Frame-Up (2 page)

The shock turned to embarrassment. The angel had a voice.

“Oh, dear God, I'm sorry. You were in the accident with John. Are you all right?”

“Oh sure. Just a little healing time — I'm not sure why I stopped you. Did you know John well?”

Whatever she said was muffled by a rising growl of thunder, and the heavens began to open. She rolled down the window. I could make out, “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

I shook my head and pointed to my car.

“Is there a way I can talk to you?” I was shouting above the rain that was revving up to a torrent. She wrote something on a card and passed it through the window. I stuffed it into an inside pocket and slogged back to my waiting Corvette.

The river that ran down the driver's-side window made my last look at John's grave seem as unreal as everything that had happened since I stood making idiotic mime signs to him on that Friday afternoon.

Wednesday was my first day back in the office since the “accident.” I was sure there were enough calls and e-mails stacked up to scratch off a week. My secretary, Julie, was off on a court run when I got in. With no live voice to nag me about returning calls, I decided to finesse them for the moment and check in with the boss.

Lex Devlin was my partner, but if the day ever dawns when I don't consider him my superior in every respect and thank God that I can claim him as my mentor, I'll check into McLean Hospital for retuning.

I gave a couple of quick raps when I walked into his office. Whoever he was talking to on the phone got the quickest sign-off they were likely to get that morning. He gave me a hand signal that brought me to the edge of his desk. He leaned his six-foot-two-inch frame, amply padded for combat, over the desk to check out the facial scars. I heard from the nurses at the hospital that he had cashed in a rather large favor to get the head of cosmetic surgery of the Mass. General Hospital off the golf course to do the embroidery.

His only reaction was a low “mmmm.” The tone of it indicated that I could appear in public without frightening small dogs and children. I was surprised myself at the amount of healing that had taken place over five days.

We chatted a bit about the cases that needed attention, but I could sense edginess. He kept checking his watch, which was out of character for a man who could intuitively tell you the time within two minutes, day or night, without looking.

By the fourth check, the hands of the Movado his deceased wife,
Mary, had given him on their fortieth anniversary had apparently reached the time he was waiting for. He leaned over the desk.

“Michael, take a ride with me.”

Mr. Devlin drove. My questions just bounced off his play-'em-close-to-the-chest demeanor. The best I could get was a few words on keeping an open mind.

“Like how open?”

“Quite.”

I waited for more, but that was it. Communication was Mr. Devlin's strong suit. But then, so was stone silence.

I sensed that there was no point in asking why we were taking Causeway Street past the ghost of old Boston Garden. As always, I bowed slightly with a prayer that, wherever they were, Bobby Orr, Larry Bird, and a few others would be rewarded for the memories that still lit up my daydreams.

Silence prevailed while we cruised over the Washington Street Bridge. As we penetrated deep into that bastion of the Irish working class called Charlestown, I noticed a good deal of neck swivel by my partner at the wheel. Most of the city around Bunker Hill is now toned up to yuppie standards, but when we got into the old section, there wasn't a shop or second-story window that didn't catch a glance.

“Are we on familiar turf, Mr. Devlin?”

I hit a nerve sensitive enough to break the silence.

“There isn't a spot in this town that I couldn't find blindfolded. Lean over. See that second-floor window on the corner? There with the lace curtains? I was born in that room seventy-two years ago.”

I kept silence for the memory that was clearly playing behind those eyes that I had never before seen misted. There was no traffic, so we could slow to a crawl.

“Those curtains are a symbol. There were the ‘shanty Irish' and the ‘lace-curtain Irish.' My father was a lieutenant on the Boston Police. He didn't make much, but my mother saw to it that there were lace curtains on the windows. It wasn't a brag. It was a tone, sort of a goal for us growing up. My wife, Mary, kept lace curtains on our bedroom as a reminder of where we came from till the illness—”

We rode up Monument Avenue and pulled over in front of a church the size of a small cathedral. It was ten thirty a.m., and the sun was just beginning to take the chill out of the air.

I was totally in the dark except for knowing that this was no sentimental homecoming. The muscles in Mr. Devlin's jaw that locked his teeth together were pulsing. I caught sight of two Lincoln Towncars parked between the more usual vintage of Chevys across the street. The windows were dark, but the vapor on the windshields said both were occupied. The warmth of my body turned to a chill with the unpleasant feeling that whoever was inside was giving us their full attention.

The church was silent and, apparently, vacant. On another day, it would have brought peace and prayer. Today it just multiplied the tension.

Our footsteps resonated back to the choir loft as we approached the front altar. Halfway down the aisle, I caught sight of a massive dark figure in the shadows of the entrance to the priest's vesting room. I heard a soft voice call Mr. Devlin's first name in a whisper that echoed through the church.

As we approached, the figure in the shadows came forward. The folds of the black, floor-length cassock outlined the six-foot-three-inch frame of a man who was massive through the shoulders and tapered below. When he and Mr. Devlin approached each other, the only greeting was a clasping of both hands. Their eyes locked, and an electric tension seemed to flow between them.

The words were few and whispered.

“Is he alone?”

The priest nodded. I was still feeling the chill of the two Town-cars in front, and I wondered what “alone” meant.

The priest was still gripping Mr. Devlin's hands.

“He's aged, Lex.”

“Yeah, I know, Matt. His choice, right?”

Concern seemed to come through folds in the brow of the priest. I figured him and Mr. Devlin for the same generation. Mr. Devlin pressed for a commitment.

“Am I right, Matt?”

“Do any of us really have choices, Lex?”

Mr. Devlin just looked away. He caught sight of me and called me over. I felt like an intruder, but I went.

“My partner, Michael Knight. This is — Monsignor Ryan.”

I sensed that Mr. Devlin was going to be more elaborate but decided against it. I held out my hand to a grip that could crack an oyster shell. The hand that covered mine was as gnarled and crooked as roots of blackthorn. The smile that went with it was warm, but it did not erase the lines of concern.

“Forgive me for being direct, but this is a closed meeting, Lex. You know how he is. I was to take you in alone. This could change things.”

“Michael's involved. And he'll be more involved if things go badly. I'll vouch for Michael. If that's not good enough—”

I saw another figure in the dark corridor that led back to the priest's room. This one was smaller and seemed to move more slowly. The voice was soft-spoken, but something in the timbre set off alarms in me I had never heard before.

“When has your word not been all I ask, Lex?”

The three of us turned toward the speaker as he walked slowly, arthritically, out of the shadows. Every physical sense left me. I was riveted to the floor. For that moment, I could not have moved to run out of a burning building.

The third man kept moving on until the three men were within an arm's grasp of each other. He and Mr. Devlin stood face-to-face. Their thoughts simply passed between their eyes for what seemed like an eon. I saw the arms of the man rise tentatively from his side and extend toward Mr. Devlin. Monsignor Ryan looked at both of them with an intensity that seemed to will something to happen. I heard him whisper, “Lex, how can we forget?”

Mr. Devlin's eyes turned slowly from steel to something softer and moist. And his arms came up to embrace a man I had conceived for my entire adult life as the Antichrist. He was the reigning don of the New England family of La Cosa Nostra, Dominic Santangelo.

I sensed that the embrace had been years in coming. The great arms of the priest were around the two of them, and I looked away from the privacy of the tears that flowed across three faces. Whatever they said to each other was theirs, and it will remain that way.

When they separated, Monsignor Ryan led them back to his private office. I followed, practically unnoticed. Under Mr. Devlin's flag, I was apparently accepted as posing no threat.

The three men sat on leather chairs in a triangle while the priest poured a glass of wine for each. They were so absorbed in each other that I was able to take a seat in the corner, permitted in but not intruding.

Monsignor Ryan raised his glass and looked to each of the others to follow.

“Dominic, Lex, God brought us together as brothers a long time ago. Now He's brought us together again. It's a serious business, and it's His business that brought us into this room. He wants us together as brothers again. Let's let Him have His way.”

Mr. Santangelo raised his glass, and both looked to Mr. Devlin. Mr. Devlin looked at the glass on the table in front of him as if to lift it would commit him to something he could not accept.

Monsignor Ryan rose and put a massive hand on Mr. Devlin's shoulder. The large fingers were disjointed and twisted, but the touch was gentle.

“We haven't much time, Lex. We're not three kids who are going to live forever anymore. Let's make the peace now, so we don't have to meet in anger in heaven.”

Mr. Devlin looked deep into Monsignor Ryan's eyes.

“Is this the priest talking, Matt? Or is this Matt Ryan?”

“This is both of us, Lex.”

It took more than a few painful seconds to cross a barrier, but Mr. Devlin reached for the glass and stood up. Mr. Santangelo stood and there was a touching of three glasses that must have been heard in heaven. I had a disturbing feeling that the compact sealed with that sound would change my life as well.

Mr. Santangelo led the opening card.

“Lex, I'll put it simply. I've come to ask for your help.”

The shoe dropped. So did the smile on Mr. Devlin's face. He took on a few more years.

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“It's been forty years, give or take. When Matt called me, I knew something brought it on. I'll give you the only answer I've got before you ask the question.”

Mr. Devlin was on his feet. I think he needed to be standing to say what I knew was coming.

“Whatever it is, Dominic, I can't do it.”

“Listen, Lex—”

“No, you listen. This is hard to say. My partner and I made an agreement.” He nodded to me. I nearly jumped when I realized I was not invisible. “We represent people with blood on their hands. It's part of the trade. But we agreed never to take the case of anyone who made it their business. Dear God, man, how did you sink to this?”

Monsignor Ryan was on his feet to calm the waters. Mr. Devlin waved him aside.

“No. Sit, Matt. I've waited years to ask Dominic to his face. How? The three of us were closer than brothers. Every time I see a headline with your name connected to this filth, I die a little.”

I was riveted to the face of Dominic Santangelo. I was sure that no one had spoken above a whisper to this little man for the span of my lifetime. He exercised the power of a judge and jury with the
simple nod of his head. He had palace guards to carry out any order of execution without appeal.

But there he sat. There were seconds of unfathomable silence before he spoke. When he did, it was so soft that I could barely hear the words. “There is so much you don't know about me, Lex, and so much I can't tell you in half an hour. Please, talk to me, not to that creature the newspapers have created to sell their papers.”

Mr. Devlin was searching his eyes, but I could see he was not finding the answers he was looking for. He raised his hands slightly and stopped searching. “I can't help you, Dominic.”

Mr. Santangelo rose to his feet, and I held on to the arms of the chair.

“It's not for me, Lex.”

Mr. Devlin waved him off. “It doesn't matter, Dominic. It's all part of the same—”

“It's for Peter. It's for my son.”

The chill that passed between them filled the room.

“It's for your godson, Lex. There is no blood on his hands, and there never will be. Will you listen now?”

“What about Peter?”

“He's about to be indicted for murder.”

“Damn it, Dominic!” The explosion triggered every nerve in my body. “The last time I saw you, you promised that boy would never touch any of this.”

“And I kept that promise. He's my son, Lex. I swear he is as clean as this junior partner you want to protect.”

That was two references to me in a conversation to which I wanted to remain a total spectator.

“Sit down, Lex. Sit down, and we'll talk.”

Mr. Devlin sat with both elbows holding down the table.

“I'm certain that by this afternoon the Suffolk County grand jury will indict Peter for murder. I give you my word on his mother's grave. Peter is innocent. He's no part of my business.”

The reference to Peter's mother seemed to take the fire out of
the mouth of the dragon. Mr. Devlin uncoiled the spring he seemed to be sitting on and listened.

“There's a complication, Lex. Peter is accused of murdering an attorney by the name of John McKedrick.”

He waited for that to sink in. Mr. Devlin looked at me, and I just froze.