“Is that the line you used on Hunt?”
“Mr. Hunt is a successful businessman. He doesn’t need a line.”
“But he does need an ex-IRA bomber?”
“The emphasis being on the ex.”
The tension hadn’t eased. The atmosphere was still cold and hard, and showing no signs of improving. Grant wasn’t a forgive and forget kind of cop. Dillman saw the look in Grant’s eyes.
“I have done some terrible things.”
“Some? A lot, you mean.”
“A lot. Yes.” Dillman wasn’t put off by the interruption. Nobody had ever been swayed by the opening stanzas of his phoenix-from-the-ashes story. “I console myself that I was acting in a time of war. The war against the British government. Some scars never heal, I suppose. I am not proud of my achievements in that conflict. Not a day goes by when I don’t regret what I have done.”
“That’s mighty big of you.”
Dillman put his hands together as if praying, leaning his elbows on the table. “But ask yourself this: Has there ever been peace without war? Has there ever been war without casualties?”
He lowered his voice. “Have there ever been casualties that were solely combatants?” He sat back in his chair and spoke up. “The first casualty of war is innocence.”
Grant didn’t move. “I heard that in a movie one time.”
“Itself an adaptation of Senator Johnson’s assertion that truth is the first casualty when war comes. In 1918.”
“Blowing up shoppers and families doesn’t go back to 1918.”
“No. And collateral damage isn’t restricted to the Irish conflict.”
“It’s not collateral when they’re what you targeted. Who’d you think was going to walk past those exploding bins? The 1st Para?”
Dillman paused for a moment. He was used to resistance. This wasn’t an easy sell. He knew there was work to be done. Always was. That’s why it paid to do his homework. But first, a gentle lead in.
“I can never repay them for what I’ve done. All I can do is try. I know that some scars never heal.”
“You said that already.”
Dillman ignored the interruption. “I am a better person than I once was. I’ve devoted my life to peace and understanding and bringing people together. That’s what I do to feel useful.”
Grant turned his bullshit detector up to full to see if this was just waffle to appease the English cop. Dillman sounded genuine. Grant had interviewed some impressive liars in his time though.
Dillman softened his tone. Time for the hook.
“That’s why you became a police officer, isn’t it?”
He slid the hook in.
“To repay the woman you killed?”
Grant tensed. His fists clenched under the table. He didn’t answer.
Dillman expanded.
“More than one actually, wasn’t it? One here in Boston at the Gregory Hynes. Main one back in your army days though. The medic you were going to marry?”
Grant tried to close his mind to the memories that flashed through his head. Pilar Cruz about to be hacked to death in a hot and dusty clearing. The rest of his squad already dead. Pilar, unable to run with her shattered leg, sacrificing herself so that Grant could escape. Grant shooting her before the first blade struck. He tried and failed. All he could do now was not show Dillman that he’d scored a direct hit. A patrol car pulled up on Charles Street and a cop got out for a coffee. Grant felt pride swell at the sight of the uniform.
“I joined the police to catch bad guys.”
Dillman smiled. “Bad guys? You even sound American now. Has that helped put your past to bed?”
“I don’t dwell on the past. Just the now.”
Dillman nodded. “Good. Because that’s exactly what I am doing.” He played a little tattoo with his fingers on the table that finished with a flourish. “I am here for talks with the English.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “In Boston?”
Dillman nodded.
“A powerful Irish community.”
He puffed his chest out and became the strident orator that being a politician demanded. “This will strengthen ties with the mother country and change the political landscape forever.”
The café’s side door opened, and Terri appeared with a tray and three cups. Grant looked up. Dillman nodded his thanks. The reflection of Charles Street in the window disappeared as Grant stood up to take the tray. If the men in the car had fired straight away instead of driving first, Grant would have moved too late.
As it was, he heard the squeal of tyres a fraction of a second before the first shot shattered the window.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Grant knocked Dillman to the ground and upended the table in one swift movement. The solid metal tabletop sent two bullets ricocheting into the air. A third and fourth punched two more holes in the window. Firing from a moving car was a mistake. These guys were amateurs. They’d fired six shots into Daniel Hunt’s front wall the last time they’d tried shooting Dillman. Now they were killing tables and windows, and still missing their target.
The car screeched in a tight circle through the intersection. The uniformed cop charged through the café door, gun drawn and shouting into his radio. He managed one shot before he took three in the chest. Two thudded into his Kevlar vest but the third was higher and wider. His shoulder sprayed blood and he was knocked sideways.
One final shot hit the table, then the car was speeding off up Charles Street with a squeal of tyres and a blast of exhaust fumes. Grant was moving before the gunshots finished echoing down the street. He snatched the keys from the cop’s belt and dived for the patrol car. Yanked the door open.
“Shit.”
Wrong door. Left hand drive. America. He slammed it shut and dashed around to the other side. Got in and started the engine in one swift movement. The car was facing the wrong way. He floored the gas and pulled an angry U-turn, then set off after the dark blue Ford.
Brake lights flared up ahead. The Ford skidded right and disappeared onto a side street. Grant lost precious seconds hitting transmit on the car radio.
“Officer down. Charles and Mount Vernon.”
He steered with one hand. Straight and true. Siren blaring and lights flashing. He had to shout into the radio over the noise, but he needed to clear the traffic up ahead.
“Off duty officer in pursuit. Dark blue Ford. East on…” He reached the side street and took the corner on the slide. “…Pinkney.”
That was enough talking. Pinkney was a one-way street. Grant was going the wrong way. Cars coming in the opposite direction slewed to one side. One car hit a lamppost. The Ford was gaining because Grant had to watch out for pedestrians. The shooters were less worried about casualties.
The Ford took a left. Grant followed seconds later. Just in time to see the brake lights flash again and the Ford take a right. Zigzagging through the back streets of Beacon Hill and hitting every car it could on the way. Pinballing along, leaving chaos in its wake. The chaos hindered Grant’s passage and he had to temper bursts of speed with emergency braking and fast hands on the wheel.
The radio operator called for backup. She remained calm and professional and barely raised her voice. The radio crackled with static as Grant passed through radio black spots and poor reception areas. Tall buildings and narrow streets were never good for Marconi. The helicopter was scrambled. More sirens sounded, but Grant couldn’t tell from which direction. He bumped over adverse cambers and threw the patrol car into tight turns. The Ford was always just out of reach. It was always on the front foot while Grant raced to play catch up. Parked cars and street corners flew past. Traffic thinned as the streets grew narrower.
Then he was out of the back streets and onto the main road again. He saw disaster looming ahead. Cars pulling out of the Sports Museum parking lot. Workers coming and going from the Boston Passport Agency. Pedestrians and shoppers milling about outside t
he Boston T North station. Families. Women and children. Like Birmingham all over again; except this wasn’t a bomb attack, it was a hurtling car chase.
The Ford headed straight into the melee.
Grant eased off the gas and shouted into the radio.
“Abort the pursuit. Abort. Civilians in danger.”
The crowd parted. Pedestrians dived for cover. Grant saw a broken figure fly through the air. Another pedestrian was jolted sideways. Grant gave his location and asked for uniform patrol and ambulance. He watched the Ford cross 93 where the freeway came out of the tunnel, then turn left. Grant pulled up at the T and turned off the engine.
Sirens were converging from all across the city. A helicopter thudded overhead. Grant got out and looked up. It wasn’t the BPD chopper. Damn. That meant air support wouldn’t be following the car as it sped off north. WCVB caught the Resurrection Man on camera as Grant watched the Ford cross the Charlestown Bridge.
Grant flagged down the first ambulance when it arrived. Uniform patrol arrived at the same time. It was time to see to the injured and sort out the aftermath. He was doing that when one of the uniformed officers tapped the handset on his shoulder.
“You Grant?”
Grant nodded. His voice was dry from the adrenaline dump.
The officer jerked a thumb back towards Beacon Hill.
“They want you back at the scene.”
Yes, of course they did. Grant thanked the officer and climbed back into the car. The drive back was a lot slower than the chase out here. As he pulled up outside the cordon of crime scene tape, he prepared to explain. What he wasn’t prepared for was who was there to greet him.
“The captain won’t like you being this far off your patch.”
Grant went over to Kincaid but stayed on the outside of the scene tape. He looked around but couldn’t see Mike Dillman. Two ambulances were still treating minor injuries, but the fallen officer had already gone. Grant held the car keys up.
“How’s the uniform?”
Kincaid gave a curt nod. “Through and through. Shoulder. He’s going to be fine.”
With that out of the way Grant could ask what he really wanted to know. “Where’s Dillman?”
Kincaid took the keys from Grant.
“Given his statement and gone.”
The carnage seemed to have affected the veteran detective. He was more subdued than normal. He guided Grant towards a plain Crown Vic and opened the passenger door.
“Let’s talk.”
Grant caught the sombre tone and got in. Kincaid got in the driver’s side but didn’t speak. The first inkling that something was wrong bristled the short hairs on the back of Grant’s neck. He glanced around the café and suddenly realized who else wasn’t there.
“Where’s Terri?”
PART TWO
“There’s no peace for the families. Only the dead.”
—Greg Dunsmoor
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Grant’s first thought was fanciful and way off target. Mike Dillman had left the scene and Terri Avellone was missing. The IRA bomber and the cop’s girlfriend. Leverage? Kidnapping? Way off the mark. In police work, the simplest answer is usually the right one. Kincaid confirmed the right answer and set off towards the hospital.
Terri had been caught in the firing line. It looked serious. She’d been taken in the first ambulance, even before the injured cop. That said a lot about how bad this was. Grant didn’t speak. Kincaid concentrated on driving. The silence was oppressive and left far too much time for Grant to think. Terri had only been there because of Grant. Whatever happened to her was on his head.
Kincaid pulled into Mass General opposite Lederman Park. He flicked the grill lights on so the ambulance bay workers knew it was an official vehicle. An attendant waved them into the far corner so the Crown Vic wouldn’t get in the way. The angled bays were full. Two ambulances delivering freshly wounded. Three ambulances sluicing out before heading back into the fray.
The ER was a hive of activity. It still smelled of antiseptic and voided bowels, but it felt different when you weren’t the patient. It felt worse. Grieving relatives always bore the brunt of any bad news. Pain and suffering weren’t the prerogative of the injured.
Grant stood in the aisle between curtained cubicles. The most serious injuries were being treated at the far end in the examination rooms, with solid walls and proper doors. Terri and the fallen cop were the serious injuries. Grant set off down the aisle but Kincaid grabbed his arm.
“Hang on. Let me check.”
Grant didn’t argue. He stepped to one side to clear the aisle and watched Kincaid go to the triage desk. Muffled voices. A nod or two. Kincaid came back over.
“Number two.”
Grant set off again. Kincaid blocked the way. “They’re stabilising her for surgery.” Grant pushed past the senior detective. Kincaid called after him. “Jim.”
Grant only got halfway down the passage when the door opened and a nurse came out. The one who’d joked about not cutting his clothes off. The one who’d told him Oh, come on now. It’s only a little prick. She wasn’t joking now. She recognized Grant and understood immediately why he was there. She took a deep breath and started walking toward him. Behind her, a doctor came out of the room stripping off his rubber gloves and plastic gown. He dumped the blood-streaked garments in a yellow bin.
The nurse reached Grant and stopped.
The doctor looked up and met Grant’s eyes.
The chaos around them fell silent. The smells faded away. Grant didn’t feel Kincaid take his arm again, gentler this time. He saw the nurse’s mouth moving but didn’t hear the words. He knew what she was saying and he felt sick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The family room was one floor up and at the opposite end of the building. Away from the noise and smell of the ER. A place for anxious families to wait for news or for grieving relatives to compose themselves. Grant had never seen himself as a grieving relative.
Until now.
The walls were painted a warm peach color, with slightly darker drapes across the window. Vertical blinds, not curtains. Even the air freshener smelled of peaches. Comfortable chairs were arranged around the room with a low, pine coffee table in the middle. There were framed pictures on the walls that looked like splashes of paint on canvas. Calm, non-threatening. Innocuous. Nothing you could focus on. Something to help your mind float in a sea of comfort.
Grant didn’t feel comforted. He didn’t sit in one of the comfy chairs. He stood at the window and looked out across a back alley that negated everything the family room was trying to accomplish. The alley was dirty and cramped and loaded with industrial wheelie bins and rusty fire escapes. It suited Grant’s mood perfectly.
Kincaid stood leaning against the wall beside the door. Hands in his trouser pockets. Feet crossed at the ankles. The nurse who’d seen to Grant and tried to help Terri Avellone brought three mugs of coffee and set the tray on the table. She didn’t speak, just tapped the cups with a spoon so they knew she was there, then left them to it. Three mugs, a sugar bowl, and extra milk. Grant looked at the tray.
Three mugs.
The door opened again and Captain Hoyt came in. He closed the door quietly, then stood next to Kincaid. He didn’t lean against the wall. Grant thought that was about right and prepared for an argument. He felt like having an argument. The captain saw the look in Grant’s eyes and raised calming hands in surrender.
“This isn’t the time for that.” He lowered his hands. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Kincaid nodded his agreement but didn’t trust himself to speak. Grant kept quiet too. He let out a sigh and blinked his thanks. The captain went to the tray and played mother.
“Sugar?”
Kincaid declined. Grant held two fingers up. Hoyt tore open two sachets and stirred the sweetener into Grant’s mug. He pointed at the cartons of milk. Kincaid declined again. Grant held up three
fingers. Hoyt peeled back the lids, poured three milks, and stirred again. Grant found his voice but only just.
“Thanks.”
The room fell silent. All three men drank slowly, not because the coffee was too hot, but to allow the atmosphere to soften. Kincaid remained by the door with his back against the wall. Captain Hoyt stood beside his detective. Grant stared out of the window, taking solace in the rusty fire escape and the industrial dumpsters. Nobody sat in the comfy chairs. Nobody felt comforted by the peach-colored walls or the air freshener or the obscure paintings.
Hoyt blinked first. He broke the silence.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Just for something to say. Grant and Kincaid looked up. Hoyt explained. “Targeting Dillman for killing innocent bystanders. They’ve killed more innocent bystanders.”
That put things in perspective. For the last couple of hours, Grant had only been thinking about Terri Avellone, but Terri wasn’t the only victim today.
“How many?”
Hoyt did a quick calculation in his head. “Two at the shooting. One pedestrian at the T. Fifteen injured. Flying glass and traffic collisions.”
Grant thought about the shootings. “The uniform didn’t make it?”
Kincaid chipped in. “He’s stable. Waitress inside the café.”
Grant wondered if it was the waitress who served them, then put the thought aside. What did it matter? Best way to survive being a cop was to disengage from the victims. If you took it home with you, you wouldn’t last five minutes, never mind thirty years to pension.
Hoyt looked uncomfortable. “One thing that can’t wait.”
Grant looked at the captain and waited.
“ER has no details of relatives. Do you know her parents?”
Grant suddenly felt empty. He realized how little he knew about the woman he’d been considering moving in with. He covered his indecision by taking another drink of coffee. The distraction didn’t fool Hoyt. The captain displayed a capacity for diplomacy Grant hadn’t thought possible.
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