out of this shithole or what?”

  “But Walpole is so beautiful this time of year.”

  “Change seats with me.”

  I shrugged. His eyes met mine, and he nodded back. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

  “If you lie to me or lead me in the wrong direction, you’re only screwing yourself.”

  Mickey Green nodded again. He looked earnest in his bright orange jumpsuit. It was tough to look earnest in orange.

  “Were you with Julie Sullivan the night she died?”

  “I’ve been through this.”

  “Not with me. Were you with her?”

  “Nope,” Mickey said. He leaned toward the glass as if it would amplify his voice. “I did not kill her. I loved Jules.”

  “That’s why you helped out the family sometimes?”

  “I did what I could, you know,” he said. “I’m good with my hands.”

  There was a solid offering of a joke, especially sitting in prison, but I refrained. I only nodded and asked, “You sell her drugs?”

  “No.”

  “But you lived with two known drug dealers?”

  He nodded.

  “And you’ve told Mattie that those two men killed Julie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Moon and Red Cahill.”

  He nodded again. “It’s complicated, man.”

  “My mind is nimble,” I said. “Try me.”

  “Huh?”

  “How am I to believe you were not connected in their business endeavors?”

  “I’m a fucking mechanic,” he said. “Red is my cousin. We split the rent.”

  “But that’s where Julie got
her drugs.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “And you didn’t stop that?”

  “How was I gonna stop her when I couldn’t stop myself? I ain’t her fucking priest.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “The Suffolk County DA had a tight case on you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You were washing blood and hair off the car used to run her down.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned back to Mattie. I wish she’d stayed in the car. But Mickey obviously trusted her, and I didn’t know if he’d see me without her. She nodded to him. He stared at her, smirked, and shook his head.

  “They listen on these things,” he said. “And I don’t like talking with my pants down.”

  “Can you at least explain the car?”

  “Red borrowed it that night.”

  “And the next day, you just decided to give it a wash?”

  “Red asked me to check the belts and get it cleaned,” he said. “I was sleeping one off, and he comes in and pitches me the keys and tells me to take care of the car.”

  “Nice.”

  “And he paid me fifty bucks.”

  “You tell the cops this?”

  Mickey Green rubbed his insignificant beard and blew out his breath. “No.”

  “Because he’s your cousin?”

  “Because he would’ve killed me.”

  “That would be a deterrent,” I said. “And now?”

  “Now I don’t give a shit,” he said. “I can’t do life in here.”

  “I need names,” I said. “I need to know people who would’ve seen Julie that night.”

  He nodded, meeting my eyes.

  “If you want to protect Red,” I said, “that’s fine. But do you think he’d do the same for you? Has he ever come to visit?”

  Mickey shook his head. “Only people come to visit are my sister and Mattie.”

  “I think you need to start looking out for yourself,” I said.

  Mickey looked as if he’d just tasted something sour, but the sourness passed, and something brightened his face that seemed like a decision. “You got a pen?” Mickey asked.

  “Always prepared, that’s my motto.” I reached into my jacket.

  “You better watch your fucking back,” Mickey said.

  “Hold on, let me write that down.”

  Mickey smirked. He leaned forward and lifted his eyes up to the glass.

  “You ever hear Red mention the name Gerry Broz?” I asked.

  “Broz, as in Joe Broz?” Mickey said.

  “Yep.”

  “Is he Broz’s son or somethin’?”

  “Or somethin’.”

  “Never mentioned him.”

  “So Red and Moon worked alone back then?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s Moon’s real name?” I asked.

  “Leslie Murphy.”

  “Not a very tough name.”

  “You seen him?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Looks like a rhinoceros on steroids,” Mickey said. “He once sexually assaulted a guy who played for the Pats with a pool cue.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” Mickey said. “I heard that guy didn’t shit straight for a month.”

  “Names?” I asked. “People who knew Julie then, and people who saw you that night.”

  “Like an alibi?”

  “Yeah, Mickey,” I said. “Just like that.”

  12

  Tiffany Royce worked in a nail salon near Andrew Station in a long row of storefronts populated by a couple of pubs, a corner convenience store called the Cor-nah Store, and an auto-glass shop. If you looked north along Dorchester Avenue, you got a pretty good idea how far we were from downtown. Across the turnpike and channel, the late-afternoon sun warmed silver- and gold-mirrored windows. The cluster of office buildings looked like the Emerald City.

  “So Mickey Green was your boyfriend?”

  “Sort of,” Tiffany said.

  “‘Sort of’ for how long?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “A long time. Maybe six months.”

  “Were you together when he was arrested?”

  “He came over a few times,” she said. “Him going away saved my life.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We had a lot of good times,” she said. “We liked to party. I mean, I was twenty. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t been twenty for a while.”

  Tiffany had brown hair with highlights and was short and small-boned, with angular features and a sharp nose. She had green eyes and very long, ornate nails, as you would expect. She wore stylish dark blue jeans with red stitching and very tall pink heels. Her very tight pink V-neck sweater showed off a good bit of lace bra, also pink. Her breasts were high and very large for such a delicate girl.

  I tried not to leer. But the devil lived in details.

  Mattie sat in a waiting area of two faux-leather chairs patched in several places with duct tape. She read a celebrity gossip magazine as she eavesdropped, Sox cap down over her eyes like an infielder. Her legs were crossed, the right foot kicking up and down with nervous teen energy. I didn’t like her tagging along, but she’d insisted, arguing that she knew the neighborhood better than I did.

  In the back of the salon, two Vietnamese women worked on the feet of a couple of hefty ladies in glittery sweatshirts. The ladies jabbered on their cell phones and flipped through more celebrity rags. One lady peered over the top, perhaps confusing me for Brad Pitt.

  “He ever get rough with you?” I asked.

  “Mickey?” Tiffany asked. She laughed.

  “Never?”

  “Never,” she said. “Are you kidding? I would have kicked his ass. He’s not that guy. You know? He’s kind of like Charlie Brown, bad things just seem to happen to him. He never looked for trouble.”

  “You ever know him to beat up another girlfriend? Get in a bar fight?”

  She shook her head. “You want a manicure?” she asked. “You have some rough cuticles.”

  “Might harm my reputation as a tough guy.”

  “Lots of men get manicures,” she said. “There’s no shame in it.”

  “Might lead to a Brazilian wax.”

  Tiffany opened up a cardboard box with the sharp end of a nail file and started to arrange colorful little bottles of nail polish on a wall display. I wondered if Susan had ever thought about painting her nails dark purple. Probably didn’t call it purple. Maybe eggplant. Better yet, aubergine.

  “That your daughter?” she asked.

  “Julie Sullivan’s kid.”

  Tiffany’s small white face flushed. “Jesus. I hadn’t seen her in years. She know who I am? Me and Mickey?”

  “Don’t worry. She thinks Mickey Green is an innocent man.”

  “Jules Sullivan’s kid thinks Mickey is innocent?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Makes you wonder.”

  “Never made sense to me,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest as if she’d grown cold. “Lots of shit in Southie happens that don’t make sense. Mickey was pretty far gone. Figured it was the drugs that changed him. You know anything about heroin?”

  “Know enough not to try it.”

  “You ever do any drugs?”

  “Took Benzedrine in the Army,” I said. “I prefer a good whiskey. Beer, too. I’m not picky.”

  “Better than sex.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “The rush,” she said. “It’s ten times more powerful than sex.”

  “Maybe you’re not doing it right,” I said.

  “Took me most of a year to get clean.”

  Tiffany unlocked her arms and continued to arrange the little bottles of nail polish. She had to lift up on her toes to reach a top shelf, showing off a wide butterfly tattoo on her lower back. I searched for more clues.

  “Mickey said you were with him the night Julie was killed.”

&nb
sp; She stopped arranging and turned, staring at me.

  “Is that true?”

  She nodded.

  “He slept on my couch.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Was it past midnight?”

  “I think,” she said. “He sometimes came over like that. You know? Knocking on the door, saying he loved me. Wanting some booty.”

  “And you were intimate?”

  “You mean did we fuck?”

  “Or maybe a cordial game of naked Twister.”

  “Not that night.”

  “Did he act strange?”

  “Mickey’s a strange guy,” she said. “He always acted strange, especially when he was drunk. He was pretty messed up. Said he needed me. Blah, blah, blah.”

  I nodded. “You see any blood on him? Did he seem nervous or agitated?”

  She shook her head. “He came over for one thing. Telling me he loved me. Wanted to marry me and a bunch of shit.”

  I nodded. “Was he serious?”

  She laughed again. “He was serious about getting into my pants. I knew he was doing the same thing with Julie. It was no biggie.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “Early,” she said. “I know it was light out. Said he was gonna buy some eggs, make breakfast, and never came back.”

  “You tell this to the police?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “No one asked,” she said. “I don’t think even his lawyer cared. Same shit I’m telling you. Charlie Brown.”

  “You know Red Cahill?” I asked.

  “Sure, Mickey’s cousin.”

  “I hear he’s a top-shelf individual.”

  “He’s an evil piece of shit.”

  “How bad can a guy named Red be?”

  “He was a fighter,” Tiffany said. She took a seat in the receptionist’s chair and spun to the right and then to the left. She lifted her eyes, waiting for me to digest that fact. “Hung out at the old McDonough’s Gym when we were kids. Won all kind of trophies. That Golden thing. You know.”

  “Golden Gloves,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Heard he went pro but didn’t go that far.”

  “What’s he do now?”

  “Sells drugs,” she said. “What else?”

  “And Moon Murphy?”

  “He and Red work together,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them apart. They’re a team, you know. That guy freaks me out, looks at me like I’m a slice of hot pie. He’s not right in the head. You better watch it. He knows you’re looking for him, he might get rough.”