Do Not Go Gentle (13 page)

Cal raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” Then he glared at Ramirez. “Rook, as far as you know, Jamie uncovered this lead prior to being benched and we were instructed by Ms. Aba that Jamie had to accompany us to the interview. Got it?”

Ramirez nodded. “Hell, yes. It's my ass on the line too.”

Jamie smiled and put a hand on Ramirez's shoulder. “Hey, the kid learns fast. Let's go.”

They stepped up to an ornate wooden door with no signage of any type—just an unobtrusive doorbell, that Jamie rang.

A young woman opened the door. In her early twenties, with dark skin and hair, and average appearance, she asked, “May I help you?” She glanced at the men, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Yes, miss,” said Jamie, showing his badge. “I'm Detective Jamie Griffin. These men are my associates, Detectives Cushing and Ramirez. We're here for my appointment with Sedecla Aba.”

As experienced detectives, both Jamie and Cal noticed the girl tense at the mention of the name. “Very well, gentlemen,” she said, holding the door open. “Please come in and follow me.”

They entered a large foyer, with inlaid tile surrounding the entrance and burnished, golden oak floors leading into another room to their left. To their right, the restored brick walls held a plain wooden door. The only way open to continue was through the archway to the left.

The woman led them into an open room, about twenty feet square. The interior walls also featured restored brick, and they were adorned with various tapestries and artwork of Middle Eastern appearance. The oak floor continued throughout the room, broken up by an expensive looking Persian rug. At the far end of the room sat an ornate ebony desk, credenza, bookcase, and workstation. The furniture stretched almost from side to side along the back wall. There were no windows in the room, and the only other exit was a stone and tile, spiral staircase that wound upward in the right hand corner of the room.

Another woman sat in a cushioned, high-back office chair, seemingly in her early thirties, also with dark hair and features, but with a much slimmer figure than the woman who had admitted them. “That will be all, Afya.” Her voice was a cultured contralto and she spoke slowly, with a faint Mediterranean accent. She also spoke with quiet authority and steel beneath her words.

Afya bowed. “Yes, Mistress.” She walked to the staircase and left without another word.

The woman behind the desk turned her gaze back to the men before her. Jamie felt power emanating from her hazel eyes. Her face was a slim oval, with a small birthmark above her lip and dark black hair that cascaded to her shoulders. She was dressed simply in what looked to be an expensive dark red and brown robe, cinched at the waist with a gold, metallic belt. She wore no earrings and only a plain black ring upon the third finger of her left hand. After a silent moment of appraisal, she spoke. “My name is Sedecla Aba. Which one of you gentlemen is this Jamie Griffin who demanded an interview?” Although there were chairs in front of her desk, she did not indicate that they should sit.

Nevertheless, the three detectives seated themselves as Jamie extended his right hand, saying, “That would be me, Ms. Aba.” He held his hand out for several seconds.

Sedecla looked at his hand, then into his eyes, a tiny, wry smile playing about her full lips. “Forgive me if I do not shake hands, detective. In my culture, it is somewhat presumptuous to shake hands with strangers. Please feel free to be seated,” she said, with a faint tinge of irony in her voice.

Jamie slowly withdrew his hand and sat in the center chair between Cal and Ramirez. “No offense taken, ma'am. I apologize if I have offended you in any way.”

Sedecla waved a slim hand in dismissal. “Not at all, detective. I am so glad that you understand. Now, why have you come here today?”

To Jamie, it felt as if she were trying to turn the tables on them, making them the subjects of the interview. He held her gaze for a moment, then replied, “Well, ma'am, we're investigating a series of homicides, and we'd like to ask you a few questions.”

Sedecla widened her eyes and cocked her head. “Homicides? Really? Why do you think you need to ask me questions about such a distasteful situation?”

Cal leapt into the breach, falling into their standard pattern of alternating questions, from different attitudes and demeanor. “Ms. Aba, while you may not see any connection to yourself, our investigation has revealed links between you and an organization which may be connected to the murders—the Disciples of Endor. Are you aware of any illegal activities on the part of this group?”

Sedecla's hazel, almond shaped eyes flashed in response to the challenging tone of Cal's voice. “Indeed not, detective. I have connections with several organizations. Why do you think to connect the Disciples with the homicides you are investigating? From my knowledge, the last thing in which they would be involved is homicide.” While her eyes betrayed anger, her voice did not rise, and her speech remained even and calm.

Jamie stepped back up to the plate. “That may be, ma'am, but several of the victims were members of the Disciples, former members, or otherwise connected with the Disciples. In our experience, whenever we find commonality between victims, there's usually a connection.” Ramirez, being a rookie, took in the byplay while staying silent. His only task was to observe Aba.

Now Sedecla's tone of voice took on a definite edge of anger. “I daresay you could probably find many such connections amongst your victims—places of employment, hobbies, places of worship, other groups to which they belong. If only some of the victims have a connection to the Disciples of Endor, then it seems to me that you are following a false lead.” Clearly, she was not a woman who was used to being questioned or challenged.

“Well, Ms. Aba,” replied Cal, his own voice sharper now, “we wouldn't dream of telling you how to conduct your affairs. Unless you have a background in law enforcement, you probably shouldn't tell us how to conduct ours. Plus, you haven't answered the original question. Are you aware of any illegal activities on the part of the Disciples of Endor? You seem to be closely aligned with this group, so you may be implicated by association.” Cal leaned forward in his chair and locked gazes with the woman.

Sedecla did not respond for several seconds, but neither did she break the staredown with Cushing. Finally she replied, “To my knowledge, the Disciples of Endor are not, and have never been, associated with any criminal activity. Does that answer satisfy you, Detective Cushing?”

Cal paused, then leaned forward, grabbed Sedecla's left hand, and turned it so the detectives could see the black ring on her finger. It happened so fast that Sedecla couldn't draw back immediately. “You may have answered my question, Ms. Aba, but I think it's an odd coincidence that the ring you are wearing has the same image as what was burned into the bodies of the victims. Whaddya call it, Jamie?”

“A Mandean
skandola
.”

“Yeah, that.”

Sedecla snatched her hand back from Cushing with a deep hiss. “How dare you,” she exclaimed in a hoarse, soft whisper, silk sliding over sandpaper. “Despite my earlier admonition, you dare to grab me?” She stood now, her body tensed with anger. “This interview is over, detectives. I do not have to answer to you about these matters. Any further questions can be directed to my attorney.”

“Who would that be, ma'am?” asked Jamie politely.

Still furious, Sedecla slammed open a desk drawer, withdrew a card, and flicked it at Cushing. Saying nothing, she pressed a small button at the edge of the desk.

Cal deftly caught the card and looked at it. “Hunh. Another odd coincidence. You have the same attorney as the Disciples. I'm starting to think you're much more involved in that cult than you let on.”

Now trembling with rage, Sedecla held out her left hand, pointing her index finger at the men and began chanting, in a soft voice at first, but rising to just short of shouting, deadly power and anger infusing each word as she spoke. Jamie did not understand the words, but he understood the meaning and intent behind them. If he'd had any doubts, they evaporated when she continued in English. “I curse you all, your friends and your family, all who know you in any way. Death and darkness shall follow your steps and misery shall be your constant companion. Pray to whatever gods you hold dear, fools. Your days are now numbered.” As she finished, four large men, carrying weapons underneath their black suits, came thundering down the spiral staircase. “You will leave now.”

The three detectives stood , glaring at Sedecla and at the goons she had summoned. They turned and strolled to the door, followed by Sedecla's men. They walked out the door, and then turned to face the men. “Tell your mistress that this is not the end of our investigation,” said Cal, as the door slammed in their faces.

* * * *

Sedecla was still in a rage when her managers arrived at her residence in response to her summons. She was stalking around the formal living room on the second floor of her building. The men entered cautiously at her command and seated themselves in chairs before her. In a voice trembling with rage, Sedecla related the interview with the detectives and the curse with which she ended the meeting. She wound down, regaining control of herself, and walked to an end table, poured herself a glass of wine, then sat and leaned back into a dark red fainting couch.

After a moment of silence, ibn Ezra spoke up. “What would you wish of us,
Qedesh
? Surely your curse will deal with these
kapura
as they deserve?”

A bitter smile played about Sedecla's beautiful face, rendering it fearsome in her now smoldering anger. “Faithful
kohen
,” she said to ibn Ezra. “Yes, my curse will descend upon them, but I will also pursue retaliation in this sphere of existence as well.” She now looked at Choate and O'Neill in addition to ibn Ezra. “Thus, I instruct you all to learn as much as you can about these three detectives. I want to find ways to inflict great pain upon them for their insolence.”

O'Neill cleared his throat. “Three detectives, Mistress? I thought only Griffin and Cushing were coming to see you.”

“As did I, Timothy,” she replied evenly, her temper now under control, “but there was a dark skinned man who said nothing during the interview.”

O'Neill thought for a moment, and then said, “I think I know who that must have been. I'll find out for sure.”

“I want you to do far more than that, Timothy. I want you to tell me how we can best hurt each of these men. I want to destroy them.”

O'Neill said nothing for a few seconds. He just returned Sedecla's fierce gaze. Then he said, “I understand, Mistress. However, I must again warn you: taking overt actions against the police will only intensify scrutiny. I would advise against any direct action and allow your curse to do its work.”

Sedecla widened her eyes and her voice softened to a whisper. “Are you refusing me, Timothy?” The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“No, Mistress,” he replied. The other two men were not only silent, but motionless, not wanting to attract attention. “I am simply advising that we proceed carefully in this matter. I don't think we need to worry about Griffin. He's been ill for nearly a month and no longer allowed on any official departmental activities, so I'm surprised to learn that he came today. I can make sure that he no longer has access to any departmental resources, thus eliminating his ability to threaten us in an official capacity.”

“What about the other two men?” demanded Sedecla.

O'Neill shrugged. “Well, I found some pressure points I can bring to bear on Cushing. Once I confirm the identity of the third detective, I'll check him out as well.”

Sedecla said nothing; the only sound in the room was their breathing. Finally, she said, “Timothy, proceed as you see fit. I would remind you, however, that you are in too deep with us to hesitate in dealing with this matter. My anger aside, you would face great personal and professional harm should your superiors learn of your activities with the Mazzimah.” Timothy O'Neill said nothing more. He simply nodded his head in acquiescence. After another lengthy period of silence, Sedecla waved her hand. “You are dismissed. All of you take my orders to heart: finding ways to help us destroy these three men is now your highest priority.” The men filed out silently, and Sedecla stared ahead as she drank her wine, visions of destruction playing in her mind.

“I see your ten dollars and raise you twenty dollars,” said Jamie. He locked eyes with Cal, the next player to bet. Jamie's face and body might as well be made of stone. He had worked hard over years of the monthly poker game to eliminate any tells.

Cal Cushing looked at his partner, looked at his cards, then looked back at his partner. While Cal had also been participating in the game for years, he was not as successful as Jamie at eliminating his tells. The other men seated around the table all focused on Cal.

“Call. That's thirty dollars to you, Cushing,” said Paddy Griffin, taking a long draw on his beer. The men alternated hosting the game. This month, they were at Cal's Battery Wharf townhouse. If any of the players had any doubts about Cal's financial situation, one trip to his townhouse dispelled those doubts. Cal's three-bedroom, three-bath townhouse was nothing short of spectacular. Jamie had once commented that Cal's living room alone was bigger than his entire first floor, and he wasn't that far off. Everything in the townhouse was done in top of the line fashion including a huge deck, with a spectacular view looking north out over Boston Harbor, lit up at night to rival the starry sky. Cal also had valet parking to his underground spot and a short walk to where his boat docked. Jamie had once asked Cal if his lifestyle put a serious crimp in his trust fund. Cal had replied that it did not and his salary as a detective was his “walking around money.”

“Cushing, you fret like an old woman over your damn cards, even though you could buy all of us here several times over. Put up or shut up.” Ruarc “Rourke” O'Riley was the fire captain for Engine 17/Ladder 7, located behind the Churchyard on Meetinghouse Hill in the northern end of Dorchester. Meetinghouse Hill was also home to the oldest religious organization in Boston, the Unitarian Universalist church, and the first public elementary school in America, the Mather School. Married, with five children, Rourke and Jamie had known each other since their grammar school days and were the best man at each other's wedding. Jamie considered Rourke his closest friend.

“Shut up, O'Riley,” retorted Cal. “When I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of you.”

“Oh, tough cop. I'm soooooo scared.” Rourke widened his eyes and drew back in mock fear.

“Keep it up and you will be, Cap.” Cal used Rourke's title in a deprecating tone. “Okay, I call.” Cal threw the requisite number of chips into the pot.

“Call.” Rourke immediately anted up.

“Boys, may I remind you that you're playing poker with a man of the cloth?” Jamie's brother, Johnny, was also an occasional participant in their regular game. Whenever his schedule permitted, Johnny got great satisfaction from taking a brief break from his duties and interacting with other men in a non-religious manner. Johnny gathered up his cards and said, “Fold. If you guys were nicer to me, I'd gladly put in a good word for you with my boss.”

In the laughter and derisive hooting that ensued, Timmy O'Neill tossed his chips into the pot. “I see the bets so far and raise another $20.” His bet drew scowls and appraising glances, but O'Neill was also good at keeping secrets.

“Too rich for me,” said the youngest Griffin brother, Conán. “I'm a struggling musician, not a highly paid public servant like the rest of you.” He turned to Johnny and said, “With you as an exception,
padre
.”

At twenty-six, Conán was considered the “black sheep.” Educated at BC High School and Boston College, Conán was “wasting” his education in his father's opinion, pursuing a career as a musician. A talented guitarist, Conán had been in and out of several groups, searching for the right way to make it big.

That brought the betting back to Jamie. “Twenty dollars to me now, huh?” He made a great show of looking at his cards and frowning.

“That doesn't work with us, Jamie,” growled Cal. “You may not have any tells, but your damned posturing doesn't work on us either.”

Jamie laughed. “Okay, then, I call.”

Cal didn't hesitate. “I'm out—no sense throwing good money after bad.” Cal shook his head.

“Call,” said Patrick, tossing in chips.

The betting ran back around the table, leaving Jamie, Paddy, Rourke, and Timmy to show their cards. As the last to raise, O'Neill showed his cards first. “Read ‘em and weep, boys,” he said, laying down five hearts. “I filled out my flush.”

Rourke threw down his cards in disgust, swearing, even though Jamie should have showed his cards next. “Feckin' luck, that's all you have O'Neill.”

Patrick and Timmy looked at Jamie. “Whatcha got, little brother?”

Jamie paused for a moment before slowly laying down his cards in a broad fan. “Full boat, lads. Can you top that?”

Looking at Jamie‘s hand, it was now Paddy who cursed. “Wouldn't you just know it? The slacker has kings over threes, which beats my queens over sevens.” He tossed down his cards with an oath.

Normally, Jamie would have been an obnoxious winner. This time, however, he just reached out, raked in the pot, and took a large puff of his cigar. One of the standing rules of the game was that the host provided the munchies and the guests provided the drinks and smokes. Cal had laid out an impressive spread of junk food, one of his personal weaknesses. Jamie had brought the smokes: Stradivarius Churchill cigars, which at $40 a pop meant that he'd only brought one per man. The card game was the only time Jamie ever smoked, so he didn't feel too guilty in splurging a little. Timmy, Johnny, and Conán had brought draft Guinness in bottles, and Rourke had supplemented it with some Harp. Patrick had been greeted with a cheer when he pulled a bottle of 18-year-old Limited Reserve Jameson's from his brown paper bag. While most of the other men stuck to beer, Patrick and Jamie preferred to drink “The Craythur” or “Creature.” However, while Jamie took his on the rocks, Patrick always drank his neat.

“Fuck you, Jamie,” came the consensus from the table.

After stacking his chips, Jamie looked at Patrick with a hint of fire in his eyes. “Hey, big brother, what the hell was that crack about me being a ‘slacker'?”

Patrick coolly looked back at Jamie. “Hey, if the shoe fits, brother,”

Now both Jamie and Rourke looked stonily at Paddy. Timmy was also unhappy with the remark, but Cal and Jamie's other brothers just looked away. “So you think I'm faking being ill? You think I'm happy not working? That I like seeing so feckin' many doctors, having so feckin' many tests, and feeling like I'm feckin' letting everyone down? I don't need your feckin' crap.” Jamie flushed.

“Hey, I think we need some refills,” began Johnny, trying to turn the conversation away from a full-scale argument.

“Don't try to play peacekeeper here,” replied Patrick. “We need to get this out in the open. Da doesn't always come to these gatherings, but he told me there was no way he could play tonight because he was too upset with Jamie.”

“Oh, and that's my fault?” retorted Jamie.

“Time for a break,” interjected Cal, also hoping to short-circuit the coming storm.

Paddy stood to face Jamie. “The point is that if the doctors can't find anything wrong with you, then it means either you're just wussing out or faking it.”

The room fell silent as Jamie stood to face his brother. “Really? Well, the experts at Johns Hopkins would disagree with you, brother of mine. I went through another gobshite round of tests earlier this week down in Baltimore.” Jamie's voice rose in volume, to match the increased flushing of his face. “I got coated in powder and baked for half an hour, had another tilt table test, a whole crapload of muscular tests, met with ear and eye experts and another neurologist.”

“Yeah, what did they find then?” Patrick stepped out from his chair toward Jamie.

Jamie stepped to stand before his older brother. “They found anomalies in something called my autonomic system, but they still don't know exactly what's wrong, even though the headaches, fatigue and balance issues are still kicking my ass. Now I'm starting some meds to try to knock this thing down, and we go back to Baltimore on Monday for my final results and recommendations. It may not seem like it to you, boyo, but I'm doing everything I feckin' can to find out what's wrong with me.”

Patrick stood as straight as possible, giving him an inch or two over Jamie. He looked down at his younger brother and poked him in the chest with a finger. While neither man was drunk, they had drunk enough to loosen their normal restraints. “So basically, they can't find anything wrong. To me, that says you ain't really sick, laddie. So now, Da and I have to try to explain to the top brass, including the Commissioner, why the hell you've burned all your days off and have now requested a leave of absence instead of just manning up and working through it.”

Jamie drew himself up to his full height and leaned in close to his brother. They were eye-to-eye now. “You have no feckin' idea what it's like for me. Every time I try to ‘man up' and work through it, I get worse. My headaches feel like someone's opening the top of my head with a dull knife, and I'm so exhausted that I have to take a nap. Take a nap, for Christ's sake. Paddy, you know that's not like me.”

Paddy shook his head, but pulled free, when Johnny pulled on his arm, trying to avert a fight. “All I know is you're making Da and me look bad. If the doctors can't find anything wrong, maybe you need to see a shrink.” Patrick smirked as he spoke.

Time slowed to a crawl for Jamie, and a red haze passed over his eyes. Then, as if he were a marionette, someone else pulling his strings, Jamie shot a hard right into Patrick's stomach. As his brother exhaled sharply, Jamie followed it with a left to the jaw, connecting with Patrick's chin.

Patrick staggered back but did not fall. He leapt forward and tackled Jamie. The two men fell with a loud crash to the floor, and Jamie had the wind knocked out of him as Patrick fell on top of him. Stunned, Jamie could not defend himself as Patrick landed several blows to Jamie's face. “Really?” Patrick gasped. “You
really
want to do this?.”

Johnny and Conán grabbed Patrick's arms and started hauling him away from Jamie, landing him unceremoniously on his ass as they stepped between the two. Rourke grabbed Jamie's arm and helped him into a sitting position while maintaining a strong grip. Cal and Timmy now stepped in between the two men as well.

“What the hell is
wrong
with you two?” Johnny shouted. “Are you
both
insane?” Johnny was now standing between the two men—Patrick still sitting on the floor and Jamie sitting upright and feeling the damage on his face. “How can two smart guys be so
stupid
?” Johnny cried out in his most authoritative voice. While younger, Johnny held sway over his brothers by virtue of his religious office. Johnny had his hands on his hips and flung out his left hand as he turned to Patrick. “
You
. As the eldest of us, you should be helping us in our struggles, not mocking them. How can you possibly believe that Jamie, who has always worked hard, graduated from Notre Dame, excelled in the police department, participated in dozens of activities while raising three beautiful young women, would fake an illness? That he would not try his damnedest to work through it?.” Johnny rarely cursed, but when he did, the person he was addressing knew they were in trouble.

Johnny now rounded on Jamie, pulling his left hand back to his side and swatting the air above Jamie's head with his right hand. “And
you
, you feckin' idjit. How do you think punching your brother is going to make anything better?” Johnny pointed a finger down at Jamie. “I know you're not a stupid man, Séamus Edward Griffin, but I'll be damned if you aren't acting like one now.” Johnny stepped back a pace and looked down at his brothers. “Now, the two of you are getting up and apologizing to each other and you'll by God mean it, or by Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I'll sure know the reason why.” Johnny now stood with both hands on his hips, a towering figure of priestly anger.

Jamie and Patrick looked at each other, and then both men got to their feet slowly, helped by those standing closest to them. They stepped forward to face each other. There was a tense moment of silence as they each considered who should apologize first. A quick glance at Johnny, who was glaring at them both, forced a decision. Paddy held out his right hand. “I'm sorry, Jamie. Really, I am—I know better than to question you. You're not the kind of man to fake an illness. and you're one of the toughest damn cops I know.” Patrick spoke sincerely, albeit forced out by their brother's anger.

Jamie paused before taking his brother's hand in a firm grasp. “Ah, hell, Paddy, I know. I'm sorry I lashed out at you—mostly I'm angry at myself for the very things you said. I feel like I'm letting everyone down, like I'm doing something wrong being ill, that it's a sign of weakness.” Jamie released Patrick's hand and put his own hands, palms up, in front of his chest to stave off any responses. “I know, I know—that's stupid on my part as well, but it can't be helped. ‘Tis the way I am.”

Jamie and Paddy both stole sheepish glances at Johnny, who had gazed at each brother as he spoke. “Okay then. Maybe you two knuckleheads have learned something tonight.” He sighed deeply, as only the Irish can sigh. “On that note, gentlemen, I think we're probably done for the night.”