Do Not Go Gentle (22 page)

Sully cleared his throat. “Then I have been instructed to give you the following decision. ‘Given the medical evidence presented by Detective Griffin's physicians, the testimony of fellow officers about Detective Griffin's ability to perform his duties, and based on the independent evaluation of aforesaid medical evidence by medical experts from the Boston Police Department, Detective Griffin is hereby discharged from his position as Lieutenant Detective with the Boston Police Department, effective immediately. Within 90 days, should Detective Griffin be able to provide documented medical evidence of a significant improvement in his medical condition demonstrating his fitness for return to duty, the Department would strongly consider reinstating Detective Griffin.

“This termination will be reflected upon Detective Griffin's record as a medical termination and makes him eligible to file a petition for long-term disability with the Department's insurance carrier. However, this termination in no way guarantees that Detective Griffin is entitled to long-term disability, as that decision is solely at the discretion of the Department's insurance carrier, based on any medical evidence provided by Detective Griffin or his representatives.'” Sully lowered his glasses, this time with pain visible in his eyes.

“I'm so sorry, Jamie. Off the record, for what it's worth, I think this is total crap, but it's not my decision.”

Jamie's head was spinning. He felt like his life was being cracked open like an eggshell and everything he valued was being poured into a hot skillet and scrambled. It felt like he couldn't catch his breath. Jamie was more numb than angry, although anger lurked just beneath the surface of his emotions. Jamie turned to Valdez. “So they can do this? I'm out?”

Valdez nodded slowly. “I've reviewed all the applicable sections of procedures and policies, as well as the bargaining agreement. They're within their rights to do this. You could always file an appeal, but realistically, only a demonstrable improvement in your condition will get you reinstated.”

Jamie stood abruptly and had to grab onto the arm of the chair to keep his balance. “Well, fat lot of good you are to me then, Valdez. I thought I could count on the union to protect my best interests.” Then he turned to Sullivan. “Cap, I know you don't have a whole lot of choice in this matter, but isn't there
anything
you can do?” Jamie felt his voice choking, but kept himself under control.

Sullivan stood to face Jamie. “I'm afraid not, Jamie. My hands are tied. According to departmental procedures, you have thirty days to file an appeal to this decision, but I agree with Valdez. Unless your medical condition changes, I don't think an appeal is going to get you anywhere.” Sully hesitated for a moment. “Jamie, you know what I have to ask you to give me.”

Jamie's face hardened, and after a short pause, he nodded. “I understand. Procedure.” Jamie reached into his pocket and removed his badge and ID card, then slowly slid his gun from his holster, popping the ammo clip into his hand before handing everything to Sullivan. “Is that all, Captain?” Jamie asked, the pain obvious in his voice.

Sully shook his head, but stuck out his right hand. “No, but I'd like to say it has been a privilege having you under my command, Jamie.”

Jamie looked at Sullivan's hand as if it held a knife. Without saying another word, Jamie turned and left the office. He did not look back nor acknowledge the looks or hushed questions that followed him as he left the station. His throat tight and eyes misting, Jamie managed to get into his car and drive home, the streets of Dorchester passing by him in a blur.

* * * *

Cal made sure he did not arrive at the station until well after Jamie's meeting with Sully. Cal had a good idea what was going down, which both station gossip and Sully confirmed. The captain had called him into his office once Cal arrived and explained the whole situation to him.

“I feel like a total asshole,” Sully said, leaning back slowly in his chair. In his late fifties, Robert Sullivan was a decorated veteran of the force, kicked upstairs after pursuing a bank robbery suspect had left him with a permanent limp, courtesy of two bullets in his right leg. He ran his fingers through his thick black, curly hair, which he was still proud to say, showed no signs of gray.

Cal shrugged. “Cap, there wasn't much else you could do—orders are orders.”

Sully grimaced. “You seem remarkably sanguine about this whole thing.”

Cal shook his head. “Nah, I've just had time to prepare myself. This wasn't a shock to anyone except Jamie. I don't like it any more than you do, but we have to do what's best for the department.”

“Agreed.” Sully paused, then chose his next words carefully. “So, I can count on you not to let Griffin tag along with you or shadow you?”

“Sure. It's one thing when he was sick, but now he's a civilian. Have you talked to Frank or Paddy?”

Sully shook his head. “I'm pretty sure the higher ups already alerted them. Not my place to stick my nose in where it doesn't belong. Anyway, Hamilton is out the rest of this week finishing advanced firearms training. You'll start working with him next Monday?”

“Aye, aye, Cap'n,” Cal said, standing up and leaving.

Cal went through his paperwork on autopilot, trying to adjust to no longer having Jamie as his partner, as his cohort in crime. He worked late trying to get caught up on paperwork.
Damn, I'm hard on partners lately. First Jamie gets sick, then Ramirez gets run down, and now Jamie is off the force. I wonder if they've started a pool yet on how long Hamilton lasts?

It was midnight when Cal left the station, stretching with fatigue as he got into his BMW. As he drove home, the day's events kept running through Cal's mind like a crazed hamster racing on the wheel inside its cage.

The night was calm, so Cal parked in the underground garage, then strolled to the
Called Shot.
His father had given him hell for upgrading to the Perry Passagemaker catamaran a couple of years ago, but Cal felt it had been worth every penny. While no longer the avid sailor that he was in his youth, Cal still loved to take the
Shot
to sea whenever time and weather permitted.

As Cal walked toward his boat, he heard someone call his name softly, and he turned, gun drawn. “Whoa, easy, Cushing. Easy does it, man.” A small man, with long scraggly hair, a large pointed nose, and a poor excuse for a beard stepped into the dock lights, his hands spread wide, showing he was not armed.

Cal swore, slowly lowering his gun. “Jesus Christ, Peeper.” Cal stepped forward and grabbed the smaller man by the shoulder, frisked him, and then looked around closely. “You alone, dumbshit?”

Peeper puffed up indignantly, true to the source of his nickname—the small frogs called pinkletinks in Massachusetts that made a loud high-pitched noise, much larger than their size. “Hey, man. I'm here, at great personal risk, I might add, to give you some choice dirt. If you don't want it, say the word, and I'm outta here.” Peeper pushed his dirty blonde hair out of his eyes.

Cal sighed. “This better be good, Peeper.” Peeper had been one of Cal's confidential informants for three years now. Originally, a low-level drug dealer, Cal had turned him with the threat of his third strike and an extended prison sentence for possession. While no longer dealing, Peeper had become a “fixer”—someone who could help you locate the right person or thing to get something done. Peeper was annoying at best, and downright obnoxious at his worst, which was most of the time.

They boarded, and Cal turned on some lights, then took off his suit coat and tossed it onto the corner of a bench couch. He jerked his hand toward the opposite bench, and Peeper sat meekly.

Cal went to the bar and poured himself a large tumbler of Bruichladdich forty-year-old whiskey. As he finished his first gulp, Cal heard a small voice from the bench ask, “Aintcha gonna offer me one?”

Cal looked in disbelief at the CI, sighed and said, “Oh hell, why not?” He poured more into his own glass, then took out a second glass and poured a small amount into it. “If your information is solid, not only will I let you live, I might give you seconds.” He walked to Peeper, handed him the glass, and then stood over him. “Now talk.”

Peeper closed his watery brown eyes, took a long sip of the whiskey, and then exhaled loudly. “Ahh, man, you sure got great tastes in drinks.”

Cal sat across from Peeper, took out his gun, and set it on the shelf. “Let's hear it.”

“Alright, alright,” said Peeper in his best offended tone. “Ya asked me to keep my ears open for anything concerning that nutjob group, the disciples of whatsit, right?”

“The Disciples of Endor, that's correct.” Cal took a fortifying sip and steeled himself to let Peeper relate his information in his own, inimitable style.
Man's got a real talent for bullshit.

“Alright, so see, I was hanging out at King Arthur's the other night, okay?” King Arthur's was a seedy strip club in Chelsea. Cal wouldn't have been caught dead in King Arthur's, but it was a great source of information for Peeper. “Dixie had just gone on, and I mean, she's okay, not nearly as doggie as some of the gals they got there if ya know what I mean.” Cal made a circular motion with his finger, indicating that Peeper should speed it up.

“Yeah, yeah. So anyways, Dixie is in the middle of her bump-and-grind, and I look at this guy sittin' next to me, nursing a beer. So I says to him, I says, ‘She ain't bad, but there's a couple a broads later on who are a lot better.' So this guy, he's like forty or so, right, built like a fireplug, face like ten miles of bad road and he looks at me kinda bleary eyed, man, like's he's had a few too many, ya know? So we gets to talking about the dames who dance there and after a while, we start trading 411s. Turns out, he's some low-level grunt in the Mazzimah.”

When Cal sat up straighter, Peeper nodded, and then took another sip. “I thought that might get yer attention, Mister High-and-Mighty Detective. Yeah, I thought so. Anyways, this guy is really drunk, so he doesn't bitch when I offer to buy him some whiskey. We gets to talking more, and after looking around like he didn't want anyone else to hear, like anyone could hear anything over the crappy sound system they use there, he says, ‘So what's the craziest thing you ever seen?'

“So I tell him some BS story about one of the dead hookers I seen, and he just about jumps out of his skin. So I says, ‘What's wrong, buddy?' and he looks around again, taps the bar for another refill, on my tab. I'm thinkin', man this better be worth it, then he starts spilling his guts. Turns out, not only is he Mazzimah, he's like a lieutenant or sergeant or something, you dig it?”

Cal restrained himself from reaching out and choking Peeper. One thing he learned over the years was that Peeper had an overinflated sense of self-importance, but the little shithead had a nose for getting information that matched his oversized physical nose. Cal polished off his whiskey and said, “Look, Peep, it's been a long, rotten day. I'm interested in your info, but I'm dead tired, so give me the bottom line, and I'll pour you another.”

Peeper's eyes narrowed at Cal, but he pounded back the rest of his drink and handed Cal the empty glass. “Make it a double?”

Cal sighed. “Sure—tell you what, if you can give me something truly amazing before I'm done pouring, I'll make it a triple.” He picked up the Bruichladdich and started pouring slowly.

Peeper almost jumped out of his seat and rushed his words together in a panic. “Okay, okay—this dude tells me he's been to the secret headquarters of the head
honcho
, a Batcave kinda place up inna North End, and he watched the witchy woman in charge suck the life right outta this gal he helped kidnap.” The words poured out of Peeper. Then he watched anxiously as Cal stopped pouring.

Keeping his excitement under control, Cal nodded casually. “Okay, you get a triple.” He finished pouring the drink, then stepped back to the bench and held the drink out, but snatched it away as Peeper tried to grab it from him. “Uh, uh, uh—there'd better be more my friend. What else?” Cal dangled the glass side to side just out of Peeper's reach.

Peeper sat back on the bench and wiped his mouth with the back of a dirty hand. Cal knew he would have to send that cushion to be cleaned tomorrow. “Yeah, alright, yeah, yeah, you're right, there's more—the guy tells me where to find this secret hideout.”

Cal holds his breath for a second, then nods and hands the glass to the informant. “Okay, then—tell me more about that while you finish your drink.”

Peeper took a long swallow, his prominent Adam's apple jumping up and down like a fishing bobber with a big one on the other end of the line. “Man, I could get used to this.”

“No you couldn't. Tell me or I'll toss you into the harbor. You smell like you could
really
use a bath,” Cal growled.

“Jeez, okay, dude, lighten up.” Peeper took another sip, and then continued. “So you know where that cemetery is in the North End?”

“Which one, you moron? The North End has almost as many cemeteries as restaurants.”

“Okay, okay, the big one up by North Church, whatchamacallit.”