Brothers and Bones (50 page)

So Lippincott saw the writing on the wall, saw that it said, “You’re completely screwed, Lippincott,” and saw that the handwriting was a combination of mine and Jake’s. Once it became clear to him that he was actually going to be held accountable for his actions, he began trying to cut a deal of his own. He’s sitting in jail at the moment while his lawyers negotiate a plea agreement with both state and federal prosecutors. My sources tell me that he has no chance of avoiding prison. I’m told the absolute best he can hope for is a ten-year sentence, with fifteen to twenty more likely. Personally, I don’t think it’s nearly enough. But, frankly, I think all of this will quite literally kill him in the end, so maybe it’s close to enough after all.

Not long ago, to show his good faith to the prosecutors who hold his fate in their hands, Lippincott began giving them anything and everything they asked for on Carmen Siracuse.

Interestingly, the authorities never found the tape Siracuse had used to blackmail Lippincott all those years, because Siracuse didn’t have it. Just like Jake had done, he was bluffing about having a copy. Whoever had stolen the tape and used it to blackmail Siracuse had taken the only copy. But Siracuse had already played it for Lippincott years earlier, who thought that it was, indeed, just a copy they were paying the blackmailer to keep out of the hands of the authorities all those years. And Lippincott never again asked to hear the tape as proof, almost as if he couldn’t bear to hear what he’d done, hear himself ordering the death of his son as if he was ordering a pizza. But that’s just me speculating, attributing human emotion to a monster, which might not be appropriate. But while the authorities never found a tape to tie Siracuse to Tommy Lippincott’s murder, there was other evidence. Lippincott was spewing information like a Vegas slot machine paying out a jackpot, so there was his testimony on the murder and countless other crimes over the years, crimes Siracuse committed to further Lippincott’s efforts against rival crime families. Plus, there’s still a chance that the original evidence from Tommy’s murder investigation will, with application of modern forensic techniques, tie Siracuse to the murder. And Tommy’s exhumed body itself may give up its long buried secrets. All the evidence, taken together, just might be enough to send Siracuse up for that killing. And, I’m told, with Lippincott’s testimony, as well as Bonz’s, there’s still a chance he’ll be indicted for Jake’s murder. That, of course, was what I was after from the very beginning, thirteen long years ago. But whether he goes down for Jake’s murder, or Tommy Lippincott’s, or for the many, many crimes he’s committed over the decades, the bottom line is, he’ll go to prison. I don’t actually expect him to serve much time, though. Not because he’ll get off easy, mind you, but because, regardless of how long a sentence a jury chooses to slap him with, once he gets behind bars, he’s going to run into a lot of people he helped Lippincott put there. And they won’t be happy with him. That was why I didn’t bother to insist that he come to the cemetery with Lippincott. As much as I wanted his voice on the tape, I knew he wouldn’t go and insisting on it would have tipped my hand to a trap of some kind. Second, I knew that if I could get Lippincott, at least, confessing on tape to what he and Siracuse had done over the years, then Carmen Siracuse would meet with justice. I figure the once-powerful mob boss will die bloody in a communal prison shower. Even if he ends up in solitary confinement, someone will get to him. There are plenty of other ways to find a violent end behind bars, and I’m not picky. However his end finally comes, I know Jake will be avenged.

I’m pleased to report that Eddie Bonzetti is going to recover pretty well physically. I call Bonz by his first name now because it annoys him and he can’t do anything about it, seeing as he’s behind bars for the time being. I’ll be able to keep it up for a bit even when he gets out, because he’ll have a tough time catching me while wearing the full-length leg brace he’s going to have for another few months. After he’s released and the brace finally comes off, though, I’ll have to watch my back, because even with the limp Bonz will probably drag around with him for the rest of his life, he’s not someone to mess with. I’ll probably have to start calling him Bonz again. But while his body will heal for the most part, I’m not sure he’ll ever experience complete mental health. But, really, how many of us do? I think the worst of his wounds have already begun to scab over, though, and will soon fade. I almost never see any of those involuntary facial tics or head twitches of his anymore. I think he’ll be all right.

We don’t have much in common, Bonz and I, except what we went through together. And Jake. He’s a link between us. Still, even though we’re very different from each other, and we’ll probably never go golfing together or anything remotely like that, I think we’ll stay in touch. I visited him again in prison yesterday, in fact. We sat at a plain wooden table in the prisoners’ visiting area and talked about how he’s doing, how Jessica and I are doing. We talked a little about Jake. I told him that I still found it interesting that Jake had pulled off what he had for so long. That not only wasn’t there a “brilliant plan” in place to bring the tape to light should anything happen to me, but he’d never even had a copy of the tape in the first place.

Bonz looked at me and shook his head. “You’re a pretty smart guy. I’m surprised you never got it.” His voice is still gruff. Not sure what I was expecting in that regard.

“Got what?”

“Jake never had the tape, but he
did
have a ‘brilliant’ plan in place.”

“He did?”

“It was you, Charlie, you dumb shit.”

I frowned.

Bonz continued. “He was always saying how brilliant you were, what a genius his brother was.
You
were his brilliant plan, you dumb bastard. He knew that if anything happened to him, you wouldn’t give up until you got answers. And maybe, while you were at it, you’d expose Tommy Lippincott’s murder and the years of shady dealings between Lippincott and Uncle Carmen. He knew you could do it, Charlie.”

“But I’m not the genius he thought I was.”

“You figured it out, though. You brought those assholes down. His plan worked.”

I shook my head and stared at the rough, aged surface of the table beneath my hands. Bonz was probably wrong. But maybe, just maybe, he was right. Maybe Jake felt comforted knowing I wouldn’t give up on him, believing I’d bring his killers to justice. I hope so. I’d like to think I gave him some small measure of the comfort he gave me all his life.

I asked Bonz what he’s going to do after he gets out of jail.

“Recover,” he said. Though he’s a little less reticent than he used to be, he still seems to hate wasting syllables.

“How about after that, Eddie?” I asked.

He took a swing at me from his chair and I leaned back, avoiding it with ease. A guard standing nearby barked a halfhearted warning. This same guard stood watch on many of my two dozen or so visits over the past eight months and seemed to understand my relationship with Bonz.

“After that?” Bonz said, settling back in his chair. He paused and stared off into the distance for at least half a minute. It seemed to me at that moment as though, during the months that passed since that day in the cemetery, he had never once actually considered this. I watched him as he mulled over my question. He’s shaved his beard. His facial scars make it unlikely he’ll ever appear on the cover of
GQ
, but they aren’t so bad. Despite being behind bars, he’s got more color in his face. I assume it’s because he’s getting his meals on a food line—even if it is a prison food line—instead of from trash cans. Even the stoop in his shoulders, hammered into his already-damaged body by so many hard years on the streets, is all but gone. He looked at me again. “After that, I’m going to start a new life.”

And he should be able to, if he wants. I’ve seen to that, though he doesn’t know it yet.

“A new life?” I said. “Sounds good.”

“How about you?” he asked.

“Well, Jess and I are finally getting married.”

“When?”

“When they let you out of here. We figured you might want to be there.”

For a moment he didn’t seem to know what to say, then he turned to Jessica, who was sitting beside me, her hand resting lightly on mine. “Good luck with this guy,” Bonz said, jerking his head toward me. “He never shuts up.”

“He’s a lawyer,” she said, smiling.

“Used to be,” I said.

“And after the wedding?” Bonz asked, turning back to me. “What then?”

“After? I’m not really sure.”

I know I won’t be going to jail, though. Apparently, over the course of twenty-two years in the Boston legal community, Michael Kidder—who succeeded Lippincott as U.S. Attorney for the District of Massachusetts—had made more friends and earned more respect than I could have imagined. He seemed to have considerable influence. And admirable legal and political skills, which he used to keep me out of jail. His efforts on my behalf were aided by the tape Lippincott was kind enough to record for me, albeit without his prior knowledge, exonerating me with regard to Angel’s murder. I actually did do some illegal things, of course, like stealing cars, breaking and entering, kidnapping, criminal flight, obstruction of justice, things like that, but the cops never tied some of those things to Bonz and me, and several of the ones they could pin on us were forgiven by the offices of the DA and the U.S. Attorney, in light of the circumstances that compelled us to take those actions and the big fish we’d served up to them, already scaled and gutted. Randy Deacon could have insisted on pressing kidnapping and maybe assault charges, but he turned out to be a decent guy, even though he’d bugged my bedroom and apparently listened to me having sex with Jessica. And Bonz’s threats kept Rantham’s and Harwick’s mouths shut. We did have a sticky problem because of Bonz’s assaulting the cop behind the pizza place in Belmont, and our handcuffing him and his partner before making our escape. The cops were pissed. I’m sure it caused irreparable damage to both their careers. But again, the DA—at Kidder’s behest—intervened and we skated on that, too. I still get a little antsy when cops pass me on the road, though.

The biggest problem for me, and much more so for Bonz, was the shooting of the kid in Paulo’s when we were questioning Big Frank D’Amico. The actual carnage was higher in the cemetery, of course, where Bonz left two dead wiseguys, including Grossi, and three seriously injured ones. But, seeing as the victims were armed to the teeth and were clearly hunting for Bonz, intent on kidnapping or killing him, self-defense wasn’t a hard sell. But the restaurant shootout was a different matter. Two people died there that night in front of a lot of witnesses—witnesses who saw us walk in, knock one of D’Amico’s bodyguards flat on his back, kick the other in the ear, then shoot the youngest one. Bonz and I couldn’t just walk, at least not the both of us. So they gave me immunity from prosecution to testify against Bonz—a deal Bonz insisted I take—and they went after him mostly as a token gesture. Again, all thanks to Kidder’s influence. He called in favors, and the DA and, ultimately, the judge to whom the case was assigned, moved things quickly along so we could get this matter behind us. Instead of shooting for manslaughter, the DA agreed to a hodgepodge of lesser offenses, including reckless endangerment, threatening, and possession of a weapon without a permit. Bonz pled guilty and received a seventeen-month sentence. Because of the assistance he’ll be providing in the prosecutions of Siracuse and Lippincott, and his surprisingly good behavior since his arrest, he’s scheduled to be released next month, after serving just under nine months, nearly every day of it in a prison hospital engaged in a rigorous physical therapy program he needed anyway. As for the criminal record he’ll carry for the rest of his life, Bonz is philosophical. He figures he’s earned it, given the bones he broke for Carmen Siracuse while he worked for the mob.

“Yeah,” I said to Bonz, “I’m not sure what I’ll do, either, but I kind of like your idea. Start a new life.” I nodded to myself. “I think I’ll do the same.”

And that’s exactly what I intend to do. Almost nothing in my life will be as it was. I’d already found a new home with Jessica in her apartment. Mine was too small for us to share and, besides, Angel’s bloody murder there kind of ruined the place for me. We’re looking for a house now. And I’m going to find a new job, of course. Though I didn’t end up going to jail, my participation in the shooting of the kid at Paulo’s was, in fact, a crime—as were a lot of things I did but wasn’t even nailed for—and it ended my legal career. I’m okay about that, though. My reason for becoming a prosecutor in the first place was inextricably tied to my brother’s disappearance and my need for answers and, if at all possible, justice for Jake. Now that I have my answers and Jake got his justice, I can leave the law without too heavy a heart. I’m not sure exactly what I’ll do for work from now on, but I’ll think of something.

So I guess it’s fair to say that I’m not really sure about much in my life at the moment except for Jessica.

Oh, and there’s Jake. I’m sure about him. I’m sure that he’ll continue to be my hero and role model. I’m sure he’ll always occupy a special place in my heart, a secret place where he calls me Wiley and I pretend to hate it, but I love it, and I love him. I’ll always love him. Even though he turned out to be not exactly the man I thought he was. It was Jake himself who revealed this to me. In his letter.

FIFTY-THREE

Before planting the rigged briefcase in the Fleetwoods’ mausoleum, Bonz had searched for Jake’s tape, as I instructed him to do. I was positive I’d finally figured out Jake’s clue. The tape had to be there. There was no way I could have known that there never was a tape—or rather, that Jake never had it. But my brother did leave something behind for me. The letter Bonz found. He told me he almost missed it in the blackness at the bottom of that urn. I thank God he didn’t.

The letter held surprises. A big one for Lippincott and Siracuse, of course—that he never had a copy of the tape. But there were some surprises for me, too.