The staked Goat

frequent, I had the impression that my presence was increasing rather than lightening his embarrassment over Larry’s continuing absence. I asked if I could use his phone, and he directed me to the one in the upstairs hall. I asked him if he had heard from a J. T. Kivens. He said no, but, with being out, literally and figuratively...
    I went upstairs. I started with the airlines. USAir had a flight to D.C. that night and two the next morning, but both the Monday A.M. flights were full. I chose the 7:30 P.M. flight, which gave me five hours till I had to check in. I remembered Marriott had a hotel at the Key Bridge, and I used their 800 number to book a room for that night and Monday.
    I had directory assistance scour the listings for D.C. and every surrounding suburb I could think of, but no ”Kivens.” J.T. might be unlisted, or he might live farther out from the District. I called the Pentagon direct dial number for J.T. No answer. I tried the Pentagon main number. The duty officer who answered was about as helpful as a 1963 calendar. He would not confirm that a Colonel Kivens was still at the Pentagon and certainly could not divulge any ”data” about anyone’s home address or telephone. He suggested that I try again on Monday morning.
    Next I used the operator to call the Coopers. The voice at the other end was familiar, but chilling. ”I’m sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service. Please—”
    It was their new, unlisted number, but it had rung all right on Friday.
    I hung up immediately and called Nancy Meagher’s home number. No answer.
    I hung up and tried District C, the police division in Dorchester. ”Boston Police Emergency—Sergeant Jenkins—you are being tape-recorded. Go ahead, please.”
    ”My name is John Cuddy. I’m a private detective in Boston, but I’m calling from Pittsburgh. A couple who helped me catch a guy were threatened by his brother, and I get a number-not-in-service when I try to reach them. Can you send a car to check it?”
    An exasperated grunt. ”Look, buddy, this is an emergency line and—”
    ”The guy who threatened them is the brother of the torch who tied up and left an old watchman to die in a warehouse last—”
    ”Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Damn, that’ll be on the tape. I’ll have it checked. What’s their name and address?”
    ”Cooper. Jesse and Emily. Two-thirty Beech Street.”
    ”Cooper. What was that address again?”
    I repeated it for him.
    ”Got it. I’ll—hey, wait a minute. Hold on.”
    I could hear some clattering, more like clipboards than computer keys.
    ”Mr., ah, Curry, was it?” He sounded subdued. ”Cuddy. My name is Cuddy. Their name is Cooper.”
    His tone grew quieter. ”Mr. Cuddy. I’m sorry. Here’s Detective Mooney.”
    ”Mr. Cuddy?”
    ”Yes.”
    ”Detective Dan Mooney. I’m afraid you’re too late. Somebody blew up the Coopers’ place. Call came in at two-oh-four A.M. I just got back. The place cooled down enough to go in. They were in a back room. In bed together. Both burned to death. Are you a relative?”
    ”No,” somebody said.
    ”Can you tell us who might have—”
    ”Do you know Nancy Meagher?” the somebody continued.
    ”Assistant DA?”
    ”Yeah.”
    ”Yeah, I know her.”
    ”Talk to her. The killer’s name is Marco. Marco D’Amico. His parents live on Hanover Street.”
    ”In the North End?”
    ”Yeah,” replied the somebody.
    ”Mr. Cuddy, can you tell us—”
    The somebody on my end hung up the telephone.
     

Thirteen
     
     
     
    I WALKED INTO THE GUEST BEDROOM AND SWUNG MY suitcase up on the bed. I could fly on to Washington or back to Boston. I snapped the latches and opened it up. If I fly on to Washington, I could probably see J.T. sooner about Al. I twisted the bars that held the suit compartment closed and bent back the barrier. If I fly back to Boston, I could probably see Marco sooner about Jesse and Emily.
    I packed very slowly, very deliberately. I could call J.T. as easily from Boston as Washington. One sock. On the other hand, Marco by then could be in custody. One pair of briefs. Of course, he might make bail. A tie. No, his brother hadn’t, and it was Sunday. A crumpled shirt, the funeral-day one. Of course, it would all depend on the judge at the bail hearing, and how high he set...
    Shit, I wanted somebody to beat, to really cream. I wanted Marco, or the guys in the drugstore, or—best of all—the shadow who killed Al.
    I slumped down on the bed,