A Scourge of Vipers by Bruce DeSilva Page A

“but you can find Longo at home in Bristol or in his office at Bayside Construction.”
    â€œWhat about Templeton?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve got something I need to run by him; but his cell goes straight to voice mail, and he’s not answering his home phone either.”
    â€œHe’s a bachelor, isn’t he?”
    â€œHe’s gay.”
    â€œI hadn’t heard that,” I said.
    â€œHe’s not exactly in the closet,” Fiona said, “but he’s private about his personal life. Far as I know, he lives alone.”
    â€œAny idea at all where he might be?”
    â€œNo.”
    *   *   *
    Forty minutes later, I parked Secretariat at the curb outside McCracken’s condo and punched his number into my cell phone.
    â€œHey, Mulligan. What’s up?”
    â€œIt’s a glorious spring afternoon. How about taking a drive with me?”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œTo visit your client—the one you advised to go to the state police about Alfano.”
    â€œYou figured out who it is?”
    â€œI’ve got it narrowed down to two, and I’m right outside.”
    â€œAw, hell. Sit tight. I’ll be right out.”
    Five minutes later, he lumbered through his front door in a Red Sox T-shirt and cap that matched my own and climbed into the passenger seat.
    â€œIt’s Longo or Templeton,” I said. “You could save us both time by telling me which one.”
    â€œSorry,” he said, “but I’m a still stickler for client confidentiality.”
    I smirked and cranked the ignition. Secretariat sputtered to life and galloped south on Route 114.
    â€œAny news about the airport surveillance video yet?” I asked.
    â€œNo, but I might have something for you later this week.”
    Longo lived in a McMansion in Bristol Highlands, a fashionable neighborhood that abuts Colt State Park. He answered the door in a sky-blue Nike sweatsuit, looked me up and down, and growled, “Oh my God, it’s the press!” Then he laughed heartily, ushered us in, and said, “And who might this be? Your photographer?”
    I made the introductions. From the looks on their faces as they shook hands, I was pretty sure Longo and McCracken hadn’t met before.
    â€œSo, what brings you two out here on a Sunday afternoon?” Longo asked.
    â€œThe gambling bill,” I said.
    â€œSorry. Can’t help you with that. I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but anything I might say on that subject would be premature. The governor hasn’t even sent it to the legislature yet.”
    â€œI understand that,” I said, “but perhaps you can tell me if you recognize this man.”
    I showed him the photo on my cell phone. He studied it for a moment, frowned, and said, “Please come this way.”
    He led us down a gleaming, porcelain-tiled hallway that emptied into a sunny family room with a view of a tulip bed and a kidney-shaped swimming pool. He waved us into a black leather sofa, turned the sound down on a seventy-two-inch flatscreen tuned to the Red Sox–Orioles game, and seated himself across from us in a matching recliner.
    â€œI take it you already know something about this, or you wouldn’t be here,” he said.
    â€œThat’s right,” I said.
    â€œThe scuttlebutt around town is that you’ve got a high-ranking source at state police headquarters. Is that where you’re getting your information?”
    Parisi hadn’t told me much, but I figured it was best to let Longo think otherwise.
    â€œYou told the state cops about Lucan Alfano’s bribe offer,” I bluffed. “Isn’t that right?”
    â€œLucan Alfano?” he said.
    â€œThe man in the photo.”
    â€œThe greasy bastard didn’t give me his name.”
    â€œBut you recognized the picture?”
    Longo hesitated. “Can we go off the record?” he