Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (23 page)

The kitchen was the worst. The floor was stickier than the lounge and the surfaces as greasy as a Turkish wrestler's jockstrap. Grant had to explain that one to Miller. British humor. The cupboards held only limited amounts of food, but they searched the packaging anyway. Nothing.

That left the ground floor bathroom. Grant corrected himself again. The first floor. He wasn't sure what Americans called the lower ground floor, like in hotels that had underground parking. He opened the door and a hint of the bad smell from before came back. He went in and opened the window and stepped back out again. Gave it time to clear. While he waited, he glanced at Sullivan's handywork.

The corner bath was big enough for three people. “Who'd have put Freddy down as a Jacuzzi kind of guy?”

Miller glanced through the door. “I didn't have him down as a washing at all kind of guy.”

The bathroom was a work in progress. The corner bath was lime green and ugly as a roadkill toad. Stripped pine paneling boxed in the tub, and off-cuts leaned against the wall. The plumbing hadn't been connected. The mixer faucet hung loose out of the top of the toad's head. There were no cabinets. There was no toilet. The frosted-glass window had been badly puttied, great big thumbprints squashing the sealant around the frame. Grant went over and noticed it had set. The work had been done a while ago. “You think he got discount at Home Depot for all this stuff?”

“I'm not sure Home Depot would admit to selling a unit this color.”

Grant leaned against the doorframe. “How many houses you visited have the Jacuzzi downstairs?”

Miller shrugged. Grant pressed on. “I mean, you put in something like this, it's always upstairs. Downstairs toilet is usually a smaller affair. Guest toilet type of setup.”

“I guess.”

Grant stuck his head through the door and took a sniff. The smell was still there. Not as strong as when they came in, but whatever it was, it was coming from this room.

“You know why convicts smear themselves with shit in a prison riot?”

“Deter the guards from grabbing hold of 'em?”

“That's right. Gives you pause, having to wrestle a man to the ground covered in squashed turds and piss dribbles.”

Miller was catching Grant's drift. “Bad smell puts them off.”

“Bad smells tend to do that.”

Grant looked at the stripped pine paneling. Freddy Sullivan's favorite hiding place. The Jacuzzi was tall and wide. Plenty of room underneath. He took two steps into the room and kicked the panel. It sprang off easily. What he found behind it surprised them both.

thirty-two

The dead rat
on
a stick wasn't the surprise. It was the hatch in the floorboards under the Jacuzzi. The flip-up entrance was two feet square and hinged at one end, with a handle to lift it up with. Not directly under the Jacuzzi section of the bathtub but the plumbing end where the hatch wasn't compromised by the sunken tub. The lip of the Jacuzzi stood two feet above the ground. The hatch could open upwards and still not snag on the framework or the preformed tub. It explained why the plumbing hadn't been fitted. Grant reassessed Sullivan's DIY skills. The hatch was a lot sturdier than the wood paneling.

Grant knelt beside the handle and rested one arm on the lip of the bathtub. “Smeared shit.”

Miller agreed. “Bad smell.”

Grant picked up the rotting corpse by the stick shoved up its ass like an unsavory lollipop. He held it away from his body and expertly flicked it up through the open window. A train rattled past. He hoped he hadn't hit it. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the bath while he considered his next move. With the dead rat gone, the air gradually became more breathable. The question was, what other surprises lay in store beneath the hatch?

Grant's fingers stopped drumming. He leaned forward and slid his fingers into the handle. The hatch was solid. It was heavy. The muscles in Grant's forearm tensed as he opened it, expecting a black hole smelling of damp soil and rat shit. What he got was a room flooded with daylight from a window in the back wall. It was the smell that gave him pause. The sickly sweet smell of marzipan.

“Watch your head.”

Grant called up as he stepped away from the ladder, only having to bow his head slightly. He watched Miller come down backwards until his feet touched the floor. The reason the hatch was sturdier than Sullivan's paneling was because the hatch had obviously been here a lot longer than Freddy's makeshift camouflage. The Jacuzzi hid the entrance, but the cellar had been part of the house for years. It had a solid floor, plasterboard walls, and a decent-sized window facing the railroad tracks. The only thing it didn't have was a door.

“And don't touch anything.”

Miller turned to face the room. “At least it smells better down here. What's he got? A confectionery store?”

“It might smell better, but I'd rather have the dead rat.”

“How come?”

“Because rat corpses don't explode.”

“Exploding marzipan?”

“Certain explosives give off a smell. Whatever he's got down here smells of almonds, and he's not been making almond slices.”

Miller stepped back and banged his head on the ladder. “Shit.”

“Toilet's upstairs. Down here—much more serious. The rat wasn't to stop us looking. It was to stop us smelling the other smell.”

Grant stood still. He dropped into a crouch and surveyed the room from a lower angle. Light from the window showed a film of dust on the floor. The only footprints were his, gathered in a cluster around the base of the ladder. Having recognized the smell, he'd been very careful where he'd put his feet. Before moving deeper into the room, he wanted to check if anyone else had been in here recently. Indication was, nobody had. Miller stood beside the ladder and looked down at Grant as if he'd gone crazy. “What you doing?”

Grant glanced up at him, then continued his scan. “You ever see
Where Eagles Dare
? They've just been disturbed in the luggage office and climbed out the window. The weaselly little Nazi walks along the aisle. Tripwire comes into focus. Twang. Kaboom.”

“You watch too many movies.”

“Not if the tripwire comes into focus.”

“You really think Freddy Sullivan could think of tripwires and booby traps on his own?”

“He wasn't on his own. Whatever he was up to, somebody else was pulling the strings. That's why he was so frightened in the interview room. He knew the deep shit he was in.”

“But tripwires? Guy's a fuckup.”

“
Where Eagles Dare
. Every kid in England's seen it on TV. Guarantee every one of them remembers the booby traps.”

Grant stood up, satisfied. He went to the workbench against the far wall. It too was covered in a film of dust. A week, maybe two. There were tools hanging from a board on the wall, each within its own outline. Hammers. Saws. Pliers. A soldering iron. Just the basic DIY expert's tools. There were several outlines with tools missing. Couple of screwdrivers. A pair of long-nosed pliers. Some others Grant couldn't figure from the shapes. Not all of them missing. A few of them were scattered across the work surface.

“Freddy, Freddy, Freddy. What were you up to?”

Sullivan might have been a more accomplished handyman than he was a drug dealer, but he was just as untidy down here as he had been upstairs. A good workman always looked after his tools. An efficient builder always cleaned up after himself, because that way he was ready for the next project without having to clear up after the last one. Grant tried to channel his inner psychic. Divine from the evidence before him just what project Freddy had been working on.

He liked guns and blowing shit up.

That was Sean Sullivan, in conversation during the hostage siege that wasn't.

He had some fancy putty stuff. He liked setting it off by shooting at it in the woods over by the pond.

The putty stuff could have been the almond smell. Not marzipan but close. It was a deadly game to play, shooting at explosives, but it wasn't the way to go if you were planning on blowing shit up. Grant hoped the Bradford scummer was more careful about storing explosives in the cellar. He checked the cupboards underneath the workbench. Nothing, just more tools and sandpaper. He wondered again just who the fuck Freddy was mixed up with.

A bad crew. Got a liking for guns and explosives. Was always disturbing the neighbors around the back of Delaney's place on Jamaica Pond.

That was Gerry O'Neill, in conversation at O'Neill's Traditional pub. The ancient bartender had his finger on the pulse of JP. Grant stepped back from the workbench and tried the soft-eyes technique. Not focusing on one thing specifically but taking in the entire picture. Dust and tools and pieces of scrap. There were bits of stripped wire. Short lengths of pealed insulation. Droplets of dried solder. Scraps of cloth and stretch webbing. Half a dozen condom matchbooks without the condoms. That boy was ruled by his cock. Grant was surprised there weren't any skin mags down here too, although he doubted he brought any women down here for sex. That must surely have been a bedroom activity.

Something else flashed across his mind. Not Gerry O'Neill or Sean Sullivan but something he himself had said in response to Sean's observations.

There's that Irish heritage for you. You can take the boy out of the IRA, but you can't take the IRA out of the boy.

Sean had responded.
He weren't never in the IRA.

And following on from that Grant remembered the widows and orphans jar at Flanagan's. The troubles in Northern Ireland might be over as far as most people were concerned, but there were still plenty of splinter groups prepared to carry on the fight. Sean might not have been lying about the IRA, but that didn't rule out any of the other groups.

The underground room grew darker as the sun descended towards dusk. It suddenly felt like a very scary place. Shadows crept across the floor and turned the shapes on the wall into deadly weapons. The marzipan smell became cloying and sickly. This place had seen very bad things done—not down here but prepared down here. The problem was, where had the very bad things been done? More importantly, where were the ones in the future going to be done?

Grant spoke in a quiet voice, more to himself than anyone else. “Freddy, you sick fuck. Grenade up the arse was too good for you.”

Miller kept his distance, sensing a change in Grant's mood. Then the young detective's cell began to ring. Grant jumped. Mobile phones around an explosive device were a disastrous combination. Radio signals could trigger whatever was set to be triggered. Thank God there were no explosive devices left in 134A's cellar.

Miller saw the look on Grant's face and his eyes opened wide. Grant waved a hand. It's okay. Miller answered the phone. Nodded. Then handed it to Grant.

“Someone called Terri Avellone. Says it's urgent.”

thirty-three

They met Terri Avellone
on a park bench at Mission Hill playground on Tremont Street, not far from Terrace Street. That is, Grant met Terri Avellone. Miller waited in the car. Grant felt a wave of affection as he crossed the road.

Our Lady of Perpetual Help Mission Hill Church overlooked the playground, an imposing structure that Grant seemed to remember was the place where Teddy Kennedy was buried, or where his funeral was held. Something like that. The view across Boston from the playground was stunning, benefiting from its raised position at Mission Hill. It looked even more spectacular in the dying light of sunset. The brightly colored play areas, variations on a theme of circles and flowers, were empty. It was getting late for kids to be playing on climbing frames and merry-go-rounds. Grant didn't even notice if there was a merry-go-round. He was concentrating on the woman sitting next to Terri on the bench. Melissa Quintana.

Melissa looked a shadow of her former self, sitting huddled like a refugee on the deportation train. Her eyes were sunken and frightened. Terri had a comforting arm around her shoulder. Terri looked up when she saw Grant approaching. “You should get a cell.”

“Mobile phone. Got one. It's in my bag.”

“That's okay if I wanted to talk to your bag. You should have it with you.”

“I know. Sorry.”

Avellone hadn't finished venting her anger. “I had to call the station house. Got the runaround. Took an hour for someone to realize you were with Detective Miller. Another twenty minutes before they agreed to ring him.”

Tears of frustration showed in her eyes. She stamped a foot. The act seemed comical, like a petulant child, but the circumstances robbed it of humor. That and a family history that they would have to talk about when all this was over. Grant let her blow herself out. “Feel better?”

“Not really.”

He sat on a large decorative stone opposite the bench, facing them. “You said it was urgent.”

Now that she'd gotten him in front of her, Terri seemed to have trouble getting the words out. Melissa shivered beneath Avellone's protective arm. The church behind them may have offered perpetual help, but the help wasn't reaching the two women sitting on a park bench overlooking downtown Boston. Terri finally managed to get the words out. “I think this is bigger trouble than the orphans at the airport.”

Grant shifted his position on the stone to stop his backside going numb. It was at times like this he thought the fat family at Purple Cactus had one over on him. More padding instead of his own bony ass. The stone was cold, but he didn't want to sit next to the girls. It was hard to get answers if you had to lean around one to talk to the other. Best interview position was facing the person being questioned. In the dying rays of sunlight he prepared to listen. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. He almost laughed at the delayed cliché.

The baseball diamond
below
the playground was in shadow by the time she'd finished. It wasn't so much that she took a long time explaining as it was the night's drawing in. Sunset, dusk, night. Like dominos tumbling, there was no stopping it once it began. They were at the dusk stage now. Shadows in the park.

Interview technique kicked in. PACE module. Back in West Yorkshire, the police and criminal evidence module dictated procedures and rhythm. Rhythm was more important to Grant. First thing was to let your witnesses tell it in their own words. Just leave them to it, without interruptions. Now it was time to put meat on the bones by asking specific questions. “Simonovich?”

Melissa nodded. “Yes. But they changed it to Simone.”

“Anna is the one works with Senator Clayton.”

“Yes.”

“Her sister's Kristina.”

“Yes.”

“The one who's gone missing?”

Melissa sobbed an answer that should have been yes but was just a sound.

Grant wasn't making notes. For one thing, it sometimes intimidated the subject. For another, this wasn't going to court. This wasn't evidence that needed gathering in keeping with the rules; it was information required to find a missing girl, possibly held against her will in order to pressure her sister. “When was she last seen?”

“About a week ago. Five or six days—around that. Now I find her door forced and room empty.”

A week ago? Roughly. That put it a couple of days before Grant arrived to interview a Bradford burglar about Patel's Grocery Store on Ravenscliffe Avenue. A couple of days before Freddy Sullivan pleaded it was nothing to do with him, he was only the importer. The lying piece of shit. Grant wasn't sure how it all fit together, but he was certain it was all connected.

“Who was last to see her?”

Stress robbed Melissa of her fluent English. She reverted to the frightened child from the old country. “Some of the other girls. Ones she was also very close to. They noticed she was, how you put it? Chilled. Cold. Frightened. She not want to talk about it. But they were friends. They notice things.”

“What things?”

“She talk about her sister a lot before. They were so close. Like twins.” Melissa's eyes glazed over, her mind's eye turned inwards, remembering. “Her sister was private property. Not on the books. Because she was with the big man.”

“Senator Clayton?”

“Yes. So she was not often with the other girls. Kristina was proud that Anna had found”—she struggled to find the words—“found security. This is not a very secure occupation. Like acting. Regular client is good. Anna had regular. Kristina more like rest of us.”

Terri kept her arm around Melissa's shoulder but kept quiet. She had done her part, bringing the escort and the cop together. Melissa seemed to take comfort from the contact. She was beginning to open up.

“Then Kristina stopped talking about her sister. Became jumpy if Anna was mentioned. Something was not right. We thought the senator might be badly treating her. Kristina was too frightened to say.”

She shivered, and Terri squeezed her shoulder. “It's okay. Don't worry.”

The most redundant advice ever in times of trouble but well meant. Despite the fact that everything was far from okay and Melissa had plenty to worry about, the kind words appeared to calm her. She took a deep breath, then carried on. “Then the big man took her away.”

“Took Anna away?”

“Kristina.”

“Why would Clayton take Kristina?”

“Not Senator Clayton. Triple Zero big man.”

Grant felt a shiver run down his spine. “Frank Delaney?”

“Yes. The girls, they talk. They say Anna would do anything for her sister. That Kristina was being held to make Anna do something, against her … I not sure the words. Something Anna not want to do. Against her free will.”

The playground was almost completely dark now. The lights of the city sparkled beyond the baseball diamond. Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church loomed over them like a protective mother, offering help but providing no protection whatsoever. If it had, then one girl wouldn't be missing and her sister being coerced into doing something she didn't want to do.

The question was, what something?

The other question was, where would Delaney hold her?

He smiled at Terri and Melissa even though they probably couldn't see his face in the gloom. He nodded and stood up. The girls stood up too. He leaned forward and kissed Terri on the forehead. “Thanks.”

He turned to Melissa. “Thank you very much. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No. I think I need a change of business.”

“That couldn't hurt. You got relatives you can stay with?”

“South of the border. I be all right. Have friends. Savings.”

There was nothing else to say. He looked at Terri and could only just make out her face. He didn't like goodbyes, but this felt like goodbye. Things were going to get bloody. When that happened he needed his mind to be clear. You can't carry internal baggage into combat.

He nodded and walked away towards the Crown Vic parked opposite the playground. It was time for the local police to get involved.