Deadly Diamonds (7 page)

Lex Devlin had done some boxing in his youth. A time or two he'd been hit so hard just below the ribs that every speck of air had been driven out of his lungs till he thought he could never get it back. He felt that same sensation, sitting in that chair, gripping the arms like a vise. There wasn't room in his mind for the fears that fought for predominance.

Two primary thoughts continued to dominate in alternate waves. First, that Matt could not possibly have done what he was accused of. Second, that the truth would be irrelevant. Even a “not guilty” verdict of twelve jurors would not wipe the poisonous lingering suspicion out of the minds of the people in Matt's home parish. The old “where there's smoke, there's fire” adage has long legs.

When he reached the street, Lex drove with the windows down to let the chilled air take the heat out of his throbbing head. He drove through the very streets of Charlestown where three boys—Matt Ryan, Dominic Santangelo, and Lex Devlin—had run like brothers in the youthful assurance that they owned the world. They lived and breathed as one through every moment of Matt's ascendancy through the rankings of professional light heavyweight boxers. The memories of those days seemed to rise like mist from the streets. They made the mission Lex was on almost unbearably bitter.

Lex pulled up in front of a gym in one of the old sections of Charlestown whose character had not been bulldozed by urbanization. The gym had always looked to him like an enduring symbol of Matt's fighting spirit. Now it looked tired. Lex noticed the cracked paint and sagging door for the first time. It stood, but it showed the scars of decades in a hard-times neighborhood.

In the ring in the center of the gym, Lex saw two scrawny, wiry boys with oversized gloves dancing around each other like a couple of tentative pit bulls. A large man in sweats was leaning on the ropes, yelling alternate jibes and encouragement.

“Timmy, do you think you're on
Dancing with the Stars
? What the hell are you doin'? For the love of the saints, will you plant yourself? This is not a road race. Kevin, when I said a moving target, I didn't mean a fifty-yard dash. That's the stuff, Timmy, now jab! Kevin, get those gloves up! Protect that pretty face or your mother'll have my scalp.”

Lex came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let's talk, Matt.”

Matt called the match and sent the boys to the showers after extracting a promise of two miles at a fast jog. He accepted Lex's invitation for a beer and a sandwich at the pub around the corner.

When they walked through the crowd of noon customers, it was “Hi, Father.” “What's up, Father?” “Can I buy you one, Father?” down the entire length of the pub. On another day, Lex would have basked in the reverence and affection for his pal. Today each word bit like a scorpion, knowing that when the word got out, the tide would turn viciously.

They took a table at the rear of the pub where their words would be drowned out by the buzz of voices.

Lex hardly knew how to start. Matt saved him the agony.

“I can see by that sour puss on you you've heard the word from the cardinal.” Matt grabbed Lex's shoulders and straightened his slouch into a straight-up position. He used the same tone he had used on his teenage boxers. “Would you look at you, you old grouch? Are we going to have a good lunch or attend my wake?”

Lex forced a smile. Matt leaned closer, but the tone was the same. “Let's get this over with before the beers come so I can enjoy your good company. I'll write the scene. First you say, ‘Matt, my old friend of forty some years, or should I say Right Reverend Monsignor Ryan, by any chance did you commit the worst and most disgusting and vile breach of the confidence these good people have placed in you?
And did you do it over and over again to a boy who you picked up off the streets and treated like a son when his own father was too deep in the sauce to care about him? And if you did, how could you keep such a despicable secret all these years from your best friend who's about to buy you a grand lunch? Give me an answer, Monsignor Ryan.'

“And I'll say in reply that no two of God's creatures know the heart and soul of each other better than you and I, Lex. And if for one single second you could think that the answer to any of that crap is ‘yes,' then I'll say to hell with you, Lex Devlin, and I'll buy my own lunch. Is that clear enough?”

The forced smile on Lex's face was now genuine. “You are one piece of God's work, Matthew Ryan. But it changes nothing. There never was, and there never will be, a fraction of a second that I'd believe ‘that crap,' as you call it. So your speech was a grand piece of oratory, but totally superfluous. And you better damn well know it.”

“I do, Lex. But it felt good to say it.”

After two beef briskets on rye and a couple of Sam Adams arrived, they got down to the heart of it.

“Who is this man with the accusations, Matt?”

“He's just what I said. His name is Finn Casey. I've known him since he was about twelve. His father was a drunk and his mother couldn't handle him. He and another kid with no roots broke into a little candy shop over in Chelsea. They looted the cash register and ran. It turns out they were on the turf of a gang of Italian kids from the North End. Finn got word that the Italian gang wanted the money back plus a pound of flesh.

“Finn's mother came to me to sort things out. I went to our mutual friend Dom Santangelo. He offered to square it for me, but I told him no. I had a better idea. We got both sides to agree to settle the squabble with a fair fight, one-on-one, Finn and one of the Italian kids, at a neutral gym. Finn didn't know a boxing glove from a ham sandwich, so I agreed to give him six months of lessons. He was scared enough of facing the Italian kid to take me up on it.”

“And that's how you got into his life.”

“That was the idea. Once I had the kid in the gym, I could get him to knuckle down in school and keep his nose clean. For about five years, that's how it worked out. After high school, he drifted away. I lost contact with him until this week. I still haven't had a chance to talk to him. But I will.”

“No, you won't, Matt. You'll stay the hell away from him.”

Matt looked up. “Why?”

“Because if you approach him, the D.A.'ll make it look like you're trying to intimidate the witness. Leave that to me. I'll talk to him.”

“And that's not the same?”

“No. I'm a lawyer doing what I'm supposed to do to prepare a case. Until we get a handle on this thing, I'm the quarterback.”

Matt held up his hands in resignation. “So what do I do?”

“Go on with your life.”

“Not so simple. The cardinal's put me on leave. I can say Mass, but no other parish functions. My assistant picks up the reins.”

“Holy crap. Guilty until proven innocent. I don't like how that'll play to a jury to have your own church convict you.”

“I understand what the cardinal's doing. When you think of the slimy way these things have been handled by some Church hierarchy up till now, the pendulum's bound to swing. It may even be a good thing.”

“
Not for you,”
Lex thought, but there was no need to say it.

Lex drove the five blocks to the address of the row house on Pearl Street. It took three rings of the bell before he heard footsteps. The face of the woman who opened the door a few inches painted a picture of a life that had aged her beyond her twenty-some years. Lex took off his hat and tried a smile.

“Mrs. Casey, my name's Lex Devlin. I'd like to speak to your husband.”

She seemed stuck for an answer. She finally stammered, “I don't know where—”

She got that far, when a male face appeared behind her. Lex saw
the familiar lines that years on the hard stuff can etch with indelibility. There was something else in the eyes that bespoke a hardness, born of either anger or fear. Lex couldn't tell which.

“Who is he, Annie?”

“He says he's Mr. Devlin.”

The face stayed in the background, but the voice addressed Lex.

“I know who y'are. I have nothin' to say to ya. Close the door, Annie.”

“I just want to get your side of the story, Mr. Casey. That's all.”

“You'll hear my side in court. That's all I've got to say. Close the door. Do it, Annie.”

Lex saw through the small opening a small, thin girl of about seven. She started to come into the room, but her father waved her back.

“I see you have a youngster, Mrs. Casey. I'm curious. Shouldn't she be in school?”

The man pulled his wife away from the door and looked directly into Lex's eyes.

“She's sick. And I'll thank you to stay out of things that are none of your business. Leave us alone!”

The words were as much a slam of the door in his face as the real thing that followed. What stunned Lex in the instant between the two was the look of abject terror that contorted Casey's face. It was so out of sync with Casey's words that it left him at a loss.

Lex stood frozen for a few seconds. For the moment he was stymied. He sensed that whatever was putting the fear in Casey's eyes could also be blocking him from asking for help. The immediate urge was to pound open the door to give whatever help he could. A quick reconsideration convinced him that that move could turn desperation into disaster.

He turned and walked to the car in the best performance of unflustered calm he could give to whatever eyes might be on him. He drove slowly away from the curb while his right thumb hit a speed-dial number on the cell phone.

“Mr. Devlin. What's up?”

“Tom, I need a good man at Thirty-three Pearl Street in Charlestown. Pronto.”

“I don't have any good men, Mr. Devlin.”

“Say what?”

“My men start at ‘the best' and go up from there.”

“Point taken. Can you do it?”

“He's already on his way.”

“Good. Here's what I need.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I was in the office about three p.m. when Julie gave me the word that Mr. D. was back, requesting the pleasure of my company anytime within the next ten seconds. She braced me with the warning that those wrinkles he gets in his forehead were sending up flares.

I was still unprepared for what he told me. I hadn't known Father Ryan long, but it was long enough to take the measure of a good man.

Mr. D. told me about the call he was expecting from Tom Burns while he hit the numbers for the district attorney's office.

“Are you calling Billy Coyne?”

“No point. There's not a chance in hell she'll give up the headlines this case'll draw.”

That was shorthand for the fact that the princess of prosecution, Angela Lamb, who currently held the elected title of district attorney in Suffolk County, would indict, prosecute, and personally lock up Billy Graham if it would generate headlines that might grease her upwardly mobile rump into the governor's seat.

I always suspected that Mary Cornelius, the receptionist in the D.A.'s office, favored Mr. Devlin in his set-tos with her employer.

“Mary, would you do me the kindness of telling the Dragon Lady I'd like a word with her?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Devlin. I believe she said she's in conference with the mayor.” I noticed she never questioned the title.

“The hell she is. She's picking the brains of Billy Coyne so she won't look like an ambitious buffoon in front of the press. If I were to bet you ten dollars that she's in Billy's office right this minute, would you take the bet?”

I could hear a stifled giggle. “Mr. Devlin, may I simply say, no bet.”

“That's what I thought. Then let's change the message. Would you tell her I've called to offer settlement of the civil action?”

“And she'll know what I mean?”

“She will when you tell her I'm suing her and the city for six million dollars for violation of Monsignor Ryan's civil rights. Make that eight million. Tell her unless we settle now, she can read about it in the
Globe
tomorrow. And Mary, when you tell her, don't be standing in the doorway.”

Mr. Devlin cast a disturbed look down at the floor and just shook his head. “Dear Lord, I wish I were dealing with Billy Coyne on this.”

“Devlin! Are you out of your mind? What the h—”

Mr. D. put it on speakerphone, but there was no need. I could have heard her in my office.

“Relax, Angela. Relax. I just wanted your attention, not your obituary. I take it you're ready to go into high gear over this Monsignor Ryan business, assuming you're not there already. I'm sure there's no point in telling you that of all of the priests from here to Rome, you've got your claws into the one who couldn't do these things if his life depended on it.”

“No more than in my telling you that I'm personally going to put this predatory animal away for the rest of his life.”

I could see the words stung. “Uh-huh. That should play well in the
Globe
. Here's what I want, and I mean while the ink is still wet. I want a copy of the indictment with a full statement of all the particulars. Dates, times, locations, specific acts. If I sense you getting cute with any general allegations without details, I'll smack you with a motion for a bill of particulars even Billy Coyne couldn't fight.”