Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

The phone went quiet. Grant waited a beat. “You feel better now?”

  “Calmer?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, Jim. You’ve been arrested for murder. Suspended from duty. Escaped from police custody. And sparked an international incident. What’s calm about that?”

  “It was only a flare.”

  “It was a Lufthansa flight.”

  “The Germans complaining?”

  “The Germans always complain.”

  “Then go arrest Daniel Hunt. He set the flare off.”

  “Was this after you kidnapped him and hijacked his yacht?” Grant kept quiet. Kincaid cleared his throat before continuing. “Add that to the list. You’re more trouble than the Colorado beetle.”

  Grant glanced at the pickup. It had almost finished loading.

  “Captain Hoyt pissed at me?”

  “Captain Hoyt is suicidal. Going ape shit that he agreed to employ you.”

  Grant nodded into the phone. “Yeah, well. This shit. There’s something bigger going on.”

  “You can’t get much bigger than the Germans and the army.”

  Grant considered what Kincaid had said earlier. “The hijacking. Has Hunt filed a complaint about that?”

  “No.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you something? He’s involved in a shooting outside his house. Gets kidnapped on his boat. And fires at the Germans to get free. All that shit and he still won’t make a report.”

  Kincaid made a noncommittal humph down the phone. “He’s in tight with the police chief.”

  “He’s not in tight with me.”

  “Not enough to keep you out of trouble, you mean?”

  “Trouble he wants to keep out of is his own. I just don’t know what it is.”

  Kincaid changed the subject. “I hear you threw Dillman in the bay.”

  “Is he making a complaint?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes, I did.”

  “You got one thing right then.”

  Grant rubbed his chin and let out a sigh. “Can you check why the army’s deploying to the airport?”

  Kincaid snorted a laugh. “You tried to shoot down the German air force. What did you expect?”

  “The timing’s not right. I think it’s something else.”

  “I’ll ask around and get back to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kincaid went quiet and Grant could sense him wrestling with a decision. After a brief pause, Kincaid came clean. “I wouldn’t hang around for food at the Belle Isle if I was you. Try the Odyssey Grill instead. Units are already on their way.”

  Grant looked at the green frontage of The Odyssey Grill and Diner next door to Belle Isle Seafood. The frown of puzzlement changed to understanding. He looked at the cell phone in his hand. Police cars weren’t the only things with trackers.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Grant ended the call and pointed at the pickup. Cornejo drove over to it and Grant tossed the cell phone in the back. He jerked a thumb across the bridge towards Boston.

  “We’re going to have company. Better take the Parkway.”

  Cornejo nodded his understanding and turned right out of the parking lot. Two minutes later, the battered Dodge was heading north on Winthrop Parkway, the only other road out of town. Somewhere behind them, Grant could hear sirens closing in on the empty parking lot.

  The Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park was big and green, dotted with trees around manicured lawns. It bordered the Harborwalk just south of Joe’s American Bar and Grill and didn’t have a single payphone. Grant had to go all the way over to the Old Town Trolley Tours on Atlantic Avenue before he could call Kincaid back. By twenty-five-past one, Grant was standing in the shade of Mercantile Kindercare surveying the park. Across Atlantic Avenue on the west side. He turned the collar of his leather jacket up and leaned against the wall. A trolley bus trundled past the park entrance, taking sightseers north towards Union Wharf. A BPD patrol car turned in front of him, heading along Cross Street but didn’t pay him any attention.

  Grant watched the marked unit disappear, then turned his focus back to the Waterfront Park. He’d arranged to meet Kincaid outside the lido and children’s play area. To get there, Grant would either have to walk along Atlantic Avenue and turn in at the top end or go through the park itself, past the fountain and along the central walkway. Both routes were fraught with danger: If the BPD cornered him, Grant would be cut off by the main road or caught in the middle of the park.

  There were no BPD units deployed around the park. There was no uniformed presence near the fountain or the walkway or the lido. That was to be expected. Thing about cops in plain clothes is they stand out like sore thumbs. Grant spotted half a dozen without even trying. His shoulders slumped. He didn’t exactly blame Kincaid but he was disappointed. Bottom line was, he needed to talk to the JP detective so he’d have to run the gauntlet and hope they missed him.

  He turned his collar up some more and pulled the Old Town Trolley Tours baseball cap he’d bought near the payphone down over his eyes. He took one last look across the park. There were shoppers and tourists and families having a day out. Thin clouds drifted across the sun but it was still bright. An ice cream van sold cones and ice lollies and cold drinks. A face painter turned kids into cartoon animals. A souvenir stand inflated balloons with helium and gave a choice of plastic sticks or string. Most kids took their balloons on string. It was more interesting having them bob about in the breeze than being stuck on rigid plastic.

  Grant checked his watch. Half past one. Time to make his move.

  The turned-up collar and pulled down baseball cap would have looked more incongruous if the weather hadn’t deteriorated so rapidly. In a matter of minutes the clouds had thickened and dropped the temperature by ten degrees. It didn’t stop the tourists from buying ice cream. It didn’t stop the families from buying helium balloons.

  He stayed close to groups of pedestrians as he sauntered into the park. Not moving fast. Mingling with the other sightseers. Meandering around the families. He moved from one group to another as he passed the fountain and the balloon vendor and the ice cream van. The red tile paving contrasted with the bright green lawns and rich foliage. There were no flowered borders, but planters along the path overflowed with colorful blooms.

  He reached the central path without incident. Mixing with families made him invisible. The plainclothes cops stood on their own. They looked like predators scoping for kiddie-meat. He was surprised nobody had called it in, reporting suspicious characters in a public park.

  The central path ran north to south. It was broad and tree-lined and had an ornamental trellis running along the middle. The trellis was draped in vines and creeper, and even a few flowering shrubs. It was a long tunnel that only lacked a river and pedal boats to make it a tunnel of love. It was also a trap-in-the-making, so he kept to the outside and followed the treeline. Still moving slowly. Still mingling with the groups of tourists or family units. Mothers and fathers and granddads. He didn’t look like a granddad but he could pass as the father or favorite uncle.

  He was nearing the north end of the park when the watchers started to close in. The east-west path crossed the main walkway and led to the front of the lido. The pool and children’s play area was hidden behind the lido café and souvenir shop. He twitched his collar and paused at the intersection. His eyes scanned the predators. They showed no sign of recognising him but were making subtle changes to their positions. Tighter. Closer. Drawing in the net.

  Kincaid was standing in front of the lido café. He wasn’t looking this way. A family group were moving past him. A woman and her husband. Two children with a whole stack of brightly colored balloons floating on a nest of strings. The husband’s yellow jacket almost as bright. They blocked Kincaid’s view for a moment.

  That’s when the unde
rcovers pounced. Two came from one side, three from the other. They were shouting into their radios that they’d got their man. Strong hands grabbed his arms and he was pushed up against a tree. Nobody read him his rights. Nobody told him he was under arrest. It was obvious from the moves they’d put on him.

  Plainclothes cops came out of the woodwork. The operation was over. No need to hide any more. They converged on the man in the leather jacket and the Old Town Trolley Tours baseball cap. Somebody whipped the cap off his head, and John Cornejo feigned surprise.

  “What’s the trouble, fellas?”

  Grant thanked the woman and split off from the family group. He put his badge wallet away now that the woman had helped the police and gave the kids the change out of his pocket. The kids looked at the coins, then gave him a dirty look. Grant had no idea how much he’d just given them but it obviously wasn’t enough. He held his hands out palms up and shrugged an apology, then zipped up the yellow windcheater he’d bought at the souvenir shop. It had Old Town Trolley Tours in big letters across the back. The bright yellow stood out like a beacon in the dark. It was so noticeable that Sam Kincaid didn’t notice him until Grant took him by the arm and led him out of the park.

  “Fancy a bite to eat, Sam?”

  They crossed the Harborwalk and went into Joe’s American Bar and Grill before anybody realized that Kincaid was missing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Kincaid wasn’t ready for anything to eat, so Grant ordered two coffees and a water chaser. Latte for Grant. Cappuccino for Kincaid. They settled into a booth near the restrooms, not outside overlooking the yacht basin like Grant’s previous visit. Grant sat with his back to the wall so he could see the Waterfront Park through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  There was a lot of fevered activity across the road. BPD patrol cars screeched to a halt along Harborwalk and Atlantic Avenue, and SWAT came out of the foliage like an armed invasion. Grant was flattered they felt the need for so much firepower. He was disappointed Kincaid had gone along with it.

  “Touch of overkill, don’t you think?”

  Kincaid spooned sugar into his coffee. “Depends who you listen to.”

  Grant was already stirring his latte. “Who they think I am? bin Laden?”

  Kincaid put his spoon down. “We’ve already got bin Laden.”

  “Whitey Bulger too, I heard. But I’m not either one.”

  “No. You’re the guy who fired at an unarmed passenger flight.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  Kincaid nodded towards the park. “They don’t know that.”

  Grant took a drink of his latte while he glanced around the restaurant. The main room was spacious and arranged into manageable areas. There were comfortable booths around the side windows with views of the harbor, and low walls separating the inner seating areas. A flat screen TV was mounted behind the bar and several smaller versions hung from the back walls showing different channels and various sports. One had a news feed but it wasn’t covering the activity in the Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park. It must have been the only time the news choppers hadn’t caught the Resurrection Man on camera. Kincaid leaned forward and toyed with his cup. He lowered his voice and looked Grant in the eye.

  “Look, Jim. I’m sorry about Terri.”

  Grant nodded but kept quiet. There’s never a good answer to that.

  Kincaid pushed the cup away to stop himself fidgeting. “But I should never have told you where they were staying.”

  Grant sharpened his focus but still didn’t say anything.

  Kincaid needed to get this out of his system. “I can understand how angry you felt.”

  Grant put his cup down. “Still feel.”

  Kincaid nodded. “I can understand that. In your position…I’d probably have done the same. But Jim. You’ve got to come in.”

  Grant’s disappointment spread to more than Kincaid baiting the trap. “You think I killed them?”

  “It’d be understandable. Given the circumstances.”

  “Hoyt think that as well?”

  “Hoyt thinks you’ve gone rogue.”

  Grant leaned back in his chair. “You’ll know when I go rogue.”

  “You’re saying you haven’t already?”

  “I’m saying somebody wanted Dillman and the Irish family dead. And pointing the finger gets me out of the way at the same time.”

  The news channel changed graphics to show a storm front moving in from the south. Lots of wind arrows and grey cloud symbols. It still wasn’t reporting on the armed incursion at the Waterfront Park. Kincaid wasn’t watching the news. He was concentrating on Grant. He nodded once.

  “Okay. But why kill the Irish who shot Terri and Dillman?”

  Grant shook his head.

  “The Irish family weren’t at the café. At Hunt’s, yes. Charles Street was somebody else.”

  “How d’you know it wasn’t the same shooter?”

  Grant turned level eyes on Kincaid.

  “Because Kalene Dunsmoor told me before she was killed.”

  Kincaid shoved back in his seat so violently he almost knocked the table over. The two cups of coffee shuddered but didn’t spill. The news channel moved onto sports reporting. A helicopter came in over the bay and hovered over the Old Town Trolley Tours for a better angle of the melee in the park. No doubt the TV news anchor would soon be going to breaking news. Kincaid ignored the television.

  “For fuck’s sake, Jim. You were there?”

  “Of course I was there. That’s how they knew where to go. I led them right to the family, and then left them to it. Shit. I might as well have shot them myself.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Except now there’s evidence you were at the scene.”

  “I’m not denying being at the scene. And push comes to shove, the evidence will prove I didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “So why d’you run?”

  “I didn’t run. I came to you.”

  Kincaid let the air out of his chest and rubbed a hand across his eyes. A look of sadness crossed his face. The rule in the police was always back your partner. Grant wasn’t Kincaid’s partner but they were colleagues. It was almost as bad, setting your colleague up for the fall.

  “Why?”

  “Why come to you?”

  “Why’d they want them dead?”

  “Question you should be asking is, who?”

  “Goes hand in hand.”

  “It does. But I think Hunt’s been playing Dillman.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll bet a pound to a pinch of shit it’s to protect something bigger. Something that involves the army and the airport.”

  The newsflash symbol began to blink on the TV. The anchor came back on screen looking suitably grave. Kincaid had his back to the television. He concentrated on Grant.

  “The army?”

  Grant nodded. He was thinking of something else. An invoice and a delivery. To Sargent’s Wharf. Two piers north, just past the Boston Yacht Haven and Club, where Hunt had brunch and Dillman took a dive.

  “Deploying to the airport.”

  Kincaid frowned.

  “They’re sending units from the BPD over there. Very hush hush.”

  “Jesus. How big is this?”

  The newsflash symbol changed to a breaking news banner scrolling across the bottom of the screen. The sound was turned down but subtitles showed what the newscaster was saying. Explaining just how big this was.

  The news footage looked like a war zone. Squads of camouflaged troops double-timed across the runway; weapons held tight across their chests. Three armored personnel carriers pulled up and unloaded more troops at the service entrances round back of the aircraft hangars. A tank deployed at the front of the airport, making the whole thing look like a scene from a Die-Hard movie. Two military Jeeps towed mobile anti-aircraft guns into place at the far end
of the runway. East of the airport. Overlooking Boston Harbor where Grant had put the Flying Swan into a holding pattern and Daniel Hunt had fired the flare.

  The fast edits cut between the army and the tank and the mobile anti-aircraft batteries while the newscaster explained that the military was locking down the airport. Then the familiar uniforms of the BPD showed that the police were being used as additional security inside the main terminal. Kincaid followed Grant’s eyes. Both watched the unfolding news story with quiet intensity.

  Grant spoke first. “Jesus.”

  Kincaid put it more bluntly. “Fuck.”

  Neither noticed John Cornejo come in the side entrance. The ex-marine took the baseball cap off and walked over to the booth. He watched the wall-mounted TV while sidestepping chairs and tables. He stopped beside Grant’s seat.

  “All this for one flare off the end of the runway?”

  The ambient restaurant chatter fell silent as more of the customers began to notice the story. All the TVs were now showing the news. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows Grant noticed that patrons at the outside tables were craning their necks to see the news. The smell of coffee and burgers was the only thing proving this was a restaurant. Nobody was eating. Nobody was drinking.

  While the newscaster built the story into a national emergency, a new banner began to scroll across the bottom of the screen. The weather front moving in from the south was a full-blown hurricane. A small insert screen showed New York being battered by a storm surge that had overrun Long Island and the Hamptons and flooded half of Lower Manhattan. The banner warned that the storm was heading up the Eastern seaboard towards Boston.

  Grant was the first to notice the secondary newsflash. “Christ. It never rains but it pours.”

  Kincaid glanced at him. “You talking in that foreign language again?”

  Grant pointed at the screen. Kincaid gulped.

  “Fuck. It’s gonna rain alright.”

  With all eyes on the TV screens, Grant almost missed the activity outside. Not in the Waterfront Park anymore. Along the Harborwalk and the walkway around Joe’s American Bar and Grill. Uniformed cops and SWAT. Trying to keep a low profile, but unable to find suitable cover. It was all open ground coming across from the park. There was nowhere to hide. Grant nudged Cornejo.