Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 13

"Do you know those kind of people?" she asked.

"I have sources," Billy confessed. Another thought came suddenly to him and he wondered if his conscious mind had suppressed it until she had freed him from the sand. He told her straight: "I sold you out to them."

sixteen.

Martin nearly hurled himself at his a.s.sistants feet.

"Thank G.o.d youre here," he blurted. "Do you have my speech? Youre smiling. That means you do? Is it any good? Will it read like I wrote it myself? I dont want people to think my employee had to write my speech for me. Dont look at me like that! Do you have my shoes?" His a.s.sistant held up a plastic grocery bag. "Oh, Christ, thankfully! Does it always echo in here like this? Son of a b.i.t.c.h, I hate that echo. Do I seem nervous? Is it humid in here? Christ, its like a rain forest in this State House." He blotted his forehead with his necktie.

Carol patted Martins arm. "Easy, boss," she comforted in a velvety voice that clashed with the stir of devil in her huge round eyes.

"What?" Martin said. "Whats the grin?"

"I was mingling in the audience before I came up here. I saw the judges comatta."

He shushed her. "Not too loud!" Though he was sure n.o.body could hear them in the ricochet of voices, amped through a PA system, which echoed off marble floors and walls and careened through the alcoves and stairways of the Rhode Island State House. This was where a young Gil Harmony, barely out of law school, served two terms in the state senate.

Carol inspected her boss. "Your shirttail is coming out." She opened his jacket, one side and then the other, clicked her tongue, and pointed to a black spot on his shirt. "That silly fountain pen exploded in your pocket again, so keep this coat b.u.t.toned up."

"Oh, f.u.c.k." He jammed his shirttail into his pants.

"And dont worry about the speech. Itll sell."

"Is it profound?"

"Makes the Gettysburg Address read like a dirty limerick."

Was she joking? Would she joke with him a few minutes before Martin had to read a speech about his murdered mentor? Martin stuck his little pink hands on his hips. "Now quit that," he ordered. "You know I have no ear for hyperbole."

Carol pulled a pair of size 81/2leather cap toe oxfords from a shopping bag. "Why cant you keep these at the office?" she asked.

"My wife can smell dead cow straight through a filing cabinet."

Martin kicked off his hideous 100 percent nonanimal, faux leather plastic loafers. He paused a moment and glanced around unconsciously to make sure his militantly vegan wife was not around. The upper reaches of the state capitol were empty. What makes a taboo so exciting? he wondered. He enjoyed a tickle in his potbelly and felt the stretch of his grin as he slipped his feet into genuine cowhide shoes he would never dare bring near his own house.

Martin and Carol peered together over a third-floor balcony rail, into the State House rotunda. Far below, the memorial service for Justice Gilbert Harmony was under way. More than a hundred well-dressed people competed for standing room on four great staircases that led into the hall. The rotunda is a soaring s.p.a.ce befitting a cathedral, built of pillars and balconies standing upon each other, from the bra.s.s seal of the state embedded in the white marble floor to the high point of the capitol dome, 149 feet above. For a century, the rotunda has been the site of protests and celebrations, public announcements and government denouncements. More recently, it had become a backdrop for wedding photos.

As an indoor courtyard open to each floor of the building, the rotunda is bright, and seems built of equal parts air and rock. Veins of black swirl though the white marble pillars, the staircases, and the balcony rails polished as smooth as a beach stone. Four arches near the top of the s.p.a.ce are gilded in gold, and decorated with murals of ladies in flowing gowns and laurel leaf crowns, holdings books and swords to represent literature and justice. The dome that caps the rotunda is 50 feet across, painted a blend of blue and white, like the sky.

Blue velvet ropes protect the ten-foot state seal in the rotunda floor, which is surrounded by ornamental bra.s.s streetlamps, each supporting ten frosted-gla.s.s globes of light. At a podium next to the seal, a retired senator mumbled at eighty decibels through a PA system that splashed his voice monstrously against the marble.

" ... my goooood friend-d-d and colleeegggg ..."

Martin wiggled his toes inside the glorious leather and asked Carol, "Did you see June Harmony?"

"Front row, protecting her territory," Carol replied.

A dozen metal folding chairs had been set up in three rows before the podium. June Harmony was conspicuous in a long black dress. She sat at attention, yet gazed off as if she had not noticed the crowds, the podium, and the speaker. Her spectacular diamond earrings twinkled in the light.

"So you told her about Nelida?" Carol asked, gently prying for information.

"I felt like a little boy confessing to my mother that I had broken a family heirloom," Martin admitted. "She didnt flinch."

"Of course not. She knew. At some level, the wife always knows."

Martin glanced at Carol and was relieved that she did not look back at him. Carol was a generous soul-she would not force Martin to acknowledge that June Harmony may have had the worlds oldest motive to kill her husband: jealousy.

"June didnt try to bar Nelida from this event," Martin said.

"To take action against the mistress would affirm that June considered Nelida a threat, and June Harmony is too proud for that," Carol said. "Have they met eyes?"

"I fear for this building when they do."

"Do you see where Nelida is standing?"

Martin could not miss her. "Behind the great seal," he said.

The judges mistress wore a navy blue pantsuit and a yellow shirt so bright a hunter might wear it to avoid getting shot in the woods. "Shes certainly not in hiding."

"She staked out territory as close to the podium as possible," Carol said. "Its her first public claim on the judges life. She waits just off to the side like a gathering army before an invasion. Is that her bodyguard with her?"

"Thats her son, Jerod," Martin said, feeling a squirt of embarra.s.sment at the memory of meeting Jerod in New York while Martin was in a robe, briefly out of his briefs. Jerod looked impressive in an athletically tapered gray suit coat. "Nelida says Gil treated her son like his own blood."

"I noticed Jerod when I was mingling earlier," Carol said. "His eyes darted everywhere. He feels out of his element."

"How was Brock?" Martin asked. He picked the kid out of the crowd, at his mothers side and mimicking her posture.

"Zombified."

Martins eyes drifted to a slender woman in a swishy black skirt: Kit Ba.s.s, the judges clerk, carrying a legal pad and hurrying among the attendees like a worker bee in a crowded hive. She approached Gil Harmonys old friends one by one, landing with a whisper into her hand cupped to their ears, probably telling each of them when they would speak. With a scratch on the legal pad, she would fly off again.

"Povich says that woman, Kit Ba.s.s, loved the judge too," Martin said, more to himself than to Carol.

"Which one? There? The clerk?"

"Too young for him."

Carol laughed. "From his perspective there was no 'too young. And from hers, nothing smooths wrinkles like money and power."

Martin sighed. "Im stuck with these wrinkles, and the oatmeal masks my wife wants me to wear."

"Do you good, maybe." She smiled and did the s.e.xy little hair flip she liked to do when she teased him about his age.

He scoffed, "Oatmeal masks. Cuc.u.mbers on the eyes. She has a skin cream with carrots in it. Why do women put food on their faces? And why cant anybody make a shampoo that doesnt smell like dessert? With a beard like this, do you think I want it stinkin like witch hazel and huckleberries?"

Martin spotted Lincoln Harmony. The judges brother looked down on the memorial from the second-floor balcony. He leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, occasionally nodding to people to accept the condolences of politicians and lawyers who had caught his eye.

"Is the brother drunk?" Martin asked.

"Hes anxious," Carol said. "See the leg bouncing? Read that as impatient. Hmmm. And with his flat mouth-line and crossed arms, Id say hes waiting for something."

"Maybe hes just nervous about speaking to this crowd. No shame in that. I should head down there."

They walked together down a side hall painted b.u.t.terscotch and cluttered with the serious portraits of men who had served as Rhode Island governor. Each governor in history had a portrait somewhere in the State House, regardless of whether his administration ended in success, failure, or incarceration.

Carol slipped Martin two typewritten pages. "Your speech," she said. "Dont read it too fast. Breathe now and then. Pause at the spots Ive indicated, and make sure you look up and make eye contact with somebody."

Martin read the first line: Long ago, as a young attorney, my friend Gil Harmony taught me that lawyers save as many lives as doctors, by serving the truth.

He sighed, folded the speech, and tucked it into his pocket. "A beautiful opening," he said. "But Im going to feel like a liar, knowing what I know about Gil."

"He was a complicated man," Carol said. "Pick the truth about him you loved, and serve that one." Her hand, resting lightly on his shoulder, felt like an iron guyline that steadied him inside a hurricane.

They pa.s.sed an oil portrait of former governor Ambrose Burnside, known for wearing a beard over his cheeks with a clean-shaven chin. The Civil War general didnt want to command the Army of the Potomac-he warned President Lincoln he was no good for the job. But Burnside got stuck with the command anyway, nearly lost the war at Fredericksburg, and had to be talked out of a suicide charge at Confederate troops. Though a disaster on horseback as a general, he gave the world a new hairstyle, known as burnsides. Somehow, the dyslexia of history mangled the name into sideburns.

Martin was suddenly struck with new respect for Burnside. At least the general knew his limitations. Do I know mine? Martins drive to find Gil Harmonys killer had succeeded only in killing the judges reputation. Rumors of an out-of-town mistress bubbled through the legal community, and they carried the ugly, unspoken suggestion that Gils behavior might have been responsible for his murder. Martin felt he had strangled the judge in the grave. Plus he had nearly got Povich buried alive.

At the floor of the rotunda, Martin left Carol in the crowd and took the seat reserved for him behind June Harmony. He tried not to look at Nelida but could not resist. She stared back and lifted her chin an inch in a greeting n.o.body else would notice. Her son, Jerod, leaned in front of his mother, which Martin interpreted as a gesture of protection, as if he were ready to take a bullet for her.

The speaking program of earsplitting echoes continued. Martin read over his speech. With his leaky fountain pen, he edited a word here and there. Carol was brilliant and Martin dreaded her graduation from law school. Shed ace the bar, of course, and hed immediately offer to make her his partner. But then theyd have to hire a new a.s.sistant, and theyd never find someone as good as she.

A man brushed roughly past Martins elbow, dragging the scent of cigars. Martin looked up to see Lincoln Harmony leaning over June. She glared up at him. He smiled sweetly and handed her a white envelope, which she reluctantly accepted as she would a dead rat. He clapped her twice lightly on the shoulder, and then grinned at Martin and shot him with a finger gun. Then Linc staggered off into the crowd.

Hes got to be f.u.c.king hammered!

June gripped the envelope in the middle, as if to tear it in half, but then changed her mind, slid a pinkie under the flap, and took out a doc.u.ment. Martin leaned forward and read over her shoulder.

A subpoena.

Linc Harmony was contesting his brothers will.

seventeen.

The close-up photos of a dead mans body were like a morbid Frankenstein puzzle. A bicep, part of a shoulder, left pectoral above the nipple, right shoulder blade. The autopsy photos had been printed in black and white, and Billy knew the dark spots on the colorless skin were bloodstains. The pictures of Adam Rackers on a slab in the morgue purported to show identifying marks such as moles and scars, but only the inscrutable tattoo seemed to have belonged to an individual. The Old English letters spelled dismas23 in a curved frown on Rackerss shoulder. What the h.e.l.l did that mean? Some kind of gang name?

Billy laid out six pictures before him, roughly re-creating Rackerss dead body on the kitchen table. He sat on his fathers foam doughnut to protect a bruise on his tailbone. His wrists were loosely wrapped in gauze. Six ibuprofens had drawn a thin cushion over the pain throughout his body. He felt like an abused tackling dummy at the end of Patriots training camp. Worse than the physical pain, he felt a pressing anxiety. He had done no better than the police in tracing Rackerss movements the weeks before he shot the judge. The cops had been thorough. They had checked Rackerss last known address, a Pawtucket duplex on an island of residential streets jammed among industrial buildings, in a neighborhood no outsider could find without a map. Rackers had skipped out on his lease three months before he died in the wreck. n.o.body in the old neighborhood had ever seen him again. Rackerss residential fingerprints stopped there. No change of address through a cell provider, no credit applications in the Internet databases, no contact with government or the utilities, other than the cop who spotted Rackers casing the judges neighborhood shortly before the killing.

Where the h.e.l.l had he been hiding?

Billys street contacts had reported rumors that Rackers and a partner had been feeding discount loot to local fences, but nothing specific. And n.o.body could provide an address for Billy to track down.

A low murmur floated down the hall.

Billy stared toward the source and listened. That was his fathers voice, though Billy couldnt make out what he was saying. The old man was talking to himself again. And not just a stray thought subconsciously expressed by the lips-his father was having monologues in his bedroom. This was not the first time. He tried to remember when the old man started giving speeches to himself. Maybe a few weeks ago? Two months?

Need to ask him about that ...

The laptop computer on the table suddenly shouted: "Missed it by THAT much!"

Billy had no clue how Bo programmed the computer to quote Get Smart whenever e-mail arrived. He glanced at the clock: 2:45 a.m. Who the h.e.l.l was e-mailing at this hour? He turned the volume down so not to wake Bo.

The old mans wheelchair glided into the kitchen. Mr. Einstein lay across his lap. "Thats my e-mail," he said.

"You better give that doll back to Bo," Billy said. "If he wakes up without Einstein, h.e.l.l be scared. What were you doing with that thing?"

"Talking with him," the old man said dismissively. "Open that e-mail! Its a reminder to bid on my worlds fair item."

"Dont you have enough useless trinkets?"

"Not nearly. Lemme at that machine. Just takes a second." He held up a palsied hand and waved for Billy to get out of the way.

"Can you do this without Bo?" Billy asked. "This is a computer, not a b.u.t.ter churn. Never mind. Ill do it for you. Why do you always wait till the last possible second to bid?"

"So n.o.body can come in after me and steal my items. Quicker!"

Billy followed a link to an online auction site. He scoffed, "Is this what youre buying? What the h.e.l.l is this thing? A piece of paper? Youre bidding on old paper?"

"Its an invitation," the old man said, sounding anxious. "Theres three minutes left! We gotta bid!"

"An invitation to what?"

"To the opening ceremonies of the worlds fair. An original invitation! FDR was there, you know. He spoke to a huge crowd about the world of tomorrow-that was the theme for the fair." His fingers slashed the air for emphasis. "April thirtieth, nineteen thirty-nine. That was also the anniversary of the inauguration of George Washington. One hundred fifty years to the day, General Washington took the first presidential oath of office in front of a huuuuuge crowd."

"Did you have good seats for the inauguration, old man?"

"What-? Seats to who?"

"How was Georges speech?"

"Eh?" The old mans mouth dropped open and he squinted at his son from behind thick eyegla.s.ses.

Billy sighed. Sarcasm was completely wasted on his father. "How much are you bidding?"

"Thirty dollars. No, thirty-five!"

"For a piece of paper?"