Devine's Providence: A Novel Read online

  She likely knew exactly where we would start looking, and was able to keep ahead of us. She certainly did not want to be found, but she had to leave some trace somewhere. Providence is a small city, and our one advantage was we knew it far better than she did.

  It was already late afternoon and we were just walking into one of the Brown University libraries when my smartphone buzzed with a notification from one of the local news outlets.

  “Huh,” I said.

  “What is it?” asked Terry.

  “Philip Grayle, the former CPC chair…they found his body.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Uh, yeah…that would be a terribly misleading headline otherwise.”

  “What happened?”

  “His body washed up on a beach in Warwick. Guess they didn’t dump him far enough out. Preliminary reports say one bullet wound in the head. I think we know what really happened, but I’d bet money that in a couple of days the report comes back as suicide.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Terry.

  “So,” I said. “That ups the body count to at least two, that we know of. Temple is really serious about protecting his secrets.”

  “Oooh, I hope we can find Chelsea,” said Terry.

  I reached out and patted her shoulder.

  “We will. I promise.”

  My voice was sure and assertive. But inside I was panicking as much as ever. I was worried about Chelsea, but I was also furious at her, though I would never let on to that. We’d had what I had thought was an amazing night together. We had grown so much closer to each other. I had thought that it was the beginning of something really special. I had never imagined that it would actually be the end.

  The annoying little voice in the back of my head keep taunting me.

  I told you so.

  You were a fool to ever think you could ever be important to anyone else, ever, let alone someone as amazing as Chelsea Woodstern. She left you because that’s what you deserve.

  I kept the voices at bay, though, and put all of my efforts in trying to find her. She knew how to handle herself, I know, but she was by herself in a strange city, with forces swirling around her of immeasurable power. She could be fine.

  Or she could not be fine.

  I couldn’t just not know.

  I have. To find her.

  We didn’t, that day.

  • • •

  The next day it was decided that, although it would be risky, we would start talking to local people we could trust. Zachetti had a cache of confidential informants, and I had several contacts around the city in less-than-legitimate business practices. Terry also happened to have her own little network through her dealings, though she refused to reveal anything specific to Zachetti and I. Between all of our connections, if Chelsea was around asking questions, we would likely hear about it.

  So we spent the day canvasing the underbelly of Providence. None of us liked the idea of putting her description out there and drawing more attention to her (and ourselves), but we were getting desperate.

  I was getting desperate.

  I had woken up in the middle of the night still smelling her. Still feeling the weight of her body on top of mine, still feeling our limbs intertwine, still seeing her green eyes stare into my soul. I had only had just a taste of her, but I was addicted, and didn’t think I’d have to go through withdrawals so soon.

  I need her.

  I didn’t want to be as hooked as I was. Part of me was furious at her for doing this to me. To us, I mean. But I knew the second I saw her all that would disappear, as long I as I knew she was safe.

  Please God, let her be safe.

  Late that night, I was lying awake, staring at my bedroom ceiling fan when the burner phone on my nightstand started buzzing. I snatched it up and answered it without looking at the caller ID.

  “Chelsea?”

  “It’s me,” said Zachetti.

  “Jake? It’s three in the morning...”

  “Sorry for the late hour,” he said. “I’m on a stakeout and figured you’d be up anyway.”

  “You’re right, I was. What’s wrong?”

  “We have a real fucking problem, buddy.”

  I sat up straight as my heart sank into my stomach.

  “What’s happened? Is it Chelsea?”

  “I was just asking a CI out here if he’s heard of anyone matching her description asking around about Temple. Or the death at the Hyatt. Or anything at all.”

  “And?”

  “He hadn’t. Which is what he said he already told the other cop.”

  “Other cop…what other cop?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wait…Jake, what are you saying?”

  “Cat’s out of the bag, Harry. They know she’s back in town.”

  This was up there with worst-case scenarios.

  Zachetti continued. “Someone else has been trying to track her down. I checked a few other sources. Most of them say they’ve been approached too. Say they’re cops. Which they might be. Or might not be. Either way, it’s not good.”

  “I don’t understand…how?”

  “Beats me. Maybe somebody recognized her at the WaterFire Ball, or at the restaurant the other night. Or somewhere after she gave you the vamoose.”

  “Crap.”

  “The good news is nobody’s actually seen or heard from her. And if they—whoever ‘they’ are—are still asking around, they don’t know where she is either. It puts some pressure on us, sure, but we’re still in the game.”

  “This isn’t a very fun game.”

  “Harry, look.” Zachetti sighed. “We’re going to find her. She’s going to be alright.”

  His voice was earnest enough, but it reminded me an awful lot of the tone I used to reassure Terry. So much so that I didn’t buy it one bit. It was sweet of him to make the effort, but I couldn’t say anything. I hung up the phone.

  My stomach was in knots. I was too anxious to even drink. The last time that had happened was…well, never.

  Chelsea. Where the hell are you?

  Chapter 19

  THUNDER ON THE HILL

  It was four days later and we still didn’t have a clue where Chelsea was. She was good at her job…too good. For all we knew, she had jumped on a plane back to California.

  But something told me she hadn’t. My gut told me she was still in Rhode Island. And the only time my gut was ever wrong was after three too many late night “all the way” dogs from Olneyville Wieners.

  I was pulling up to my office in the morning when I saw the distinctive car parked out front. A cherry red 1957 Chevy convertible. The top was down and a pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror.

  A pair of two-toned brown and cream wingtips hung over the side of the backseat, feet tapping in the air in time to the Louis Prima song playing on the car radio.

  Great. Haven’t seen this greaseball in almost twenty years, and it’s still too soon.

  I approached the car to see the man belonging to the wingtips reclined across the backseat, a straw fedora resting over his eyes. I slapped his foot and he jolted up, hand reaching inside his jacket pocket.

  “Move it along, Slim,” I said. “No loitering zone.”

  “Haaaaarrrrry,” he said with a toothy grin and a gravely voice. “Long time no see, paisano.”

  His pencil-thin mustache was the same jet-black shade as his thinning, slicked back hair. The wrinkles that weathered his face were clues that the shade came from a bottle. His drawn out face and prominent teeth gave him the appearance of an overgrown rat.

  “Cut the bullshit, Slim,” I said. “I don’t have time for whatever the hell it is you want.”

  “Awww, Harry, don’t be like that. We’ve had such good times together.”

  “We’re even, Slim. We
settled a long time ago. And part of that settlement was I’d never have to see you again. Besides, I’m retired. There’s nothing I can help you with.”

  “Au contraire, Harry. I’m here to help you!”

  He sat up fully, smiling ear to ear.

  “What could you possibly help…wait a minute…what is it? What do you know?”

  His mustache stretched out nearly to his ears as his grin turned Cheshire Cat.

  “There we go, Harry. I figured you’d come around. Word on the street is you’re looking for something. Something others are looking for, too. The question is who wants it more?”

  I grabbed Slim by the lapels and lifted him clear out of the car. I slammed him down on the sidewalk and held him down firmly with one hand around his throat.

  “Ay, Jesus Christ, Harry,” he gasped. “I’m seventy fucking years old. You’re assaulting a senior citizen!”

  “Where is she?” I shouted, my spittle flying in his face.

  “I’m just deliverin’ a message!”

  I grabbed him by the front of his shirt, picked him up off the ground, and slammed him against his car.

  “Watch the paint!” he yelped.

  “So deliver your message,” I said, still ahold of his shirt. “I don’t have time for your fucking games.”

  “The boss wants to see you,” he spat. “You and Zachetti. Says he’s got something you want.”

  “Boss? What boss? Everyone on the Hill’s either up the river or six feet under.”

  “Teddy. Teddy Rocco. I’m with his crew now. Such as it is.”

  “Teddy Rocco? That idiot kid?”

  Slim shrugged. He spoke quickly. “I just do what I’m told, Harry. They tell me I answer to him now, I answer to him now.”

  “I bet.”

  “Look, Harry, it’s not like it was. Like you said, all the old-timers are out of the game in some way or another. Everything’s changed. We’re living in a different time now.”

  That was probably the most truthful thing he’s ever said in his miserable, wasted existence.

  “The kid’s getting his rocks off on playing tough guy,” he went on, “but it’s all just a big fucking show. I’m just putting in my time until I can retire to Florida.”

  “The girl?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about her,” he said.

  “Like fuck you don’t.”

  I cocked my arm back, preparing to punch him in the gut. He held his hands up in defense and rapidly fired off his biggest weapon—his mouth.

  “But I really think it’s in your best interest to pay a visit to Mr. Rocco,” he said, stopping me from swinging. “Best for everyone.”

  Just then, Terry came out of the front of her store.

  “Harry?” she called. “Everything okay? What’s going on?”

  I let go of Slim’s shirt and he immediately tried to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” he said. “Mr. Devine and I were just catching up on old times. Weren’t we, Harry?”

  “Slim here was just leaving,” I said.

  “And, uh, what can I tell il capitano?”

  I set my jaw and glared at him.

  “We’ll be there.”

  Slim smiled. I flinched as he reached into his jacket pocket but he slowly pulled out a comb and held his hands up innocently.

  “Molto buona,” he said, slicking his hair back. “Tonight at seven at the deli. It’ll be like old times, Harry.”

  “It most certainly will not, Slim, I promise you that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He picked his fedora off of the ground and tipped it to Terry.

  “Signora,” he said. “Harry.”

  He hopped in the driver’s seat, flipped on a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses, and drove off, “Pennies from Heaven” blasting from the speakers.

  “Who was that character?” asked Terry.

  “No one good,” I said. “But probably the best chance at finding Chelsea.”

  • • •

  When most people think of Providence’s Federal Hill, they usually think of Atwells Avenue, even though the neighborhood spans out for several blocks on either side. Lying just west of where Interstate 95 snakes through the center of the city, the Hill is notorious for being the former epicenter of New England organized crime.

  La Cosa Nostra family boss Raymond Patriarca ran his extensive operation of card games and prostitution rings from a vending machine warehouse on Atwells. His reach extended all over the Northeast; even Boston’s notorious Whitey Bulger paid his dues to Patriarca.

  This didn’t make Fed Hill an unsavory neighborhood to live or visit. Entirely the opposite, actually. Serving as Providence’s “Little Italy,” Atwells Avenue was lined with popular restaurants, delis, bakeries, hotels, social clubs and coffee shops. It was, and remains as, the go-to place in Providence for locals and tourists alike.

  Since the fall of the Patriarca crime family, however, the demographics have changed considerably. The inevitable gentrification has taken its hold on the Hill. Many of the old-school Italian joints have survived, but they have been joined by neighbors of Greek, Lebanese, Middle Eastern, Japanese and Mexican origins. You can still get an authentic cannoli and espresso, but walking into a random business and you’re just as likely to encounter a belly dancer as you are a biscotti.

  I didn’t remember specifically the last time I visited the Hill with Zachetti, but I knew it must have been on duty. Investigating any high-profile case back then meant dealing with the Family, like it or not. Even if they weren’t behind it—which they usually were—they would have information on who was.

  Organized crime is still, as it will always be, alive in Providence and every other city in America. But because of the FBI, rival gangs, and changing times in general, it has burrowed deeper underground and out of the public eye. The New England faction is now run mostly out of Boston, and those dealings that it does keep in Providence are low profile, a mere shadow of what they once were.

  Our rat-faced acquaintance Slim used to be a low-level underboss, in charge of a numbers racket on the west side. Now, after the restructuring, he was taking work wherever he can, most recently with Teddy Rocco. According to Zachetti, Teodore “Teddy” Rocco took on a small crew of Patriacra family leftovers, not really running anything except extorting the occasional “protection payment” out of what mom-and-pop convenience stores were still in the neighborhood. He was “small fucking potatoes,” as Zachetti said, not endorsed or even sanctioned by the Commission, the national mafia ruling committee.

  Zachetti turned his too-big-for-the-city SUV (what he called his “mobile command center”) down Atwells Avenue, under the stone archway with a pinecone hanging in the center.

  “Been a long time since we passed under the pineapple together,” he said.

  “It’s a pinecone,” I said.

  “Are you fucking blind? That’s a fucking pineapple. Symbol of welcoming.”

  “They don’t have pineapples in Italy,” I said. “It’s a pinecone.”

  “Whatever, Harry.”

  It was a pinecone.

  The street was busy, cars crawling along at a snail’s pace as pedestrians cut in front of traffic on their way to pasta bars, wine bars, or hookah bars. Armies of black-clad valets scurried up and down the sidewalks, like ants at a picnic. They were hopping in double-parked vehicles and whisking them away to some secret Brigadoon of parking lots, unfindable to mere mortal non-valet eyes.

  We finally made it clear of the crowds to the very end of the street, to an old run-down deli and butcher shop that stood unassuming on a corner. A weather-beaten “SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED” sign was propped up against the dirty front window.

  The door opened as we approached, being held open by Slim.

  “Gentlemeeeeen,” he sa
id snidely, “So good to see youse.”

  If he was anymore a stereotype, I thought, he’d be singing the opening number from “Guys and Dolls.”

  “Not in the mood for formalities, Slim,” I said. We pushed past him into the empty shop. “Where is he?”

  “Should be along any moment, mi amici,” he said, locking the door behind us.

  When he turned around, he bounced right off of Zachetti, who stood as close as he could to him, peering down with a threatening stare.

  “Let’s get something straight off the bat, asshole,” said Zachetti. “No funny business. If you attempt anything…or even think about trying my patience…I’ll come down on you so fast and so hard you won’t even have a chance to realize it’s happening.”

  Slim held his hands up nervously. “Capiche, Detective Zachetti,” he said.

  “That’s Lieutenant Zachetti, sleazeball.”

  “Of course…Lieutenant. Sir. Look, likes I was telling Harry, I’m semi-retired. I’m a nobody. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  There was the sound of movement and a door being closed from the back room.

  “Ahhh, here’s the boss now,” said Slim.

  The door behind the counter swung open and Teddy Rocco walked out, followed by a kid no older than nineteen. The kid was wearing gun holster over his maroon shirt and tie. Teddy was wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless undershirt.

  Teddy had muscles that could only come from eighty hours a week at the gym and a series of shots to the buttocks. The kid with him, on the other hand, had no discerning muscles whatsoever, but based on his firepower I gathered he was supposed to be Teddy’s protection.

  A tattoo of an eagle bulged out on Teddy’s thick neck, as if it were trying to fly away from its host.

  “Boys,” Teddy acknowledged us.

  “Tell us what you know, Teddy,” I said.

  “Still ain’t ones for manners, are you, Devine? How long has it been?”

  “Not long enough,” I said. “And don’t push me. We all know why we’re here.”

  “Well, fine, let’s get down to it,” he said. “I heard you two have been all over town asking about a certain little broad. And then I hears that you aren’t the only ones. Other people want to find this broad, too. Big people. Important people.”