The Son of John Devlin (35 page)

“There is,” Dexter said. “But I have a shield on my system, a kind of radar that would tell me whether they have the software needed to do that. And they don’t. So we’re watching everything and nobody knows.”

The movement of the money fell into a pattern that lasted throughout the morning and into the afternoon. The funds would move to an account, stay there for up to an hour, then be moved again. And as the money moved, Dexter noticed that the accounts became increasingly restrictive. Early on, all the accounts were strictly philanthropic—he was able to judge that by the tax codes within the system. But during the course of the afternoon, though the money still mainly moved into philanthropic accounts, there were fewer signatories.

And there was another pattern. The funds were moved into institutions with international reach.

When an instruction flashed on the screen—a numeric code incomprehensible to Jack and Emily—Dexter said, “Ouch. Swiss. It’s headed for no-man’s-land, I’m afraid. At least a chunk of it.

“Technically,” Dexter explained, “it’s not possible to penetrate the Swiss banks. I mean you literally cannot get in there. You watch here when the money moves there—what is it, about 375 grand—watch. It’ll move and we’ll get an Access Denied signal.”

They watched as the amount blinked and then disappeared, replaced by the words
ACCESS DENIED
.

“Impenetrable,” Dexter said. “It’s gone.”

Jack was shaken. “No way of finding it?” he asked.

“It’s impossible without someone on the other end pitching in, and they don’t do that,” Dexter said. “They do not do that. I mean, these are people who’ll hide hundreds of millions for the Nazis. Tucking away a few hundred grand for a crooked cop is like a joke for them.”

Emily sat forward. “So what about the rest?” she asked.

“I’ll bet you anything it’s going offshore,” Dexter said. “Bahamas, maybe.”

With $375,000 having gone into a Swiss account, that left $623,000. Suddenly, $375,000 of that moved as well.

“Bahamas,” Dexter said. “Gone from our view.”

“That leaves $248,000,” Emily said.

“Look,” Dexter said. “The 248 is moving.” A series of numbers appeared on the screen. “A bank code.” He shouted for his assistant. “Wendy, where’s that receiver directory, please?”

She came through the door with a thick spiral notebook and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“What are you looking up?” she asked.

“That code,” he said, motioning toward the screen.

Wendy glanced at it. “Oh, that’s the China Fund,” she said. “Hong Kong based. I just did a big transfer with them a week ago.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Positive,” she said.

Dexter found the correct listing in the book and nodded. “Good, yeah, you’re right,” he said.

He looked at Jack and Emily. “It’s a Hong Kong–based mutual fund,” he said. “All the rage now, these
country funds. You want to diversify your portfolio, spread your risk, you diversify not only over asset classes—equities, bonds, cash, et cetera—you also diversify across economic borders. The China Fund is run out of a big Hong Kong bank.”

They all sat looking over Dexter’s shoulder as confirmation appeared that $248,000 had been transferred to the China Fund.

“What are the chances that with all this activity someone notices or gets suspicious?” Jack asked.

Dexter shook his head dismissively. “Do you know how much financial traffic there is in the world each day? Try trillions of dollars. Trillions, literally, being moved from one country to another into stocks, mutual funds, money from individuals, corporations, pension funds. Nobody notices what anyone else is doing because everybody’s busy watching their own assets. Plus, with all due respect, compared with the numbers major financial institutions deal with on a day-to-day basis, you’re talking a piddling sum here. Less than a million bucks. I mean it’s nothing.”

“What’s that?” Jack said, watching the screen.

“Another transfer coming,” Dexter said.

The code for the bank into which the money was to be deposited began feeding onto the screen.

“Domestic,” Dexter said. “It’s coming back into the U.S. federally chartered,” he said as additional codes appeared. “Bank of Miami, if I’m not mistaken.” Then the words appeared confirming his guess.

“You know what?” he said. “I think whoever’s doing this thinks that once you get overseas you get a clean slate. That coming back in is like flying under radar at night from Mexico. But it just ain’t so …”

“Jesus,” Emily said, “is that—”

It happened so fast that it stunned everyone in the room. Suddenly, there on the screen, all $248,000 was transferred into an account at the Bank of Miami that already contained $204,000, bringing the total to $452,000. And there on the screen, as clear as could be, was the name of the account—Law Enforcement Education Association of South Florida—with a single signatory listed. One person who could move money into or out of the account. And one person alone.

The name on the screen was Thomas F. Kennedy.

W
hen Del Rio arrived at eight o’clock on a clear, frigid night, Thomas Kennedy was sitting alone in the den of his West Roxbury home, sipping from a tumbler of Glenlivet. Kennedy rose unsteadily when Del Rio arrived. He poured a glass and handed it to Del Rio, then raised his glass toward Del Rio and smiled. “Success,” he said, the word slightly slurred.

Del Rio held the glass, hesitating. He nodded slightly, said, “Success,” and sipped the drink.

“It feels good,” Kennedy said. “But it should feel better.”

Del Rio reacted with a surprised expression.

“I mean, hey, let’s face it,” Kennedy said, “you never want to screw a fellow cop. In all honesty. A member of the fraternity is a member of the fraternity.” He shook his head then, as though remembering what he believed he’d gotten away with, and smiled. Kennedy’s face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. Del Rio could see he’d been enjoying a few cocktails.

Jack Devlin and Emily Lawrence sat in the Jeep two blocks away from Kennedy’s house and listened to the conversation.

“So you’ve come …” Kennedy said, then hesitated,
not certain how to phrase it. “Come for your treasure,” he finally said.

Del Rio shut his eyes for the briefest moment. Unable to bring himself to say yes out loud, he nodded. He was pained by this; by the fact of what he’d done with his life; by the fact that he’d been exposed before Jack Devlin. Suddenly, Del Rio thought about Jock Devlin. Del Rio had joined the force after Jock was dead, but through the years, he had heard bits and pieces of the story. He knew the essence of it, of course, and it was only now, after years on the job, that Del Rio could fully appreciate what Jock had done. The idea that someone in the tank would be hectored by an insistent conscience was not a revelation. That someone would act upon that impulse—that was unusual. It would have been something that astonished others within the department, that angered them and left them suspicious. It must have been something about which they were deeply mistrustful.

Del Rio had thought quite a lot of late about Jock Devlin, and he had come to admire him. There was a certain nobility about what he’d done. Changing habits was a hard thing, Del Rio knew. Being strong enough to do what was right was harder still. Jock must have been a very strong man. But not, Del Rio knew, as strong as his son.

“For my treasure,” Del Rio said.

Kennedy got up from his chair, somewhat unsteady, and went over to a bookcase. He removed a dictionary and opened it to the middle. He removed an envelope, thick with cash, and handed it to Del Rio, who accepted it and laid it on the coffee table in front of him.

There was a protracted silence. Del Rio thought
Kennedy looked as though there was something he wanted to say. Finally, he did speak.

“I’m getting out,” Kennedy blurted, watching Del Rio for a reaction.

Del Rio was taken utterly by surprise.

“I’m putting in a paper with the retirement board tomorrow,” Kennedy said. He smiled and raised his glass. “I’m getting the fuck out.”

“What prompted this?” Del Rio asked.

Kennedy waved a hand dismissively. “Enough,” he said emphatically. “I’m sick of it. What do I need it for? I’ve had my time.”

Sick of it, Del Rio thought. Of course. That was how he felt as well. Sick of the deceit and the lies. Sick of pretending to be one thing but in reality being something else. It was the ultimate violation, in a way, he thought. Pretending to be an enforcer of the law while willfully being a violator.

“I’m renting a condo in Naples for February, March, and April,” Kennedy said. “Then I’ll buy. House on a nice course somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Del Rio said. “That sounds nice. I’d like to …”

But Del Rio did not finish the sentence. He thought that would be very pleasant, he and Lisa down in Florida, Naples or maybe Boca, or up around Jacksonville even. He liked it up there. Lisa would like that, too. Start over somewhere new, somewhere he had no identity, no baggage, no debts, no entanglements. I could do that, he thought.

“I’m sick of this,” Kennedy said. “Too long in one place, and, let’s be honest, the stresses and strains of what we do …”

Of what we do, Del Rio thought. Of what we do. Not police work, though partly that. What we do was the combination, Del Rio realized, of police work—stressful, difficult, trying work—and living a lie; being a thief, someone who had convinced himself that doing wrong is justified, that you’re owed something because you have permitted your life to be taken over by this absurd business.

“Have you told anyone?” Del Rio asked.

Kennedy shook his head no. “I’m telling them tomorrow,” he said. “But the feeling of relief I feel …” He shook his head. “Un-fucking-real.”

Kennedy watched Del Rio carefully. “You’re not yourself,” he said. “You don’t seem it. What?”

Del Rio squinted, peering at Kennedy as though trying to read tiny writing on Kennedy’s forehead. “It’s all fucked up,” he said. “You’re doing the right thing.” Del Rio paused. “I’m out, too,” he suddenly said.

Kennedy was taken aback. “Yeah? For real?”

Del Rio nodded.

Kennedy sipped the Glenlivet. “Great minds think alike,” he said as he rose from his chair and held out his glass, clinking it against Del Rio’s. “This is a momentous occasion. A time to celebrate.”

Kennedy opened a humidor on the bookcase. “How about it?” he asked, holding up a thin cigar.

“No, thanks,” Del Rio said.

“Royal Jamaican,” Kennedy said. “Sure?”

“I’m all set,” Del Rio said.

“Hey,” Kennedy said, shrugging, “it’s a good time to get out. The heat’s intense. It’s only a matter of …” But he did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.

Suddenly, Kennedy said: “He’s your fuckin’ pal.”

Del Rio stared at Kennedy, resisting the impulse to get up and drive his fist into Kennedy’s smug, motherfucking countenance.

“My pal,” Del Rio repeated.

“He’s a troublemaker,” Kennedy said. “He thinks he’s better than us, better than the rest. The old man the same. The rules are the rules. You support your own people. And you don’t forget who you are or where you came from.”

Kennedy looked away, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He put the Glenlivet to his lips and took a long drink. “The father should have minded his own business,” he said, his voice carrying a trace of lament.

Del Rio was surprised by this comment. “I thought he had,” he said.

Kennedy shrugged. “He wanted out. It was a bad situation. Bad for too many people. Good men.”

“So he was talking to the feds?” Del Rio asked.

Kennedy was lighting his cigar, two wooden matches creating a tall flame as he puffed, rolling the cigar between his fingers to get an even burn. “He wasn’t,” Kennedy said.

“No?” Del Rio tried to muster surprise in his tone.

“But it was inevitable,” Kennedy said. “We got together, several of us, and discussed it. Was it inevitable or not? Could he make it through the preliminaries and the trial and the sentencing? You know, without opening his mouth.”

Kennedy drew on the cigar and exhaled slowly. Then he sighed, a heavy, regretful sigh. “We thought no,” he said, his voice much quieter now. “We thought there was no real possibility. You understand?”

Kennedy looked through the haze of alcohol and smoke at Del Rio, as though beseeching him for support, for affirmation.

Del Rio was motionless.

“We asked ourselves what we would do in his shoes. And what we would do is rat like fucking crazy. Anything to stay out of prison. I think that’s only natural, don’t you?”

Del Rio did not answer right away. After a moment he said, “I do.” Then: “So you had Moloney deal with him. At the Knights hall.”

Kennedy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re a little close to the bone there,” he said.

Del Rio shrugged. “Hey, it’s a long time ago. I’m interested. What does it matter now?”

Kennedy drank deeply of the scotch. He appeared quite agitated. “All he talked about was the fucking kid, as though the kid was the only human being on the planet who mattered.” Kennedy’s face and neck were reddening. “I pointed out to him that there were men with families, men with kids, with boys, little sons, just like his, little kids just as important to them as his kid was to him. And they couldn’t handle a defector. Too much. Too destructive. The potential was there to destroy so many lives.” He shook his head at the thought of such a tragedy. “So many lives, my God. And he cared only about his own and his fucking kid’s, as though none of the rest of us mattered.”

Del Rio was going to ask again, but instinctively he remained silent. Kennedy stared into the distance for a moment, then another, as though fixated on some memory.

“No,” he finally said, slowly, deliberately. “It wasn’t
Moloney. Though he volunteered. It was me. I was the one. I had to be the one. I was the only one he trusted.”

Listening in, Emily leaned forward and put her face in her hands. “Dear God,” she whispered.

In the driver’s seat of the Jeep, Jack’s hands were folded in prayer, pressed hard against his mouth. His eyes were closed. He sat perfectly still. He had wanted for so very long to hear the truth, to know it for certain, and now, at long last, he’d heard the truth, he knew the truth.