Strangled - Brian McGrory [121]
I hung up. We were about a minute out, zipping through the South End, Hank intent behind the wheel, the dog stretched out and sound asleep already in the back, and me just about climbing onto the roof of the car.
About thirty seconds out, and my cell phone rang. Hank whispered, “Thank God.” The dog raised his head. I waited until the second ring, saw that the caller ID said “Unavailable,” which could well be the designation for a big hotel, and answered the phone with high hopes.
“Jack here.”
Silence.
Well, not exactly silence, but a muffled noise, which could have been a woman fighting off an attacker, fighting for her life in a hotel room that might be the last place she’d ever see.
I just about shouted, “Who’s there?”
More muffled sounds, as if someone’s hand was cupped over the phone to mask the commotion in the background. And then I heard a vaguely familiar male voice say to me, “Jack, I’m in some trouble. I need your help.”
Vinny Mongillo.
But the thing was, it sounded nothing like the Vinny that I knew so well. This Vinny was seriously distressed and somewhat embarrassed. He sounded exhausted, and scared.
I said, “Vin, I’m in the middle of a world of trouble right now. Tell me fast.”
And unlike the typical Vinny Mongillo, who would have imparted some sort of sarcastic or even caustic comment here, he did.
“I’ve been taken into custody by the Boston Police. They’re about to charge me with something in relation to the Boston Strangler case. It’s not what you think. It’s not what they think either.”
Hank was wheeling around the hotel, pulling up to the side entrance. My mind flashed to Vinny’s letter in the garage on Rodeo Road — a letter that was still in my pocket at that moment. Was I missing something? Was there a link I hadn’t made, a connection I couldn’t grasp? Was Vinny capable of doing something that I couldn’t even imagine?
He continued, “I’m going to need a lawyer and some bail. I’m in headquarters. This is the only call they’re giving me. And you and I desperately need to speak. Can you get here as soon as possible?”
This was a lot to process. By now the car was stopped. Hank was out his door. I said, “Vinny, soon as I can. I have something else I’m taking care of right now, but soon as I can.”
And I leapt out. Hank and I dashed side by side through the door. Inside, I slammed my hand against the elevator call button. A bell dinged, the doors opened, and we were in business. The ride up felt like we were climbing Mount Everest. When we hit the top, we ran left, then right, then right again, and there we were, the two of us, Hank and me, standing directly outside of Room 533. He glanced at me and I glanced at him. That’s when I reached out and firmly knocked.
33
Some of the best hotel nights in my life have been spent in the stately rooms of the landmark building that is Boston’s Fairmont Copley Plaza hotel. I spent my wedding night in the presidential suite. I used to stay there when I was a Washington reporter for the Boston Record during my frequent trips home. My own mother would visit me and look around at the valets and the concierge and the turndown service, and she’d smile that smile of hers and say to me, “You think you’re such a big shot.” Maybe I did.
I’d spent many a night in the Oak Bar with Elizabeth Riggs, listening to great jazz musicians beneath the frescoed thirty-foot ceilings, sipping cocktails served by waitresses and bartenders who counted their tenure not by years but by decades. I once gleaned invaluable information from an old friend named Gus in a corner suite at the hotel as I reported one devastating story after another about the mysterious background of the president of the United States.
All these good feelings and good memories, along with so much more, were about to come crashing to an end on this night, because when you really think about it, that’s what happens in life — things end.
No one answered my knock. There wasn’t so much as a whisper of a sound from inside the room, at least as far as we could hear, and Hank should have been able