Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

He indicated two chairs in front of his desk. Grant sat in the nearest. Kincaid closed the door and sat in the other. The senior detective displayed his knowledge of tact and diplomacy by waiting to see what the captain had to say before defending himself. Grant was more of an attack is the best form of defence kind of fella.

  “I didn’t do anything that wasn’t in the best interests of the victim and preserving the peace.”

  Kincaid let out a sigh. Captain Hoyt ignored his home-grown detective and concentrated on the overseas thorn in his side.

  “Which victim is that?”

  Grant knew which victim was making waves but chose an all-out attack.

  “Well, since you’re asking. The mother who almost lost her son. The boy who almost lost his life. And the rich bastard who got six holes blasted in his front wall aimed at a passenger he won’t even admit was there.”

  Hoyt settled in his chair and laid both hands flat on the desk.

  “Let’s take them in order, why don’t we? But first. Who said you were cleared for night duty in Boston?”

  Grant sat up straight and flexed his shoulders. “I didn’t see anything in my contract says I can only workday shifts.”

  Hoyt leaned forward, resting on his elbows. “Your contract doesn’t say much of anything since the order to employ you came from somewhere on high.”

  “Then I can work the night shift.”

  Hoyt turned to Kincaid. “You know he’s not qualified. What were you thinking?”

  Kincaid sprang to Grant’s defence as much as his own. “He’s an experienced cop. Local procedures might be a bit rusty, but he knows how to get the job done.”

  “Not in my district he doesn’t.”

  “It was working Jamaica Plain got him hired in the first place, Captain.”

  “It was blowing the roof off the Gregory Hynes that got him hired.”

  Grant broke in. “I didn’t blow it off.”

  Hoyt turned a steely gaze on Grant “When I’m talking to you, I’ll be looking at you.” Then turned back to Kincaid. “Bottom line is, you were night detective. Don’t go changing shifts with somebody short in service.”

  Kincaid nodded his understanding without voicing acceptance. Hoyt turned his attention back to Grant.

  “Right. Your victims list.”

  Grant settled into his chair and waited. Hoyt leaned forward in his.

  “The mother made a missing person report. That’s a uniform patrol matter. Not the night detective.”

  Grant spoke as if reminiscing. “You know, back in Yorkshire, the police have a list of priorities. Protect life and property. Prevent crime. Detect and prosecute. Protecting life. That was the one I used last night. Unless the priorities are different in Boston.”

  Hoyt deflected the criticism. “Still a uniform detail. Second. The missing boy. House search two districts away. Taking a marked unit off our strength for the best part of three hours.”

  Grant shrugged. “Same answer.”

  “Wrong. Situation like that you get D4 to search the address.”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  “They were closer.”

  “We were faster. Straight there. No time wasting.”

  Hoyt tapped his desk with one finger. “And another exploding building.”

  “I didn’t explode that one either.”

  “You forced the father’s hand. Given more time and a sympathetic ear, we might have been able to talk him around.”

  “He was in a basement full of books and petrol. He was done talking.”

  Hoyt ignored Grant’s defence and moved on. “Third. Beacon Hill.”

  Grant noted that Captain Hoyt didn’t mention the rich bastard who’d had his wall shot up but they both knew who they were talking about. It was time to sit back and let the captain get it off his chest again. Hoyt’s voice turned up a notch.

  “The most exclusive address in Boston. And another district away. That makes three borders. Any further, you’d have been back in England.”

  Hoyt’s cool was beginning to slip. Grant knew that sarcasm was the first step towards all-out attack. Captain Hoyt didn’t look like he had the chops for an all-out attack. Sarcasm was as tough as this was going to get. Grant got his defence in early.

  “I was nearest.”

  “Because you were out of E13 in the first place.”

  Grant shook his head. “Reason doesn’t matter. The flag went up. I responded.”

  “By antagonising one of the most powerful men in the state.”

  “By refusing to leave until the scene was secure.”

  “By telling Daniel Hunt to get inside and shut the door.”

  “It was safer inside.”

  “It was safe outside. I heard that the shooter had already left.”

  “I had to make sure. You’d be bollocking me for something else if Hunt had got nailed on the front step.”

  “Bollocking?”

  “Call it what you like. You didn’t call me here for tea and biscuits.”

  Hoyt raised his voice another notch. “You disrespected Boston royalty.”

  “I protected life and property.” Grant thought about the six holes blasted into the wall. “I was too late for the property.”

  “He didn’t want you there.”

  Grant latched onto the Boston royalty phrase. The second time it had been used when describing Beacon Hill. He went into reminiscing mode again.

  “Royalty back in England. The Queen, specifically. Apparently if you have an audience with the Queen, you’re not supposed to touch her. Bad form. But if somebody shot at her wall, then I’d be perfectly entitled to push her out the way. Daniel Hunt isn’t the Queen. He’s lucky I didn’t shove him through the door.”

  Hoyt regained his composure. Just. He leaned across his desk and planted both elbows for support. His voice grew harsher and quieter. A Clint Eastwood threat that came nowhere near being as tough as Clint Eastwood.

  “I don’t like you, Grant.” The captain fixed Grant with an icy stare. “I don’t like the fact that I had to employ you. Powerful people made that decision. Powerful people are financing it.”

  Kincaid looked at his feet. He’d been in Grant’s hospital room when the powerful people had visited. Grant met the captain’s stare with a level gaze of his own but didn’t speak. He let Hoyt play his string out.

  “Well, there are powerful people in Beacon Hill and they don’t want you there. So stay away.”

  Grant nodded and stood up, his face a granite mask. Kincaid stood and went to the door. He caught Grant’s expression out of the corner of his eye and knew one thing for sure: Telling Jim Grant to stay away was the wrong thing to do.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Following Captain Hoyt’s instructions lasted all of an hour. That was how long it took Grant to have a quick chat with Kincaid, then detour from his route to South End. He still had the pool car from last night, something else the captain could bollock him for later, and was back in Beacon Hill by 11am.

  He parked across the brow of the hill, out of sight of Hunt’s, and walked along Mount Vernon Street, keeping to the shady side. This time of day that was the same side as Daniel Hunt’s house. That didn’t surprise Grant. Sometimes life throws little clues at you. Since Hunt was a shady motherfucker, it seemed entirely appropriate.

  Grant stopped two doors away and leaned against a tree. Not exactly hiding but not in plain sight either. He scanned the front of the house. The wrought iron gates across the front steps were open. They were probably only closed at night or when the residents were away. The curtains were all drawn back but the windows were closed apart from a couple on the top floor. There was nobody in there looking out.

  Good. Grant liked to keep the element of surprise.

  He looked at the bullet holes in the wall. Viewing them from this angle gave him a fresh perspective. Off to one side and slightly lower than when he’d approached the front door last night. The
gunshots were in a fairly tight cluster about six to eight feet off the ground. Just right for someone firing from a car towards a man standing in front of the house. Missing their target, the bullets had continued their upward trajectory and hit the wall between the front door and a ground floor window. Six chunks of masonry. Six deadly hits if they’d struck their target.

  Not Daniel Hunt.

  The mysterious passenger.

  Grant scoured the sidewalk in front of the house. All the shell casings were gone. DeLuca hadn’t missed any. Whatever his shortcomings, the District A1 detective wasn’t lacking in scene examination skills. There would be no miraculous clue for Grant to find. That only happened in the movies and crime fiction. In reality, the cops on the scene never missed anything. Unfortunately, the reality of Beacon Hill was that wealthy residents could dictate what the police did with the evidence once they’d collected it. In this case: No complaint. No crime. No investigation.

  Not officially.

  Grant nodded to himself and stepped out from under the tree. He kept his eyes on the windows as he crossed the sidewalk. Still nobody watching. He went up the steps and knocked on the door. Hard. A woman in some kind of maid’s uniform answered the door. Grant showed his ID and smiled.

  “Sorry to bother you. I think I left my pen.”

  Grant was shown into the study and left to wait. In keeping with the rest of Beacon Hill, it was a very impressive study. Wood panelled walls. Bookshelves. A solid desk that must have taken six men to carry in here. The chair behind the desk looked almost as heavy. The room smelled of tobacco and leather and freshly ground coffee. Studies always smelled like that.

  There was a large portrait of John F. Kennedy on the wall behind the desk. It looked old, creased, and expensive: A businessman’s office to impress the clients. The only other section of wall not lined with bookshelves was next to the door. The picture frames adorning this wall were smaller but no less impressive. Photographs of Daniel Hunt with local dignitaries and movie stars. Mel Gibson from when he’d filmed Edge of Darkness in Boston. Ben Affleck, the city’s most famous son apart from crime novelist Dennis Lehane.

  Most of the dignitaries Grant didn’t recognize. Politicians and other wealthy residents of Beacon Hill. Senators and state employees. Not surprising since Mount Vernon Street was round the back of the Massachusetts State House, an enormous structure that looked like an American version of St. Paul’s Cathedral, but with more steps and pillars.

  The men in uniform photos caught Grant’s eye. Cops and military. Nobody below the rank of general. Nobody closer to working the streets than chief of police, the man Hunt supported on his last election campaign. The man he financed and helped pay for the uniforms that real cops wore on the frontline. There were badges and pennants and miniature flags. The BPD. The stars and stripes. A yacht club. A charity for homecoming war veterans. A plaque from the Gregory Hynes convention center.

  Grant was looking at that one when the door opened.

  “Are you going to blow the roof of my house as well?”

  Hunt closed the door behind him and crossed to the desk.

  Grant followed Hunt’s reflection in the Gregory Hynes plaque.

  “I didn’t blow the roof off.”

  He seemed to be reminding people of that a lot lately. Hunt leaned against his desk rather than sitting behind it. This wasn’t a formal meeting.

  “Things have a habit of blowing up around you though.”

  Grant turned to face the businessman but didn’t speak. Hunt felt the need to explain. “I’ve been reading up on you. Boston owes you a debt.”

  “Boston gave me a job. Debt’s paid.”

  “Hardly seems commensurate with the lives you saved.”

  “That’s the job. Cops don’t get paid by the numbers. We get paid for being there when we’re needed.”

  “Just as well. Because I don’t need you here.”

  “You’re not the only consideration.”

  Hunt feigned surprise. “Oh yes. Your pen, isn’t it?”

  Grant tapped the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Funny thing about things that go missing. Best way to figure out where they went is to retrace your steps. Work backwards to where you last saw it. Then forwards again right up to where it disappeared.”

  Hunt lowered his head.

  “Like your pen?”

  Grant lowered his voice. “Like your passenger. Something I never asked you last night. You parked outside, then came to open your door. But where had you been? Where were you coming from?”

  “Is that how you’re going to find your pen?”

  “It’s how I’m going to find out why you’re lying.”

  The accusation jerked Hunt upright. He wasn’t used to people calling him a liar to his face—in business or in life. Definitely not in his own home. His jaw clenched so tight that the muscles bulged but he didn’t respond. Grant waved a hand.

  “If you were out to dinner, could have been with your wife.”

  Nothing from Hunt.

  “But there’s no reason not to mention if she was with you.” Grant waved again. “If you were at the ball game, could have been with a friend.”

  Nothing from Hunt.

  Grant continued. “Political rally. Senators? Business meeting. Businessmen? Yacht club. Sailors? You see where I’m going with this? When I find out where you were last night, I’m going to find out who you were with. When I find that, I’ll be halfway to knowing why somebody blasted six holes in your front wall trying to kill him.”

  Hunt regained his composure.

  “Or her.”

  Grant shook his head.

  “No. Witness would have noticed if it was a her.” Then he realized what Hunt had just said. “But at least you’re accepting it was somebody.”

  “The only thing I’m accepting is that your pen isn’t here.”

  Grant smiled. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  Grant slipped a hand into his inside pocket and brought out his pen. “Still positive nobody was with you last night?”

  Hunt pushed off from his desk and clapped his hands twice. The door opened immediately and a man in a suit came in. The suit looked expensive; the man looked hard as nails. A professional. He stepped aside and gestured through the open door. Grant mimicked clapping his hands without the noise.

  “Don’t you have a bell for that?”

  Back at the car, Grant replayed his exit from the Hunt residence. The long walk from the study to the front door escorted by Hunt’s hired man. Bodyguard, not a butler. Not a chauffeur either, since Hunt had been driving himself. That threw up a couple of questions. If Hunt had a bodyguard, why wasn’t he with Hunt last night? Was the person Hunt was out with also one of the heavy mob? A man hard enough that Hunt didn’t need his bodyguard? Or was the meeting so confidential that Hunt didn’t want even his bodyguard overhearing the conversation?

  Conversation. A talk. Especially an informal one. Between two or more people in which news or information is exchanged.

  That was something else that played on Grant’s mind as he opened the car door. Not the conversation Hunt was hiding, but the one Grant had overheard during the walk through the hallway. Overheard might be putting it a bit strong. Caught a hint of would be more accurate.

  The hallway was long and dark. Shadows crowded in a second hall that lead towards the rear of the house, alongside the ornate staircase. The shadows were deep but not dark enough that Grant couldn’t see two figures standing back away from the light.

  Muffled voices. Unclear. No words just sounds. Sounds in an accent that Grant was familiar with. Not from Yorkshire.

  From Northern Ireland.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Grant met Kincaid at Doyle’s Café Bar after dropping the car off at the Jamaica Plain police station. Doyle’s was a café in name only. Back home it would have been called the local pub. It served food but was a
long way from tea and sandwiches. Just down the road from the station house. Out of sight and out of mind from Captain Hoyt.

  Kincaid ordered beer and a burger, the senior detective proving why he was such a big man, in weight as well as height. It was too early to be drinking for Grant, so he got a Pepsi. He was surprised to find that Doyle’s did serve sandwiches and ordered pastrami on rye. Because he’d heard it so many times in the movies.

  They took their drinks from the bar and found a table away from the door. Grant sat with his back to the wall, not because he wanted to see who came in but because it was warmer. Kincaid turned his chair sideways. He did want to see who might come in. He sat down and raised his glass. Grant raised his and they both took a hearty first drink.

  Kincaid put his glass on the table. “I take it you went straight round to see Hunt again?”

  Grant put his drink down. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because it’s the exact opposite of what the captain told you to do.”

  Grant shrugged. “I left my pen.”

  “Yeah. And you were only a typist in the army.”

  Grant smiled. “You remember that?”

  “I remember you can’t type.”

  “My writing’s not that good either.”

  “But it was your favorite pen, I guess.”

  “It was. And is.”

  Kincaid took another drink, then wiped froth from his mouth. “What did you find? Apart from your pen.”

  Grant laid his hands flat on the table. “That Hunt’s got a bodyguard could be ex-special forces.”

  Kincaid flicked at his glass, making little clinking noises. “Powerful men always have protection.”

  “I suppose so. Hunt’s had his photo taken with all sorts of movers and shakers. Senators. The chief. Mel Gibson.”

  “There you go then. No wonder he needs protection.”

  Grant tapped the table with one finger. “It’s who he’s not photographed with I’m more interested in.”

  Kincaid stopped flicking his glass. “Such as?”

  Grant considered easing his way into this but decided to just come straight out with it. He looked Kincaid square in the eye.