Strangled - Brian McGrory [123]
Hank said, “My only son was killed before he ever had any children, so nice as it sounds, my name isn’t Gramps.”
The security guard didn’t particularly seem to care, poignant as Hank’s declaration was. He said, “One more step and I will break your fucking face.”
So then I started walking toward them. No one talks to Hank like that, not when he’s protecting me. Did I mention, by the way, that they were unarmed?
The two security guards were inside the room now, one of them chest to chest with me. I had no idea what was about to happen, but I know what did. A uniformed police officer appeared in the doorway and exclaimed, “Lookie here, Hank Sweeney, the man behind the myth.”
Hank beamed. The security detail looked confused. I still considered all this a colossal waste of time, given that Elizabeth Riggs was still either dead or in imminent danger of becoming that way.
Hank and the cop, a guy introduced to me as Tommy Reilly, made small talk. Another cop showed up, and the first cop introduced the two of them. Then Reilly said to Hank, “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing breaking into a hotel room, but I assume you have good reason. Anything you need us to do?”
Hank started answering, started explaining about a woman being in extreme danger, when Tommy Reilly pulled his radio from his belt, contacted headquarters, and ordered whoever it was on the other end of the line to put out an immediate all-points bulletin for an Elizabeth Riggs. He stifled the radio for a moment, asked me for her date of birth and a physical description, which I gave him, and he relayed that information as well.
Reilly said to me, as well as Hank, “Technically, I should take you down to headquarters for some more information, especially since you have information in what might be a — well, might be something that’s pretty dire.”
Hank replied, “Technically, yeah, but the thing is, we slipped out before you had a chance to ask us.”
The cop nodded. Hank grabbed my elbow and said in his easy, matter-of-fact voice, “We’re out of here.” And we were, leaving the broken door and the empty room behind, but carrying my deepest fears along the way.
Down in the lobby, another pair of uniformed cops were rushing into the elevator and up to the fifth floor. A couple — the man in a tuxedo, the woman in an evening gown — were bickering over something that was undoubtedly profoundly unimportant, but ruinous nonetheless to what was supposed to have been a grand night.
Hank and I faced each other, standing amid the gold-gilded environs of the Copley Plaza, unsure what to do and where to go. I should have been exhausted, but I wasn’t. Rather, I was so frustrated by the events, by the complexities, by my helplessness, by the police higher-ups, by my own newspaper, by Paul Vasco’s bravado, by Vinny Mongillo’s secrets, that I thought I was going to explode.
It was either this or be sitting on a volcanic beach at one of the best resorts in Hawaii.
Wearily, I said to Hank, “In the absence of any better idea, we should get over to police headquarters to see what the hell is going on with Vinny.”
Hank replied, “The better idea might be to have a quick word with Elizabeth before we go.”
I shot him an incredulous look, as in what the hell was he talking about. He nodded calmly and casually down the long, carpeted hallway toward the front door of the hotel. I looked in that direction, and in the distance, Elizabeth Riggs was walking toward us, accompanied by Boston Police Detective Mac Foley.
“Wait for them here,” Hank said softly, not even turning to face me. So I did.
She was wearing a sweater and a pair of jeans, carrying a notebook in her right hand, her hips swiveling in that way they do, her hair framing both sides of her face. My body nearly went limp at the sight of her — limp with joy, with relief. It was as if the only emotion that had been propping me up was that of utter fear.
At the same time, the sight of Mac Foley with Elizabeth gnawed at some nugget of suspicion buried deep within my brain — or maybe