Devine's Providence: A Novel Read online

  She smiled, staring intently at me, and when she spoke, she enunciated slowly and clearly, like she was narrating one of her podcasts.

  “No.”

  “Fair enough,” I said politely, turning on my heels and walking away. “Good night, then.”

  “But Harry,” she called after me. I stopped but didn’t turn around. “Don’t let me get away that easily. Ask me again sometime.”

  I was glad I was facing away from her and she couldn’t see my uncontrollable grin. I nodded before continuing to leave.

  “Right,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Indeed,” said Chelsea.

  • • •

  My dreams that night were of the black-and-white variety again.

  It all started with a wide shot of a glitzy house party. Couples in gowns and tuxes swayed around a backyard patio-turned-dancefloor, as a band played “Isn’t it Romantic.” It was all very familiar, but I didn’t quite place it entirely until my mind’s camera zoomed in on Chelsea. She was watching the gala from the edges of the patio, hiding behind a tree.

  Sabrina.

  Then I saw me, or rather a mashed-up version of Humphrey Bogart and William Holden that I somehow knew was me. Chelsea was fixated on me, but I waltzed around, unaware of my voyeur. Who was that I was dancing with? My partner’s back stayed to the camera. It wasn’t until the orchestra switched to “La Vie en Rose” that we spun around and I could see the mysterious woman.

  Susan.

  But she was different. She was smiling. She was happy. We were happy.

  It had been a very, very long time since I had seen my ex-wife happy, even in my dreams. Not since…

  Fuck that. This is my dream, after all, let’s stay happy.

  But by the time I had thought all of this though, she was gone. Vanished, as if she were never there. Instead of holding Susan in my arms, I was holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glass flutes in the other.

  I instinctively made my way down the path through the trees toward the Larrabee estate’s indoor tennis court. I looked around for Chelsea, knowing she had to be around somewhere, watching from the shadows. As the trees grew thicker, the mansion faded from view and the air grew still. A full moon shone overhead and a wolf howled in the distance.

  I don’t remember this being in the movie. What a weird cinematic choice…must be the remake?

  There was a crunch of leaves and a shadowy, sinewy figure blocked my path. The figure was about eight feet tall and had steel-blue eyes that glowed brightly through the all the black-and-white.

  “You know what bothers me about everyone in Sabrina, Harry?” said Chief Delgado. His voice was pleasant and cordial, making it all the more chilling. “They’re all delusional.”

  I tried to step around him, but he was in front of me no matter which direction I moved or which way I faced.

  “Every one of them,” he continued. “They all think they can get what they want just by wanting it enough. And they don’t even really want the things they think they want. They’d all be better off just leaving well enough alone.”

  The champagne bottle in my hand had somehow morphed into a gun. I pointed it at Delgado’s abdomen, as the trees melted away and the woods transformed into the empty streets of downtown Providence.

  “Who ordered Marc Winters killed?” I asked. “Was it you? Or Temple? Where does it all end?”

  “As far as you’re concerned,” he said, “it ends now.”

  I stared at my hand as the gun disappeared in a wisp of smoke. When I looked back up, Delgado, now normal size and in his police regalia, was holding it. And it was pointed at me.

  “You’ll never be the hero of this story, Harry,” he hissed. “In fact, you don’t even get the girl. This isn’t the movies. And you’re not Harrison Ford.”

  Damnit.

  “I prefer the original,” I said through my gritted teeth.

  Delgado snapped at me like a rabid K-9 on the edge of a leash, all teeth and foam and crazed rage.

  I jolted awake, tangled in sheets and sweat. The sun hadn’t yet come up yet, and my neighbor’s dog was barking. I reached for the cheap Scotch on my nightstand and took a swig straight from the bottle.

  I was able, after a bit, to brush the nightmare off as just that—a bad dream, and perhaps too many late-night classic movies—but there was still the lingering, nagging sense of foreboding. Despite Chelsea’s assurances that this was the only way, and her plan of ultimately exposing everything, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were in way over our head.

  I got up and paced around my house, bottle in hand, aimlessly wandering from one room to the other. I passed by the closed door to my daughter’s room without stopping, and ended up in the living room. I threw a Chet Baker album on and sat in my recliner, drinking. I stayed like that until the sweet, airy trumpet and waves of alcohol lulled me into a gloriously dreamless unconsciousness.

  Chapter 14

  THE SET-UP

  The crick in my neck from dozing on the recliner would last a few days, I was sure of it. The hangover, on the other hand, should only last until about midday, by my experienced calculations. According to my clinical estimations (based on level of nausea, intensity of headache, and severity of dry-mouth), I should be hankering for another drink by two in the afternoon.

  Trust me. I’m a professional.

  I trudged through my new morning routine of breakfast, newspaper stand, and making sure I wasn’t being followed.

  Two eggs over easy with corned beef hash at the diner? Check.

  Latest already-obsolete issue of the Providence Journal? Check.

  Don’t get murdered? So far, I dare say, so good!

  I passed by hundreds of other Rhode Islanders on their own daily commute, almost all of them equally successful at not getting murdered thus far. They were all on their way to their respective and respectable jobs at banks, coffee shops, tech start-ups, insurance companies and advertising firms. Blissfully unaware that the sluggish middle-aged man they were passing was commuting to his job at Destroying the Pillars of our Very Society, Inc.

  Company address: A fucking Batcave.

  The fluorescent lights of Terry’s basement hit me like a million little needles spiking directly into my brain by way of my eyeballs. I took some comfort, at least, in the knowledge that surely Chelsea would be just as lethargic as I was. If not more.

  I was the last to arrive in the War Room. Terry and Zachetti were looking at a newspaper laid out on the conference table. And Chelsea was at the computer, typing away and looking as radiant as ever.

  Geez. I underestimated her ability to rally.

  She turned toward me as I entered.

  “Ah, good morning, Mr. Devine,” she said with a chipper note in her voice. “Nice of you to join us.”

  Zachetti looked up from the paper.

  “You can take the shades off, partner,” he said. “Not much natural sunlight down here.”

  His tone was a friendly teasing one, but his face remained serious.

  “I think I’ll keep them on for now, if that’s all the same to everyone.”

  Zachetti frowned and shook his head, returning to the news.

  “Harry,” said Terry, “Have you read the paper this morning?”

  “Not yet,” I said, holding up my copy. “Why? Please tell me I’m not in the obituaries.”

  Zachetti snorted. “They wouldn’t even print your picture in the funny pages.”

  “Funny pages? And I’m the one with the outdated lingo?”

  He slid the paper toward me and pointed to a small article in the bottom corner of page five, barely noticeable among the classifieds.

  MAYOR CRAWFORD APPOINTS NEW CITY

  PLANNING COMMISSION CHIEF

  “Ah, there it is,” I said. “I guess we all figured
that’d be coming.”

  “Indeed,” said Chelsea.

  “New guy’s name is Joseph Gillis,” said Zachetti. “Undoubtedly someone who’s a better ballplayer than Philip Grayle.”

  “Does the paper mention Grayle?”

  “Get this. Said they received a letter of resignation from him right after he skipped town.”

  “How convenient.”

  “I bet that letter didn’t come from Grayle,” said Terry. “I bet it’s fake,”

  “You’re getting the hang of this detective thing,” said Zachetti.

  Terry stuck out her tongue at him, causing him to crack a smile.

  “Interesting,” I said, “But not surprising. Especially given what I heard from the mayor’s chief of staff last night. Watch the Eddy Street garage sale fly through approvals now.”

  Zachetti nodded in agreement.

  “So what’s up with this SmartPark company? Any leads?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “That’s what I’m looking into now. Not much of a website. I can’t even figure out what it is that they even do, exactly. Everything’s pretty vague.”

  I turned to Terry.

  “What about you? The guy that tried to get you to invest…do you know who he was?”

  Terry started to rummage through her handbag.

  “I know I have his name somewhere…”

  She pulled out her compact mirror, a dinner roll wrapped in a cocktail napkin, and then a small stack of business cards. She started flipping through them.

  “No…not him…not him…”

  “Jesus Christ, woman,” said Zachetti. “You weren’t there that long! How many guys did you talk to?”

  “Oh please, Lieutenant,” she said. “Don’t make me out to be some harlot. You saw how romantic everything was. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “I can confirm that,” said Chelsea, making me feel on the hook.

  “I thought he gave me his personal cell,” she muttered, looking through the cards a second time, and then exclaiming, “Oh!”

  She threw the cards back in her bag and unwrapped the dinner roll, revealing writing on the inside of the napkin. It was a name, a phone number, and a crude attempt at a smiley face.

  “Here it is,” she said triumphantly. “George. Not a bad looking mister, actually. And quite the smooth talker.”

  “As long as he’s some kind of talker,” I said, “He may be our best lead.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” asked Chelsea.

  I sat down and leaned back in the chair, taking off my sunglasses and rubbing my eyes.

  “Well,” I said, “We don’t know anything about this SmartPark. And we have one guy who already seems pretty eager to tell Terry all about it…”

  Chelsea nodded, but Zachetti shook his head.

  “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me, Harry,” he said. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

  “It makes sense,” said Chelsea.

  “What?” said Terry. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Terry,” I said, “how would you like some more practice with your acting?”

  “This is ludicrous,” said Zachetti. “You’re just going to throw her—her—into the deep end?”

  “Another undercover mission?” asked Terry, barely able to conceal her excitement.

  “It seems to be our best option.” I said, shrugging at Zachetti. “Unless you got a better one?”

  He huffed, but eventually relented with a scowl.

  “Fine,” he said. “I guess.”

  “I can do it!” said Terry. “I promise. How exciting!”

  I held up my hand.

  “You’ll have us behind you the whole time,” I said. “We’ll prep you, we’ll be there to guide you—maybe even with some fancy surveillance equipment?” I looked at Zachetti hopefully.

  “You’re killing me, Harry,” he said.

  “That doesn’t sound like a no…”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered.

  • • •

  Under our supervision (and some written-out scripting), Terry called George to see if he was still interested in bringing her in as an investor. Thankfully, he seemed just as eager as he had been the previous night. We set a date to meet the following Friday evening, at a trendy restaurant/bar in the financial district. The lecherous tone in George’s voice indicated he was hoping to get something more than just Terry’s money. We all knew we could use this fact to our advantage, though none of us said as much.

  The bar would likely be busy, making it easy for Chelsea and I to slip in and hang out unnoticed nearby, just in case. Zachetti said he would have no trouble procuring some police equipment for us to “borrow,” so we could listen in on Terry and guide her as needed.

  The rest of the following week, Chelsea worked closely with Terry on her “acting” ability, giving copious examples of what to say, what to not say, and—most importantly—how to say it.

  “It’s just talking,” Chelsea told her. “Just conversation. You clearly did a good enough job at the ball, to get his phone number and all. This is the same thing.”

  “I know,” sighed Terry, “But that was so much fun!”

  Though he was highly experienced in undercover training, Zachetti (for the most part) stayed out of it. He grew easily frustrated by Terry, and her by him, leading Chelsea to ban him from the lessons.

  Despite her nerves, Terry markedly improved. She was able to relax and fend off too-personal questions with relative ease. Of course, this was all dress rehearsal. Her performance come show time was what mattered, and we wouldn’t know how she really sung until the curtain came up.

  Late at night on the eve of Terry’s big show, we were all gathered in the War Room. Chelsea and Terry were in a corner, on a mock date, and Zachetti and I were going over our plans one last time.

  Zachetti was biting the corner of his lip and staring off at nothing in the distance. It was a look I knew. It was the look he had when he was trying to decide how to say something he didn’t want to say. It was one of the only times he would actually think before speaking. He did not wear that look very often.

  “What is it, big guy?” I asked. I thought he would try to deflect my question, but instead he just dove right into it.

  “Ah, fuck it,” said Zachetti. “I’ll just rip the Band-Aid off. I saw Susan today.”

  “Oh yeah?” I tried to keep my voice as level as I could, but it had more cracks and potholes in it than the state highway system.

  Zachetti nodded, keeping his voice out of earshot of the girls.

  “I had to interview a witness at the DOC. She was in the common area.”

  “How did…” I swallowed, refusing to make eye contact with him. I wanted nothing more and also nothing less to be talking about this right now. “…how did she look?”

  “Healthy,” he said, by which I knew he meant “sober.”

  “She see you?”

  “Me? A six-foot-four, four hundred pound gorilla walking around a women’s prison? Yeah, I think I was noticed.”

  I snorted a polite laugh but wanted to scream.

  “Said she’s been clean for five years,” he continued. “Said she wrote you a couple of letters some time back.”

  “I haven’t opened them,” I said.

  Zachetti sighed.

  “Maybe you should go out and see her,” he said softly. “Maybe it’ll do you good. Do you both good.”

  I finally looked at him, with enough intensity that he threw his hands up in defense.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “I don’t mean to reopen old wounds. I know you don’t want to face it. But she’ll be up for parole next year, and she’ll probably get out, and then you’ll have to fucking face it.”

  There was too much I wanted to say. E
verything bottlenecked in my mouth out once, so I clenched my teeth and didn’t let anything out at all.

  “Look, Harry…it’s just…I’m just saying because I care, you know? About both of you. And I only brought it up because I thought you should know I saw her.”

  I exhaled slowly through my nose.

  “I know,” I said. “And thank you. But I think we have enough on our plate right now, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re right,” said Zachetti. “Consider the matter dropped…for now.”

  “Good.”

  “But there is something else. What about her?” Zachetti nodded toward Chelsea, who was now helping Terry remember what she normally does with her hands during a natural conversation.

  “What about her?”

  “You’ve gotten pretty close. I saw you on the dance floor the other night.”

  “She’s…well, I like her, yes.”

  “Is the feeling mutual?”

  “God no. Yes? I mean…I don’t know. Maybe?”

  Zachetti smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smirk that made you think he was laughing at your expense.

  “She’s a tough nut to crack, ain’t she?” he said.

  “You’re telling me. I suppose you’re going to lecture me on that, too?”

  “No,” he said, “You’re both adults. But…”

  His smile faded.

  “…there’s something you should know.”

  Crap. Why should I know anything? I would give a fortune for just a dash of blissful ignorance.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well,” said Zachetti, “I did my due diligence before I reached out to her. She has a bit of a past.”

  “Don’t we all?” I asked. “I already know about her dead husband, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “That…and more. She comes with a lot of baggage is all.”

  “So do I. Maybe we can rent a U-Haul together.”

  “I’m just saying, be careful. I don’t want to see you get hurt. After what we went through with Susan…”

  “We? What we went through with Susan?” I whispered coarsely. My face suddenly became very hot.

  Zachetti sighed. His patience with me was waning just as fast as my patience with him.