“I thought I told you to watch your back.”
Cornejo looked out the window. “I did. They aren’t following me.”
Grant looked at Kincaid. The sadness and guilt were back on his face. He took his cell phone out and put it on the table.
“I thought you’d pull a fast one at the lido. Told ’em to track my phone if they didn’t get you over there.”
Cornejo braced himself
Grant slid out of the booth and stood up.
Kincaid gave an apologetic shrug.
“Once a cop, always a cop.”
Grant nodded. “I know.”
SWAT began to move along the walkway near the outside tables. The uniformed BPD came towards the front door. Cornejo glanced around to the side door where he came in. Grant was watching the TV. At first, Kincaid didn’t understand why his friend wasn’t making a break for it, then he saw the third breaking news story. The reason the army was protecting at the airport.
The newscaster spoke with soundless lips. The subtitles translated for him. The army was being deployed to protect a royal visit. The Queen was flying into Logan International later today on a diplomatic visit to Boston. She would be having private talks with the Northern Ireland peace delegation. A photomontage showed the members of the delegation. Grant recognized the second photo from the end.
Former IRA bomber Michael Dillman.
PART THREE
“That’s a movie cliché that doesn’t work unless you kick the door in.”
—Daniel Hunt
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Holy shit on a stick. He’s here to see Her Majesty.”
Grant flopped back down in his seat. Cornejo kept his eyes on the encroaching threat, SWAT and BPD approaching the building. Kincaid tried to ease the tension.
“Should you be using language like that about your Queen?”
Grant was doing some frantic re-evaluations in his head. Trying to figure out motives and outcomes and just what the hell throwing the Queen into the mix did for the Dillman situation. When he spoke, it was as much to himself as to Kincaid.
“If he was always here to meet the Queen, who would benefit from him being killed?”
Kincaid shifted in his seat. “You saying the Dunsmoors weren’t just out for revenge?”
Grant shook his head. “Not them. The Charles Street café.”
“You still think they were separate?”
“They are separate. Whoever fired at the café got the idea from the Irish family though.”
“And then wanted them out of the way. To tie up loose ends.”
Grant was playing variations in his mind. “Or make sure they didn’t have another go. And not miss this time.”
Kincaid followed that line. “Meaning the café shooting wasn’t meant to kill him.”
Grant nodded. “Just increase his credibility for the peace talks.”
“Thought you said Dillman was pointing the finger at Hunt.”
“Yeah, well, he would, wouldn’t he?”
“But you don’t buy it.”
Grant shook his head. “I don’t know what I buy. It never really made sense that Hunt would arrange the near miss to get the price down.”
“On whatever business they were doing.”
“Yeah. That was bullshit. But it doesn’t make sense that he’d jeopardize a royal meeting either.”
“By having himself shot at.”
“Unless that was just to find the Irish.”
“Having us track them down and you lead ’em to them.”
Cornejo tapped Grant on the shoulder. The movement outside was getting closer. Diners at the outside tables were being cleared out of the firing line. BPD was nearing the front door. Grant looked at Kincaid.
“This is too big to end here. I need time.”
Kincaid leaned forward.
“Won’t the Queen just pull out? When the IRA are getting shot at in the street?”
“The Queen doesn’t pull out. She just beefs up security.”
Kincaid nodded. “With the army and the anti-aircraft guns.”
Another thought kept running through Grant’s head. “Dillman isn’t just here to see the Queen. He’s been staying at Hunt’s place. Doing business with him. Hunt thinks hooking up with a man meeting the Queen…”
He didn’t finish the thought. He wasn’t sure what the finish was.
There were too many questions and not enough answers. None of it made any sense. The easiest way for Dillman to meet the Queen was to keep a low profile and not court controversy. Controversy could divert the meeting. The meeting was all-important. The best way for Hunt to benefit from helping Dillman was for the meeting to go ahead without incident. Neither of them would want blood on the streets to jeopardize that.
But then the Irish family had taken six shots at Dillman outside Hunt’s house. A shooting that Hunt refused to complain about. A shooting that Grant was discouraged from investigating because Hunt didn’t want to rock the boat. He wanted the meeting to go ahead. His business demanded it.
“What business is Hunt in?”
Kincaid had to think about that for a second.
“Everything. Engineering. Chemicals. Banking. Computers.”
Grant took a stab in the dark. “Weapons?”
“Don’t think so. He’s always been vocally anti-war.”
Grant remembered the conversation he’d overheard at the Boston Yacht Haven. “War costs too much money and things get blown up.” He remembered something else as well.
“He’s taking a delivery for Dillman this afternoon.”
Cornejo tapped Grant’s shoulder again. More insistently. Grant stood and looked down at Kincaid.
“At Sargent’s Wharf.”
Kincaid displayed his local knowledge. “Two blocks north.”
There was a moment’s silence while all three absorbed what Grant was saying. Cornejo smiled. Kincaid nodded. Then the police burst in on three sides and the restaurant descended into chaos.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Everybody on the floor. Now.” The SWAT leader shouted above the sound of doors banging open and tables being knocked over. The BPD officers echoed his sentiment, all shouting at the same time.
“Down.”
“On the floor.”
“Do it.”
“Now.”
A cacophony of noise. A kaleidoscope of activity. Everybody moving at once. Nothing in sequence or coordinated or regular. SWAT covered the two sides from the yacht basin walkway. BPD came in the front door. Armed incursion. No suppressing fire but guns were levelled and the threat was there if necessary. It wasn’t. All the customers hit the floor like Olympic divers. The restaurant was cleared of upright humanity in thirty seconds.
The SWAT leader focussed on the only person left standing.
“Hands out where I can see ’em.”
Sam Kincaid kept his hands out to the sides. He looked like Jesus on the cross. The irony of resembling the Resurrection Man wasn’t lost on him, but the Resurrection Man wasn’t there. Kincaid was alone. He let his badge wallet fall open in his right hand. His detective’s shield glinted in the restaurant lights.
“Police officer. Detective Kincaid, BPD.”
Nobody lowered their weapons. All were pointed at the veteran detective. Kincaid was beginning to understand what it must feel like to be Jim Grant. At the wrong end of a gun all the time. He addressed the black-clad officer doing all the talking.
“I came in here looking for the suspect. No sign of him.”
The SWAT man held up a fist, then turned it into an open hand and waved downwards twice. The lower your weapons and stand down gesture. He flicked on the safety on his assault rifle and pointed it at the ground.
“Good of you to let us know.”
Kincaid looked apologetic but didn’t apologize. “Did you get him over there?”
The SWAT man shook his head. “Wro
ng guy. Same clothes.”
Kincaid put his badge wallet away. “Damn. Guess he smelled a rat.”
SWAT began to withdraw back out to the walkway. BPD filtered out the front door. Just the SWAT leader and Kincaid left. Customers slowly got up off the floor. Tables were straightened and chairs scraped the floor as they sat back down. The wall-mounted TVs were forgotten. What had just happened was far more exciting than an approaching storm.
Kincaid held both hands up in a calming motion.
“Sorry, everybody. Panic over. Have an extra drink, on the house.” He turned towards the service counter. “Bill the BPD. Quote me. Detective Kincaid.”
Life began to return to normal. Nervous chatter filtered into the room. Kincaid and the SWAT leader went back out to the walkway. Post-adrenaline dump left them feeling shaky and subdued. Not so subdued that the SWAT man couldn’t get a load off his chest. Not exactly angry, but a long way from friendly.
“Next time you find him. Don’t break communications. One loose shot and Joe’s would’ve been picking body parts out of the burgers.”
Kincaid nodded. “I heard they’re being investigated for that anyway.”
“Not joking.”
The sea air was refreshing when they stepped outside. A stiff breeze had sprung up and the clouds were thicker and darker and moving faster than before. The normally calm waters of the bay were becoming choppy. White-tops broke across the waves. Yachts bobbed and swayed in the basin. Kincaid wondered about the approaching storm. He held up a hand in apology.
“I know. Sorry. I’ll call you if I find out where he’s gone.”
Where Jim Grant had gone was out through the kitchen and two blocks north. Cornejo led the way around the Harborwalk, keeping off Atlantic Avenue to avoid the returning police units. They followed the waterfront around Lewis Wharf jetty and through Pilot House Park, a small square with three trees and a flower planter surrounded by a red tile sidewalk and painted railings. They came out onto Sargent’s Wharf Parking off Commercial Street and stood by the northern seawall.
Sargent’s Wharf Warehousing and Storage wasn’t actually on Sargent’s Wharf, it was on Union Wharf just across the water from the pay-and-display parking lot, an exclusive development with a private housing complex at the far end. The housing complex had its own jetty and swimming pool. The warehouse was the only business premise on the wharf. There was vehicular access from Commercial Street and a two-berth mooring in front.
Daniel Hunt’s yacht was already moored outside.
“What’s the plan, Kimosabe?”
Grant took the baseball cap from Cornejo and flexed the peak.
“The plan is we go in. I beat the crap out of Hunt. He tells us everything we want to know.”
Cornejo turned the collar down, still wearing Grant’s leather jacket.
“And what do we want to know?”
Satisfied that the peak had a suitable curve, Grant put the cap on. The Old Town Trolley Tours lettering was the same color as the bright yellow windcheater. The dark lettering on the back of the windcheater was the same color as the baseball cap. He looked like a tour guide. What he needed now was a guided tour of Mike Dillman’s plans.
“I’ll think of something.”
The yacht’s mast was swaying like a metronome needle in the strengthening wind. The narrow waterway between Sargent’s Wharf and Union Wharf was sheltered by the parking lot, but the waters were still becoming choppy. Waves lapped against the solid wood pilings that supported the jetty. The jetty rose and fell, a flexible roller system protecting it from being too rigid. It would need all the protection it could get when the storm surge pushed the swell into Boston Harbor.
Grant looked over his shoulder at the onrushing clouds, then to the pay and display meters by the parking lot entrance. The meters were tastefully arranged in a small enclave surrounded by trees and more flower planters. He looked back towards the warehouse. First thing he always did before enemy action was scout the location and enemy strength.
“Recon.”
Cornejo nodded. “Split cycle?”
Grant pointed at the vehicular access behind the warehouse. “You go clockwise. I’ll go anti-clockwise.” He jerked a thumb towards the trees. “Meet back at the meters.”
They walked along the harbor wall together, then turned right for a short stretch along Commercial Street. Grant split right again, down a narrow footpath to the water's edge, a continuation of the Harborwalk. Cornejo walked past the Hardware Solutions building at the mouth of the vehicle access and took a right onto Union Wharf, dodging to one side as a fuel truck came out and headed north.
Traffic noise fell away as Grant reached the bottom of the path. The gentle slope of the ramp took him further away from the busy road and into the relative peace of the waterfront. He was beginning to understand his father’s fascination with the sea, serving first in the Merchant Navy and then for Her Majesty in the Royal Navy. Grant preferred solid ground underfoot. That and rebelling against his father meant joining the British Army instead of the seafaring branch of the armed forces.
Grant followed the jetty along the front of the warehouse. There were no windows on the lower levels, just a heavy sliding door at the top of a loading ramp from the jetty. Two floors up from that, directly above it, there was another sliding door with a block and tackle for hoisting deliveries or swinging them out over the waiting cargo ships. There were no cargo ships today, just Daniel Hunt’s luxury yacht bobbing on the waves. The only windows were on the top floor, the one above the block and tackle. They ran the full length of the building and were so high up that anybody looking out would have to step close to get an angle on the jetty.
There were no faces at the window. Nobody was watching. Good point number one. Number two was that the last time Grant had been on the yacht, Hunt was alone. There was a good chance he was still alone. Not something Grant could rely on, but a point in the right direction. He scanned the windows one last time, then walked right to the end of the commercial jetty and turned left.
The warehouse was separated from the first houses by a narrow park with trees and shrubs. There was a theme developing here. It seemed that Bostonians planted trees any time there was space amid the industrial landscape. At least this space wasn’t given a park name. It was just a pleasant buffer between the commercial and residential areas of the wharf.
Grant threaded himself between the trees. There were no windows at all on the gable end of the building. Cornejo came around the corner and they crossed over. Grant shook his head. Nothing to report. Cornejo jerked a thumb over this shoulder.
“Car.”
Grant nodded. He’d be checking out the rear of the warehouse himself, and then they would exchange notes at the parking lot. His feeling that Hunt was alone was beginning to dispel. It vanished altogether when he came out of the trees and followed the narrow road back towards the Commercial Street entrance.
The road wasn’t exactly a road, more like a tarmac access driveway that ran the length of the wharf. The only markings were a couple of dozen angled parking bays on the opposite side behind an apartment block with rooftop gardens. Only half of the bays were occupied. The car that had caught Cornejo’s attention was parked along the driveway up against the warehouse. It caught Grant’s attention too.
The idea of We go in, beat the crap out of Hunt and he tells us everything we want to know just got a whole lot harder. Grant stood in the shade of the nearest tree and contemplated the recon. Scout the location and check for enemy forces. That last part he was evaluating now. Because the car was Daniel Hunt’s expensive town car. And that meant Hunt wasn’t alone. The ex-special forces bodyguard was in the building too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“I’ll go in first. Give me five minutes, then come watch my back.”
“You sure about that?”
“The five minutes or the watch my back?”
“Going in on your own.”
> They were standing among the trees that shaded the pay and display meters. A good observation point for Sargent’s Wharf Warehousing and Storage. The parking lot was moderately busy, but the meter enclave was empty. Grant was almost blown over by a sudden gust of wind. Storm clouds were gathering, racing across the dull grey sky.
“I won’t be on my own.”
Cornejo wasn’t convinced. “You will be for five minutes after you sneak in.”
“I’m not going to sneak in.”
Cornejo blurted a response. “What?”
Grant waved an admonishing finger.
“Being stealthy and secretive is the best way to get shot. That or going in waving a gun around.” He indicated the bright yellow windcheater. “Me? I prefer the honest and open approach. I’m going in bright and highly visible.”
Cornejo blew out his cheeks.
“And you’re going in unarmed. Right?”
Grant smiled.
“You’re armed, aren’t you?”
Cornejo patted the gun tucked in the back of his belt. The one he’d collected from his car on the way over from Joe’s American Bar and Grill. Grant held his hands out. Enough said.
A paper cup tumbled across the parking lot in the strengthening wind. The trees around the meters were whipped into a frenzy. Spray from the roiling sea stung Grant’s face. The storm wasn’t coming any more—it was here. It just hadn’t reached full strength yet. When it did, Boston would have to batten down the hatches or be swept away. People were already scurrying for cover. A clutch of brightly-colored helium balloons raced across the sky. Over in the Waterfront Park some kid would be crying over his loss.
Grant tugged the baseball cap down over his eyes to stop it being snatched off his head. The windcheater kept the wind out but wouldn’t stay waterproof for long. He threw one last glance across the water at the warehouse, then looked at Cornejo. There was no Okay, let’s do it speech. They both knew it was time to go. Soldiers always become quiet just before going into action. Grant nodded. Cornejo nodded back.
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