Deadly Diamonds (6 page)

I watched the Irishman's rental car pull into a space by the sidewalk. Seamus Burke's every movement getting out of the car and walking up the steps to the large front porch told me that in any physical contest, I'd be a sorry loser.

Burke seemed relaxed, as if on temporarily safe turf. I sensed that his guard was down as he slipped a key into the front door. I had a moment that I'd never have again. From the deep darkness of the porch behind him, I seized the moment.

“Burke! Freeze! Keep your hand on that key and look at the door.”

He had to be shocked, but you'd never know it on the surface. Not a muscle flinched.

I stayed in the dark and reenforced the command. “One look either way and your blood'll be on that door.”

“You mean you'll shoot me, Knight.”

“Bingo. Boy, you're quick.”

There was a grin at the corner of his mouth. He slowly turned and looked in my direction. “Turn back around, Burke! Hands on the door!”

Nothing. He was not only not obeying my command, he was slowly walking toward me.

“Take one more step, and so help me, I'll—”

“No, you won't, Knight.”

Now, I was the one in shock. I had no gun to back up the bluff and nothing to even throw at him. He came within three steps of me. Just as I was about to call on my jellied legs for whatever distance I could get out of them, he pulled up a chair and sat down. I found myself breathing as if I'd run ten blocks.

“Sit down, lawyer. Let's talk.”

Sitting was one way to get back control of my bodily functions. With no better options, I sat.

“Damn, lawyer. You are pitiful at this gangster stuff. It's a good thing you've got a day job.”

When I had control of my vocal chords, I asked, “How did you know I didn't have a gun?”

He stretched his long legs out against the railing and leaned back. We were like a couple of old farmers in rockers after the chores. Not the scene I had imagined.

“First of all, if you had a gun, you'd have had it in my face, full cocked, so I could see it. No chance of a misunderstanding. Second, a gun gives you confidence. You'd have barked out the orders like a drill sergeant, not like a tenor in a boys' choir. You've got a solid set of stones on you, Knight. But no gun.”

He lit up a cigarette while I took it in.

“So what brings you here?”

“We have unfinished business, Burke. I'm not going to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I'm here to tell you one more time. I have no idea where Kevin O'Byrne is. You can either—”

“I know that.”

“What? Then why did you scare the crap out of me last night?”

“I didn't know it then. I do now. No sane man would brace me on my own porch to tell me a lie. So your client's gone missing, eh?”

“He seems to have eluded both of us. You apparently want him as much as I do.”

He laughed softly. “You gathered that, did you?”

“Why do you want him?”

“No, lawyer. We're not on the same side yet.”

“Maybe we are. In a way. They say the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Maybe if we share information, we both come out ahead. Finding Kevin is not going to be as easy as you might think.”

“Why not?”

“Aha. Maybe you can use my help.”

“What makes you think I'd play fair with you?”

“I don't know. My instinct tells me you would. I'll go with that.”

“So what have you got for me?”

“Kevin was hidden out by his father someplace in New Hampshire. I don't know where. Anyway, it looks like he's been taken by someone. He's not there, and the place has been tossed. I thought it might have been you, but apparently not.”

Burke took a deep draw on the cigarette.

“Your turn, Burke. Who do you think has him, and while we're at it, what's your interest in this?”

“If I answered your last question, it'd be the last thing you'd hear on this earth.”

“Then let's skip that one. How about the first question?”

He thought while he took another deep drag. “The dead man in the trunk. His name was Sal Barone. He was a lieutenant under the current Boston Godfather, as you people like to call him. Antonio Pesta.”

“That much I know.”

“Barone's right-hand man is a goon by the name of Pasqual Salviti. They call him ‘Packy.' You want a name? That's a place to start. One thing.”

“What?”

“Don't pull a stunt like this on him.”

“I don't plan to. Why not?”

“He's a loose cannon. Not wired right upstairs. You understand? He'd have blasted you from here to Sicily before you said two words.”

“I'll remember that.” On the basis of probably never having another chance, I pushed it one final inch. “You still have me curious. What does an Irishman from Dublin have to do with a mid-level Boston Italian hood?”

He just shook his head, not to the question, but to the gall of my asking it.

“On your way, lawyer, while you can still thank God you can walk down those steps.”

CHAPTER SIX

Since his wife's passing, Lex Devlin's comfort zone had come to include his two-bedroom condo overlooking the Charles River, his Franklin Street office, the state and federal courthouses, and a small cluster of restaurants of which he could recite the menus from memory. Anything that pulled him out of that zone awakened the furies of irascibility that had led junior associates at his previous firm to interpret his initials, A.D., as “Angel of Death.”

The young priest to whom it now fell to lead Lex down seemingly endless corridors was already feeling the heat of those furies. A band of perspiration had lubricated his Roman collar by the time he reached the ornate door. He knocked softly and opened it to announce the presence of Mr. Devlin to the red-robed figure behind an Olympic-size mahogany desk. That function performed, he beat a grateful retreat.

The two figures left in the spacious office could have been carved from similar massive blocks of granite. The silver-haired one in a red robe came around the desk to offer a handshake.

“Mr. Devlin. Thanks for coming. Given the conversation we're about to have, suppose I call you ‘Lex.'”

He gestured Lex into a seat by a fireplace and sat opposite. Lex sat, but his rigid discomfort was hard to miss.

“And what do I call you? I'm not much on gratuitous titles.”

That brought a smile. “Neither am I. I cringe when they call me ‘Your Excellency.' I take it I won't have that problem with you.”

“So what's the alternative?”

“How about the only title I ever wanted. Father Peter Ferrigan.”

“Done. So why am I here, Father Peter Ferrigan?”

The man opposite settled back, but looked Lex dead in the eye. “Because in about two sentences you've confirmed that you're the man I need for the job.”

“I doubt that.”

“Really. On what basis without knowing the job?”

Lex leaned back with an eye on the cardinal in a look-before-leaping moment. Based on what he saw, he took the direct approach. “I'll give you two. You can take your pick.”

The cardinal raised his hands in a “bring it on” sign.

“First, I don't respond well to summonses. Second—do you mind a blunt answer? No padding?”

“Do you give any other kind?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Lex paused and shifted his weight. He knew the answer. It was the words that had to be chosen. “All right, here it is. I know you've been in that chair less than a week. You've got no track record with me. But there's nothing I've read about your predecessor's handling of certain problems that makes me want to line up on the side of this office. At my time of life, I get to make the choice.”

The cardinal's smile met neither Lex's anticipation nor his desire for a quick out.

“I'll be equally direct, Lex. Given what you've said, you couldn't fill my expectations more if you'd been sent from central casting.”

There was a soft knock before the door opened. The same young priest stood with a tray and two cups in the doorway.

“Come in, Daniel. Come in. He won't bite.”

The priest walked with a rapid step to hold out a steaming cup of coffee to each of the men. Lex accepted it and took one sip. It only deepened the scowl.

“Not to your taste, Lex?”

Lex looked his opposite in the eye.

“Too much so. Black, two sugars. Why the hell have you been checking up on me?”

“You can go, Daniel. Thank you. No interruptions now, please.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The cardinal sighed. “I can't break him of that. You see why you're a breath of fresh air, Lex.”

“Actually, no. If what you want is an opinion straight from the hip, read Mike Loftus's column in the
Globe
. I'm not your man.”

The smile was gone. “You are, though. And in five minutes, you'll take the job. Not because I'm asking you. Because you wouldn't have it any other way.”

Lex was silent, but his attention was now totally focused.

“I was sent here from the Chicago archdiocese a week ago. No secret. I'm here to shake things up. Top to bottom. You don't know it yet, but I'm as tough as you are. You and I came from the same kind of blue-collar Irish neighborhood. You know the kind of steel that puts in your guts. But that said, it doesn't mean I don't get the shiverin' fits when I think of what's ahead.”

The cardinal leaned forward. “I could easily lose my way, Lex. These scandals are unchartered ground. I need a compass to keep me on course. I need someone to tell me to go to hell if I'm out of line.”

Lex sat farther back in the chair. The scowl softened, but remained.

“Look, Cardinal.”

“Father Peter. At least in this office.”

“Right. I'm just an old criminal trial lawyer. This dog's too old to change traces.”

“I don't want you to.”

“Then, what?”

“Right now I want you to hear me out. Then do what you wish. You will anyway. I'll only apologize ahead of time for the pain I'm going to cause you in the next two minutes. I can't avoid it.”

The two were eye-to-eye. The cardinal let his last words sink in to prepare the soil before he spoke.

“Lex, there's an infection that's been festering in the Church for years now. If you've been on the planet, you know what it is. We're talking about abuse of children. We've had some rotten apples in the
clergy. Not many, but one is too many. Some of them have been unfortunately allowed to stay. I was sent here because I'm supposed to be a hardnose. And I am. Zero tolerance is almost too much tolerance in this mess.”

The cardinal paused for a deep breath and a rub of the forehead.

“Lex, I got a complaint yesterday. It came to me directly. A young man about twenty-six. He's married, has a young daughter about seven. He's had an alcohol problem since his teens. He's only worked as a day laborer, and that's getting more infrequent.”

“I'm beginning to see where this is going.”

“I'll get to the point. He says as a boy he was sexually abused by his parish priest. Repeatedly over several years. It's a hell of a story. Turn your stomach.”

“They all do.”

“True. This one's particularly vicious. I've talked to this poor man. I have no reason to doubt him. I'm going to do what I was brought here to do. There'll be no fooling around with some in-Church investigating committee. I'm going to the district attorney for possible criminal prosecution of the priest. The press will eat it up, but to hell with them.”

“It sounds like the decision is made. Why am I here?”

“I've talked to the priest too. He denies everything. I have no reason to doubt him either. I think he's a good man. I want you to handle his defense.”

“That's more in my line. But, that's not a ‘yes,' yet. Let's be clear. Would I be hired by the Church or the priest? Which one's the client?”

“So there's no confusion and no conflict of interest, you'll represent only the priest.”

“That seems more simple.”

“It's not, Lex. It's a damn mess.”

“Why so?”

“The priest is your friend Monsignor Matt Ryan.”

CHAPTER SEVEN