"Death Vows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stevenson Richard)

Chapter Twenty-one

“Bud Radziwill has disappeared. I’m kind of worried about him. Has he been in touch with you at all?”

This was Ramona Furst, on my cell phone just as Timmy and I arrived back in our room at the Boxwood Motor Inn.

I said, “No, but I wanted to speak with Bud. What do you mean by disappeared?”

“Bud was at work at Barrington Video when a phone call came in from Barry at the House of Correction. Bud was agitated after the call and soon said he was going to have to leave. The manager was concerned and called me. He said Bud is always so steady and reliable, and he was afraid something was terribly wrong.”

“Bud didn’t say why he was leaving or where he was going?”

“No, and I’ve called his cell, and I even drove over to his apartment and knocked on the door. No answer – Josh must have left for work at Pearly Gates – and Bud’s car is gone. I thought you might know something, Donald. I have a call in to Barry at the jail, but he’s being interviewed by the jail shrink right now, and he can’t call me back for another half hour.”

“Why the interview? Are they worried about Barry’s mental state? I know I am.”

“The interview is routine evaluation and intake stuff. What do you mean, you’re worried about his mental state?”

I told Furst about my jailhouse visit with Fields and his altercation over the TV channel and his general air of pessimism and despondency.

“Jail does that to people,” Furst said. “You think they’ll never bounce back, but most of the time they do, pretty much. Though it’s true, after you’ve been through the deprivations and dehumanization of being locked up by the state in the company of sociopaths and other badly damaged people, you’re never quite the same again.”

I said, “I’ve seen a lot of people in jail, but Fields seems to me more wounded than most. We’ve got to get him out of there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I know you’re doing all you can, Ramona.”

“That I am. One of the things I’m doing is depending on you. So what’s your report, Donald?”

I described to Furst my lunch with David Murano and what I learned about Jim Sturdivant’s criminal family background. I told her about my meeting with Cornwallis, and his casually – or maliciously – referring me to goons around Pittsfield likely to know about any current criminal activities by a Sturdivant, either Jim or his brother. Then I told her about Johnny Montarsi, and my mentioning to him that Cheap Maloney was seen with Michael Sturdivant earlier in the week, and then Montarsi’s sudden sharp interest in who and where I was. I told Furst I had learned that Maloney was a man not to mess with, and I planned on approaching him gingerly.

“How about not approaching him at all?” Furst said. “Just turn your information over to Toomey and step aside. That’s the only way to deal with those types, Don, believe me.”

I said I wasn’t sure there was time to let the wheels of justice turn at their usual glacial pace. I said it seemed to me terribly important that we get Barry Fields out of jail, and since I had helped put him there in the first place, it wouldn’t hurt me to take a few risks. I was propped on a pillow on the motel-room bed, and I was aware of Timmy seated at the desk nearby, listening and frowning.

Furst said, “I’m calling Toomey myself to see if we can get his ass in gear. This sounds like valuable stuff you’ve come up with. Have you heard from Bill Moore? Where the hell is he in all this, anyway? Moore’s being no help whatsoever. I don’t get that.”

“I’ve left messages,” I said. “Moore is still incommunicado. I’d be prepared to believe he’s onto the mob-hit angle and is using federal sources to help us out. But if he worked with his friend Jean Watrous at the FBI, he didn’t work on organized crime. According to my bureau source, Watrous worked in counterterrorism.”

“Really? Do you think Moore thinks Jim Sturdivant had some terrorist link? That’s pretty far-fetched. We won’t get far with Thorny on that one.”

“Ramona, I haven’t got a clue what Bill Moore thinks, or did, or is doing. But I know who probably does know. That’s Jean Watrous. I’ll try again talking to her. With Fields rotting in jail and Radziwill on the run, maybe she’ll see how urgent all this is getting.”

“Good luck with Jean,” Furst said. “She’s what I would call congenitally close-mouthed. Or maybe it’s her training. Or some oath she swore on Dick Cheney’s hunting license.”

“I’ll soon see.”

I rang off and looked up Jean Watrous in the Berkshire County phone book. She was listed, with a Lee number, which I dialed.

“Yes, hello.” She sounded out of breath.

“Hi, Jean. This is Don Strachey. I’m sorry we got off to a bad start the other day – ”

“Don,” she cut in, “I’m so sorry, but I can’t talk to you right now. I have to go out of town unexpectedly.”

“I’m calling about Barry – and Bud Radziwill. Bud apparently has disappeared – ”

“Gotta go. I’m really sorry.” Click, and she was gone.

“Oy vey.”

Timmy said, “She hung up?”

“‘Called out of town unexpectedly. Sorry, gotta run!’ Timothy, why did these people hire me if none of them can bring themselves to trust me with the facts? If they just wanted to go through the motions, why not hire someone incompetent? Somebody who they knew would stumble around and, if serious trouble turned up, cut and run?”

“Some wussy defeatocrat.”

“It’s all too strange.”

Timmy said, “Maybe they thought you were that incompetent person. If so, the joke’s on them.”

“Is it? I’m starting to wonder.”

I phoned Joe Toomey on his cell and told him I was more convinced than ever that Jim Sturdivant was the victim of a mob hit, and I explained why I thought so. I told him about Sturdivant’s father and brother and my conversations with Cornwallis, O’Toole and Montarsi. Toomey was amused that the DA had sent me chasing after men the state cop said were well-known Pittsfield thugs. But Toomey could not imagine why the mob would have it in for Jim Sturdivant – except for the ethically challenged but perfectly legal hot-tub loans, his record seemed spotless – and I had to admit that neither could I.

Toomey had not heard of Cheap Maloney but said he would do his own checking and meanwhile advised that I watch my back. I said I planned to. I told Toomey about Johnny Montarsi’s interest in my whereabouts, and this made Toomey grow thoughtful. He said mob enforcers were not the kinds of people with whom I should reasonably expect to have a productive exchange of views, and I told him, yes, I had heard that.

Timmy and I picked up a rental car at a Subaru dealer near the motel, and I parked it in a shady spot across from my own car and the room I had rented. We had an early dinner at an excellent Japanese place on Railroad Street, and then Timmy headed back to Albany. I walked over to the Triplex, where the Saturday night throngs were converging. Myra Greene was in the lobby greeting fans, so I went in to say hello.

When she saw me, Greene looked apprehensive, even frightened. She cut off a conversation with a group of moviegoers and beckoned for me to follow her to a less crowded corner of the lobby behind a display of film noir memorabilia. A blown-up photo showed a blond Barbara Stanwyck with that seductive ankle bracelet marching down the stairs toward Fred MacMurray in Double Indemnity.

“Donald the gumshoe, oh, am I glad to see you!”

“I’m happy to see you got sprung, Myra. Thorny didn’t hang you, but I guess he did rough you up a bit. I’m just glad you didn’t have to blast your way out of the Great Barrington police lockup.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about any of that, Donald. Cornwallis is just showboating – he’s up for reelection in November – and that’ll all blow over.” Greene tried to gesture toward the “that,” as if Cornwallis might be out in the parking lot surveilling the Triplex from his Berkshire DA’s armor-plated Humvee, but her neck did something painful and she grimaced.

Then she said, “Barry’s mother called him. I think this is gonna be trouble.”

“In jail? She knew where he was – and who he says he is these days – and his real mother called Fields at the Berkshire County jail? I’m amazed.”

Greene leaned my way, her old-time nicotine aura reaching up to me. “Barry called me a while ago. He called Bud first and told him to get out of town, and he said maybe I should take a little vacation too, because things were going to get ugly around here.”

“Did he say who these problematical people were and how they were going to make their trouble?”

“Nuh uh. Listen, dear, now I’m just as curious as you are about who these pishers could possibly be.” Greene waved to a couple of ticket-buyers she knew, and they waved back and each waggled a vigorous thumbs-up. It looked as if Thorny would not be collecting a lot of votes in Great Barrington come November.

I said, “What would you say was Barry’s state of mind when he called? I saw him this afternoon, and he was despondent.”

“Oh, he was angry when he called, Donald. Not gloomy, just fit to be tied. And kind of desperate to get out of the clink. That’s why I’m telling you this, even though Barry said I should keep it under my hat. I’m worried about him, I have to tell you.”

I said, “I’ll alert Ramona Furst. She can call the jail psychologist, and they can keep an eye on Barry. He should have called Ramona himself, but I don’t think he sees his family as a legal problem. He seems to regard them as something worse than that, a kind of moveable catastrophe, like war or global warming. Did he say he thought they might show up here in the Berkshires?”

“Donald, that’s exactly what Barry’s afraid of, that they’ll come here and… do whatever it is they do.”

“How did they locate him? Did he say?”

“On a gay-news Web site, he said. Barry’s picture was on this Web site in a news report about him being accused of murdering Jim Sturdivant. His real name wasn’t there, but he said his mother recognized his photograph.”

“Barry’s mother looks at gay Web sites? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Greene screwed up her face, and I screwed up mine, and we just stood there.

In my car, en route back to the motel, I phoned Ramona Furst. I described my conversation with Myra Greene, and Furst said she would phone the jail and find out what she could. Furst said, “Why would Barry’s mother be looking at gay-news Web sites? That’s weird. Maybe despite being an arch homophobe, according to Barry, she was secretly proud of him, and she thought he might have become some kind of commendable gay personage, a young man of accomplishment. Is that possible?”

I said, “Not according to Barry, it isn’t.”