Strangled - Brian McGrory [40]
He said, “Did you hear your boy on the Barry Bor Show?”
Jesus, the whole world listened to that stupid call-in program at that ungodly hour. I replied, “Me and everyone else in Boston. We really fucked up.”
“That we did, but nothing more you or I could have done to prevent it. Listen, I have a pretty good guess where the next murder is going to be. How about we meet for lunch to talk about it.”
“You’re saying you know who he’s going to kill and you want to go have lunch?”
“No, I’m saying I think I know what neighborhood, or even street, he might kill next. And yes on lunch. Nice of you to ask.”
“I’ve got a meeting. I’m not sure if I’ll be out. But I’ll call you.”
He asked, “Who’s the meeting with?”
“The Phantom.” Then I added, “I’ve got to leave this line open. Call you soon.”
He was whistling as I hung up the phone — chewing, panting, and whistling.
A moment later, an elderly man ambled past, still dressed for winter in a long wool herringbone coat, even though the day was screaming spring. People are like that in this town — suspicious of the weather, slow to acknowledge that the season is really changing, always believing that the next wind is going to send another cold front or storm system our way.
This old man, though, he was looking at me, almost studying me, and the truth is, he looked familiar.
He stopped short and said, “Excuse me, but did you used to have a dog?”
I wondered if that was some sort of code for “I’m the Phantom Fiend and I just committed another murder.” I replied, “I did, but he died about a year ago of cancer.”
He nodded slowly and said, “I used to watch the two of you play fetch out here in the mornings. You were quite a pair.”
Well, okay, I wasn’t sure I knew how this morning could get any worse. I said, “Thank you,” but he had already turned and was walking off.
My phone chimed again.
“Any luck?”
It was Peter Martin, once more not seeing the need for the kind of manners that separate human beings from lower forms of life.
“It depends what you call luck. If you’re asking if I’ve been approached yet by a serial murderer and asked to go take a car ride to a dark warehouse where my life will be immediately endangered, the answer is no. But in that same regard, I also feel kind of lucky, so the answer would be yes.”
He dismissed that line without even seeming to think about it.
“No sign of him yet?”
“No.”
“Keep me posted.”
We hung up. I scanned the park. There were a few young mothers pushing strollers together on the cement path closest to the shoreline. Businessmen and -women were coming and going in either direction. A maintenance worker was spearing loose litter with a sharp-edged pole and placing the trash in a plastic bag.
In other words, there were abundant witnesses to anything that might happen here, which was a relief, but which also made me wonder if the Phantom or the Strangler or whatever he might like to be called would be frightened off by the exposure of the venue. But he’s the one who picked the spot.
I should also mention that Edgar Sullivan, the Record’s aging but no less relentless director of security, was somewhere with a view of this park, if not actually in it, per Martin’s orders. We had discussed calling the police, but immediately dismissed it because of the myriad possibilities that they would screw things up.
My phone chimed anew.
“Flynn,” I said.
“Go into the trash can to your immediate right and pull out today’s Boston Traveler. Open up to page thirty-eight and see the destination written across the top of the page. Place the newspaper back in the receptacle, do not pick up your phone again, and take a taxi directly to the location that is written down. If you use your phone between now and the time you get to the location, either you will be killed or you will never see me again.”
It was that same slightly synthesized voice, the words fringed by just a bit of static, as if someone was speaking through a machine set on its lowest level of