Lamentation (24 page)

As much as none of us wanted to, we clicked on every image, thoroughly examining them, moving from victim to victim, and feeling horrified all over again. All I could think of was Aiden, who was only a few years younger than these boys, and all the fathers who had no idea what was being done to their sons. As a parent, you strive to protect your kid, keep him from harm’s way. It’s instinctual, primal. If Chris was right and this was Lombardi, he’d used his charity as a cover to earn the trust of desperate parents, only to pick off their children when they were most vulnerable—which made him the worst kind of monster.

“There’s nothing we can use here,” Fisher said.

Sadly, I feared he was right.

Until we clicked on the last folder. A partial view of a face. Slightly out of focus, but maybe …

“Is it him?” Charlie asked.

We all leaned in and stared hard.

“That’s Gerry Lombardi,” Fisher said.

“I don’t know,” said Charlie.

“Try the next one,” I said.

Another partial view of the man’s face. Perhaps a bit more … We clicked through the rest. Nothing. Except the shame of frightened little boys.

“Go back,” Fisher said. “That one there.” He pointed at the screen. “That’s Gerry Lombardi.”

“It sure does look like him,” Charlie said.

I stared at the old man in the picture. I had Charlie zoom in, blow up, but the more we tried to manipulate the photos, the blurrier they became, until they morphed into shapeless, unrecognizable blobs. There could be no definitive answer. My best tool was my gut.

“Jay? What do you think?”

“I think it’s him.” I pointed at the face. “The bushy gray eyebrows. The ratty buck teeth. Even in profile …” I moved my finger down the image. “Look there. The way he’s humped over like that.” Mr. Lombardi’s posture was unique and beyond abysmal, like a sloth
with scoliosis. I felt the rage surge. I thought of that day at the Little People’s Playground. Lombardi didn’t have any grandkids with him. Didn’t strike me as odd at the time. He’d simply been strolling the grounds, trolling for new victims. All that bullshit about beauty and the joy of laughing little boys? Made me sick. Right out in the open. His MO was easy to deduce. I recalled his sympathetic pitch for me to enroll Aiden in UpStart, like he was only there to help. Taking advantage of parents, stealing childhoods. Chris had been right. Who would do a damn thing about it?

“Should we turn the disc over to the police?” Charlie asked.

Fisher groaned.

“What?” Charlie said. “I thought you agreed it was him?”

“It
is
him. I took gym with that dirty old pervert. You could see the way he looked at you when you were changing or in the shower. That’s Gerry Lombardi.” Fisher turned to me. “But all you have is that disc? Not the original hard drive?”

“Chris said Pete had the hard drive.”

“And Pete’s dead.” Fisher shook his head. “I can see why your brother was trying to get more evidence. That disc alone won’t cut it. There’s no digital coding, no electronic thumbprint telling us where the photos originally came from. You can’t connect it to anyone. I mean, unless some kid comes forward. Has anyone ever accused Mr. Lombardi of something like this?”

“Not that I know of,” I said.

“Won’t stick,” said Fisher, shaking his head. “Couple grainy profiles? No way. That disc is useless.”

“But the disc was burned off a Lombardi Construction hard drive,” Charlie said. “Surely, that proves something.”

“That disc could’ve been made in China for all we can prove.”

“Turn it off,” I told Charlie. I couldn’t stomach those pictures any longer.

I walked out to the living room, Fisher and Charlie tagging behind. I fell into the floral print couch, wrapping my head in my hands.

“Brought your brother to the station?” Fisher asked.

“Yeah.”

“What are they going to do with him?”

“Talk to him, I guess. He didn’t kill Pete, I know that.”

Fisher looked deeply concerned.

“What is it?” Charlie asked.

“Listen, guys, it doesn’t matter if he killed Pete Naginis. They’ll say he did. Jay, this real estate deal, this ski resort and condos, we’re talking tens of millions. And Michael Lombardi’s political career? If there is any hint their father is involved in something like this—”

“You said those pictures don’t prove anything,” said Charlie.

“You think the Lombardis are taking that chance? You don’t hire the Commanderoes as your security if your goal is to play nice. Somebody killed Pete.”

“Could’ve been a trick turned bad,” I said.

“Sure. Or it could’ve been the Commanderoes.”

“What do you propose we do?”

“I’d get down to the station and talk to Turley and Pat. Put the cards on the table.”

“You said that we couldn’t use that disc. I’m supposed to walk into the precinct and accuse Adam and Michael Lombardi, Ashton’s favorite sons, of murder. With no evidence? They’ll lock me up with my brother.”

“The disc
is
useless,” Fisher said. “But they don’t know that. Or else they wouldn’t have been hunting your brother so hard. He’s easily disposed of. You gotta come up with a plan of action. Worst thing that could happen right now is they cut your brother loose. Once he’s out of that jail cell and back on the street, he’s an open target, a sitting duck.”

“What if Adam plants another prisoner to shiv him or something?” Charlie said, sounding worried.

“This is Ashton, Charlie, not NYC,” said Fisher. “You’ve watched too many cop shows.”

“Besides,” I said, “I made Turley promise no one but the police would be allowed near him.”

“Oh, Rob Turley promised?” Fisher scoffed. “Never trust a cop.”

“Fine,” said Charlie, his feelings obviously hurt. “Then maybe they ship him down to Concord.”

“Why would they ship him down to Concord?” Fisher snapped. “Don’t be stupid. You gotta think, Charlie. Concord has no jurisdiction here.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Charlie, “then why would they send a big city detective up to Ashton to investigate?”

“What big city detective?” asked Fisher.

“Cop from Concord,” I said. “Was up earlier in the week, headed back to the city.”

“They sent a detective all the way up from Concord? You never told me that.”

“Why would I tell you, Fisher? We’ve hung out twice in ten years. This is the most you’ve talked to me since I felt up Gina Rosinski in high school.”

Fisher’s eyes narrowed to slits. He quickly relaxed. Nice to see he was finally letting it go.

“Fair enough,” he said. “But it’s weird they’d put a Concord detective on the case. What I’m trying to understand is, why?”

“We thought so too,” said Charlie.

“Figured the Lombardis have some pull,” I said. “Especially Michael.”

“Pull? Sure. He’s a state senator. But he can’t just pick up the phone and have the cops working for him. Doesn’t work like that. And why Concord?”

“This McGreevy’s a real bulldog too,” I said.

Fisher’s face drained of all color.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Did you say McGreevy? Wallace McGreevy?”

“Yeah. Actually, Wallace—”

“—David John McGreevy. Concord detective.”

Charlie and I exchanged a glance.

“How’d you know that?” I said. “We never told you.”

“And you’re sure that was his name?” Fisher asked.

“Yes. I saw the badge. The initials anyway—D. J. When he came up with Turley and Pat after someone broke into my apartment. I remember thinking the name was odd. Y’know, because of the saying about
not trusting a man with two first names. Real abrasive asshole too. Why? You know him?”

“Not personally.”

“What then? You’ve heard of him? Is there something wrong with the guy?”

“Only if you think there’s something wrong with a dead man investigating crimes. I don’t know how to tell you guys this. But Detective Wallace David John McGreevy died two weeks ago.”

Back in Charlie’s office, huddled around the computer, Fisher pulled up an article from the
Concord Monitor
archives that ran two weeks earlier.

Charlie read aloud over my shoulder.

“‘The body of Detective Wallace David John McGreevy was found in his home early Sunday morning, the victim of a gastrointestinal rupture.’ Ouch.”

“I only knew about it,” Fisher said, “because my company holds the life insurance policy on the guy. Plus, it’s not a name you forget.”

“So you think someone is impersonating a dead cop?”

“Someone’s walking around with his badge, ain’t he?” Fisher gestured to a block of text at the bottom of the screen. “Read the last paragraph, Charlie.”

“‘There appears to have been no signs of forced entry, although the police are not ruling out foul play.’” Charlie waited. “Huh? Foul play?”

“That’s the thing,” said Fisher, “and why I remember the case. Dude suffered internal hemorrhaging. They found traces of glass in his stomach.”

“Glass?”

“Like someone had shaved a light bulb, the ME said, put it in his cornflakes or coffee, perforated his abdominal wall—fucker bled out. Nobody can prove it wasn’t an accident. As if anyone eats glass by mistake. But he wasn’t married. No girlfriend, no kids, lived alone. As a cop, you always make enemies, but with no motive or suspects, we’ll probably have to pay out on the policy. Sister is the beneficiary. Lives in Kansas. Hadn’t spoken to her brother in twenty-five years. Was shocked when
we called her. Piddly policy. Fifty grand. Still, you don’t forget circumstances like that.”

“You can’t just walk into the police department with a fake badge,” Charlie said. “Can you?”

“In Ashton?” I said. “Pat Sumner is about a week from retirement. I don’t think that kid Ramon speaks more than ten words of English. Otis? Turley? Really?”

We all looked at each other, thinking the same thing.

I checked my cell. No service. “Where’s your landline, Charlie?”

He pointed toward the kitchen. I ran through the living room and found the cordless on the stove, and hurriedly punched in the police station’s number, which I knew by heart, having called it so many times over the years.

It rang a long while, until Claire finally answered.

“Oh, hi, Jay.”

“Claire, I need to talk to Turley. Where is he?”

“Um …” Pause. “He and Pat just walked outside with your brother.”

“What are they doing outside?”

She sighed heavily, like you do right before delivering unwelcomed news. “I guess they want him down in Concord. I’m sorry, Jay. That detective came back up for him. Remember him? McGreevy?”

“Claire, you have to stop them. You hear me? Do not let him take Chris!”

“Um, I think you need to talk to Pat or Turley.”

“There’s no time! Please!”

“Oh, wait. Here he is, Jay.”

The phone was set down on the other end, and I could hear the muffled chatter of joking voices in the background. It felt like an eternity before Turley finally picked up, though it had probably been only a few seconds.

“Oh, hey, Jay. Was about to call you. McGreevy is taking your brother down to Concord. But don’t worry. He hasn’t been charged with—”

“Listen to me, Turley. Listen to me carefully. You have to stop them. You hear me? Do not let McGreevy leave with my brother.”

“Calm down, Jay.”

“Do not let them leave! Stop them!”

“I can’t do that, Jay.”

“He’s not a real cop.”

“What?”

“McGreevy is dead. That guy isn’t McGreevy!”

“Huh? Jay, you’re not making any—”

“I’m on the way. I’ll explain everything when I get there. Do not let them leave!”

“I can’t do that,” he said. “I mean, they … they’re already gone.”

“What! When?”

“Just now. When I walked inside.”

“When, exactly?”

“Literally, less than a minute ago. But I’m telling you—”

I dropped the receiver and took off out the door, Charlie running after me. I hurdled down the front steps into the freshly settled night, a light snow beginning to fall, big soft balls floating like tufts of eiderdown. I patted my pockets for my truck keys.

“What are you gonna do?” Charlie asked.

I climbed into my Chevy. “Find them.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. You stay here.” I didn’t know how this was going to play out, and I didn’t want to involve Charlie any more than I already had. I jabbed the key in the ignition and fired my engine. “I’ll call you.”

“There’s two ways out of town, Jay.”

“They’re going to Concord.”

“How do you know?”

He was right. McGreevy was a Concord cop. Only this wasn’t the real McGreevy. They’d catch the Turnpike, either south to Concord or north to Canada, it was a crapshoot, and I couldn’t cover both on my own.

“I’ll take the Turnpike north,” Charlie said. “Just in case.”

“Okay,” I said. “Call me if you see them.”

“Go! We’ve got to catch them before the turnoff to the Interstate. Once they hit the 93, we don’t stand a chance.”

I peeled out of Charlie’s driveway, making for Camel’s Back and Axel Rod Road. The country skies grew darker. I hooked a hard left, tires squealing as I swerved onto Orchard Drive, back end fishtailing all over the goddamn place.

I panned up and down the long street. If they were going south, they’d have to take Orchard. It was the most direct shot to the Turnpike. Nothing. Even if they were going north, they’d still have to access Orchard eventually. I couldn’t have missed them. There weren’t any streetlights in the cuts, but I should’ve at least been able to make out tail lights in the distance. I couldn’t see a damn thing. They wouldn’t be leisurely sightseeing through the center of town; they’d be on the move. They had to be around here somewhere. If you wanted out of Ashton, the Turnpike was your only option. Unless you took Christy Lane to Ragged Pass, and tried to go over the summit. But who would do that? After Lamentation Bridge and Echo Lake, there was nothing but dead-end cul-de-sacs and quaint neighborhoods in the foothills. And no one went farther than that. The peak itself was a deathtrap, especially in the winter. That high up, Lamentation Mountain’s dirt roads carved through crags and gullies, meandering for miles, growing narrower and narrower, more hazardous by the minute. You could disappear in its shadows forever, and no one would even know you were missing …