The Lasko Tangent

Twenty-Six

Boston was sunny this time, its warmth cut by a fresh breeze. That was something. I had begun to associate Boston with drizzle, corpses, and old girlfriends, like some back-lot of the mind where I stashed half-digested fears.

I picked up my bags and went straight to the car rental. The girl at the counter had a cute, pug nose and a fey expression which turned wary when she saw me, as if I were about to make an indecent proposal.

“I’m not here to make an indecent proposal,” I said, “just rent a car.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Well, that’s original anyhow.”

“I’ll take something cheap, if it runs. You know, this job must be great for your ego.”

Her smile was wry. “Not really. You should see the people who try to come on to me. Wrinkles and halitosis. The one today had breath bad enough to melt my fillings. God, I wonder what they’re like at home.”

“God knows. My personal thing is dressing up in a wet suit and flippers and jumping out of closets. But I could tell right away you weren’t that kind of girl.”

“Thanks,” she deadpanned. “Will a Mustang be OK?”

“If you don’t have an Edsel.”

“I rented the last Edsel to the guy with the bad breath,” she said, and took my name down on the rental form.

She handed across the keys and told me where the lot was. Then she looked at me. “Will you be returning the car here, Mr. Paget?”

“I think so.”

“Good,” she smiled.

You never know. I thanked her and started to leave. “About the wet suit and flippers,” she called out. “Try Radcliffe.”

The things college graduates were doing these days. I grinned and waved over my shoulder. But I didn’t feel all that funny.

I picked up the car and headed for town through the Callahan Tunnel. What was Mary doing today, I wondered.

I pulled up to the Ritz and left my car in front. A doorman took my bags. I stopped for a second and stared back onto Arlington. The street was quiet. The spot where he had landed was just another patch of cement. Beyond, the Public Garden was warm with slanted sunlight and alive with people and here and there a couple. It was as if it had never happened. I looked at my watch. 3:45. I turned and walked into the lobby.

I got myself checked into a room, a quiet one and not the one I’d had twelve days ago. Coming back to the Ritz had been a reflex. But I didn’t want a martini from the bar. I took the elevator down, slid into the car, and drove to the police station.

I parked a couple of blocks away and walked over. The station seemed less sullen in the sun. But the sergeant at the desk was just as fat and his eyes still as bleak as Cape Cod in January. I asked for Di Pietro. He told me to wait in a voice that went with the rest of him. So I waited, looking him over. Nothing there at all. Either he’d seen too much, or the hounds of boredom had seized his brain. I was leaning toward boredom when Di Pietro appeared and summoned me to his office.

I followed him back to the same cubbyhole and sat. He slid behind his desk, quickly for a big man, and leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Paget?” he asked. The turtle stare was perpetual, I decided. I wondered how his kids liked it.

“Quite a bit.”

His gaze was neither friendly nor unfriendly. “What have you got?”

I ticked it off. “One, we’ve got testimony implicating Lasko in the stock manipulation. Second, I’ve got evidence indicating that Lasko used a guy named Martinson to help set up a dummy corporation. Martinson was forced to leave a Caribbean island when I flew down to investigate.” Di Pietro played with a penknife while I told him what I hadn’t told the agency. “Martinson could be very dangerous to Lasko. Indications are that he’s being kept in Boston, maybe at a place called the Loring Sanitarium.”

He blinked at that last bit of information, as if it were unexpected. But his question doubled back. “Do you know what Lehman was going to tell you?”

“No.”

Di Pietro looked sleepy. “Well, some of this is interesting, but you haven’t told me anything about Lehman.”

“Maybe Martinson can.”

“You don’t know that. Just why do you think he’s at Loring?”

I reviewed it: Martinson’s “mental strain,” the call to Tracy, and Lasko’s connection with Loring. Di Pietro pondered it a while.

“It’s pretty weak,” he said. “Just what do you want us to do?”

“Go out to the Loring Sanitarium. See if Martinson is there. He may be in real trouble.”

He scowled. “I can’t do that.”

The frustration sharpened my words. “I wish I had your driving curiosity.”

He cut me off in a voice managers reserve for rookies. “Look, I’m a cop, doing a job you don’t know squat about. This may be your first murder, if it is one, but it isn’t mine. Now one real possibility is that Lehman was killed, not just hit and run. But it’s only that-a possibility. You can’t tell me what Lehman knew, and I can’t even begin to find out. His widow is a dead end. So all I’ve got are your theories, and I can’t book Lasko on that. Hell, I can’t even ask him anything smarter than ‘who killed Cock Robin.’ And like I said, we’re not geared to investigate big companies.”

“I’m sorry I let you down.”

He ignored that. “Another thing. The Loring Sanitarium is out of Boston. I’ve got no jurisdiction there. We’d have to go through the locals and I’d need a reason, which you haven’t given me. You know,” the quiet voice turned quieter, “it’s only on TV that cops have national jurisdiction. You’d be surprised how many times the Beverly Hills police don’t even ask me for advice.”

“That’s funny.”

“Not very.”

He had a point. It wasn’t funny. It especially wasn’t because I figured he was right. I felt reckless, at the end of my rope. “I’m just trying to keep Martinson alive while I put your case together.”

I knew as soon as I’d said it that it was stupid. Di Pietro spoke in a cold, even tone. “You know, Mr. Paget, I don’t much like you.”

“You know,” I snapped, “I don’t much care.”

He surprised me by almost smiling. “Then I guess we’ll both have to get over it.”

That was that. I stood. “Thanks.”

He looked up at me impassively. “Sure.”

I let myself out.

I walked out of the station and back toward the car, only half-aware, thinking of how well I’d done for Tracy.

I stopped when I saw a phone booth, remembering Stansbury. I stepped in and called.

“Mr. Stansbury, this is Chris.”

“Chris? You sound fuzzy. Where are you?”

“Boston.” There was silence. “I’m calling about the chips,” I prodded.

“Oh, surely,” he apologized. “They match.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I’m familiar with them and I did some tests. Those chips you gave me were manufactured by Yokama Electric. No question. I hope that helps.”

“It does, and thank you. I’ll call when I get back to town.”

“Do that, Chris.” I said good-bye and hung up.

I found the car. I got in and sat there, very still. I could be safe, or not. My choice.

There was a street map in the glove compartment. I took it and mulled it over. After a while I folded the map and turned the ignition. Then I pulled from the curb and headed for the Loring Sanitarium.