The Secret Friend (17 page)

51

The heating vent was narrow and smelled of rust and decay. Darby crawled forward on her stomach. She reached the flashlight and rolled it ahead of her, feeling like the John McClane character Bruce Willis had played in the first
Die Hard
movie.

When she reached the statue, she placed it into an evidence bag and tucked it into her coat pocket. She picked up the flashlight.

The vent curved to the left. The second part was only ten feet long and led out to a floor covered in dust and rubble.

Turning onto her side, Darby edged her way around the corner, boots banging against the metal, and got stuck. Panic gripped her as she imagined being trapped here.
Why in the name of God am I doing this?

Darby took in deep breaths, forcing herself to relax. She got her footing and pushed herself into the second vent, hearing her coat rip. Turning back onto her stomach, she crawled forward and pushed herself onto a floor covered with rubble.

A hole was in the ceiling and, beyond it, walls stretching up into the darkness. Sections of the floors above her were missing. She wondered what had caused such a massive amount of damage.

The door to the room was closed. Moving the beam of her light around the wooden shelves, most of which were still intact, she saw clear plastic vials full of water and cardboard boxes full of rosary beads and stacks of books. Darby wiped away the dust from the spines; bibles and hymn books.

Darby gripped the door, surprised to find it opened without effort.

She didn’t know what she had expected to find but she hadn’t expected this – an old chapel holding a dozen wooden pews covered in dust and debris. Some of the pews had been crushed from where the ceiling had caved in, and she saw a steel beam resting through what was probably a confessional.

To her left, dozens of footprints led down an aisle. At the end, inside an alcove, was a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary sitting on a bench, her son, Jesus, sprawled across her lap. The Blessed Mother was dressed in flowing white and blue robes, her facial expression frozen in eternal sorrow as she looked down at bloody holes in her dead son’s feet and palms from the nails that had pinned him to the crucifix.

The Virgin Mary was clean – no dust, no grime.

Moving the beam of her light around the statue, Darby spotted rags and a bucket of water holding a sponge.

She carefully made her way to the centre aisle, not wanting to disturb the footprints. They appeared to be recent. The marks belonged to a boot or sneaker.

When she reached the centre aisle, Darby saw another set of footprints which were distinctly different. These shoeprints bore a strong resemblance to the one she had found on the floor inside Emma Hale’s spare bedroom.

A woman cried out for help.

Heart leaping high in her chest, Darby swung around and in the beam of light saw an altar covered in debris. The wooden pulpit was crushed. A large statue of Jesus hanging on the cross lay on the floor in pieces.

There was no one here. She hadn’t imagined the sound, she was sure of it.

Darby made her way to the aisle on the far right. No footprints. She moved down the aisle and heard a woman screaming, the sound faint, coming from the altar.

Darby ducked under the beam. Jesus’ head, crowned in bloody thorns, lay on the floor, his sorrowful eyes staring at her as she moved up the altar steps. The woman’s painful cries grew louder.

A broken door was behind the altar. Darby slipped inside as a man moaned, the sound mixed with the woman’s pleading, begging for the pain to stop.

The adjoining room was not much bigger than the maintenance closet and held dusty shelves stacked with the same bibles and hymn books. The ceiling was intact.

On the floor was a cardboard box full of small plastic statues of the Virgin Mary – the same statues she had found sewn inside Emma Hale and Judith Chen’s pockets. The same statue Malcolm Fletcher had left inside the vent and on the windowsill of the room.

Shoeprints stopped in front of a brick wall. At the bottom was a large, wide hole. The dust and dirt on the floor had been disturbed, as though someone had recently stood here.

A man laughed. Darby knelt on the floor, away from the footprints, and shined the beam of her flashlight inside another room. Lying against the debris was a skeletal set of remains.

52

Jonathan Hale stared at his daughter’s pictures, searing Emma’s face into his mind’s eye, wanting to preserve every angle to keep her from fading.

But she
would
fade. The mind, he knew, was the most cunning prison, a ruthless warden. It would take these memories of Emma and, like Susan, blur them over time while torturing him with this singular, inescapable fact: he had taken each of these moments for granted.

His girls, the two most important people in what he had come to realize was a completely insignificant, hollow life, smiled at him. Husband and father. Now he was a widower, the father to a dead child.

Daddy.

Hale, drunk and numb, looked up and saw Emma sitting in the leather armchair. Her hair wasn’t wet and mangled with twigs; it was neatly combed, thick and beautiful. Her face was alive, full of colour.

‘Hey, baby. How are you doing?’

Mom and I are fine now.

‘What are you doing here?’

We’re worried about you.

Hale’s eyes were hot and wet. ‘I miss you so much.’

We miss you too.

‘I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.’

You didn’t do anything wrong, Dad.

Hale buried his face in his hands and cried. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

You already know what to do.

‘I can’t.’

God answered your prayers. He sent someone to help you.

Yes, he had prayed to God for the truth, and the messenger was like a creature spawned from the Catechism books from his childhood – a man with strange black eyes holding terrible secrets, a man who had killed two federal agents and God only knew who else; a man who had given him the name and face of his daughter’s killer.

Now that he knew the truth, he wished God would take it away. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know.

It’s not just about me any more, Daddy. You know about what happened to the others.

Hale checked his watch. He could still make the call. He still had time.

They can’t speak for themselves. They need you to speak for them.

Hale stumbled across the room and scooped the cell phone from his desk.

You can’t let them suffer in silence.

He dialled the number.

Look at me, Daddy.

He felt numb as Malcolm Fletcher answered the call.

‘Yes, Mr Hale?’

Daddy, look at me.

Hale looked at the armchair where Emma sat, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap.

Think about the parents of all those young women. Don’t they have a right to know the truth? Don’t they deserve justice?

‘Have you changed your mind, Mr Hale?’

You’ve been given an amazing gift, Daddy. God heard and answered your prayers. Are you going to refuse him?

Hale rubbed the whiskers along his face. ‘Do it.’

‘You are aware of the potential risks.’

‘That’s why I employ the best lawyers in the state,’ Hale said. ‘I want the son of a bitch to pay for what he did. I want him to suffer.’

53

Tim Bryson crunched a Rolaids between his teeth as traffic crawled past the Tobin Bridge tolls. Cliff Watts had the window down so he could smoke.

A battered plumber’s van, complete with a ladder fixed to the top, was waiting in the left lane, two car lengths behind the Jag.

Bryson’s phone rang. It was Lang, the man driving the plumbing van.

‘I ran the plates. The car’s registered to a man named Samuel Dingle from Saugus. I’ve got an address.’

Bryson felt a sick feeling crawling underneath his skin. ‘Is it stolen?’ he asked.

‘If it is, nobody has reported it,’ Lang said.

‘Send someone over to the house. Call me back when you find out.’

The Jag drove fast across the new Zakim Bridge, heading for Boston’s southeast expressway.
So close,
Bryson thought.
Too close.

Fletcher merged onto Storrow Drive, heading west. A few minutes later he took the Kenmore exit.

The problems of tailing someone in a city without being spotted were numerous – the traffic lights, the maze of oneway streets and, in the case of Boston, the never-ending headaches of the Big Dig. If you didn’t stick close to your mark, you could lose him.

Malcolm Fletcher wasn’t acting like someone who knew he was being shadowed. No sudden turns down a narrow street, he didn’t change direction – he wasn’t doing any of the normal counter-surveillance manoeuvres to shake off a tail. The man stuck to the main roads and kept up with the flow of traffic.

Fenway Park was dark and deserted. Without the Red Sox playing, the place was dead. Traffic was light. Watts kept a good, safe distance.

Fletcher put on his blinker and turned left into a parking lot. Watts drove past him. Bryson turned in his seat, wondering if Fletcher had spotted the tail.

A guard rail lifted into the air. Fletcher pulled inside the parking lot.

Watts banged a U-turn at the lights and found an empty spot along the side of the street, in front of a fire hydrant. He killed the lights but not the engine. Bryson already had the binoculars in his hands.

The parking lot was well lit and, thankfully, there was no tree cover, just a chain-link fence. There. The Jag was parked in a corner on the far right.

Bryson looked past the Jag to Lansdowne Street. The dingy area – horse barns at the turn of the century that were later converted to warehouses – was now home to a string of popular bars and dance clubs set up inside brick buildings. Lines of young men and women stood behind velvet ropes in the freezing cold, waiting for the bouncers to usher them through.

‘What the hell is he doing down here?’ Watts asked.

Good question,
Bryson thought. The Jag door opened.

Malcolm Fletcher was dressed in a dark wool overcoat. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked like a character from
The Matrix.
He didn’t look around, just shut the door and jogged across the street.

The people in line stared at him, wondering if he was some sort of celebrity. He stepped up to a bouncer with a big, round head. The bouncer leaned forward to listen.

Bryson read the sign above the door: Instant Karma.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Watts said. ‘The son of a bitch is going dancing.’

Bryson’s phone rang as he watched the bouncer pull back the velvet rope to let Fletcher pass.

‘You think he spotted us?’ Lang asked.

‘If he did, the smart move would have been to try to shake us off,’ Bryson said. ‘He wouldn’t lead us to a dance club. Have you ever been inside Instant Karma?’

‘Hitting the clubs isn’t my scene any more. I’m way too old.’

‘We broke up an ecstasy ring about two years ago. The bottom level connects to other clubs. I’m going to head inside with Watts. I want you to coordinate the surveillance. Who else is with you?’

‘Martinez and Washington,’ Lang said. ‘Tim, this guy attacked three federal agents.’

‘He did it in the privacy of his own home, and he took his sweet time. Move your boys to the front. There’s an alley around the back, near the fire exits. Park there. I’ll escort Fletcher out through the alley.’

From the glove compartment Bryson pulled out a surveillance rig – an earpiece and lapel mike with encryption that allowed him to keep in constant communication with his team without the possibility of eavesdropping.

‘I’ll contact you once I’m inside,’ Bryson said.

54

A small, portable Sony radio shaped like a bubble was set up on the floor. A cassette was playing, the reels going around and around as a woman screamed in pain.

Not wanting to disturb any fingerprints, Darby used the tip of her pen to press the player’s stop button. The only sound she heard was the wind howling above her.

The remains resting against the debris were skeletonized; no muscle or skin. All that was left were bones inside women’s clothing: jeans, a black shirt and a long winter jacket covered in dust. The jeans were bundled down around the ankles, the white underwear inside them stained black with dried blood.

Darby peeled back the jacket to reveal a lab coat with ‘Sinclair Hospital’ embroidered on the breast pocket.

A grey winter scarf was wrapped around the woman’s neck. Strips of duct tape had been used to secure the wrists and ankles.

Behind the skull was a hair mat – long, blonde hair covered in dust. The skull, with its sharp eye orbits, tapered chin and smooth cranium, were that of a female. The vertical teeth confirmed that the woman was Caucasian.

There were no breaks on the skull to indicate a head injury. Hopefully Carter, the state’s forensic anthropologist, would be able to determine a cause of death. That wasn’t always the case with skeletal remains.

Darby found maggot husks scattered inside the remains. Entomology would use the husks to pinpoint the time of death. She wondered how long the remains had been here.

A red purse lay next to the body. Darby looked inside. The purse was empty. She checked the jean pockets. Empty.

Darby moved the beam of her tactical light around the area. It was impossible to tell what this place was. Mountains of debris covered crushed hallways and doors. There was no ceiling. Looking past the missing floors, all the way to the roof, she saw the night sky.

Malcolm Fletcher didn’t crawl through the vent. He must have come through one of these doorways. To do that, he would have to be familiar with the layout of the basement.

Darby took out her cell phone, relieved when she got a signal.

Her first call was to Tim Bryson. When he didn’t answer, she left a message and called Coop.

‘I’m inside Sinclair – I’ll explain everything when you get here,’ Darby said. ‘Have you met the two new guys who are working in ID?’

‘Mackenzie and Phillips,’ Coop said.

‘Which one of them is slim and small?’

‘That would be Phillips. He’s very slim because he watches his girlish figure.’

‘Tell him to dress warm and to wear old clothes. It’s dirty as hell in here, and I ripped my coat. I’ll tell the security people to expect you.’

Darby looked back to the remains. The fear was gone, swallowed by the exhilaration of this new discovery buried deep in the earth.

The bouncer who let Fletcher bypass the waiting line had a young face – he was no older than twenty-five, Bryson guessed. Judging by the rolls under the young man’s chin, most of the muscle had turned to fat.

Bryson flashed his badge and moved the young man away from the other bouncers.

‘Don’t be alarmed, you’re not in trouble,’ Bryson said. ‘I just want talk to you alone for a moment. What’s your name?’

‘Stan Dalton.’

‘The guy with the sunglasses you just let in, what did he say to you?’

‘He didn’t say anything, he just showed me his executive card and I let him through.’

‘Executive card?’

‘If you’re willing to pony up a grand a year, you can apply for an executive card which means you get to bypass the waiting line. You also get free valet service and access to the VIP area with your own waitress and tab.’

‘I’m assuming there’s a security checkpoint past the front doors.’

‘Every place has one.’

‘Okay, Stanley, you’re going to escort me past the security checkpoint, and then you’re going to come back out here and do your job. You’re not going to tell anyone about our conversation. Once I’m inside, you’re not to get on the horn and call your boss. The guy I’m watching, I don’t want to spook him. I need to play this nice and cool. If I go in there and find security hovering all over him, you’re going to have a permanent problem with the IRS.’

The front doors opened to a hall blasting heat and techno music pounding behind black walls. Across from the coat check-in room was a security checkpoint consisting of two men with serious expressions holding metal-detection wands to frisk the patrons.

Stan Dalton had a private conversation with the security boys. They nodded and let them into the club without having to go through the ordeal of being frisked.

The dance club seemed like a party taking place in hell. Pounding techno music blasting from speakers,
boom-boom-boom,
the dance floor packed with pretty young women wearing revealing tank tops and half-shirts showing off their surgically enhanced tits and flat stomachs, tight pants hugging the sweet curves of their asses as they jumped and gyrated under mirrored disco balls,
boom-boom-boom,
hands waving in the oppressively hot air smelling of sweat and perfume and sex, hands holding drinks, bodies grinding together, men with girls, girls with girls, men with men,
boom-boom-boom,
everyone happy, smiling, drunk and high.

Set up in the corners, below the laser lights, were cages holding dancing girls in bikinis. One cage held two young muscular men dressed in black bikini briefs, their tanned, perfectly sculpted bodies glistening with oil and glitter to reflect the lasers and coloured lights. Bryson looked away, disgusted, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling where plasma TVs played music videos.

A bar was set up to his right. The counter was covered with Plexiglas, bright white lighting beneath it. Waitresses wearing black leather pants and matching bikini tops placed drinks on their trays and hustled off to a roped-off area behind the bar crammed with black leather couches and chairs – the VIP area. Malcolm Fletcher, still wearing his black-lens sunglasses, stood next to a jaw-dropping young woman wearing a tight black dress. She was tall and had long, dark red hair. She looked like Darby McCormick.

The woman whispered something in Fletcher’s ear, then walked away.

A moment later Fletcher stood and followed, swallowed inside the crowd of gyrating bodies and groping hands.

Christ, where did he go?
Bryson looked around the club. The techno music was deafening. One song blended into the next,
boom-boom-boom,
that same hideous beat playing over and over again, vibrating inside his chest.

There; there he was, standing on the opposite side of the dance floor with the redhead, who was talking to a security guard, a pissed-off looking gentleman sporting a long goatee and a lot of jailhouse tattoos inked on both forearms.

The guard nodded and stepped aside. The woman opened a door marked ‘Private’. Fletcher followed.