Devine's Providence: A Novel Page 17

  “See, babe?” The guy was saying, pointing up at the invisible staffs of orchestral music wafting over our heads. “This is real music. Mozart! Everyone says Beethoven was the greatest, but listen to the genius in this piece!”

  The girl smiled and nodded, perhaps genuinely but more likely just politely, and said, “Like, wow. You can pick out the song without hearing the words? You’re, like, so smart.”

  Chelsea, who had been getting increasingly frustrated at our slow pace, placed a hand on the sock-headed boy and pushed him aside.

  Rather than an apology or an ‘excuse me’ as we passed, she simply said, “This is Beethoven. Seventh Symphony. Second movement. Allegretto.”

  Out of earshot of Chelsea, I heard the kid say, “She’s wrong. This is obviously Mozart.”

  Out of earshot of the kids, I heard Chelsea say, “Know-it-all little piss-ant.”

  I think I’m in love with this woman.

  “Fan of the classics, are you?” I said.

  “Used to be,” she replied tersely.

  We finally made it to the other side of the river and away from the crowd. Before we made the trek up the hills, Chelsea stopped to remove her heels. I surveyed around us to make sure we weren’t being followed. Nothing stood out, but I didn’t know what I was looking for anymore.

  A dark-colored sedan drove by us and abruptly screeched to a halt just up the block. It threw itself into reverse and stopped back in front of us.

  Shit, what now?

  My imagination pictured two or three large men in suits jumping out and throwing us in the back of the car, never to be seen again. Until maybe one of our blue, decomposed bodies got tangled up in a fisherman’s net somewhere just off the coast.

  I instinctively reached for my holster, which of course wasn’t there. Chelsea straightened up and grabbed my arm. Before we could decide to stay or run, the tinted back-seat window rolled down. I was certain it would be someone like Delgado, and just as certain he wouldn’t be asking if we had any Grey Poupon.

  But it was Terry that popped her head out.

  “Hi kids!” she exclaimed. “Hop on in!”

  Chelsea audibly exhaled a sigh of relief.

  “But of course,” I said.

  Chapter 13

  DRUNKEN ANGEL

  The War Room was filled with nervous energy. Zachetti was planted on the sofa. He had removed his mask but kept his opera cape on (“In case I need to exit with a dramatic fucking flourish,” he had said). Chelsea sat next to him, in what room was left. She had proven the theory that all good things come to an end by switching her dress for sweatpants and a t-shirt.

  Terry remained completely done up. She served us coffee, and we munched on a variety of cookies she had relocated from the party’s dessert table into a large plastic bag hidden in her purse.

  She winked at me as she handed me my java, and I knew why as soon as I tasted the whiskey mixed in. A smile from Zachetti and a cough from Chelsea told me mine wasn’t the only ‘special’ cup.

  “You’re the tops, sweetheart,” I said.

  “Cheers,” said Terry.

  Chelsea coughed again but took a big swig from her mug.

  The Phantom of Zachetti had filled us in on how his night went. Word that I was at the ball had gotten around pretty early on—someone had recognized me before we even got through security. Most of the talk was innocent enough; all of the veterans that would know me and were still on the force were like a sewing circle of old ladies. I hadn’t made very many public appearances in high-profile functions like that in about a decade and a half, so the gossip spread fairly quickly. “Did you hear Harry Devine’s here? With a gorgeous blonde number!”

  By the time the game of telephone reached Chief Delgado, however, the innocence had rubbed off.

  From what Zachetti could tell, no one had made Chelsea, thinking she was indeed just my date. A very long overdue rebound friend-with-benefits, perhaps.

  I’m ashamed to say I didn’t mind people thinking that. And not just because it kept our cover intact.

  As far as what I was doing there, Zachetti couldn’t find out what—if anything—Delgado and his comrades knew. Or even suspected.

  Chelsea kept assuring me that I had played off our encounter just fine, and gave no reason for him (or anyone else) to suspect that I hadn’t given up on the Marc Winters case.

  But my missing gun gnawed at me. It ate at the corners of my mind, and I couldn’t help but dread that it would come back to bite me. It could’ve been a coincidence, sure, if some random passerby happened to be digging in the trash of the same ATM vestibule I had stashed it. Or, more likely, if someone had seen me hastily discard it and then swept in as soon as I returned to the party. But I didn’t like coincidences. Not when the stakes were so high. And not with a police department camera in just the right place.

  But then there was the question: if someone involved with the conspiracy saw me stash the gun, why take it? And why let me just walk out, once Delgado confronted me?

  And what about Stanley What’s-his-Face? He definitely suspected something about me. Would he and Delgado put two and two together and come up with Harry Devine asking about things he shouldn’t know anything about?

  There were far too many questions above the preferred amount of “no questions whatsoever.” Hopefully between the others, someone had at least a few answers.

  “Well,” I sighed. “What a swell party that was.”

  Chelsea and I both downed our coffees and motioned to Terry for a refill. She set both the coffee urn and Jameson bottle on the conference table. I poured myself another Irish coffee, hold the cream. Chelsea poured herself another Irish coffee as well, hold the coffee.

  “What about you guys?” asked Zachetti. “Tell me you at least got something useful.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I found out what Temple’s doing with all that property.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Razing them. Even the lots. Sounds like he’s just wiping them clean.”

  “Why would he do that?” asked Terry.

  I shrugged. “Beats me. But Temple’s up to something. He’s making out on this deal big time. I just don’t know how.”

  “Hmm,” said Chelsea. “It may have something to do with the intel I got.”

  “From your mustached friend?” I asked, smirking.

  “Him…and a few other guys.”

  “The belle of the ball, eh?” said Zachetti.

  Chelsea grinned. “I think that honor goes to Terry,” she said.

  “What a magical night,” said Terry.

  “Indeed,” said Chelsea, glancing quickly toward me but then just as quickly away. “Anyway, apparently Temple’s been investing heavily in a company called SmartPark.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Zachetti.

  “I don’t know anything about it either,” said Chelsea. “Only that he’s sinking a ton of money into it. And drumming up a pretty sizeable group of other investors, as well.”

  “Oh!’ said Terry. “SmartPark! One of the gentlemen I danced with was talking about that. He found out I owned property, and he wanted me to invest.”

  “I imagine folks like the mayor and Chief Delgado are all in it as well,” I said.

  “Most assuredly,” said Chelsea. “The details are all extremely hush-hush, but the guys I talked to had no problem bragging that the payout is going to be tremendous. Allegedly.”

  “What did your gentleman friend have to say about it?” I asked Terry.

  “He was pretty tight-lipped about the specifics,” she said. “He offered to tell me more, but then he got pretty handsy, so I didn’t push it. Then the song ended, and there were other gentlemen waiting their turn to dance.”

  Zachetti burst out a laugh. “Had ‘em lined up, did ya?”

  “And what’s s
o funny about that, Lieutenant? Some men know how to treat a lady.”

  I shot Zachetti a warning glare, and he bit his tongue down on whatever retort he had lined up.

  “Anyway,” said Terry, “I felt like a princess.”

  “Well,” I said, “at least we have a little something to go on. We’ll have to look into this SmartPark thing. In the meantime, I just wanted to apologize to everyone.”

  “Oh fuck,” said Zachetti, yawning. “Is this part of some twelve step program?”

  “That’ll be the day,” I said. “But the way things went down tonight—making myself known, running into Delgado, losing the gun—I put you all in danger because I was sloppy. It was too risky even going to this thing. I didn’t think it through, and I’m sorry.”

  “Bullshit,” said Zachetti. “As far as we know, Delgado was just feeling you out.”

  “As far as we know,” I repeated.

  “Exactly. Which is why you have to keep up business as usual. I know the gun spooked you, but it was probably just some punk who’s gonna try to knock over a 7-11.”

  “Thanks, Jake. You always know just what to say. I feel better already.”

  “I’m saying we’re fine. No reason to show otherwise. They still don’t know Woodstern’s here.”

  “Right,” said Chelsea, pouring herself another mug of Jameson. “And we all knew the risk. This doesn’t fall on your shoulders alone. Plus, it actually paid off. We know more now than we did before.”

  Terry put her hand on my arm and stared off into the distance as she spoke.

  “I wouldn’t have traded it for the world,” she said.

  I smiled.

  “Well,” I said. “What a motley crew we are, huh?”

  “Motley,” said Zachetti, “and old. I’m beat.”

  “Yeah,” said Terry, “I think I’ve had enough enchantment for one day. Good night, kids.”

  She planted a big wet kiss on my cheek before leaving. Zachetti followed, exiting with a dramatic fucking flourish.

  “You must be tired, too,” I said to Chelsea. “All that dancing.”

  “I’m not ready to sleep yet,” she said, finishing off her mug with a wince.

  She motioned to the bottle of Jameson. I filled her up, topped myself off, and joined her on the sofa.

  “I have to ask,” I said. “What’s the goal here? Suppose we, by some miracle of miracles, get to the bottom of this conspiracy. Say we find out exactly why the police are covering up missing people and murders just to so the city can sell off some parking garages. Then what? We’re still going to the feds, right?”

  “Mm-hmm. We take what we know, and we tell everyone. I publish the facts on my blog. We send a press release to all the major media. Plus the State Police and the FBI. We make it so no matter how widespread Temple’s influence, he can’t hide from the truth. Whatever that turns out to be.”

  She paused, and then added, “It’s the only way.”

  She seemed to be reassuring herself more than me.

  “The law’s going to have questions,” I said. “We haven’t done anything illegal…yet. But I have a feeling things could get a bit hairy. Not to mention our base of operations is in a secret drug bunker.”

  “I’m not going to reveal our methods,” said Chelsea, “just the results. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  She smiled at me and took a long drink.

  “What an exciting life you must lead,” I said.

  “I admit, this case is a first for me. But it means a lot.”

  We sat in silence for a minute before I responded.

  “I know you’re looking for closure,” I said. “But it’s not going to bring Marc back. Just fair warning.”

  She shot back the rest of her drink and tucked her leg up beneath her.

  “Of course I know that,” she said. “But I’m not doing it for closure. I’m doing it for Marc. I owe him that, at least.”

  She leaned back on the sofa and started lightly poking my arm absentmindedly.

  I see all that liquor has finally made its way into her bloodstream.

  “You’re very handsome, Mr. Devine. In a classic, traditional sort of way.”

  She was very good at staying in control of the conversation. I knew what she was doing, but I played along anyway.

  “Classic and traditional, huh?”

  “I mean, you’re not what I would normally call hot, but there’s such an old-school charm about you.”

  I wanted to be wounded, but I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You’re too kind,” I said sarcastically.

  “Oh stop,” she said. “Not everything is meant to be an insult. Take the fucking compliment, already.”

  “I would if I could find it.”

  Her light pokes on my arm turned into a hard poke in my ribs.

  “Chelsea Woodstern,” I said, “you are quite drunk.”

  “Pssssh,” she said. “I’m not drunk, you’re drunk.”

  I laughed again. “I don’t know if I’m able to recognize that anymore.”

  “Indeeeeed,” she said.

  I grabbed her finger mid-poke. She opened her palm and held onto my hand. She lifted her head and smiled at me, but her eyes grew sad and her smile soon turned into a frown.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Listen,” she said. “About what happened tonight. Or almost happened.”

  Here we go. Ride’s over, folks. Watch your head and step as you disembark.

  “The music, the atmosphere…you have to admit it was all very romantic.”

  “Oh, I have no trouble admitting that,” I said.

  “I guess I was just caught up in the moment. I didn’t mean to lead you on or anything.”

  “Is that so,” I said, looking down at our clasped hands. She quickly pulled hers away.

  “If these were different circumstances,” she said, “who knows what could happen? But this case is too important.”

  “Yeah, definitely,” I said, sinking into a bed of feelings I was well-acquainted with. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least it was familiar.

  “Aaaand,” she said, giving me another poke in the ribs, “I would just drag you down. I’m a fucking mess. I don’t deserve you.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was being earnest or patronizing, but I was incredibly hurt either way. And I didn’t agree with anything she was saying.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” I joked. “It pains me to even share a sofa with the likes of you.”

  Those words weren’t exactly a lie, but the reasons behind them were.

  She smiled, but the sadness still showed behind her eyes.

  “Good,” she said. “You’re becoming a dear friend, Harry.”

  Motherfucking ouch.

  “I should go,” I said, standing.

  “Sleep tight, dance partner,” said Chelsea, reaching for the Jameson bottle.

  I watched her pour yet another mug-full.

  “So, uh, just saying, as a friend: you might want to go easy on the sauce there, pal. You’re hitting it pretty hard, don’t you think?”

  She glared at me with unfocused eyes.

  “Is the great Harry Devine now giving lectures on sobriety?”

  “Look, I’m not trying to be pious. It’s just that you’ve had a lot…”

  “I’m not a little girl, Harry. I’m all grown up.”

  “And how.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said I know.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I turned to leave, and found myself slamming face-first into a wall of emotion.

  You’ll never be good enough, Harry. You got way ahead of yourself, as usual. Did you really think you possibly had a shot? At her? At any happiness at all? You’re pathetic. You’re delusional. Y
ou’re…

  No.

  My usual method of coping with self-doubt and anxiety was sinking further into myself, or trying to push my feelings down. This time, for the first time, I faced my feelings head-on and gave them the middle finger.

  “No,” I said, turning back to Chelsea.

  “No, what?”

  “No. That whole thing about you not deserving me, about just getting caught up in the moment, I don’t accept it.”

  “Oh no?” And there came the arched eyebrow.

  “I do not. I mean, of course we got caught up in the moment. It was a wonderful moment.”

  “It was.”

  “But it didn’t happen in a vacuum. It was wonderful because of us. Because there might be something between us. So fuck it all about who deserves what. I don’t accept that.”

  Chelsea took a long sip, staring at me the whole time, studying me. Finally, she said, “Well, this is a new side of you, Mr. Devine, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said reflexively, “is it too much?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. “But don’t let me stop you. Go on.”

  “Good,” I huffed. “And another thing…”

  “Please,” she said. “Do tell.”

  She put her mug down on the table and leaned back on the sofa as if she were settling in to watch an exciting movie. She looked thoroughly amused, an observation which I ignored. I was on too much of a roll to be distracted.

  “Yes, well,” I continued, “You can’t very well preach for me to stop lashing out whenever someone gets close to me, when you turn around and do the same god-damned thing.”

  Her smile and her eyebrow both dropped, but she said nothing.

  “I don’t accept that. And you shouldn’t, either. We’re both adults. And we’re both too old for games.”

  Up went the eyebrow again.

  “At least I am, anyway,” I said quickly.

  “I have to say, Mr. Devine, I like this new assertive attitude,” she said. “But where exactly are you going with this?”

  “Chelsea Woodstern,” I said. “Would you like to go on a date with me?”