Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

  The third incident.

  The attempt on Dillman’s life at the Charles Street café was more complicated than the first shooting. Originally pointing suspicion at the Beacon Hill gunman, or as it turned out gun grandma, the choice of car and target were designed to make that connection obvious. Except it was a false positive. The gunshots had missed Dillman. The car was a different car.

  A couple of things arose from that. Firstly, was Dillman the intended target? Anybody watching the news would have seen the café and Grant’s choice of table more than Dillman coming out the front door. The car could have been a coincidence. Dark blue Fords were ten a penny in the car rental market.

  Grant didn’t believe in coincidences. He didn’t believe he was the target either. When an Irish bomber comes to town and is involved in two shootings, you can bet the Irish bomber is what they were shooting at. That led to another question. Who else wanted Dillman dead? The answer was, a lot of people. But what were the chances of two sets of grieving relatives coming to Boston in the same week? Short odds. Not likely.

  That threw up a what-if situation. What if the second shooters wanted to find the first shooters? What if they wanted to prod Grant into tracking them down so they could eliminate the Dunsmoor family? Having Grant involved in a drive-by shooting where innocent bystanders were killed would be just the thing to provoke Grant, given his very public persona. The Resurrection Man. A man who gets things done. Hitting Terri Avellone would have been the icing on the cake. Because Grant went straight to Winthrop as soon as he’d identified the location.

  The final incident.

  Tracking the family to Oceanview Street had been a team effort. Grant pondered that for a moment. Sam Kincaid had given Grant the heads up. Did that mean Kincaid was involved? Grant dismissed the thought immediately. He’d doubted the senior detective in the past but trusted him implicitly now. Whoever wanted Grant to find the family knew he had the resources and the determination to do it. Kincaid was simply one of those resources.

  Grant had done exactly what the Charles Street shooters had wanted. Gone straight round to confront the family alone. Without backup. If he’d gone in guns blazing, their job would have been done. If he didn’t, then Grant had located them so they could finish the job themselves. The icing on that particular cake was that finishing the job themselves meant the evidence would point at Grant and effectively remove him from the game.

  But what was the game?

  And who would benefit most from Dillman being shot at?

  “You want me to answer that for you? Or make another coffee?”

  Cornejo had listened patiently. Letting Grant bounce ideas off him and pointing out things Grant had missed. It was Cornejo who’d suggested the second shooters might have prodded Grant into tracking down the Irish family. Cornejo knew how tenacious a cop Grant was. Given the televised trail of destruction in Grant’s path, it was Cornejo who also suggested the shooters might have expected Grant to finish the job for them. They just didn’t know of Grant’s innate sense of justice and that he would never shoot first and ask questions later.

  Grant tapped his empty mug. “Coffee.”

  Cornejo picked the tray up. “You don’t want to be getting wired on caffeine overload.”

  “You can’t get caffeine overload with a latte.”

  “Sugar rush then.”

  Grant dismissed the attempted humor with a wave of the hand.

  “I don’t know the answer to those questions any more than you do.”

  Cornejo put the tray down again.

  “Uh oh. I know that look on your face.”

  Grant would have smiled but for the seriousness of the situation. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over his knee.

  “So why don’t we go ask Dillman himself?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tactical considerations meant not asking Dillman until the following day. Circumstances dictated the when and the where. It turned out the best time was when Dillman was having brunch with Daniel Hunt at the Boston Yacht Haven and Club. Mid-morning. North End waterfront. At the end of Commercial Wharf.

  Grant and Cornejo took a stroll along the Harborwalk to scout the yacht club. The Harborwalk was a scenic footpath that ran along the entire eastern waterfront, weaving in and out of the various wharfs and jetties and public parks. Commercial Wharf had been converted into shops and businesses with residential apartments on the top two floors. Boston Yacht Haven was a three-star hotel on a private jetty at the end of the wharf. The yacht club was part of the hotel. Some of the yachts moored alongside looked more like ocean liners to Grant. Even the more modest boats were impressive. No doubt the yacht fraternity would baulk if Grant ever called them boats. Morning sun on the water turned the harbor into a bejewelled seascape.

  10:30 a.m. Too late for breakfast. Too early for lunch. Hence brunch was invented. Trust the Americans to make up a name for a meal that wasn’t even a meal, simply eating between meals. In England, it would be elevenses, a cup of tea and a biscuit. In America, it was a full buffet meal with all the trimmings. No wonder they needed life jackets in case they fell overboard.

  Joe’s American Bar and Grill stood guard at the mouth of Commercial Wharf. Any traffic in and out of the yacht club had to pass Joe’s. After the scouting trip, that’s where Grant and Cornejo set up their observation post. At an outside table overlooking the harbor. According to the discreet phone calls Grant made, Hunt and Dillman would be arriving soon. Acutely aware of the last time he had a streetside coffee, Grant ordered a Pepsi. Cornejo couldn’t live without black coffee.

  Then it was a waiting game. While Grant figured out a way into the yacht club and how to get Dillman alone.

  The figuring out wasn’t too difficult. The yacht club wasn’t enclosed. There was no perimeter fence or gated entrance. If there were any security cameras, they were protecting the yachts and their moorings; that’s where the money was. The parking lot was an expanse of tarmac with slanted bays in front of the club. Hunt’s car pulled into the second bay from the left at 10:45. Grant waited until eleven before he set off along the wharf.

  The sun baked down from a cloudless sky. The jetty smelled of sea salt and diesel fumes. Grant shielded his eyes from the glare off the tarmac and the windows lining Commercial Wharf. Cornejo kept two paces to Grant’s left, protecting his flank. This wasn’t an armed incursion, yet, but there had been two attempts on Dillman’s life. No point being complacent just because Grant thought the two incidents had different agendas.

  The yacht club was exclusive. The hotel was expensive. But the restaurant was open to everyone. Or parts of it were. The public could eat in the main dining area. Members had their own private section behind closed doors. The doors weren’t locked and there was nobody standing guard. It was just another business trying to make ends meet in hard economic times.

  Grant scanned the restaurant. There was a bar and service counter in the middle of the room with a telephone at the far end. Tables were arranged along the sides to afford better views of the harbor. Several of the windows were open to let in the sea air, a big selling point when dining on the waterfront. The private members’ section was through a door in the far wall but the wall itself was a façade. It was a trellised partition with potted plants and vines forming part of the barrier. It wasn’t solid and it wasn’t soundproof and it wasn’t as private as Grant thought it would have been.

  Hunt and Dillman were sitting at a table near the windows in the angle of the far corner. Hunt’s bodyguard was one table over to give them some privacy. They were too far from the partition for Grant to overhear the conversation. Cornejo took a business card from a tray by the door. Grant glanced at the windows along the side. Every second window was open. There was a walkway around the outside. Grant nodded to Cornejo.

  “Order me a salad. I won’t be a minute.”

  Cornejo chose a table near the front door, out of sight of the members’ section, and wa
ited to be served. Grant went back out to the parking lot, then followed the walkway along the waterfront.

  Seagulls squawked overhead. Diesel engines throbbed in the background. A passenger jet roared its approach to the airport across the harbor. On the other side of the airport, the town of Winthrop guarded the opposite channel. Yachts and pleasure boats from the various clubs along the coastline sailed around three sides of Logan International. It made for a unique sailing experience, the tranquillity of the sea interrupted by the roar of jet engines. It also made eavesdropping difficult. The windows of the restaurant were above head height, so at least Grant could get fairly close once he’d identified the open window nearest the Hunt party.

  Grant tuned the other noises out as best he could and focussed on the table six feet away from him. At first, he heard nothing, then voices drifted in. Muted tones and rhythms. Slowly the rhythms became words. Grant recognized Hunt’s voice. The other voice was Dillman’s.

  They were talking about the weather.

  They discussed the traffic coming over from Beacon Hill.

  They talked about the weather some more.

  Grant risked a peek through the window, keeping low and to one side. Both men had their backs to him, facing the other window out into the bay. A man in a suit came over with a clipboard. He handed some kind of invoice to Hunt who scrutinized it before signing, then he handed it back and spoke to Dillman.

  “That’s a start. Should be at Sargent’s Wharf later.”

  Dillman jerked a thumb at the north windows. “Thank you. It’s a pity that business has to grease the wheels of peace.”

  “Peace is good for business. War costs too much money and things get blown up.”

  “Arms manufacturers might argue that one.”

  “I’m not an arms manufacturer. Peacetime markets are less volatile.”

  A waitress wheeled a portable buffet to the table and put the foot brake on. It appeared that being wealthy meant you didn’t have to serve yourself at the stand-up buffet. The smell of bacon and eggs drifted through the window and Grant’s mouth began to water. Bacon was one of the three most enticing smells in the world alongside coffee grounds and freshly baked bread. He wished he hadn’t asked Cornejo to order salad.

  Grant risked another look through the window. He scanned the private room. There was no separate service counter. There were no restrooms, just a door from the kitchen. The only telephone was the one at the end of the bar in the main room. The bodyguard was eating brunch at his own table but keeping an eye on Hunt. That’s who he was there to protect. Wherever Hunt went, the bodyguard would follow.

  Grant ducked below the window and backtracked along the walkway. The smell of bacon receded. Petrol fumes replaced it. Grant bypassed the fuel enclosure and breathed out to clear his nose. The mixture of diesel for the big yachts and petrol for the small transit boats was cloying. The enclosure was located away from the main building on the refuelling jetty. Petrol fumes were bad for the appetite.

  Grant went back in the front door and noticed Cornejo sitting at a table on the left. The salad hadn’t arrived yet. Grant scanned the room one last time. The restrooms were against the left wall. The telephone was at the opposite end of the bar. The door into the private area was partly hidden behind the service counter. There were no sight lines between the three.

  A waitress came out of the kitchen with a tray as wide as an aircraft carrier. The same waitress who had served Hunt in the next room. The salad looked small on the flat grey expanse. The size caught Grant by surprise. Cornejo had a burger and fries that was similarly reduced. It seemed that the more expensive the restaurant, the smaller the portions. At least the layout was artistically pleasing. The squiggle of salad dressing looked like a signature scrawled across the plate.

  The waitress left. It looked like the early shift employed a skeleton staff in the kitchen. Grant looked at Cornejo and picked up the business card. The restaurant name and telephone number were embossed across the front. He slid the card across the table, the plan already set in his mind.

  “You got your cell phone with you?”

  Cornejo went outside to make the call. Grant toyed with his salad, then went to the restroom. The telephone on the end of the bar began to ring. The head waiter answered. His tone was pleasant and inviting, then changed. His stance became more erect. The urgency of the call showed on his face. He laid the phone down and went through to the private room.

  Thirty seconds later, Hunt came out with his bodyguard.

  Five seconds after that, Grant slipped through the swinging door.

  Mike Dillman didn’t know what hit him. One minute, he was turning in his seat to see who was coming in, and the next he had one arm twisted up his back, being propelled towards the kitchen door. Grant used Dillman’s face to shove the door open. It flip-flapped shut but Grant kept moving. Through the food preparation area and out the back door on the opposite side of the jetty. He slammed Dillman up against the wall before the Irishman found his voice.

  “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

  Grant nodded and slammed him up against the wall again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “I might be crazy but I’m not stupid.”

  Grant held Dillman against the restaurant wall. The sun was hot on his back but Grant kept his cool. If he’d lost his temper, Dillman would be squashed jelly by now. Grant rarely lost his temper. Keeping cool was a way of life. Not letting the opposition know that was a good tactical decision. Grant let Dillman think he’d gone crazy.

  “And if you don’t tell me what you’re hiding, you’re going to accidentally drown in Boston Harbor.”

  Dillman got his own cool back. “I’m not going to drown. I can swim.”

  “Not with broken arms.”

  “Hardly an accident then, is it?”

  “Won’t make any difference to you.”

  Dillman looked Grant in the eye and saw what the Yorkshire cop was made of. He relaxed and let out a sigh.

  “You’re not going to break my arms.”

  Grant knew the game was up. Scaring somebody into talking depended on being convincing as a scary person. Grant’s preferred method was to talk people around. A few kind words and a joke had always worked better for him than threatening behavior.

  “But you are going to answer my questions.”

  Dillman nodded. “That’s why I met you for coffee yesterday. To talk. I didn’t want it to end like that.”

  Grant eased his grip. “It did end like that.”

  “Not because of me.”

  “Exactly because of you. You’re the target.”

  Dillman’s shoulders slumped. It was as if the weight of everything was too much for him. “I’m sorry about your girlfriend.”

  Grant released him and stepped back. Terri’s death suddenly returned to the fore. His involvement weighed heavy on his own shoulders. Any pretence at being the angry man drained out of him, but questions still needed answering.

  “Who is it? Who’s got it in for you?”

  Dillman slid down the siding and sat with his back to the wall. “I thought you’d found that out.” Grant sat beside him but didn’t answer. Dillman prompted him. “It’s been all over the news. They’re linking it to the other shootings.”

  Grant shook his head. “You’re what links everything.”

  Dillman took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Yes, I know. If I could go back, I’d do things differently.” He looked at Grant. “I bet you would too.”

  Grant listened to the seagulls and the outboard motors. He smelled the sea air and the diesel fumes. His mind’s eye looked inwards at all the things he’d done in the name of duty and weighed that against setting bombs to kill innocent civilians. No contest. He might have changed things in hindsight so killing wasn’t necessary, but given the same circumstances, he would have still pulled the trigger.

  “Let me rephrase the question. Who tried to kill you at
the café?”

  Dillman watched Grant’s expression as if gauging how much the English policeman knew. Or how much he suspected. “I don’t think anyone tried to kill me.”

  “Shooting at you’s not the best way to do that.”

  “Shooting towards me. Not at me.”

  That was something that had been playing in the back of Grant’s mind. The lack of good shooting until the cop with the gun became a threat. Then the aim had been perfect. He just hadn’t been able to put his finger on why.

  “Same outside Hunt’s?”

  Dillman shook his head. “No. They were shooting at me. Just bad shots. Probably what gave this other mob the idea.”

  “To make it look like somebody wanted to kill you?”

  Dillman nodded. “Yes.”

  Grant fixed Dillman with a hard stare. “And why would anybody want to do that?”

  Dillman caught the look and held his hands up. “Hey, don’t even joke about that.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Why would I want it to look like somebody wanted me dead?”

  Grant shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I don’t know. Make you the victim when it comes to the peace talks. Raise your profile at the bargaining table.”

  Dillman lowered his hands. “Are you kidding me? This is politics. Delicate negotiations. I can’t afford even a whiff of scandal or this whole thing collapses. There’re bigger things at stake here than my profile.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Things you can’t even guess at.”

  Grant frowned. “Things worth killing you for?”

  “They weren’t trying to kill me.”