Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (9 page)

“I love what you've done with the place. It kind of reminds you of home, doesn't it?”

Grant wasn't joking. He remembered the first time he'd arrested Freddy Sullivan, dragging him out of his mother's house by the scruff of his neck. The house was bigger but no less sparsely furnished. At least it had a carpet, even if your feet did stick to it on your way out.

“This ain't no better than your mum's place back at Ravenscliffe. Only without the home cooking. What the fuck you follow Freddy over here for?”

“You ever tasted Ma's cookin'?”

“Can't say as I have.”

“Lucky you.”

“Point taken. But why Freddy? You musta known he'd get you in trouble sooner or later.”

“He's my brother. Looks out for me.”

“Yeah, well. That's why I'm here.”

Grant had been trying to talk without breathing, but the smell was getting to him now. He glanced at the window overlooking the parking lot. “Mind if we let some air in? Forgot my oxygen mask.”

He walked to the window and paused with one hand under the sash.

Sullivan tensed. The rifle quivered. “Don't do nothin' stupid, constable.”

Grant flicked his eyes towards the TV on the floor. The parking lot outside Parkway Auto Repair hovered on the screen, then the news crew replayed shots of Grant in his orange jacket, arms held out like Jesus on the cross. Then there were images of black-clad cops with rifles and shotguns lined up across the hoods of half a dozen police cars. “I think you got stupid covered, Sean.”

He yanked the window all the way open and waved through the gap. Live footage suddenly snapped him back on TV. The man in the orange jacket waved out of the window. The scene intercut with shots of the SWAT officers training their weapons on the window. Grant gave a thumbs-up sign and waved them back. The rifles appeared to relax, sagging on flexed wrists across the vehicle hoods.

Grant stood with his back to the window. He didn't want some sniper lining up a shot if Sullivan came into view. This was a situation that could easily get out of hand. “Polite thing would be to offer me a drink.”

He glanced at the grease-encrusted cooker. “Just nothing you need to make on that.”

Sullivan let the rifle hang from his arms but still roughly in Grant's direction. Whatever fight he had displayed when the police arrived evaporated now. Having someone from back home to talk to appeared to help. That was good. He looked at the Yorkshire copper but didn't smile. This wasn't a smiling situation. “Polite thing ain't to disparage a man's home.”

“I'm not disparaging it, Sean. I'm protecting my life.”

Sullivan raised the rifle. “You think?”

“You're not going to shoot me over a greasy cooker, are you? Not with the marines outside waiting to storm the place.”

“I didn't do nothin'.”

“That's a double negative. Means you did something.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You shot a traffic light.”

“Weren't aiming for it.”

“You'd better keep that thing aimed at me then. Safest place for me to stand.”

The helicopters throbbed in the distance. A strengthening breeze began to whistle through the window and gaps in the rear door. The floorboards creaked as Grant shifted the weight from his left leg to his right. Standing for a long time was an art. He'd learned it doing overnight guard duty in the army. Even typists had to pull their share of guard duty. He glanced around the room, noting the one thing that was missing. “You know, if you're gonna pull this armed siege shit, keep 'em at bay while you negotiate for a million dollars and a car to the airport. You really shouldn't forget the hostage.”

“Hostage?”

“The only reason they didn't shoot your ass right at the beginning.”

Sullivan's finger tightened on the trigger. “Got one now, though, don't I?”

“What you've got so far is damage to a traffic light. That'll get you more jail time than shooting me. This is Boston. Place is overrun with Micks. They'd be glad to shoot me themselves. BPD don't give a shit. They aren't going to negotiate with you to let me go.”

“They're calling you the Resurrection Man.”

Grant was confused. “The BPD?”

“The news.”

They both looked at the TV. The news had gone back to the studio, where a woman with more makeup than Liberace smiled across the desk at a man so tanned he looked like he'd been creosoted. He grinned back at the woman. Insincerity dripped from the screen. In the background they replayed footage of Grant being wheeled to the ambulance at E-13, his orange jacket fizzing off the screen. Then they showed him walking across the parking lot towards the lone sniper, his arms held out like Jesus on the cross. The woman's voice was sickly sweet. The words
resurrection man
featured several times, driving home the point.

Sullivan's shoulders sagged. The strain finally showed on his face. He moved to put the rifle down on the settee, but Grant held a hand up to stop him. “Better keep hold of that for now.”

He jerked a thumb at the TV. “Don't want them catching you with your pants down and the cavalry charging in before we get this sorted out.”

Sullivan kept hold of the rifle, but there was no threat left. He indicated the refrigerator with his eyes. “Got cold beer if you'd like.”

“Now you're talking. I'd love a cold beer.”

Sullivan walked to the kitchen area. Grant stayed where he was, blocking the window with his back. The orange windcheater filled the TV screen. The Resurrection Man. Sullivan came back with two cans of light beer. He tugged the ring pull, and the friendly
pffft
noise punctured the tension. He handed one to the Yorkshire policeman.

Grant tilted his head and took a deep swig. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. The beer was crap, but it was cold and wet. After the sandstorm outside, cold and wet was good enough. He held the can in one hand and rolled it gently across his forehead. Condensation cooled his brow. After a few seconds he took another drink, smaller this time, then he put added friendliness in his voice. “Now then. What was Freddy up to, got us into this mess?”

fourteen

They were on
their
third beer each by the time Grant decided that Sullivan had no idea what his big brother had been up to. It took that long because there were no straight answers in the Sullivan family. They had never answered a direct question back in Bradford, so why should Grant expect it to change just because they'd relocated to Boston, Massachusetts?

Sullivan took a sip from his can, making it last. The fridge was empty. “I'd be more worried about watching your back than what Freddy was up to.”

Grant subconsciously glanced behind him out the window. His orange jacket still blocked the view from outside. He could almost feel the dozen or so rifles trained on his back. “Come on, Sean. You must have had some idea.”

“Nope. He might have been a bad lad, but he kept his baby brother out of it.” Moisture formed in Sullivan's eyes at the memory of the brother he would never see again. Family ties were strong in the criminal fraternity. If you were pond life, you stuck together to protect your lily pad. Bottom feeders understood the importance of family more acutely than those who were better off. It was often the only help they had. It appeared that Freddy Sullivan was looking out for his little brother right to the end.

Officer Grant. Promise you'll protect my brother. He's nowt to do with this.

“He said he was just the importer.”

“Then I guess he was just the importer.”

“But importing what? My first choice is drugs. It's what he's got form for.”

Sullivan shook his head. “He ain't got no shame, I give you that. But he was clean from that business years ago. Anyway, they got more drugs than you can shake a stick at in America. Why'd they want to import some from England?”

“What then?”

“Beats me, officer.”

“He said, ‘This shit ain't my fault.'”

“Then it ain't.”

“But what shit?”

“Don't know.”

“Best guess—you've been around him long enough. What kind of stuff did he mess with?”

Sullivan took another sip. This last beer was going to last an eternity. “He liked guns and blowing shit up.”

“Blowing shit up?”

“Yeah. Bang, bang, boom, boom.”

Grant shifted the weight from one leg to the other. It had been a long time since he'd last done guard duty. Standing for a long time was beginning to make his back ache and his legs stiffen. The pain from the explosion settled in again. “He wasn't doing bank robberies?”

“No, more like target practice. He had some fancy putty stuff. He liked setting it off by shooting at it in the woods over by the pond.”

“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.”

“He weren't never in the IRA.”

“Figure of speech.”

Grant thought about the collection jar in Flanagan's. The continued fundraising even though the conflict was over. Maybe some of the arms they had supplied were coming back into the country. That would need somebody with Irish connections and a UK passport. Perhaps it didn't stop at exploding putty and firearms. Perhaps it extended to bar fights and hand grenades. “Who was he hanging with these days?”

“Oh, no. I'm not getting into that.”

“What d'you mean?”

“I mean that who he was hanging with got him killed. I'm having nothing to do with 'em.”

“Not your choice anymore.”

They both sipped beer in unison, then stared at each other. A moment of clarity entered the room, and for the first time they appeared to be on the same page. It was Sean Sullivan who voiced what Grant had been thinking, though.

“Did you ever wonder how come you was in the front interview room?”

Grant played devil's advocate. “Busy night in the cells.”

“It was a busy night in the cells because a bunch of Irishmen started a bar fight and torched a building.”

“So?”

“So. You think that was a coincidence? These people can organize anything. They got men would cap their own mothers, given the word. So what's a few bruises and a torched building if it gets Freddy where they want him?”

Just what Grant had been wondering but couldn't quite believe. “Pity about Flanagan's. Served a nice pint.”

“It wasn't Flanagan's. Fight started there. They aren't going to torch their own place. 'Twas the empty place across the street. Result was the same. Flood the police station with prisoners. Force you into the front room. Boom, boom.”

Grant felt a shiver run down his spine. The thought of being manipulated made him angry. The thought that somebody was powerful enough to pull the strings gave him pause. This was bigger than the burglary at Patel's he'd come to interview Freddy Sullivan about. You didn't get killed because of some cigarettes and a few quid from the corner shop.

Sullivan watched the Yorkshire copper's face. “I'd be more worried about watching your back if I was you.”

“That's the second time you've said that.”

“Glad to see you can still count.”

“To say Freddy kept you out of his shit, you're a cheeky little fuck.”

“Watch your back. You see
The Departed
?”

“I prefer
Dirty Harry
.”

“More clear-cut. I can understand that. But you've seen it, right?”

Grant knew what Sullivan was getting at. “You think I've got a rat in my crew?”

“Jack Nicholson channeling his inner Whitey Bulger. Yeah. But not a rat in his crew. The other rat.”

“Matt Damon?” Grant didn't believe it. That sort of stuff only happened in movies and crime fiction. In real life nobody got bribed and most cops just wanted to catch bad guys. Some got lazy and some weren't as committed to fighting the good fight, but none of them were bent. Not in the real world. Not in Yorkshire.

But he wasn't in Yorkshire.

Sullivan watched realization dawn on Grant's face. “See?”

Grant asked the obvious question. “Who?”

“I have no fuckin' clue. I just know these people have fingers in everything.”

Grant squared his shoulders. “Like the boy with his finger in the dyke.”

“Not exactly.”

“Yes, exactly. Lots of holes. Lots of fingers. Well, I'm going to cut one of them off. Then the dyke'll come tumbling down.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Well, know this. They killed Freddy 'cause of what he knew. They got to figure he told you. Like I said. Watch your back.”

The TV news played in the background, but Grant tuned the commentary out. He saw his own back filling the screen as if to emphasize Sullivan's words. Across the parking lot a dozen rifles took aim. The news choppers hovered. The zoom lenses remained focused on the window above Parkway Auto Repair.

Grant finished the last of his beer and crushed the can in one hand. “Same goes for you. Get you in a cell—who watches your back?”

Sullivan drained his can and dropped it on the floor. Both hands tightened around the rifle. It wasn't sagging towards the floor any more; it was pointed square at Grant's chest. “No cell for me. The airport and outta the country. I got a hostage. Remember.”

“The Resurrection Man. Remember?”

Grant dropped the crushed can. It bounced off his foot and scuttled across the floorboards. Sullivan couldn't help but watch it out of the corner of his eye. Grant took half a pace to his right. The orange jacket slid to one side on the TV screen. In the background was a shadowy figure pointing a rifle at the unarmed man. Grant raised his arms out to his sides, like Jesus on the cross. The TV caught that too.

“Sean. Don't do anything stupid now. I ain't no traffic light.”

“I lied. I did aim for that damn blinker.”

“Good shot, then. Congratulations. Still only criminal damage, though.”

“Safest thing for you, officer, is to come on the plane with me.”

“Don't think they want me back home just yet.”

“Snake Pass. Right. You kicked some serious arse there, didn't you?”

“Wasn't my intention.”

“Things don't always work out the way we hope, do they?”

The helicopters' throbbing rotors seemed a thousand miles away. The wind grew stronger. It whistled through the gap in the back door and ruffled the curtains behind Grant. He sidled another half step to his right. The TV cameras zoomed in. The orange-clad figure stood like the crucifixion. The man with the rifle tightened his grip. You could see it right there on TV. Across the nation. Live.

Grant kept any confrontation out of his voice. “Most crooks only shoot at cops because they know the cops are going to shoot at them. That's my theory anyway.”

“Your point is?”

“I hate guns. Never carry one.”

“Thought you was in the army?”

“I was a typist. Deadly with a four-letter word. Not a gun.”

“Good for you.”

“You know I'm not armed.”

The silence and swishing curtains faded as the helicopter noise swelled. They weren't coming closer; it was just his senses becoming more finely tuned as action approached. It was always that way for Grant. He didn't know if it was working for Sullivan.

“I ain't going to shoot you.”

Grant stood very still, his arms as solid as the electricity pylons out back. “That's not the way it looks on TV.”

Sullivan glanced at the portable television on the floor. He appeared shocked to see himself on the breaking newsfeed. Grant watched him realize what a dangerous position he was in. That was the plan. Next stage was to talk him into putting the rifle down and taking a walk in the dust together outside. Somebody else had other plans.

Three shots rang out almost simultaneously.

Sullivan's chest exploded out of his back, taking six ribs and a section of spine with it. The look of surprise on his face would have been comical if it weren't so tragic. Two brothers down in less than twenty-four hours. The fourth shot was unnecessary and blasted him backwards over the settee. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Grant lowered his arms.

The ringing in his ears dulled the noise of the helicopters. There was no smell of cordite to accompany the destruction. No shot had been fired in the apartment that was really a Pekinese. No man ever admitted to having less than a six-inch dick. No man ever wanted to admit being stupid. Sullivan had paid the price for his vanity.

Grant wondered if he'd been stupid too.

I'd be more worried about watching your back if I was you.

He turned and looked out of the window. Twelve rifles pointed in through the opening. Twelve men in black knelt behind the patrol cars parked in the dusty turn-in across VFW Parkway. One man stood out from the crowd. A hulking figure looking straight at the man in the orange jacket.

Sam Kincaid locked eyes with Grant and nodded.

Grant didn't nod back.