“And when we were working on the presumption that Micky Doog or one of his puke friends had killed her because she wouldn’t blow him or whatever, it wasn’t a problem.”
“Your presumption has changed?” Angie said.
“’Fraid so.” Devin lit a cigarette.
“You quit,” I said.
“Unsuccessfully.” He shrugged.
Agent Bolton removed a photograph from his briefcase,
handed it to me. It was of a young man, mid-thirties, built like a Grecian statue. He wore only shorts and was smiling at the camera and his upper torso was all hard cuts and coiled muscle, biceps the size of baseballs.
“Do you know this man?”
I said, “No,” and handed the photo to Angie.
She looked at it a moment. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
Angie said, “I’d remember that body. Trust me.”
“Who is he?”
“Peter Stimovich,” Oscar said. “Actually his full name is The Late Peter Stimovich. He was killed last night.”
“Did he have my business card too?”
“Not as far as we know.”
“Then why am I here?”
Devin looked across the bar at Gerry. “What did you and Gerry talk about when you came in here a few days ago?”
“Ask Gerry.”
“We did.”
“Wait,” I said, “how do you know I came in here a few days ago?”
“You’ve been under surveillance,” Bolton said.
“Excuse me?”
Devin shrugged. “This is bigger than you, Patrick. A lot bigger.”
“How long?” I said.
“How long what?”
“Have I been watched?” I looked at Bolton.
“Since Alec Hardiman refused our request to speak with him,” Devin said.
“So?”
“When he refused our request,” Oscar said, “he did it by saying you’re the only one he’ll talk to.”
“Me?”
“You, Patrick. Only you.”
17
“Why’s Alec Hardiman want to talk to me?”
“Good question,” Bolton said. He waved at the smoke coming from Devin’s cigarette. “Mr. Kenzie, everything said from this point on is absolutely confidential. Understood?”
Angie and I gave Bolton our best shrugs.
“Just so we’re clear—if you repeat anything we speak of today, you’ll be charged with Federal obstruction charges carrying a maximum penalty of ten years.”
“You enjoy saying that, don’t you?” Angie said.
“What’s that?”
She deepened her voice. “‘Federal obstruction charges.’”
He sighed. “Mr. Kenzie, when Kara Rider was murdered, she had your card in her hand. Her crucifixion, as you probably know, bore remarkable similarities to the crucifixion of a boy in this neighborhood in 1974. Sergeant Amronklin, you might not know, was a patrolman back then who worked with former Detective Sergeant Glynn and Inspector Hardiman.”
I looked at Devin. “Did you think Kara’s murder might have been connected to Cal’s the night we saw her body?”
“I considered the possibility.”
“But you didn’t say anything to me.”
“Nope.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “You’re a private citizen, Patrick. It’s not my job to let you in. Besides, I thought it was a hell of a long shot. Just something I kept in the back of my mind.”
The phone on the bar rang and Gerry picked it up, his eyes on us. “Black Emerald.” He nodded as if he’d expected the caller’s question. “Sorry, no. We’re all closed up here. Plumbing problem.” He closed his eyes for a moment, nodded hurriedly. “You’re so desperate for a drink, try another bar. You better get going.” He looked about to hang up. “What’d I tell you? Closed. I’m sorry, too.”
He hung up, gave us a shrug.
“This other victim,” I said.
“Stimovich.”
“Right. Was he crucified?”
“No,” Bolton said.
“How’d he die?”
Bolton looked at Devin and Devin looked at Oscar and Oscar said, “Who gives a shit? Tell them. We need all the help we can get before we have more bodies on our hands.”
Bolton said, “Mr. Stimovich was tied to a wall, his skin removed in strips, and then he was disemboweled while he was still alive.”
“Jesus,” Angie said and blessed herself so quickly I’m not even sure she was aware she did it.
Gerry’s phone rang again.
Bolton frowned. “Can you yank that out of the hook for a little while, Mr. Glynn?”
Gerry looked pained. “Agent Bolton, with all due respect to the dead, I’ll keep my place closed as long as you feel you need it, but I got regulars wondering why my door’s closed.”
Bolton waived dismissively and Gerry answered the phone.
After a few seconds of listening, he nodded. “Bob, Bob, listen, we have a plumbing situation. I’m sorry, but I got three inches of water on the floor and…” He listened. “So do what I’m telling you—go to Leary’s or The Fermanagh. Go somewhere. Okay?”
He hung up, gave us another shrug.
I said, “How do you know Kara wasn’t killed by someone she knew? Micky Doog? Or a gang initiation rite?”
Oscar shook his head. “It doesn’t play that way. All her known acquaintances have alibis, including Micky Doog. Plus there’s a whole lot of her time unaccounted for while she was back in the city.”
“She wasn’t hanging around the neighborhood much,” Devin said. “Her mother had no idea where she went. But she was back in town only three weeks and it wasn’t like she could have made that many acquaintances over in Brookline.”
“Brookline?” I said, remembering my dream.
“Brookline. That’s the one place we know she went several times. Credit card receipts from Cityside, a couple of restaurants around Bryce University.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Look, how do you know these cases are connected if the vics were killed in different ways?”
“Photographs,” Bolton said.
A block of dry ice melted in my chest.
“What photographs?” Angie said.
Devin said, “Kara’s mother had a stack of mail she hadn’t opened in a few days before Kara died. One of them was an envelope, no return address, no note, just a photograph of Kara inside, innocent photo, nothing—”