Brighton (21 page)

“When you gonna ask about the Resie?” Bobby said after the road had smoothed out.

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

“Whatever you had buried there . . .”

“You know what it is.”

“Whatever it is, you should tell the lawyer.”

“How well you know lawyers?”

“Apparently not as well as I thought.”

Bobby chuckled and gestured for Kevin to turn onto Tremont Street. They bumped along some old streetcar tracks, a picket line of two-families and three-deckers, all crooked and humpbacked, rough nails and wood, running up and down the side streets. Bobby gestured again, the smallest of motions with his good hand. Kevin rolled into an empty lot and stopped. They each looked up at what everyone in Brighton called “the Steps.”

THEY NUMBERED
eighty-nine in all, smooth stone slabs marching through a thicket of terraced woods to the back door of Saint Andrew’s Church. The steps were put in for all the God-fearing folks who lived in the low-lying neighborhoods up and down Tremont Street. For six decades they’d climbed their way to absolution on Sunday morning and hustled back down after mass for another fun-filled week of cursing, fighting, and all-purpose sinning. Bobby led the way up, never explaining why they’d stopped or where they were headed. About halfway to the top, he gestured to a break in the trees and walked into a clearing populated by the crumbling remains of what had once been a small building. Bobby kicked at a cluster of beer cans and settled on the damp turf, his back against the building’s only remaining wall. Kevin stopped ten feet away.

“Not gonna find any lawyers here, Bobby.”

“Know who used to live here?”

Kevin shook his head.

“All the Irish nuns. They’d walk up the steps every day to wait hand and foot on the priests. Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

“The gun’s making me nervous.”

Bobby zipped open his jacket and pulled out a thirty-eight-caliber revolver. Its grip was wrapped in gray tape. “Recognize it?” He laid the gun on the ground by his boot. Kevin squatted on his heels. The trees were still heavy with rain. They crowded close, shutting off the rest of the world, creating a leafy amphitheater for just the two of them.

“So you did pull it out of the hole.”

“It’s your grandmother’s. She kept it in a strongbox along with her cash.”

“She never told me.”

“Why would she? I went up there the morning after she died. Figured the cops or someone would have grabbed it, but there it was. Stuck up on a shelf in the china cabinet.”

“And you took it?”

“I used it to kill the prick that butchered her.” Bobby picked up the weapon and offered it, grip first, then put it back down. “Your girlfriend squeezed you last night with the file on Jordan.”

“And you think you’re vulnerable?”

“You tell me.”

A breeze swept across the hill, shaking rain from the tops of the trees. Kevin felt Bobby studying him in the drifting light.

“I’ve always been good with killing, Kev. If anyone knows that, it’s you.”

“You saying you killed those women?”

“If it’s me or them, it’s gonna be them. You should have seen that. You should have seen that first fucking thing.”

Bobby climbed to his feet, gliding across the clearing to sneak a look down the steps. He held the gun in his right hand, down
low by his side. They were maybe fifteen feet apart when he turned and pointed. A simple, clean gesture. Kevin put up his hands as if they could stop a thirty-eight-caliber slug from doing what God and man intended. Bobby touched a silent finger to his lips. He’d use the same gun he used to kill the man who’d murdered Kevin’s grandmother. And no one would hear a thing. By nightfall Kevin would be in the ground, buried in the soggy woods behind the nuns’ house, just down the hill from where he’d taken his First Communion. All this and more raced through his brain at warp speed as Kevin mimicked Bobby, slipping his own finger to his lips and not making a sound. Such a willing victim in the end. Maybe he thought he’d get points for that. Bobby gestured for Kevin to go to his knees and zeroed the gun on his forehead. The two men stayed that way, grim, gray statues among the trees. Then Bobby lifted his chin, raising the gun a fraction so it was aimed just off Kevin’s shoulder. From his left, Kevin heard the chatter of leaves. A raccoon waddled out of the crackling brush and stared down the slope at both of them. He had curved, black claws and razored teeth drawn up in a vicious smile. A second raccoon peeked his head out from under a bush and hissed. Then the pair slithered back into the scrub, disappearing in a whip of black-and-white fur.

“Fucking hey.” Bobby lowered the gun. The killing moment, if that’s what it was, had passed. “You all right?”

“Just a little jumpy.”

Bobby reached down and helped Kevin to his feet, gripping his triceps and pulling him within a whisper. “You really think I’d hurt you?”

Kevin shook himself free, hot fear draining out of his belly
and down into the black earth. Bobby slipped the thirty-eight back under his jacket. “I’m gonna need you to stay here and chill for a bit.”

“Where you going?”

“Not sure. Maybe me and Finn will head down to Florida like he’s been yapping about all these years.”

“You didn’t kill those women.”

“You saw the piece.”

“Let’s go in and talk to them. Try to cut a deal.”

Bobby bared his teeth in a smile their raccoon friends would have been proud of. “How old are you now?”

“Forty-two.”

“And how many holes you dug?”

Kevin didn’t respond.

“Killing someone changes you, bro.”

“I was there, too.”

“Being there isn’t pulling the trigger.” Bobby produced a small object from his pocket. “You left this behind the day you went to New York. Never thought I’d be able to get it back to you.”

Mother of pearl. Smooth and hard and pale. Kevin took his grandmother’s pendant in his hands as the world dropped away. He turned the pendant over, feeling its curve and shape. The last time he’d held it, it had been decorated in blood.

“Everything changed when she died,” Bobby said.

“I divide my life into before and after. Even now.”

“Then don’t make it all for nothing. You really wanna help, buy me a day with your girlfriend. Then tell ’em what you know. I did Curtis Jordan. You tried to stop me.”

Another gust of wind kicked up the hill, calling an end to their meeting. Bobby ran silently to the top of the steps and van
ished without looking back. Kevin sat in the grass, rubbing the pendant under his thumb, recalling the drift of smoke from her cigarettes and the soft whistle of the kettle in the morning as it came to a boil, wondering what it might have been like if she’d lived and knowing he’d never, ever fucking heal. That was the price he paid for the time he’d had with his grandmother, the bullet wound in his hip and limp he’d carry with him until the end of his days. Gladly. He took his time walking back down the steps, scraping his heels against the chipped stone as he went. He’d just gotten behind the wheel when two squad cars pulled into the lot, flashers rolling. One cop got out with his service revolver drawn. A second approached and asked Kevin to step out of the car.

SEAMUS SLATTERY
gazed at the ceiling like a one-eyed jack while a morgue attendant ran baseball stitches across his chest. The air was alive with the muddy scent of viscera, mingled with the acidic smell of bile and piss. The afterbirth of an autopsy. Ten feet away, Frank DeMateo took a bite of a D’Angelo’s steak-and-cheese sub. Half of it went in his mouth, the rest dripped onto white paper wrappings laid out on the table. “Fuckin’ delicious. Want a bite?”

Lisa shook her head. “There’s this thing called cholesterol, Frank. Have you heard of it?”

“You sound like my wife.” DeMateo opened a can of Diet Dr Pepper and took a sip. “So?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Slattery when we talked last night?”

“I wasn’t sure it was part of all this.”

“And now you’re sure?”

“You saw the wound path.” When Lisa didn’t respond, the Suffolk County D.A. put down his sandwich and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “You want me to get the M.E. back in here?”

She shook her head. He raised his arms like he’d done all he could.

“So it’s Scales?” she said.

DeMateo started counting off reasons on his fingers. “He knew Patterson. He keeps newspaper clippings on Rosie Tallent under his fucking bed. We’re pretty sure he put a couple of nails through this mick’s hand the day before he was found dead. He runs a book that generates a shitload of cash. And someone with a shitload of cash is moving dope through Brighton. A shitload of it. And, oh yeah, he popped Curtis Jordan.”

“Maybe he’s killing them for fun.”

“I’m sure he’s having a hell of a time. Doesn’t matter a damn bit to me. Let’s take a walk.”

DeMateo dropped the leavings of his lunch in the trash and led the way across the hall to a long, low room with a stone floor and cinder-block walls. Another attendant, this one a woman, was waiting.

“Where is he?” DeMateo said.

The room was dominated by two refrigerated boxes, each featuring three rows of silver doors with black handles. The attendant walked down to one of the drawers and slid it open. DeMateo and Lisa took a look at the corpse lying loose on a tray with two holes in his chest.

“What’s this?” Lisa said.

“John Doe. Found him in a room at the Royal Hotel. No wallet, rings, watch, money.”

“What name did he register under?”

“That’s not clear. The manager at the Royal says he came in alone, paid cash, and took the room for the morning. Blah, blah, fucking blah. It’s the Royal. You know the drill.”

“So you’re thinking he’s a john?”

“Course he’s a john.”

Lisa touched one of the bullet holes with a gloved finger. “Wounds are less than an inch apart. Pretty good shooting for a hooker.”

“So maybe it was her pimp.”

“Pretty good shooting for a pimp.”

DeMateo nodded at the attendant, who rolled the drawer shut. “Boston homicide says they’ll have an ID within twenty-four hours. Come on.”

They walked back across the hall to the autopsy room. The attendant there was finished with Slattery’s chest and had moved on to sewing up the skull, lips, and one formerly working eye. He whistled softly to himself as he stitched.

“Let me guess,” Lisa said. “You want me to handle the John Doe?”

“I need someone who can carry the ball.”

“While you stay on Patterson?”

“Patterson’s going to the task force. Tomorrow they’ll pull warrants for Scales’s apartment. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an arrest by the end of the day.”

“What about Kevin?”

“All due respect, the relationship’s finished. It was finished once you planted the wire.”

“All due respect, my personal life’s none of your goddamn business.”

DeMateo held up his hands. “Fine. If he pulled the trigger on Jordan . . .”

“He didn’t.”

“Then he should be good.”

“You won’t use him to pressure Scales?”

“Didn’t say that. Listen, I’m not in a position to be cutting deals. For you or anyone else.” Her boss rolled his wrist and checked his watch. “I’ve got an appointment. Take another day. Then everything gets turned over to the task force.”

“And I’m out?”

“This isn’t the right case for you, Lisa. Never was. Besides, you’ve got the John Doe to keep you busy. And after him, plenty more.”

She couldn’t help but notice the grin stuck in his voice and stared at a sharp point between his shoulder blades as he walked away. The attendant finished up his needlework on Slattery and followed DeMateo out. Then it was just Lisa, face pressed to the glass, watching as her dreams were slowly strangled. She was about to leave when the attendant poked his head back in. “You’ve got someone here to see you.”

Lisa didn’t respond. The attendant took a tentative step into the room.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got someone here to see you.”

“I heard you the first time. No one knows I’m here.”

“She says she called your office and they told her where you were.”

“What’s her name?”

The attendant told her. Lisa felt her head snap up.

“And she’s here now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. Put her next door. I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Steven, ma’am. Steven Sutcliffe.”

Lisa pulled out a legal pad and scribbled a few, furious lines. “Steven, do me a favor. Get me everything your office has on these cases. Physical records, electronic. Every scrap of information you guys have generated. Plus whatever you have on Slattery.”

“That might be a lot of paper. Do you want it sent to your office?”

“Actually, I’d like to take a look at all of it right here. Today. Can we do that?”

“I’ll set up a room. How about Mr. DeMateo?”

“It’ll just be me, thanks.”

The attendant left. Lisa gathered up her files and gave it five long minutes. Then she walked down the hall and into a small consulting room.

“We’ve never met, but I feel like I know you.”

“Me, too.” Bridget Pearce smiled and offered her hand.

DENNIS “LOLLIPOPS”
Lombardo drove big cars—what his boss liked to call “breathers.” For this job it was a Delta 88 finished in two tones of brown. Wide seats, plenty of leg room, and a deep, quiet trunk. He took a sip of his coffee and turned up the radio. Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train” popped and swelled until it filled the car. Lollipops liked to listen to old stuff, ’40s and ’50s swing and jazz. Scratchy as hell, but so was he. Besides, who was there to tell him otherwise? A squad car pulled up to the intersection, pausing at a red light before blowing through it and taking off down the block. Fuckers. Lollipops turned over the engine, feeling the Rocket V8 rumble through the steel frame and up into the soles of his shoes. He cruised the block and parked in a new spot with a different view of the same apartment. He’d been sitting in front of Bobby Scales’s building since five
A.M.
It was now almost four in the afternoon. They’d told him Scales was a creature of habit. In bed early, up early. Real routine guy. But no one had been in or out of the place all day. Which was why Lollipops was pretty sure Scales had already skipped. Which meant he was gonna be someone else’s problem. Lollipops didn’t give a damn. He’d get paid. Not as much as if he were bringing back a
body, but he’d get paid. It was the phone call that sucked. People skills his wife called it. She told him he needed to develop some. As usual, she was right.

Lollipops took another sip of coffee and thought about the last time he’d been to Boston. The job was an old man who lived alone in an apartment in the South End. Lollipops waited in an alley at night, across the street in the blowing snow and cold. The front porch was a sheet of ice so he knew the old man would take his time getting across. Lollipops crept from the alley as he pulled out his keys, hit the first step as he turned the lock, and pushed in as the door opened. He tied the old man to a kitchen chair. Lollipops never listened to any of the stupid talk—
you got the wrong guy, this is all a mistake, I can make it worth your while
—but this guy didn’t do any of that. He just sat there, hands pegged behind his back, mouthing small, chopped-up words without ever making a sound. Lollipops found a Bible in a drawer and read aloud from John’s prologue.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God
. . .”

When he’d finished, he untied the man’s hands and let him write a letter to his daughter. He wanted to go quick and begged for a bullet in the head. Lollipops knew he couldn’t do that. Walls like paper, too much noise. He asked the old-timer a couple of questions about the daughter. The old man was explaining how if she stood just right and put a hand on her hip she could have been her mother when Lollipops came up from behind and strangled him with a dog leash. Not great, but under the circumstances, not bad either. The Duke had been replaced by Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” Lollipops closed his eyes and tapped his fingers against the wide, wooden steering wheel, los
ing himself in the shimmy and sway of the music. He dreamed of lying in bed with his wife and daughter when she was young. Lollipops would drape his arm across his little girl, allowing his fingers to brush his wife’s cheek and hair as she slept. He’d settle his feet against the warmth of their dog at the foot of the bed, feeling the pup’s ribs rise and fall, allowing himself to melt into the interconnectedness of life all around him. The snap of his cell phone jarred him awake. That was the thing about Providence. Either way, the call was gonna get made. Lollipops waited for the fourth ring before picking up.

“I think he’s skipped.”

He held the phone away from his ear while a string of invectives poured out like raw sewage from the other end of the line. People skills, my ass. Sometimes people just needed to get shot in the head, no one more than the jag-offs he worked for. Across the street, a skin-and-bones black kid wearing a Yankees hat scraped out of an alley and stared up at the windows of Scales’s apartment. Lollipops felt a tiny pump of adrenaline. He pulled the slender twenty-two from under the front seat and laid it against his thigh. The asshole at the other end of the line finally paused for a breath.

“I might have something. Lemme call you back.”

Lollipops flipped his phone shut. The kid crossed the street, pausing at the entrance to Scales’s building. Lollipops cracked the door and put a foot on the pavement, gun in his right hand, hand stuffed in his pocket. The kid moved away from the entrance, drifting down the block like a ripple of wood smoke before slipping around a corner. Lollipops buttoned his coat and walked over to the building. The door was ajar. He shouldered his way in and was halfway up the stairs when he heard the squeak
of canvas and leather. The kid with the Yankees hat stood just inside the door. He was eating Underwood deviled ham from a can with his fingers.

“I like to put it between a couple pieces of bread.” Lollipops eased down a step as he spoke. The kid dropped the tin can and pulled out a heavy black gun. Lollipops could see the sun on the right side of the kid’s face and a fever circling in the yellow of his eyes. The kid didn’t understand the weight of taking a human life. But he’d killed before, and he liked it.

“You know how to use that thing?” Lollipops said.

“You about to find out, nigga.” The kid held the gun stiff in his hand. Lollipops watched the skinny finger on the trigger.

“Maybe you’re looking for the guy who lives here? If so, we can help each other.”

The kid grinned like that was the funniest thing he’d heard in a while. At that moment, Lollipops knew the kid was gonna shoot him, right in the chest. Just for the fuck of it. Then God sent a breeze. Lollipops felt it in his face and tasted it on his tongue. At the same time, the sun dropped behind some clouds, and the old wooden door cracked on its hinges. It was this last turn of the wheel that caused the kid to flinch, dipping his gaze for an eternal second to see who might be behind him. Lollipops pulled the twenty-two and shot the kid in one motion, kicking the door closed with his foot and catching the kid before he hit the ground. His eyes were like mirrored glass, smart-ass smile still stuck on his face.

“Fuck.” Lollipops dragged the kid under the stairs and laid him down gently. Then he went back outside for the roll of plastic he kept in the trunk.