Warren Martens had said that Miles Lovell’s friend dressed shabby-rich. That he had an air about him that suggested power or at least a power complex.
That pretty much described the guy on the patio.
Wesley Dawe, I wondered. Could this be Wesley? Wesley was blond, but the height and build were right, and hair dye is cheap and easily obtained.
My car was parked four blocks down Commonwealth, and while the rain was light, it was steady, and the mist was threatening to turn into a fog. Whoever the guy was, I decided, he’d either chosen or been sent to rattle my cage, to let me know that he knew me, and I didn’t know him, and that made me vulnerable and gave him a semblance of omnipotence.
I’ve had my cage rattled by pros, though-wiseguys, cops, gangbangers, and in one case a pair of bona fide serial killers-so the days when a disembodied voice on the other end of a phone line could give me the shakes and a dry mouth were gone. Still, it did have me guessing, which may have been the point.
My cell phone rang. I stopped under the canopy of a tree, and it rang a second time. No shakes or dry mouth. Just a small quickening of the pulse. Midway through the third ring, I answered.
“Hello.”
“Hey, pal. Where you at?”
Angie. My pulse slowed.
“ Comm Ave., heading to my car. You?”
“Outside an office in the Jeweler’s Exchange.”
“Fun with your diamond merchant?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s aces. When he isn’t hitting on me, he’s telling racist jokes to his male bodyguards.”
“Some girls have all the luck.”
“Yeah. Well, just thought I’d check in. I meant to tell you something, but I can’t remember what it was.”
“That’s helpful.”
“No, it’s right on the tip of my tongue, but…Well, whatever, he’s coming out again. I’ll call you back when I think of it.”
“Cool.”
“Okay. McGarrett out.” She hung up.
I stepped out from under the tree and had taken all of four steps when Angie remembered what she’d forgotten and called back.
“You remember?” I said.
“Hi, Pat,” the sandy-haired guy said. “Enjoying the rain?”
An extra heart appeared in the center of my chest and began to thump. “Loving it. You?”
“I’ve always liked rain, myself. Let me ask you-was that your partner you were talking to?”
I’d been under a large tree on the southern side of the mall. No way he could have seen me from the north. That left east, west, and south.
“Don’t have a partner, Wesley.” I looked south. The sidewalk across from me was empty except for a young woman being pulled across the slick concrete by three large dogs.
“Ha!” he shouted. “Very quick, Pat. You’re good, buddy. Or was that a lucky guess?”
I looked east to Clarendon Street. Just street traffic crossing at the light, no one on a cellular that I could see.
“Little of both, Wesley. Little of both.”
“Well, I’m real proud of you, Pat.”
I turned very slowly to my right and through the thick mist and drizzle, I saw him.
He stood on the southeast corner of Dartmouth and Commonwealth. He’d covered his upper half with a hooded, transparent slicker. When our eyes met, he gave me a wide grin and waved.
“Now you see me…” he said.
I took a step off the curb and cars that had just jumped off the light at Dartmouth screamed past. A Karmann Ghia almost clipped my kneecap as its horn blared and it jerked a hair to its right.
“Oooh,” Wesley said. “Close one. Careful, Pat. Careful.”
I walked along the edge of the mall toward Dartmouth, my eyes on Wesley as he took several casual steps backward.
“I knew a guy who got hit by a car once,” Wesley said as I lost him around the corner.
I broke into a trot and reached Dartmouth. The traffic continued to smoke the road in front of me, rain hissing off the tires. Wesley stood at the mouth of the public alley that ran parallel to Commonwealth Avenue from the Public Garden to the Fens a mile west.
“This guy tripped and a car fender hit his head while he was down. Turned his frontal lobe to egg salad.”
The light turned yellow, but this was merely an excuse for eight cars in two lanes to speed up as they broke through the intersection.
Wesley gave me another wave and disappeared into the alley.
“Always be careful, Pat. Always.”
I bolted across the avenue as a Volvo turned right onto Commonwealth and cut me off. The driver, a woman, shook her head at me, and then roared down the avenue.
I reached the sidewalk, spoke into the phone as I ran toward the mouth of the alley. “Wesley, you still there, buddy?”
“I’m not your buddy,” he whispered.
“But you said you were.”
“I lied, Pat.”
I reached the alley and slid on the sole strip of cobblestone at its mouth, banged into an overflowing Dumpster. A soaked paper bag exploded upward from the Dumpster and a rat surged up and over the edge, dropped to the alley. A cat that had been lying in wait under the Dumpster took off after it, and the two of them bolted the length of a city block in about six seconds. The cat looked big and mean, but so did the rat, and I wondered who exactly was controlling the chase. If I’d been betting, I’d have to have given a slight edge to the rat.
“You ever play Bronco Buster?” Wesley whispered.
“Which?” I looked up at the fire escapes dripping water from chipped iron. Nothing.
“Bronco Buster,” Wesley whispered. “It’s a game. Try it with Vanessa Moore some night. What you do is you mount the woman from behind, doggie style. You with me?”
“Sure.” I walked down the center of the alley, peering through the fog and drizzle at the rear doorways of opulent town houses, the small garages, and the shadowed places where buildings met buildings and some jutted out and others didn’t.
“So you have her from behind and you slip your dick in there so it’s good and firm, as deep as it can go. How deep would that be in your case, Pat?”
“I’m Irish, Wesley. You figure it out.”
“None too deep, then,” he said, and a low “ha-ha” rode his whisper.
I craned my head up at the odd collection of small wooden decks that protruded from the brick, like lean-tos for those underneath. I peered up at the cracks between the wood slats, looking for any shape resembling feet.
“Well, anyway,” he said, “once the two of you are attached good and snug, you whisper another woman’s name in her ear and then hold on tight like a bronco buster as the bitch goes wild.”