Boston Cream (28 page)

“Ain’t that place closed? What you going to steal out of a closed-down fucked-up funeral home?”

“I need both sides and the rear. All doors, windows, security cameras, close-up of wires of any kind.”

“From where?”

“The rooftops of whatever buildings you break into.”

“How do you know I won’t just take the camera?”

“Mr. Mossberg won’t like it,” the passenger said.

“Say I got a friend named Mossberg too.”

“We’ll pay you three hundred,” the driver said. “Which is more than that camera is worth.”

“Make it four.”

“I knew you’d prefer dealing with Mr. Franklin,” the man said.

“S
ee?” I said to Ryan. “I make friends wherever I go.”

We had found a diner that had its own parking lot and two police cruisers parked in it and had breakfast and coffee refills while we waited for Simms to call back and tell us he was done.

“Sure,” he said. “With your personality and my money. So that’s how Hoffman does it in the movie?”

“Not exactly. He already knows the guys on his street, they’re his neighbours and they razz him because he’s a runner and a misfit. And he doesn’t pay them cash, he tells them they can burgle his apartment and take his stereo. All he wants is his clothes and his gun.”

“Well, we’re paying this guy cash, so he better deliver some decent pictures. Probably wind up with thirty shots of his thumb.”

“I showed him how to use it.”

“He strike you as a fast learner?”

“If he doesn’t get the pictures, we won’t pay.”

“Got that right. Turn things over to Mossberg.”

“He’ll come through.” My phone rang then; too soon for it to be Simms. The display said it was the Brookline police calling. I let it go to voice mail, gave it a minute, then listened.

“Geller, this is Mike Gianelli calling, nine-fifteen Monday morning. I didn’t want to tell you this in a message but I called a couple times earlier and your phone was off. I also tried your hotel and they told me you checked out, so I don’t know what’s going on with you, if you’re leaving Boston or what. Anyway, I—look, David Fine is dead. He was shot to death yesterday morning on a beach about an hour north of town. I really need to talk to you, Geller. I want to know as much as I can before I notify his parents. Call me the minute you get this, all right?”

I didn’t call him back. We waited another hour, drinking coffee neither of us really wanted, until Simms called. Then we drove back down Wellington Hill.

When we got to his door, the stoop was deserted. I stopped the Charger and left the engine running, the transmission in drive, my foot light on the brake. Ryan kept the shotgun close to his body. I could tell he didn’t like it and I didn’t either. If anyone opened fire, we were sitting ducks in the car. Simms and some friends might have figured they could ambush us here in the street and take everything we had: the car, the cash, our weapons, even the damn camera.

Some movement in the rearview caught my eye. Simms was coming alone up the sidewalk toward the car, his hands hidden in his pouch. I elbowed Ryan, who lay the shotgun down and pulled his Glock out of its shoulder holster. “If his hand comes out with anything but your camera,” he said, “roll out your door.”

He unlatched his door, turned sideways and kicked it open just as Simms reached the car. Simms had to jump back to avoid the arc of the door, and his hands instinctively came out of the pouch, with neither his gun nor my camera in sight.

“Fuck y’all doin’?” he yelled. “Playin’ some Starsky and Hutch thing, pointing a gun at me on my own block? I’ll fuckin’ Starsky your ass, man.”

“Cool down,” Ryan said. “You came up a little fast for my taste.”

“I
am
fast,” he said. “Always moving like the wind. Showing up where people don’t expect me to be.”

“That’s not the key to a long life, kid.”

“Like I got one anyway. Know what this neighbourhood is surrounded by? Huh? Cemeteries, man, like five of them. Calvary, New Calvary, St. Mary’s, Forest Hills, and one more I always forget. Not another hills but a mountain … Mount Hope, that’s it. Five cemeteries round this neighbourhood, man, all doin’ good business, so don’t talk to me about no long life.”

The pictures he had taken were better than fine. A quick scan confirmed the images were sharp and showed what we’d asked: all sides of the building, all doors and windows, in longer, middle and close-up perspectives.

We drove back toward midtown with Ryan reviewing the images one by one. “He did good,” he said. “He actually paid attention.”

“Not all is lost with the youth of America.”

“The north side has a door that opens from the inside only. No handle on the outside.”

“Probably an emergency exit with a crash bar.”

“Yeah. The windows are all too high off the ground to be of any use to us. Okay, coming around to the rear, there’s the bay where a hearse can back in. The doors are closed in the shot. There’s an entrance next to it, which is where everyone will go in tonight. More cameras there.”

“What about the south side?”

“Getting to it. He shot a lot of frames. Okay, same deal. One door, only this one does have a handle. It’s an alternate entrance, maybe for the employees.”

“Or the families of the deceased.”

“Hey,” Ryan said, “here’s one I like.”

As soon as I stopped at the next red light, he handed me
the camera. The screen showed the side of the building where the alternate entrance was. The door was partway open in one frame, all the way open the next, and a heavy guy in his thirties was leaning out and lighting a cigarette.

“A guard who goes out for smoke breaks,” Ryan said. “That could prove harmful to his health.”

When Sean got back from dropping the kids at school, Bev was still in the shower, so he made their breakfast: an omelette with ham, cheese, mushrooms and onion, multigrain toast and fresh coffee. The two of them ate at stools around the kitchen island, the sports pages of the
Herald
for him and the front section of the
Globe
for Bev, who gave more of a shit about the outside world than he did.

He started with the baseball coverage. With spring training underway, reserves of hope were already building among the Red Sox Nation, and the baseball writers were getting poetic about the thrill of the grass, the sweet sound of round bats driving round balls toward the aching blue Florida skies, all kinds of shit along those lines.

He heard a car pull into their driveway. He wasn’t expecting company this morning and was still in a T-shirt and sweatpants, his lazy morning cooking clothes, the closest gun upstairs.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Bev said. She had gone to the front entrance and was looking out of the slim glass panel next to the door, with a grin that was more wry than amused. Then there was some kind of clumping on the walk outside. Bev turned the key in the deadlock and opened the door.

Jesus Murphy, it was Kieran Clarke himself, standing there in his long coat, aluminum crutches under his arms and the wild glaze of some mood-altering drug in his eyes. Sean asked Bev to finish the paper in their den and helped Kieran to a stool at the island, poured them both a cup of coffee.

“Fucking hell, man, they put a plate in your leg. You’re supposed to be in traction.”

“Did you get the bitch who did this to me?” Kieran asked. “I’m sure I remember you grabbing her by the hair and sticking a gun in her ear, but then I think maybe I dreamed it.”

“You didn’t dream it. I have her.”

Kieran’s smile almost split his face in half. “Where?”

“Halladay’s.”

“You had any fun with her?”

“Jesus, no. I’ve been keeping her on the drip like the others.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“Make a small fortune.”

“Not until I pay her back for what she did to me. Take me down there, man. Take her off the drip. Let me play with her till you need her.”

“Can’t right now,” Sean said. “I got things to arrange. I’ve had a guy in Framingham pleading for a kidney for months. He has multi-fucking-millions he’s not going to live long enough to spend. And Blondie, it turns out, is a good enough match. Not out-of-the-park good but good. Plus she’s healthy as a racehorse. I’m going to squeeze him for a million, Kieran. Of which I have to spend nothing, because the surgical team will be there anyway. Between that and what McConnell is paying, it’s gonna be my best night ever.”

He poured them more coffee, leaving room for a splash of Jameson from a bottle in a sideboard locked with a key placed too high for Michael to reach. “This is why I’m out of drugs and why I’ll never go back. Leave it to the fucking crazies down in their jungle. You see any crazies involved in this operation? Anyone I have to battle block by block for the right to live and work? No.”

“What about the bitch’s partner?”

“The detective?”

“Yeah. He’s a wild card. Still out there.”

“Not for long.”

“He coming tonight?”

“He thinks he is.”

“Gonna rescue the golden girl, huh? Him and his friend?”

“No. I’m gonna get him first.”

“Put me in a car with a shotgun in my lap,” Kieran said. “I owe that guy, too, for my leg. And I can see if I close one eye like this.” He tilted his head down toward his left shoulder and squinted.

Like Sean was going to let him anywhere near a gun. Playing with the girl was one thing, he’d earned that. But give him a gun, he’d shoot the back off someone’s head while fumbling for a crutch. “We got it covered,” he said.

“When can I see the girl then?”

“Soon.”

“Can I borrow a knife?” He looked at the wooden knife holder, the one with the stone inside that sharpened each blade as it was pushed in and pulled out.

“What’d I just tell you? Those kidneys are worth a ton. You want to slap her around, fine. You want to fuck her, that’s fine too. But no knives.”

“I meant later, when you’re ready.”

“Much later,” Sean said. “ ’Cause I got to tell you, you look ripped out of your mind right now.”

“I’m fine.”

“Can I ask what exactly you’re on?”

“I don’t know, man, I just grabbed some pills from the nightstand where I found the crutches. They’re good, too. Feel like Tylenol fucking Twelves.”

“Why don’t you lie down awhile in the guest room there. Take the weight off your leg. Let me make the calls I have to make. You need ice or anything?”

“Fuck the ice. When will you take me to Halladay’s?”

“When I’m done my business. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time with her. It’s a long operation.”

“Freddie handling her drip?”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking little creep. Promise you’ll call him when we’re leaving,” Kieran said. “Tell him to take her off. I want her ready and waiting when we get there.”

“Don’t worry,” Sean said. “Propofol is a tidy drug, Freddie says. Once you cut the supply, they wake up pretty fast. Clear-headed too.”

“A few minutes with me,” Kieran said, “she’ll be wishing she was back asleep.”

W
e had arranged to meet Frank and Victor in the lobby of a hotel called the Dorchester in South Boston. They had a coffee shop there Frank liked. We were a few blocks away when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I had missed a call that had gone to voice mail. It was David’s father.

His first word was, “Jonah,” and that was as far as he got before he had to clear his throat. “This is Ron Fine calling on Monday. Jonah, Mike Gianelli just called. He said David was found yesterday on a beach somewhere outside the city. Somebody shot him. Killed him. Gianelli said he can’t get in touch with you. That you had checked out of your hotel. Please tell me you’re still working on this. Call Gianelli. Maybe he’d tell you things as a fellow professional he didn’t want to tell me.”

Oh, yeah. I was a real professional. Leading David’s killer right to him. Hiding behind his corpse as more bullets tore into it.

“I’m getting on the first flight down there,” he said. “To see about claiming the body. Gianelli said there might have to be an autopsy, but you know for an Orthodox family, that’s not acceptable.” He paused to clear his throat again and said, “I’ll try you again when I know my flight. Maybe you’ll pick me up
at Logan? To be honest, I don’t know if I’m up to driving around. I was hoping Micah might come with me but I can’t find him either … Please call me as soon as you can. Tell me what you’re doing. Where you’re staying. Whether they’ll catch the people who … who did this …”

And then his voice trailed off and he hung up.

I closed the phone just as we got to the hotel.

“Jonah,” Ryan said.

“What?”

“Before we meet Frank and Victor, you might want to wipe your eyes.”

We settled in a corner where two small sofas faced each other across a round glass coffee table. We passed the camera to them, allowing them to scroll through the images without comment from us. When Frank got to one frame, he elbowed Victor, who looked in closer and grinned.

“The smoker?” I asked.

“Yeah. Too bad we didn’t get a sniper’s gun too,” Frank said. “Could drop that guy with no more sound than a twig snapping.”

“A silenced pistol up close will do it,” Ryan said.

“If we can get close. Do you know how the team arrives?” Frank asked. “How many different cars? How many different times the gate will open?”

“That’s in Stayner’s notes.” I flipped through the sheets he had filled out. “Right here. The anesthesiologist will arrive first, around eight-thirty, because his set-up takes the longest. Then the operating nurse and scrub nurse usually arrive together in one car, about nine. The assistant surgeon comes in his own car because he lives in Newton, also around nine-thirty. Dr. Stayner himself, not much before ten. He likes the patient out when he arrives so there’s no danger of him being recognized by someone in his social circle.”

“Four possible opportunities to slip in,” Ryan said. “One man each time they open the gate out front.”

“Five,” I said. “The McConnells are coming too.”

“So we jog in behind the cars?” Victor said. “Get done up in blackface and blend into the night?”