replied that they had no landline, just cells. You call someone on his cell, ask whether he’s home, and he says, “Sure, honey, just kicking back here on the sofa watching the Celtics. How’s your day been?” You can’t exactly ask him to hold up the camera phone and shoot a picture to your phone so you can check his veracity. Not without inviting trouble.
He drove while he talked, but unlike so many other Bostonians, he drove well, holding his speed and position on the busy streets. If I was going to lose him, I’d lose him in the downtown swirl, I thought, so I edged closer, only one car behind, and tagged along through a yellow, then another one. Not suspicious behavior. Hell, there’s practically nothing you can do in a cab that’s suspicious in this city. The way Boston cabbies drive is truly awful, encompassing everything from abrupt U-turns in heavy traffic to wrong-way jaunts down one-way streets. And the cops usually wink. The way cops drive, well, that’s another story.
We took a quick right-left combo, my shadowlike behavior less than notable because that’s the way most of the traffic was heading. The man had just eaten, so we weren’t heading into the South End for a restaurant stop.
I was abruptly aware of a pulsing beat, heavy thumping bass coming from the Volvo. Yes, Ken had put his phone away and was jerking his head rhythmically. Maybe loud party music was his way of consoling himself for the departure of his fiancée. Or maybe the man was getting in a party mood and the anonymous letter was right on the button.
EIGHT
The Volvo reversed course, scooted over to Kneeland Street, and darted through Chinatown. Ken cut a right onto Washington Street without signaling and headed into the financial district. The shortcuts the man knew, he would have made a good cabbie. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to keep a keen eye on the rearview mirror. The god of traffic lights stayed with me; the red lights didn’t part us. The music blared so loudly that I could have followed him by ear.
I almost lost him near Winthrop Square, but there he was turning the corner. A little speed and I was on him as he made his way through the concrete canyons. Rain blurred the windshield and I prayed it would calm back into a drizzle. If it hadn’t been for the broken taillight, I’d have lost him twice.
He pulled over and parked abruptly. I rolled past; nothing else I could do, and circled the block at breakneck speed, a maneuver any cabbie in search of a fare learns to execute quickly.
The parking space was empty, the Volvo gone. Damn. He hadn’t parked. Had he pulled over to answer a phone call? To see if he was being tailed? The roads here were twisty one-way streets. I made a set of widening turns, reluctant to admit I’d lost him.There! I caught a flash of a white zigzag taillight and screeched a left from the right-hand lane to a chorus of indignant honks.
I stayed well back as the Volvo led the way to Government Center, turned onto Cambridge Street, and sailed over the Longfellow Bridge into East Cambridge. Through Kendall Square, right on Broadway, right again. Just past a knot of high-rises, he pulled in to park at the curb.
Another phone call? Another ruse? Again, unless I wanted to advertise my presence, there was nothing I could do but circle the block.
The Volvo, to my surprise, was still there, parked. I caught a glimpse of a silhouette entering the lobby of one of the tall buildings nearby. The shadow carried something in hand, not a briefcase, more the shape of a woman’s tote bag. Right height, right weight, right coat.
I pulled in at a fireplug, puzzled. Killed the lights.
It didn’t look like the sort of building for an assignation, more like lab space for one of the many MIT offshoot start-ups in the area. Possibly legal offices or stockbrokers. It was after hours, Friday night, hardly time for a business meeting. Who knew? Maybe he was playing sex games on a desktop with a willing
He drove while he talked, but unlike so many other Bostonians, he drove well, holding his speed and position on the busy streets. If I was going to lose him, I’d lose him in the downtown swirl, I thought, so I edged closer, only one car behind, and tagged along through a yellow, then another one. Not suspicious behavior. Hell, there’s practically nothing you can do in a cab that’s suspicious in this city. The way Boston cabbies drive is truly awful, encompassing everything from abrupt U-turns in heavy traffic to wrong-way jaunts down one-way streets. And the cops usually wink. The way cops drive, well, that’s another story.
We took a quick right-left combo, my shadowlike behavior less than notable because that’s the way most of the traffic was heading. The man had just eaten, so we weren’t heading into the South End for a restaurant stop.
I was abruptly aware of a pulsing beat, heavy thumping bass coming from the Volvo. Yes, Ken had put his phone away and was jerking his head rhythmically. Maybe loud party music was his way of consoling himself for the departure of his fiancée. Or maybe the man was getting in a party mood and the anonymous letter was right on the button.
EIGHT
The Volvo reversed course, scooted over to Kneeland Street, and darted through Chinatown. Ken cut a right onto Washington Street without signaling and headed into the financial district. The shortcuts the man knew, he would have made a good cabbie. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to keep a keen eye on the rearview mirror. The god of traffic lights stayed with me; the red lights didn’t part us. The music blared so loudly that I could have followed him by ear.
I almost lost him near Winthrop Square, but there he was turning the corner. A little speed and I was on him as he made his way through the concrete canyons. Rain blurred the windshield and I prayed it would calm back into a drizzle. If it hadn’t been for the broken taillight, I’d have lost him twice.
He pulled over and parked abruptly. I rolled past; nothing else I could do, and circled the block at breakneck speed, a maneuver any cabbie in search of a fare learns to execute quickly.
The parking space was empty, the Volvo gone. Damn. He hadn’t parked. Had he pulled over to answer a phone call? To see if he was being tailed? The roads here were twisty one-way streets. I made a set of widening turns, reluctant to admit I’d lost him.There! I caught a flash of a white zigzag taillight and screeched a left from the right-hand lane to a chorus of indignant honks.
I stayed well back as the Volvo led the way to Government Center, turned onto Cambridge Street, and sailed over the Longfellow Bridge into East Cambridge. Through Kendall Square, right on Broadway, right again. Just past a knot of high-rises, he pulled in to park at the curb.
Another phone call? Another ruse? Again, unless I wanted to advertise my presence, there was nothing I could do but circle the block.
The Volvo, to my surprise, was still there, parked. I caught a glimpse of a silhouette entering the lobby of one of the tall buildings nearby. The shadow carried something in hand, not a briefcase, more the shape of a woman’s tote bag. Right height, right weight, right coat.
I pulled in at a fireplug, puzzled. Killed the lights.
It didn’t look like the sort of building for an assignation, more like lab space for one of the many MIT offshoot start-ups in the area. Possibly legal offices or stockbrokers. It was after hours, Friday night, hardly time for a business meeting. Who knew? Maybe he was playing sex games on a desktop with a willing
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