Do Not Go Gentle (19 page)

“Really?” Another drag. “How do you mean?”

O'Neill took a long drink of his Guinness then exchanged gazes with Cal. Neither man was drunk, although Cushing was closer to it than O'Neill. “I have some CIs who told me that you're messing with some pretty powerful people.”

“You're putting a lot of weight on chatter from informants. Why do you care about empty chatter, now that we've had one of our own taken down?” Cal couldn't keep the edge from his voice. He sipped his martini slowly, but inside, he was furiously churning.
We've been in these situations before. Why is he so concerned about this one?

“I don't,” replied O'Neill, an edge coming to his own voice, “but you and Jamie are friends of mine. If I come across information about the case or anything that gives me concern about your safety, I'm going to get involved.”

“So what are you hearing specifically?”

“Nothing concrete, but you're well known in town as a player and in some circles, your gambling and partying might be seen as a liability or a lever to use against you.”

Cal now held Timmy's gaze. “I've got more money than I can possibly use in one lifetime. Pissing some of it away is just a pastime.”

“Maybe. You have expensive tastes—luxury condo, yacht, expensive clothes, food and drink, plus an extensive gambling habit. I'd hate to see you get crossways with the wrong people.”

“I appreciate your concern,” replied Cal, in a tone indicating the opposite. “Anyone who looks at me will see that not only do I not have any financial problems, but I use my police salary as my ‘walking around money.' It would be tough, given my family fortune, for someone to use that as a lever against me.” Cal finished his martini in one gulp. “Is there something you're dancing around, O'Neill? If so, spit it out. We're both big boys, and I don't want there to be any confusion about what's going on here.” Cal's words resounded as hard as his gaze did.

Timmy sighed. “I'm not trying to lean on you. Like I said, you're my friend. You've said you want to make Superintendent and you're not going to get there by pissing off the wrong people.”

“You saying some of
our
people are involved in this?” Cal asked incredulously.

“I'm not saying anything.” O'Neill said crisply. “I'm just letting you know that I have your back. When you solve this case, I want to make sure you don't hurt your career in the process.”

“
When
I solve it? I should make you go outside, turn around three times, then spit and curse. You'll jinx the case sure as hell talking that way.”

O'Neill laughed. “I swear—you're more superstitious than my grandmother.”

Cal stood. “Whatever. I think I'm done playing pool.” He picked up his cue and wiped it down as he disassembled it. He looked at Sam and said, “Bring me the tab, honey.” Then he looked back at O'Neill, who was now standing as well. “I appreciate your concern,” he said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice, “but Jamie and I are making progress, and we'll follow the leads wherever they take us. Anyone standing in the way had better watch out.”

Timmy put a hand on Cal's forearm. “I know that. Just use your head, that's all I'm saying. I've seen you play politics before. I know you know how.”

Cal looked down at O'Neill's hand until Timmy removed it. “Maybe, but never to the point of damaging a case. You're not suggesting that I turn the case in another direction, are you, Timmy?”

“No, Cal. Like I said, just some friendly advice. Thanks for the drinks.” O'Neill walked to the stairs without saying another word.

As Cal signed the credit slip, his mind raced like one of the Formula One cars he loved to watch.
Why is O'Neill so interested in this case? Why the warnings?
Cal walked down to the ground level, putting on his knee-length leather coat and his fedora. As he stepped into the cold, windy night, Cal walked to the Commons and hailed a taxi. He told the driver his address, and then added, “Drop me off at the marina.”

What the hell is O'Neill trying to tell me?
How the hell is tied into this case?
Cal's instincts were thrumming like high-tension wires in a strong wind.
I don't like where this is headed. Maybe a night on the boat will help clear my head.
Cal found it relaxing to sleep on the catamaran, which was nearly as comfortable as his condo. He enjoyed the waves and harbor sounds.
I need to look more closely at the Disciples. Maybe Jamie can help me find some link to whatever the hell it is that O'Neill is talking about.
He tipped the driver, got out, and walked down the dock to his boat,
Called Shot
. After settling in with a nightcap of twenty-year-old Scotch, Cal was still restless and troubled. He slept poorly, despite the booze and the gentle rocking of the boat.

In an alcove down the dock, a figure, wrapped up against the cold sat on a stool, leaning back for as much shelter as possible from the wind. The figure settled in to watch Cushing's yacht for the night.

Sedecla sat in a high-backed, padded office chair behind a very modern-looking black steel and chrome desk with a Plexiglas top. The desk seemed out of place in the room, which was decorated in a lavish Middle Eastern style, with tapestries adorning the blood-red brick walls. Rich carpets accented the polished hardwood floors in addition to numerous
objects d'art
that would have made the director of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts offer to trade for his eldest child. Yet, the oasis of modernity somehow managed to complement the classical décor that surrounded it. The sun streamed in through the windows that lined the corner of her private office on the third floor of her home. She had her long black hair pulled back in a severe braid and was dressed in business attire today—an ivory and burgundy tailored business suit, with burgundy high heel shoes. She wore her
skandola
ring, but since she had meetings outside her house, she also wore diamond teardrop earrings and a Royal Blue Tourbillion watch from Ulysse Nardin.

An iPad 2 sat in front of Sedecla, but she paid little attention to it and none at all to the reports to which her attention was being directed. Her accountant was a small, stout man, with pale green eyes that hid behind thick glasses, thinning blonde hair, and the nervous habit of straightening his tie every few minutes. While not a member of Sedecla's cult, Leonard Taylor nonetheless viewed her with a great deal of respect.
Although in this worm's case,
Sedecla thought,
more like abject terror.
Taylor droned on about her financial situation. Each of her managers had to provide her with a financial accounting, but Taylor's job was to monitor her cash flow and manage her investments.

Finally, as she had already seen with a quick glance that everything was in order, Sedecla interrupted her accountant's reedy monotone. “Very good, Leonard. You are doing your usual job.” She fixed her hazel eyes upon him. “Do you have any issues that require my attention?” she demanded.

Taylor quailed. “No, Mistress. Your financial portfolio continues to grow impressively.”

“Excellent,” she replied, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Taylor rose and bowed clumsily, juggling to get everything back into his large black leather portfolio. He bowed again, then turned and scurried from the room.

After the door had closed, Sedecla laughed. “Tomás, I do believe that if I were to shout ‘Boo,' Taylor would die of heart failure,” she said to the tall, muscular man standing impassively behind her to the right. At six foot eight, Tomás Eduardo Fortunato da Silva bore almost three hundred pounds of weight, all muscle and sinew. Known to his friends as “Lucky,” the Anglicization of Fortunato, his mother's maiden name, he had been Sedecla's seneschal for fifteen years. He was forty, and of Portuguese descent. He had started in the Mazzimah, rose to manager for that group and then to the position as her primary guardian and household administrator. Lucky was known for his ruthlessness and efficiency, whether the task was supervising the activities of her staff or disposing of a troublesome individual.

Lucky laughed, a raspy sound, and smiled, which served to harden his chiseled face further. His dark brown eyes missed little. “Indeed, Mistress.” He paused for a second, but to Sedecla, it spoke volumes. She waited for him to continue. “There is another matter that requires your attention.”

Sedecla looked at the massive man. “Really?” Tomás required very little direction from her and brought only serious matters to her attention. “Please continue.” She nodded at him.

Lucky pressed a button on his push-to-talk phone and said, “Now.” After a few seconds, another door to Sedecla's private office opened, this time from the direction of her study, where none save the trusted household staff were permitted. Two of Tomás' men came in, dragging a hysterical Ayfa between them. The two men shoved her forward, and the young woman fell to her knees with a terrified expression. “Mistress, it's not true. It's not true. I would never. Never—” She broke down into incoherent sobs.

Sedecla stood and walked around her desk to stand before Ayfa. She then asked, over her shoulder, “What is this all about, Tomás?”

Lucky stepped forward to stand beside Sedecla in front of the sobbing girl. “She was found listening at the stairs atop your public office.” The ground floor of Sedecla's building included a public office where she met with outsiders, such as the meddling police officers. It also housed the garage as well as the hidden entrance to her underground quarters, located in the catacombs beneath the house. “I noticed this,” continued Lucky, “so I had her watched. My
tenetes
observed her subsequently loitering and listening several times in places and times that she should not have been.”

“No.” shrieked Ayfa. “No, no, no, no, no. Mistress, they lie.”

Sedecla took her handmaiden's tear-streaked face in her left hand. “They lie, you say?” She turned to her seneschal. “Tomás, whom do you believe in this matter?”

“My
tenetes
,” he replied without hesitation, his words sounding like a death knell.

Ayfa's wordless cry of denial was cut short when Sedecla slapped the young woman hard with her right hand, knocking her to the floor. “
Raca
,” Sedecla hissed as Ayfa turned her face back to face her mistress. “What did you think to learn? Do you spy on me for someone?”

“No, no, no—” began Ayfa.

Her denials were silenced by another slap, this time with Sedecla's left hand, which bore the
skandola
ring and left a huge red mark on Ayfa's face. The young woman stayed down on the carpet, sobbing softly.

“Tomás,” Sedecla softly said. “Have your men take Ayfa down into the catacombs.”

The pronouncement caused Ayfa to lunge to her feet, and she began a wordless scream that was stifled by Sedecla's hand darting out and clamping down fiercely on her throat. “Silence, traitor.” She held her iron grip on the girl's throat until Ayfa passed out, and then she tossed her back into the waiting arms of Lucky's
tenetes
. “Take her downstairs. I will be along momentarily to take her life force as payment for her treason.” The two men nodded and wordlessly took the unconscious woman from the room.

After a few seconds, Sedecla turned to Lucky. “Well done, Tomás,” she said, placing a hand upon his brawny forearm.

She turned back to her desk, upon which sat a decorative bowl filled with peanut M & Ms, for which she had a weakness. She took several and popped them into her mouth one at a time. When she was finished, Sedecla turned back to Tomás. “However, I'm afraid you will now have to find me a new handmaiden.”

Tomás nodded his assent and followed Sedecla from the room. “It's so hard to find good help these days,” Sedecla said as she descended to take the life of her former servant.

* * * *

Rufus Choate sat in his office and frowned as he scanned various reports and files. He had been charged with finding ways to bring pressure upon the police investigating her. So far, he had not had any luck.
This is not good. That obsequious gnat, ibn Ezra has said he will be bringing her something important, as has O'Neill.
While Choate was not fond of the cop, he despised the cleric.
I need to find something before our next meeting.
He had been Sedecla's property manager for just over a dozen years, but Rufus was under no illusions about his employer's loyalty should he ever fail to prove his worth. It was, in fact, how he had been promoted to his current position. The man who had previously held his office had somehow offended Sedecla, which not only resulted in Rufus' promotion, but his first observation of her necromantic rituals. It was a lesson that had stayed with him to this day.

“Mrs. Fanning.” Choate called out, his voice thundering down the hall.

Vera Fanning had been Choate's assistant for five years now. The woman shuffled into the room. “You bellowed, Mister Choate?” she croaked. She was overweight, though nowhere near Choate's level. Her dirty gray hair rested in a bun on top of her head. Fanning wore what Choate always thought of as “old woman's glasses,” which now hung from a chain about her neck. Her floral print dress was not flattering.

Choate gestured to the stacks of paper upon his desk. “Please re-file these and bring me the last stack of lease agreements.”

Mrs. Fanning shambled to Choate's desk and picked up a large stack of files. “Very well, Mister Choate.” She then walked out of the room and down the hall to the filing room.

Choate was drumming his thick fingers upon the desktop as Fanning plodded back into his office with another thick stack of folders. “Here you are, Mister Choate.” She turned to leave.

As she neared the door, Choate said, “Why on earth do I keep you around, Mrs. Fanning? I swear my mother moves faster than you and she's been dead for two years.”

Vera Fanning stopped at the door and slowly rotated to face her employer. “I don't know, Mister Choate, but when you hired me, you never said anything about requiring a track star.” Her face was set in a bland stare and she spoke in a dusty, dry manner. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Choate waved a meaty hand. “No, go. I will call if I need anything further.”

“You mean you'll shout if you need anything further,” Fanning replied as she left the room.

Choate watched her trudge back down the hall to her desk in the reception area, then turned to the last stack of lease agreements. While all of his new lease agreements were scanned into the computer system after execution, his older lease agreements had not been scanned. Choate preferred to take care of that issue through attrition, as tenants moved out.

After another hour of fruitless searching, Choate sat up straighter in his chair. Then he turned to his computer and pounded out a query into a background check service. It took several seconds and a couple of false trails, but Choate finally found what he was looking for, and he laughed roughly, short grunt-like breaths, a mixture of relief and triumph. “Mrs. Fanning.” he yelled, because he knew that it annoyed her. “You may come take the remaining files.” Once his assistant had flowed glacially into and out of his office, Choate opened his bottom desk drawer, removed a heavy tumbler and a bottle of Woodford Reserve Jack Daniels, and poured himself two fingers. Replacing the bottle in the bottom drawer, Choate raised his glass in a silent toast and took a deep drink of the bourbon. The warmth of the liquor was secondary to the warmth he felt at finding out that Samuel Properties was the leaseholder of Ceoil Scoil, a music store owned and operated in Dorchester by Eileen Griffin, the wife of that interfering cop, Jamie Griffin. Choate laughed nastily and finished his bourbon.

* * * *

“I know you're upset, Jamie,” replied Eileen, exasperation lacing her voice, “and I know it's because you're sick.” She sat in a chair beside her husband. They had been looking over their financial situation, which was turning grim. Eileen was the family accountant, and she was good at it, performing the basic bookkeeping for both their personal and her business accounts. “I'm not passing judgment here. I'm just pointing out the facts. First, you've run out of sick leave and vacation time, which means you no longer have an income. There's not a thing you can do about that, my love—you're sick. Second, even though we've got my income, it's not enough. We've been slowly siphoning from our savings account and now our retirement funds. At the rate we're going, we've only got a couple of months, three at the most, before we run out of money.”

Eileen was unhappy to have to admit that fact. While they did their best to save money, they had three daughters in school, one in college, and two in a private high school. Fortunately, they owed very little on their house or car and had almost no credit card debt.

Eileen looked at her husband. Jamie's face was set in a grim look that combined anger and shame. She had come to know this look all too well in the past weeks. Jamie felt guilty that he was still unable to work and angry at the world for being in this situation. He said nothing, so Eileen continued. “Third, we've been cutting back where we can, but our core expenses—utilities, groceries, education, and household expenses are as low as they can realistically go. So there's only one conclusion—we have to do something soon or we will be in serious financial doo-doo.”

Jamie arched an eyebrow. “Doo-doo? Really? Financial doo-doo?”

Eileen flushed. She rarely swore, and when she did, she preferred to use nonsensical terms wherever possible. “Sugar plum fairies. You know what I mean Séamus Edward Griffin, so don't go giving me a hard time about my swearing.”

“Well, I wouldn't exactly call what you do
swearing
.”

“You swear
your
way and I'll swear
mine
.” Eileen replied heatedly. “So, if you're quite finished being a comedian, do you have anything
useful
to suggest?”

Jamie grew angry, even though he knew Eileen was right, even though he knew he wasn't helping the situation. He picked up a handful of forms on the desk. “No, I don't, but I don't think
this
is the answer.” Jamie shook the forms.