The Shadow Box (17 page)

He stood for a moment, slowly shaking his head. “Have
we met before?” he asked.

“No.”

”I mean, were we enemies in some other life? Did I
do something rotten like take your parking space?”

She ignored the sarcasm.

  “So if all I did was walk down here and admire your boat, why are you being such a rude little shit?”

She glared at him. Another deep breath. For an instant
there, her eyes almost softened. When she spoke, her voice
was husky.

“You're a violent man, Mr. Fallon.”

He blinked.

“And you're a dangerous man. Excuse me, but I don't
find
that
so attractive either.”

This was when he walked away.

He had tried to respond but he began to stammer. And she was about to say something else. It would have been
one more good twist of the knife or some sophomoric
crack like “That's easy for you to say.”

If she had, he might have hit her after all.

No,
he would not have.

Because he was
not
violent and he was
not
dangerous.
Somehow, however, that rap had been following him since
he was in his teens. But just because you know how
doesn't mean you do it. Except for those two last January,
and except for working out with Moon, he hadn't hit any
one since his freshman year in college. Unless you'd
count . . .

The hell with it.

Small island, huh? That probably explains it.

Someone, probably Millie Jacobs, had passed the word
that he might be popping in on Megan who is, incidentally,
not so goddamned pretty after all. Well . . . she is. But
only until she opens her mouth.

Or maybe Millie just told Madam Cassandra, in which
case the word could have spread to Bangkok by now. But
what frosted him the most, and concerned him the most,
was this stuff about his reputation. It meant that Millie
had checked up on him. Or maybe the Daggetts' lawyer
had. He would have to find out whom they talked to. And,
since he's here, he might as well start with Megan.

Fallon turned back toward the boat.

“You're right. You did nothing to deserve that.”

She said this as he approached. She was sitting in the
cockpit, her knees drawn up against her chest. He saw that
sadness again.

“Thank you,” he managed.

“But I still can't help you, Mr. Fallon.”

“It's Michael, and I don't think you can either. So why
don't we try starting over?”

She looked at him. The eyes were definitely olive. They
seemed to be asking what's the point. But she acknowl
edged, with a sigh, that maybe she owed him one.

“I'm out of beer,” she told him. “But I might have
some wine in the cooler.”

Fallon stayed until the next ferry back began boarding.
She assured him, over that glass of wine, that she'd heard almost nothing about him. Then, looking away, she asked
what he'd heard about her. He told her the truth, or most
of it. A good gutsy sailor who owns a great boat and was
also a “pretty little thing” made coming for a look very
hard to resist.

That made her smile. It also made her blush.

As he stepped from her boat, she reached a hand to
help steady him. Her touch sent a curious thrill through
his arm.

“Michael . . . it's good that you came,” she said to him.

He answered, “I'm glad we met too.”

”I meant to the island. It's good that you came here
when you did.”

Fallon boarded the ferry with a glow on his face. But
his mood had begun to darken by the time it reached mid-
channel. By the time it docked he was muttering to
himself.

Here he was, he told himself, just having gotten his head
halfway straight, suddenly letting himself get interested in
a witch named Megan. Witch, or wacko, or con artist. One
or all of the above.

Forget it, Michael. You don't need this. Here's a girl
who can't say goodbye without telling you your fortune. She's the absolute polar opposite of Bronwyn and that's
probably why you were drawn to her. It's called overcom
pensating, or negative rebounding, or some damned thing
like that. Except that you both like boats, you have zero
in common with her.

He knew what his Uncle Jake would have said.

“
Keep walking, Michael. She's setting you up.
”

“Yeah, but why?”

“
Because that pretty little girl runs a scam. She'll keep
lobbing these little soft ones at you, mixed in with those
distant stares, until you beg on your knees to be a pay
ing customer.
”

He wasn't sure he believed that. At least he didn't
want to.

But even if she's straight, he thought, you just
know
that she'll turn out to be a loon. And delusional. What
will we bet that she's ridden in a UFO? She's probably
been to Venus. Snuck off there for a weekend with Par
nel Minter.

Millie's niece from Nantucket was sounding better by
the day.

Back in Vineyard Haven, he checked out the whaler,
put a deposit on it, then drove straight to Edgartown and
Millie Jacobs's office. Millie swore that she had never
spoken to Megan.

He could not very well ask Millie who else on the island
might have said that he was violent or who else might
have been looking into his past. That would be like send
ing up a flare. Instead, he changed the subject, chatted for
a while about the real estate market, then asked if she had
a copy of his credit history handy. Millie pulled the report
from her desk and handed it to him. She said it showed
a perfect record. He saw nothing in her eyes that said she
wondered why he's asking.
             

Credit reports list inquiries. He knew that he could be
traced to Martha's Vineyard by anyone who wanted him
badly enough. But the only inquiry had been by Millie's
firm after he put down his deposit.

No one, he decided, had told Megan much of anything.
She had merely seen steam rising. She had seen his temper
and could not resist laying a little mysticism on him. That
was all there was to that.

Chapter
13

“Okay/’ said
Johnny Giordano. “You want to
know why we brought Yahya.”

The Pakistani straightened in his chair and dabbed a
napkin to his lips as if he knew that his moment was at
hand. It was now his turn to be the teacher.

“One reason,” explained the younger Giordano, “is
corroboration. Mizda talked to
Yahya, Yahya talked to me.
I wrote down what sounded important but you might have
questions of your own. The second reason is you're not
going to believe the rest of this unless he's here to swear
to it.”

“I'm listening,” said the lawyer.

”A couple of years back, Yahya spent eight months in a federal pen. Tell Mr. Doyle what you got busted for.”

He set down the orange juice that Fat Julie had ordered
for him and pulled his chair forward. But
Fat
Julie put a
hand on his arm. He turned to Brendan Doyle.

“You know I'd do anything for Jake, right?”

The lawyer shrugged and nodded.

“Same goes for Moon and Michael. This Parker charac
ter, this Hobbs, anyone you think was involved in killing Jake, going after Mike, I'd dust them in a minute. Johnny
here never popped anyone but he feels the same way.”

Doyle waited.

“The thing is, we smell money here. Very serious
money. I'm going to say this real clear so you won't have
any doubt on where we stand. We're doing this for Jake
and we don't want nothing from your pocket. But if there's
a way to score, I know you're going to find it. Me and
Johnny want in.”

“You have my word.”

“You gonna tell me why Jake died?”

Doyle looked away. “I'm not sure yet.”

“But Jake and Mike . . . they're both connected?”

“That's not clear yet either.”

“Then you're fucking blind, Brendan. Either that or
you're jerking us around.”

Doyle held his temper. He chose his words carefully.

“Julie
...
if they
are
connected, the reason why Jake
died is private. It stays in the family.”

The gangster studied him. “You won't tell me?”

“No.”