The Son of John Devlin (34 page)

“Jack?”

“Hi,” he said.

“Jack, where are you?” she asked.

“I’m at a bar across the street from the rink,” he said. “You can send your troops home, Emily. The deal’s been done already.”

There was a stunned silence. “But you told Coakley—”

“The deal’s done,” he said. “The stuff is in the hands of secondary distributors already. It’s done. Gone. It’s too late, Emily.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “I’ll explain it to you. I’ll explain it all. Why don’t you send everybody home and then come over here. Christo’s across the street. We’ll talk.”

She hesitated. “But Jack …” She was thoroughly confused.

“If you don’t believe me, then keep them there, continue the stakeout,” he said. “They can do it without you. Come talk to me. Please, Em.”

He sat at the bar, waiting. He was about to go outside to see whether the FBI agents were sent home, but he did not want to see. He did not want to know that she mistrusted him.

A few minutes later she entered the bar. Her face was set in a grim expression. A scary expression, for it was chilly, removed. He hadn’t seen this before, and it frightened him.

“Let me ask a question,” she said.

He nodded.

“Was I set up?”

He looked down at the floor, at the sawdust that had gathered under the stool where he was seated.

He looked up and into her eyes.

“Yes,” he said.

She shut her eyes and drew a breath, her mouth open. She spoke in a whisper. “How could you,” she said, shaking her head slowly back and forth, her eyes still shut. “How
could
you.”

She turned and started out of the bar. He scrambled quickly to his feet and went after her, grasping her elbow in his right hand.

She shook free, yanking herself away from him.
And as she did so she wheeled and with fury in her eyes hissed: “Don’t you dare touch me!”

And she charged out into the cold night air and was gone.

S
he would not take his calls.

So deep was her anger and hurt that she could not bring herself to speak with him. He called and called and called, but the answering machine was her screen. Late in the night he got into his Jeep and drove to her house. She told him to go away, that she did not wish to talk.

He did not leave. He could not. He sat down on the back steps to her house, tugged his jacket tight at the neck, and waited. She looked through the window and saw him there and grew angrier.

Let him freeze, she thought, and went up to her bedroom. For a while she read. Or tried to. But concentration was difficult and sleep impossible. She channel-surfed for a while, thumbed through a stack of architectural magazines.

She listened for the sound of the Jeep’s engine starting but did not hear it, thought perhaps he had gone without her knowing it. She kept herself away from the kitchen, away from the back door. She did not want to look out, as the hours passed, to see whether he was still there. Rather, she wanted to, but fought the urge.

At four-thirty
A.M.
she showered, washed her hair, and
changed into clean clothes—snug-fitting brown corduroys and a black cashmere sweater. Her hair still shiny and wet, she went downstairs at ten minutes before five to make a pot of coffee. The light in the kitchen was still on.

She did not go to the back door to look out to see whether he was there, on the steps. She did not go to the window to see whether the Jeep was still there.

She went instead to the counter and the Krups coffee-maker. When she was alone, she made four cups, but now she ran tap water and filled the container to the eight-cup line. She carefully scooped the coffee into the gold cone and flicked the machine on. Soon it was percolating. She went to the cabinet and got out two mugs, setting them on the kitchen table. She got milk and half-and-half from the refrigerator and set them down on the table next to sugar and packets of Equal. She set spoons out next to the mugs.

The Krups container was filling. She took a deep breath, pushed her hair back, and walked to the back door. Her heart was pounding. She looked out into the darkness of the early morning and could see his jacket pulled up around his face, covering everything from his nose down. She saw him blink.

She opened the door and looked down at him. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Love some,” he said. He got up very slowly, and she could see he was trembling with cold, his teeth chattering. She held the door open while he came inside. She went into the TV room and retrieved a thick wool blanket, which she handed to him. He removed his parka and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. She said nothing as she went about pouring the coffee and taking her seat at the table.

He sipped the coffee, and it tasted delicious and warmed him as well. He put the mug down and looked across at her for a long moment. She sat impassively, waiting for his explanation.

“I want you to know that I had to do what I did,” he said. “I feel I had no choice. I also want you to know that I love you very much and I want us to be together.”

She shut her eyes and sat quite still. His words had a calming, soothing effect on her.

He told her everything. He told her his entire story from the start. He explained that he made a fundamental decision at the beginning that in order to coax them out into the open he would have to put together a deal that was real; not a sting that looked real, but an authentic deal; a deal from which they would make money; a deal that would result in the distribution of narcotics. He explained that he had considered a sting operation, one where he would work in concert with the D.A.’s office or the Justice Department. And he had rejected those thoughts for fear that the operation would be leaked and thus compromised. He explained how he had worked with Coakley, how Coakley had in turn recruited Young; how Coakley had fed information through his client, Mr. Jones; how he himself had made contact with a man who stole a morphine shipment.

She listened carefully all the way through. And then, at the end, he asked for her understanding and her forgiveness and her love, and she did not hesitate to give him all three.

Thomas Kennedy’s home in West Roxbury—a basic Cape Cod–style structure that had been added on to twice through the years—was set back up on the hill near
St. Theresa’s School. It was not an ostentatious home, but it was comfortable and certainly the most attractive house in an area of attractive homes. The work, through the years, had been done gradually, so that at no time would anyone have wondered how a police department official could afford such a home. In fact, the reality was that Kennedy was among the highest paid city officials and had been for some time. Kennedy’s yard was ringed with a five-foot cedar fence. On this sunny December morning, Kennedy sat in his family room looking out over the yard. He watched as two squirrels scampered down a maple tree, searching the frozen ground for food.

Kennedy was dressed in police uniform pants and a white uniform shirt open at the collar. His hair was combed straight back, he was freshly shaved, and when he stood at his full height he looked like the consummate police commander. He looked out over the frozen grass and sighed. He was tired. He was tired of Boston and of the department; tired of always having to be so very careful, tired of having to cover his tracks at every turn; tired of appearing to be one thing and in reality being something quite different. Deceit was an arduous business.

But Kennedy knew he could not slack off now, for there was still work to be done. He thought of the three distributors waiting in three different locations. He was insulated from them. None of the three knew him, could in any way connect him to the arrangement. They sat within two miles of each other, each prepared to receive his share of morphine. Each was required to make a deposit—a wire transfer of funds—into a specified account at the Bank of Boston.

The first deposit went into the Law Enforcement Education Association account, the second to the Law Enforcement Education Foundation, and the third to the Law Enforcement Strategies Council.

These deposits—for $315,000, for $366,000 and for $317,000—were substantial, though hardly amounts that would attract unwarranted attention. The accounts, after all, had been in existence for some years, and millions had passed through each.

The phone in Kennedy’s kitchen rang loudly, startling him. He picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Kennedy, Helen Spellman calling. You had asked for confirmation on deposits expected this morning. I can confirm the three deposits expected for a total of $998,000. Will there be anything else?”

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s all at the moment.”

And he hung up.

They pulled into the garage of the State Street Bank building and parked, rode the elevator to the twelfth floor, and walked to Felix Dexter’s office.

“Morning,” Dexter said, getting up from his desk and coming forward to shake Jack’s hand. Jack introduced Emily.

Dexter was clearly excited by the challenge that lay ahead; he turned and indicated the three computer screens on his desk and an extension. “We’re ready,” he said. “As soon as the funds are deposited, we’ll know it. Then strap yourself in. We’ll see where it all goes.”

One of Dexter’s assistants said that coffee was available in the conference room down the hall. Jack and
Emily went in, and stood by a window that offered a view of the Southeast Expressway, Harbor Towers, a portion of Boston Harbor, and the airport. Jack stood in silence sipping coffee and looking outside. Emily turned away from the window and paced around the room, circling the long mahogany table with a dozen padded chairs. Along one long wall were nautical prints. The other wall consisted of large windows offering a view of Harbor Towers and the water.

Emily walked to the window and looked out over the airport, where a British Airways 747 was gliding slowly in for a landing. “So by the end of the day, you’ll either have him or you won’t,” she said.

She walked back to the window and stood by him. “I mean, if this works, then, glorious. But if it doesn’t, then what have you got? Nothing. Worse than nothing, really, because you’ve actually gone out and without notification or authorization conducted a narcotics deal. Initiated, orchestrated, and completed a narcotics deal, and there are plenty of federal prosecutors who would haul you into court and on the basis of what you did convict you of trafficking. It could be portrayed as an outlaw scheme, Jack, you understand that?”

“I do,” he said. “Yes.”

But even as he said it he appeared calm and self-possessed. She was taken by this.

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

He squinted, considering this. “I’m very afraid,” he replied. “I am very afraid that I might not know the truth.” And that was true. That was the only thing he feared—failing to find the truth.

She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it.
Then she slipped her arm under his and around his waist and pulled herself close to him as they looked out the window together.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said.

Then Dexter’s assistant was at the door. “You’d better come,” she said, and they hurried down the hallway to Dexter’s office.

He was seated behind his desk, glancing from one screen to the next, smiling. “We have ignition,” he said. “It’s moving.”

“All of it?” Jack asked, stepping in behind Dexter so he could see the screens.

“Every dime. Every penny.” Dexter hit several keys on one machine, then slid over to the keyboard beside it.

“Okay,” he said, his eyes riveted to the screen. “Everything has moved out to other accounts—mostly, it appears here, money market accounts. Looks like it’s been broken into nine lots of about a hundred grand each and shipped off to seven different banks, including Chase, Citibank, B of A, First Chicago, Nations, Banc One, and Rocky Mountain. And all of these accounts, hold on … are some form of this Law Enforcement Education thing. All are named that way or something close to it. We can print out all the names … in fact, let me do that now while I have them here.”

Dexter hit print and a list of banks, account numbers, and amounts and times of deposits was printed.

“So what happens if this is it?” Dexter asked. “If this is the destination?”

“Not good,” Jack said.

Dexter sat back in his seat and watched the screen. “You see that number there?” he asked, pointing to the
screen displaying the number $107,000. “That’s how much has been added to the Chase account at the moment. See below? Each account contains two hundred dollars over that. So these accounts are shells. They exist purely to hold something for some short term. Somebody spent real money to open these accounts for some odd purpose.”

“So how can you tell if any of the money moves again?” Emily asked.

“We’re looking at live, real-time information here,” Dexter replied. “If someone deposits or withdraws a dollar into or out of any of these accounts it will show instantly on the screen.”

“So we watch to see whether the numbers change?” Jack asked.

“Exactly.”

But as they sat there, drinking coffee and fidgeting, the numbers did not change.

They sat for an hour as the level of tension in the room increased.

“Jesus, I don’t know if—” Dexter began, but Emily interrupted.

“There!” she said. “The last number changed.”

“Back to two hundred bucks,” Dexter said. “Everything’s been moved out of that account.”

“And the one above,” Jack said.

“And the one above that,” Emily said.

They watched as the numbers on the screen all reverted to two-hundred-dollar balances for the nine accounts.

“It takes a minute to track,” Dexter said. “We’re locked on to their system. It takes our system a minute to adjust. It’s like flying an F-18 and following someone else in an F-18. You’re going seventeen hundred miles an
hour and you can easily stay with him, but when he changes course it takes you a second to react. That’s all the delay is.”

“And there’s no way the other system can detect that it’s being followed?” Jack asked.