The Son of John Devlin (2 page)

“I’m the only person I know who actually enjoyed law school,” Devlin said. “It was so well-ordered and what was required was so plain and direct. It wasn’t as though you had to be some sort of analytical genius. It’s not like math or the sciences, where breakthroughs are what matter. There really isn’t anything new to learn. It’s all there, collected in one place, all the rules are there. I like the tidiness of it. The clarity.”

“You like I.A.?” Del Rio asked abruptly.

Devlin considered this. “I’m not in I.A.,” he replied.

“For all practical purposes,” Del Rio said. “I mean—”

“I’m not technically in I.A.,” Devlin said.

The assignment had come to Devlin during a private meeting with the police commissioner. He’d received a call from the commissioner one night, at home, asking whether he could stop by to discuss a confidential matter. Twenty minutes later Commissioner Nicholas Sullivan had knocked on his back door.

“We need to talk,” Sullivan had said. And talk they had, for more than two hours. Jack Devlin had listened carefully as the commissioner expressed his frustration with corruption and his apparent inability to do anything about it. He was embarrassed, Sullivan had said, that the United States Justice Department in Washington was beginning to focus on Boston as a dirty department.

“Going through the normal channels hasn’t worked,” he told Devlin. “So I want to try something different.”

The something different was Devlin. He would be detached from his regular duties and given free rein to investigate corruption within the ranks. He would report directly to the commissioner. It was the surest way to become the least popular member of the Boston Police Department, but that was all right. They agreed that the nature of Devlin’s assignment would be conveyed to very few people. Over time, they believed that as Jack became more active, word would get out about his activities.

Devlin did not believe most Boston cops were on the take. He did believe, however, that there was a stubborn, deeply rooted culture of corruption, a virulent strain that would be difficult to defeat.

Del Rio shrugged. “If it walks like a duck …”

“It’s okay,” Devlin said as he turned away and looked into the street. The Cherokee was tucked behind a small commercial building at the corner of Centre and Arborway, an ideal position from which to monitor activity in front of 322 Arborway. At that location, Luis Espado Alvarez, a native of Puerto Rico and convicted drug dealer, waited, bait in a trap.

“Let’s get some air,” Del Rio said. He opened the passenger door of the Cherokee and got out. Devlin followed suit, and the two men stretched and stood by the Jeep, windows down so they could hear their bug and radio.

Del Rio was a compactly built man, five-nine, 160 pounds. He was trim and fit from regular workouts and bounced on his feet with nervous energy. He wore black jeans, a brown leather jacket, and construction boots.

Jack Devlin was a much bigger man, six feet two
inches tall, an even 190 pounds. Devlin had the physique of an athlete, a build he had assiduously maintained since his days as a college hockey player. In blue jeans, Nikes, and a black wool sweater, Devlin was ruggedly good looking. His jaw was firm and prominent, his longish black hair thick and wavy, down over his shirt collar. His deep-set eyes at times gave him a look of menace in marked contrast to the warmth of his smile, which showed off his (mostly) straight white teeth, all of which he’d managed to keep, even through years of hockey. But there were two reminders of his hockey days on his face. One scar ran from his right eyebrow about an inch toward his temple. Devlin had been cut by the blade of an opposing player’s stick during a summer league in Canada. The other was on the upper left side of his mouth, a scar no more than a quarter inch long. It had come when an opposing player, in the same summer league, had cross-checked him in the mouth with his stick. The force of the upward blow had been so great that it drove one of Devlin’s teeth through the skin of his lip, opening a deep gash. He’d bled all over his uniform jersey and the ice. Seven stitches had closed the wound, and eventually, the soreness had gone away, but the scar and a slight puffiness had remained. From a certain angle, he appeared to have a permanent fat lip on the left side.

“I heard the new fitness instructor ask someone about you,” Del Rio said. He glanced at Devlin out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve seen her. Runs the gym at headquarters. Aerobics, weights, whatnot. The black spandex.” Del Rio raised his eyes.

“Oh,” Devlin said. “I’ve seen …”

“Yeah. You’ve seen, I’ve seen, we’ve
all
seen. Are you kidding me, or what. Jesus.”

Devlin laughed.

“What?” Del Rio demanded. “You mean to tell me you don’t get a woody in that gym with her snappin’ that bottom around?”

“She seems a little young,” Devlin said.

“Twenty-six. Conboy filled me in. She’s a paramedic, wants to get on the job, figures working the gym will help her get to know people.”

“She’s something,” Devlin said.

“Something?” Del Rio repeated with mock indignance. “Something? She’s one of the greatest physiques anyone’s ever been blessed with. I see her, I want to weep. Why weep? Because she’ll always go for the young bucks. She wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

Devlin smiled. “Some young women prefer a distinguished older man,” he said.

“I told you she asked Conboy about you,” Del Rio said. “You were in there one day working out and she asked him, ‘Who’s the tall guy?’ ”

Devlin frowned. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“I shit you not!” Del Rio said, his voice going up several octaves in pitch. “I’m serious. No shit. She did. I think you’ve got some potential there. In fact, if I was you, let me tell you what I’d do …”

The crisp November air was a relief after sitting in the car for over two hours of a stakeout. Devlin turned and studied Del Rio, who was now gazing off down the Arborway. He’d known Del Rio only in passing prior to this assignment, had been aware of Del Rio’s rapid and steady rise through the ranks, but had little contact with him.
Devlin knew from his reputation that Del Rio was as savvy as they came. Blustery, coarse, a cowboy, contemptuous of authority, mocking of bureaucracy, constantly bending the rules. Yet effective. The uniformed officers loved him and believed in him. Where they generally disliked and were suspicious of the civilian-appointed department brass, they liked Del Rio’s grit and straightforward nature. He did not mince words, did not speak in the language of the politically correct. He was outrageous in his comments and sometimes in his approach, but he was as hard a worker as there was on the force, and he was more connected with the rank and file than anyone else on the command staff. Del Rio understood his populist appeal and he played it to the hilt. At every opportunity he sought to tweak the department brass.

Del Rio reached into the Jeep and pulled out a bag of popcorn. He offered some to Devlin, who declined.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he said as he chewed the popcorn. Devlin had his arms folded across his chest as he leaned back against the Cherokee and gazed down the Arborway to the entrance at 322.

“About you and your current gig,” Del Rio said.

Devlin looked at Del Rio coolly and said nothing.

“You have to admit, it is ironic, no disrespect intended, I hope you know that,” he said, a look of plaintive concern suddenly crossing his face.

“I understand,” Devlin said.

“Please don’t take offense,” Del Rio said, leaning forward, eyes wide, brow knitted in an earnest look.

“I don’t,” Devlin said quickly.

Del Rio nodded. “I mean, you know …” He shrugged again.

“It is, yeah,” Devlin said. And surely it was. The son of the infamous Jock Devlin taking on the assignment to clean up the department.

“You ever been married?” Del Rio asked, anxious now to change the subject.

“Never,” Devlin replied.

“Guy like you must do well with the senoritas, eh?” Del Rio’s smile was conspiratorial. “I mean, Jesus, you’re a big strong guy, good-looking, smart. You got it all.” Del Rio made a face and shrugged. “Except money. But, hey, the young ones, most of them, they don’t care about money. They want love. They see past money. It’s only when they get older and don’t care about getting laid anymore that they turn their attention to the dough. They get older, it’s the size of your bank account rather than your dick that really matters.”

Devlin laughed out loud.

“Come on, hey, it’s true,” Del Rio said. “But I’m telling you, you’re lucky you’ve never been married. I’m no good at being married. I’m terrible at it, is the truth. And I know it now. Never again.” He shook his head and gazed out the window.

“I make a good buck, you know, but when all is said and done, I end up with the doughnut. Child support, alimony. The child support I don’t mind, of course. They’re my kids. But the fucking alimony. She’s got a boyfriend. Loaded. The fuckin’ guy is loaded. But she won’t marry him, to spite me. ’Cause if she marries him, then I pay no more.”

“Come on,” Devlin said.

Del Rio’s eyes widened. “I shit you not. She told me herself. She told me. To my face. And she laughed.” Del
Rio, in spite of himself, laughed out loud at the recollection. “She’s a hot ticket, I have to admit that. My ex. Jeannie. A beautiful girl in her prime.”

He thought for a moment. “It was my fault. She tried as best she could. But I couldn’t keep my pecker in my pants. I mean, it’s not easy. This guy said to me once, and it’s true, ‘If you’re not thinkin’ about pussy about ninety-five percent of the time, you’re just daydreamin’.”

Del Rio balled up the popcorn bag and tossed it into the backseat of the Cherokee. “I’m chilly,” he said, and got back into the Jeep. Devlin followed suit.

“So how’d you get this guy to cooperate?” Del Rio asked.

Devlin hesitated, then shrugged: “We came to an agreement.”

Del Rio nodded understandingly. “What’s his story?”

“Junkie,” Devlin said. “Dealer. What can you say?”

“So gimme a preview.”

“They’ll serve the warrant, frisk him—ostensibly for a weapon, but as much for a wire. They’re very careful about wires.”

“So where’d you put it?” Del Rio asked.

“Radio speaker on the kitchen table,” Devlin said. “They’ll never detect it.”

“So they frisk him …”

“And look for the dope, but while they’re looking for the dope, they look for cash,” Devlin said. “They’ll find both. A decent stash of coke and about twelve thousand dollars in cash. They’ll talk to Luis and try and come across as reasonable. Then maybe they’ll scare him. Luis is a nice target because he’s got two felony convictions
for trafficking. One federal. They could put him away a long, long time.”

“Which is why he’s being a good boy for you,” Del Rio said.

Devlin nodded, then straightened in the car seat as he saw the dark blue Crown Victoria pull up in front of 322 Arborway. “Here we go,” he said.

They sat silently, watching the two detectives get out of the sedan and start toward the entry to the red brick apartment building. Moloney led the way. He was six feet three inches tall, 240 pounds, a beefy man with thick fingers and thinning hair. The fat of his neck prevented him from buttoning the top button of his dress shirt, leaving his necktie askew.

Bobby Curran, Moloney’s partner, was a short, stocky man with blow-dried, light reddish hair. While Moloney wore a light gray Dacron suit, Curran wore his customary uniform of black slacks and a brown leather jacket.

Del Rio and Devlin watched as Moloney and Curran glanced up and down the street while making their way to the entrance to number 322. Before they entered, Moloney flicked a lit cigarette butt to the pavement.

“Okay, Luis,” Del Rio muttered, “prepare to meet two charming gentlemen.”

Devlin took a deep breath and sat forward in the seat. He reached down to the console where the receiver from the bug had been placed. He switched it to the On position and they instantly heard Latin music through the static. The receiver would allow them to hear whatever was said in the apartment and also tape-record the conversation. They heard loud banging on the apartment door.

“Jesus, man!” they heard Luis say. The Latin music was shut off and they heard Luis saying something, but the banging continued. Seconds later it stopped and they heard the detectives as Luis’s high-pitched voice protested vehemently. They heard footsteps echoing, and quickly Luis and the two detectives were in the kitchen.

“Sweetie, come on, where’s the shit?” they heard Moloney ask.

“There’s no shit, man,” Luis said, trying to sound indignant. “Where’s your warrant?”

“Here, sweetheart,” Moloney said, and then they heard Luis grunt.

“Fuck you, man,” he said.

“Moloney whacked him,” Del Rio said.

“Yeah, fuck me,” Moloney said. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling?”

“Jesus,” Del Rio muttered.

“You got nothing on me,” Luis said.

“We’ll see, sweetie,” Moloney said. They heard the two men moving and surmised that Moloney was frisking him.

“See?” Luis said. “I’m clean.”

“Bingo,” Curran said from an adjacent room. He entered the kitchen, holding his find.

“Ahhh,” Moloney said triumphantly. “This is clean, sweetheart? I’m afraid you’ll have to be placed under arrest and brought downtown and, my oh my, will they enjoy you in the lockup. You’ll be the tastiest little morsel they’ve had in a while.”

“Man, I don’t know how that shit got there, I swear to God,” Luis said desperately.

“By the time those boys are through with you, your asshole will—”

“I’m tellin’ you, man,” Luis screamed, suddenly hysterical. “That’s not my shit, man. I’m straight. I’m clean. That must be that chick’s, man, that chick wears black and the cape—”

There was a crack then, the sound of an open-handed slap as Moloney sent Luis to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, man, I didn’t—”

“Okay, pussy,” Moloney said. “Where’s the dough?”

“There’s no money, mister,” Luis said. “I got no money. I’m just—”

They heard the crack again.

“Mister, Jesus!” Luis screamed. “Leave me alone.”