Marigolds Ch 32 and 33

32

Ante Bukovats was not burdened with loyalty. Perhaps it was just that it was not as immediate or as tangible as his need for nicotine, but he told Bevilaqua everything of which he could think: about himself, his connections in Boston and New York, and his connections in the former Yugoslavia, why he loved Paris in the springtime.

Bukovats acknowledged that he had lied when he hired me but said he was not aware that anyone was to be hurt. The man who contacted him from New York, the late Niko Matulich, seemed genuinely interested in finding a lost relative. Matulich had a high profile, an association of sorts with the Croatian diplomatic corps. He expected confidentiality and suggested how Ante should ensure it. Bukovats also feared for his own safety when he heard that the young woman he had asked me to find was dead. Or so he said. He also appeared relieved that Matulich had joined her. The next day, after confiscating his passport, Armand Bevilaqua released Bukovats.

“If we find he’s involved in the homicides… eventually some dickhead lawyer will hear what we’ve already done and raise hell about it…so…”

“That’s probable, but I would bet that Ante would have little trouble securing another passport.”

“Yeah, huh? Unless good old Niko was to be his source for one,” Armand snorted. “Anyways, we’re keeping our eye on him. We’ll see where he goes, who he contacts.”

“You mean whom, not who. It’s objective…”

“What?”

“Not what, whom.” What was I thinking? “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

I asked if he would keep me up to date. He said he would. I asked if he had informed the cops in New York. He said he had. I asked if he thought I was in any danger.

“Keep your head up, O’Keefe. You are a known commodity.”

33

“Mr. O’Keefe tells me you were helpful, Mr. Boban. We are grateful to you.” Armand and I were sitting in Bo’s small but tasteful office. Two large windows, especially large for the space, overlooked Boylston Street. “I have a few more questions, for you, if you don’t mind.”

This building, between Exeter and Fairfield, had been built as residential but was now commercial. Boban’s school, The Boston Institute for Applied Language Arts, filled two floors. The classrooms, formerly parlors, dining rooms and bedrooms for Boston’s elite, all seemed to be in use. Hallways formed by hollow walls and inexpensive carpet connected the irregularly shaped rooms.

“Of course. Needless to say I am a bit…I am not sure what words to use…”

“Taken aback?” I suggested.

“Yes, taken aback. It is not every day that one of my teachers is arrested as part of a homicide investigation.”

Boban told us how Bukovats had answered an advertisement he had posted last summer with an on line international employment agency, one he often used.

“It seems I will now need to do so again.”

He said as far as he knew Ante had no more contact with the old country than any of the other teachers he had hired: friends and family.

“Bo, is there any possibility Bukovats knows your friend from Northern Ireland?” I asked.

The implications of the question registered quickly and discernibly on Boban’s face.

“I don’t know.”

Bevilaqua continued the questioning.

“Can you tell us his name, your friend in Ireland? There is a warrant being issued as we speak to search Bukovats’ apartment. What name might we be looking for?”

“His name is Berislav Orasac. He lives in Portrush.”

“What…? Doesn’t sound too Irish to me,” Bev said

“Bo, does Mr. Orasac have another name?” I asked. “Is there a more Irish name he might use from time to time?” A man who it appeared had little difficulty creating Irish identities for Mislava and Ivana might have done so for himself.

“He often goes by Chris Moore. At least that is what he’s told me.”