Tracking Shot

by Colin Campbell

  She was looking for any hint in his face. “Larry takes money seriously.”

  McNulty raised his eyebrows instead of shrugging. “Well, it’s been a shitty week. He’s under a lot of pressure.”

  “He hasn’t got the cops wanting to drag him away.”

  McNulty shifted halfway into a sitting position, releasing Amy’s hand. “The police were here?”

  Amy nodded. “That detective in charge of taking statements the other day.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think he likes you.”

  McNulty frowned. “He doesn’t trust me, that’s for sure.”

  Amy sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “He reckons you’re mixed up with Randy and the missing film, doesn’t he?”

  McNulty didn’t say anything. Amy sat still. “Kept going on about a red van and some guys trying to get the film back.”

  “That’s what he thinks?”

  “It’s what he said.”

  She tilted her head to one side and looked at him. “That CCTV fiasco at the courtroom set didn’t win you any friends.”

  McNulty looked at his feet, making twin mounds under the blanket. “There’s no pleasing some people.”

  He turned to look out the window. All he could see were trees and a few scattered rooftops. Judging from the angle of the sun he reckoned he was looking south, the shafts of sunlight slanting in from the west. There was a clock on the wall above the door. It was getting toward five p.m. He could hear the rush-hour traffic beginning to build on Washington Street. Everywhere he went in America there seemed to be a Washington Street. Hell, there was even one in Bradford back home. The traffic noise made him think about transportation, something he was without, now that his car had been totaled. “How’d you get here?”

  Amy held up a bunch of car keys. “Production manager’s car. He’s sharing with Larry.”

  “You mind taking a cab? Some things I’ve got to do.”

  Amy snatched the keys into a fist. “Hospital treatment is what you’ve got to do.”

  McNulty thought about Newton-Wellesley Hospital not being far from Newtonville and the other road they had back in Yorkshire, Kirkstall Road. Not the reason he needed a car, but a good excuse. “They’ve done all they’re going to do. Take it easy and take your pain medication now.” He jerked a thumb toward the window. “I need to go see Susan.”

  There was some activity outside the door, and Amy glanced over her shoulder. She kept hold of the car keys and smiled at McNulty. “If the mountain can’t go to Mohammed…”

  McNulty gave her a questioning look, then the door opened and Susan walked in.

  FORTY

  “You have an appetite for self-destruction like nobody else I know.”

  “I didn’t self-destruct. I got run off the road.”

  Susan sat where Amy had sat and looked at her brother. Tilly was busy exploring all the buttons and switches dotted around the hospital room after promising not to push any of them. McNulty was amazed how much she looked like her mother at the same age. He hoped she’d never have to go through what Susan had. Looking at his sister, he didn’t think she’d let that happen. Susan had landed on her feet and had a good head on her shoulders. Tilly’s future was rosy.

  Susan shifted in her seat. “How you feeling?”

  McNulty tried not to move his ribs. “Like I got run off the road.”

  Susan rested her hands in her lap. “I hear the dog saved you.”

  “Dog bit me, I know that. Don’t recall much else.”

  Tilly crawled under the bed.

  Susan smiled. “They’re making a big thing of it on TV. Dog rescue in reverse. Hero dog. If it had an agent it could have its own show.”

  McNulty took a sip of water from a Maxwell Blum paper cup. “Maybe our producer can give it a bit part.”

  Susan got excited at the mention of the movie business. “How’s it going? Filming in Waltham?”

  McNulty gave her a sideways glance. “You mean apart from someone shooting our judge and our extras, and blowing up the courthouse?”

  The look on Susan’s face made him wish he’d kept quiet. He let out a sigh that hurt his ribs. He deserved the pain. “Sorry.”

  He tried to sound optimistic. “A few changes to the script, but otherwise we’re pretty much on schedule. Cast and crew have a few days off.” He nodded toward the windows. “Larry’s doing some pickup shots at the parade tomorrow. Inserts he can cut into the picture for added authenticity.”

  He laughed. “If you knew Larry you’d know how ridiculous that sounds.”

  Susan didn’t know what to make of that so she nodded and smiled again. “Took me a while after coming over here to understand how big a deal the Fourth of July is. Parades and fireworks, the whole nine yards.”

  McNulty smiled back at her. “The whole nine yards? You really are an all-American girl now.”

  Susan looked at her brother, this alien from a foreign land. “I can hardly remember any English phrases. They’ve all gone. Wiped away with all those other memories. Almost.”

  She was aware of sounding downbeat so she sat up straight. “They can’t do bacon or fish and chips, though.”

  McNulty softened his eyes. “Or treacle pudding.”

  Susan laughed but McNulty thought he could see a tear in her eye. The smile looked a little forced. “Vince. They don’t even know what treacle pudding is.”

  As if to prove the point Tilly came out from under the bed. “What’s treacle pudding?”

  Her mother gave her a hug. “I’ll get one and show you.”

  McNulty looked at these girls he barely knew, a sister who’d grown up without him and a daughter he’d never have. He tried to keep the conversation light. “And Bird’s custard.” He lowered his voice as if telling a secret. “You could make it a Fourth-of-July treat.”

  Tilly jumped up and down. “Yes, yes. July Fourth treat.”

  McNulty took another sip of water before broaching this next subject. “Your man at the orphanage is giving some treats of his own, isn’t he?”

  Susan nodded. “Biggest ever this year.”

  McNulty put his cup on the bedside table. “Yes. We need to talk about that.”

  Susan sent Tilly out of the room with a whisper and a giggle. Amy was waiting outside and nodded through the door with a promise to look after her until they could come back in. McNulty settled himself against his pillows and spoke for ten minutes solid. He didn’t go into detail because he didn’t have any details, but he told her his suspicions and what he thought they should do about them. Susan listened in silence until it was time to respond.

  “You finding another dangerous situation to put yourself in?”

  McNulty shook his head. “This isn’t about angry-man survivor guilt.”

  Susan showed more sense than her brother. “So tell the police and let them do the dangerous stuff.”

  McNulty told his sister how it was in reality. “The police think I’m involved.” He waved a hand toward the door as if the detective were standing there. “And Harris doesn’t believe a word that comes out of my mouth.”

  Susan pursed her lips. “After you tackled him on camera and searched the dead guy’s room? You don’t make things easy for yourself, do you?”

  McNulty frowned. “Easy doesn’t get it done. Getting down and dirty is what you need.”

  Susan didn’t defrost. “And you want me to tell that to Harlan DeVries?”

  McNulty put a little bit of pleading into his voice. “I want to tell him myself. If there’s no million dollars, there’s no robbery.”

  Susan proved she’d gone native. “And there’d be pretty much no Fourth of July.” She snorted a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “You might as well try and cancel Christmas.”

  McNulty sat up and leaned forward despite the pain. “This isn’t about presents under the tree. People are going to get hurt.”

  Susan breathed slowly and nodded her
head. “And you’re still about protecting the people.”

  McNulty kept steady eyes on his sister. “It’s what I do.” He shrugged. “When I’m not making actors look like cops.”

  The room fell silent. There was no bleep of a heart-rate monitor or hiss and puff of a breathing machine. McNulty was no longer hooked up to either of those things. Even the clock above the door didn’t tick, the hands just gliding around the clock face in silence. The only sounds were the rush-hour traffic on Washington Street and the hubbub of hospital life outside the recovery room. The shafts of sunlight had moved across the floor. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. There was nothing left to say. Eventually Susan leaned forward and looked at her brother.

  “I’ll ask him to come see you.”

  McNulty nodded his thanks. “That’s okay. I’m checking out so I can go see him.”

  Susan looked sceptical. “Against the doctor’s advice, I suppose.”

  McNulty hid the pain. “The doctor’s done all he can. I’ll live.”

  “Not forever at this rate.”

  “Long enough to get the job done.”

  Susan sat upright. “You see. There you go again. Angry-man survivor guilt.”

  McNulty kept a straight face. “You’ve got to survive to feel guilty. I’m a survivor.”

  Susan sighed. “Well, just in case you don’t make it. I’d better give you this now.” She clapped her hands and the door opened.

  Some gifts simply pass the time but then there are presents that change the future. Nobody knew which one Tilly’s gift was going to be until McNulty unwrapped it. Susan watched her daughter with pride swelling her chest. Amy just watched. The five-year-old handed McNulty the six-inch package and giggled. Gifts always made her giggle, even ones for other people. McNulty tore the paper off and looked at the cellophane wrapper.

  “Battenberg cake.”

  Susan raised her eyebrows. “You have no idea how hard it was to find Battenberg in Waltham.”

  McNulty smiled at Tilly then looked at his sister. “My favorite right after treacle pudding.”

  Susan nodded. “I remember.” She shifted in her seat. “Good memories always last longer than bad ones.”

  McNulty peeled back the cellophane and looked for a knife to cut off a slice. The squares of yellow and pink sponge cake were tightly wrapped in marzipan, the part McNulty liked the best. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sickly-sweet smell.

  Then he stopped.

  His mind raced back to the last time he’d smelled that distinctive sweetness. A half-eaten cake in the cabin under the overpass. But that wasn’t what gave him pause. There was something else that had the same smell—marzipan was the reason tracker dogs often got a false scent when looking for explosives.

  FORTY-ONE

  The junkyard was dark and quiet in the shadows of the concrete overpass. Daylight barely penetrated the swirling off-ramps and access roads. Junkers and undergrowth soaked up the traffic noise. The traffic cameras were blind, shot out by sharpshooting rat killers and good old boys. McNulty came to the cloverleaf on surface roads through Auburndale. He drove slowly and parked halfway up the on-ramp as the sun dipped below the horizon.

  “You ever wonder why you keep finding dangerous situations to put yourself in? The fights you keep picking?” McNulty wasn’t picking a fight but this was definitely a dangerous situation. Angry-man survivor guilt was kicking into overdrive. He popped the hood and left it open, then stood behind the little warning triangle fifty yards down the ramp. He found a good angle alongside the highway, and using a pair of binoculars from the props department, settled down to watch.

  Left to right and top to bottom. That’s how most people view things. The same way you scan writing on a page if you’re English or American. Left to right. Top to bottom. McNulty was a Yorkshireman and an ex-cop. The first thing he looked at was the potential threat. The threat would come from the cabin or the workshop. He adjusted the binoculars and viewed the cabin first.

  The uneven structure leaned to one side and sagged in the middle. The porch was still made of splintered wood and the steps would still creak when you climbed them. Smoke drifted out of the lopsided chimney. Light showed through the windows on the front and side that overlooked the rat pit. The tattered curtains were open but McNulty couldn’t see any movement inside. It was the third of July, so the fire wasn’t for heat, it was for cooking. If they were cooking they intended to eat. A family as close as the Cloverleaf Boys would no doubt eat together. Question was, were they already in the cabin?

  McNulty swung the binoculars down and to the left. The two cars that had come down the track when he’d been there two days earlier were parked out front of the cabin, front end to the porch railing like horses at a hitching post. That meant there were likely to be five men in the clearing. Minus the cook, the other four could be anywhere. Next place to check was the workshop.

  The workshop was bigger and more solid looking than the cabin but it still leaned and sagged. There were no windows but the full-length front doors were partly open. Yellow light spilled out onto the dusty turnaround in the gloom. There was some banging coming from inside, the whine of an electric drill or power screwdriver. Sparks danced across the door space and brilliant blue-white light blinked and flickered. Somebody crossed the work floor and disappeared beyond the opening. McNulty could just make out the trunk of a dark-colored car up on ramps or a hydraulic lift. He wasn’t sure how hi-tech the mechanics here were. They certainly made enough noise, despite the muffling effect of the clearing. He kept the glasses on the open door and saw shadowy movement at the back of the workshop. Probably two or three of them were working inside. Maybe the other two were in the cabin. Or just one.

  McNulty lowered the binoculars and used wide eyes to get an overview of the junkyard, looking for movement amid the wrecked cars and carnival floats. There was nothing obvious. He was about to turn back to the cabin when something caught his eye in the gap between the headless dinosaur and the spaceship. He brought the glasses up and quartered the empty space. The movement was small but deliberate. Not random. He adjusted the focus. A big black rat darted across the turnaround toward the cabin. It stopped in front of the porch steps, sniffed the air, then turned right toward the covered well. It could smell food. Not the stuff being cooked in the cabin but the dead meat waiting to be eaten in the covered well. McNulty wondered if the rat knew the dead meat was fellow rats.

  He put the binoculars down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He blinked several times and opened his eyes wide to ease the strain of staring into darkness. It sometimes felt like he’d spent his entire life looking into darkness, from Crag View to Northern X. The evil that men do. He wondered what evil the gunmen were prepared to do for a million dollars. He thought about the Battenberg and the half-eaten cake and the sickly-sweet smell of marzipan and plastic explosives.

  “What are you cooking in there?” Talking to himself again. “What have they got you doing?”

  Because he was sure the Cloverleaf Boys weren’t doing this for themselves. They hadn’t been the gunmen at the courthouse set and they hadn’t been involved in searching Randy Severino’s motel room. They were known to the police though, and as such would be ideal camouflage for the main event, the million-dollar heist on the Fourth of July.

  July 4th Parade

  www.waltham.ma.gov

  10 a.m. Banks Square, Waltham

  It wasn’t the advertising posters that stuck in McNulty’s mind but rather the preparations that would be going on all over Waltham. Kids would be getting their costumes ready. Bands would be practicing. Local organizations would be putting the finishing touches to their carnival floats, missing two floats from the past, a dinosaur without a head and a spaceship too rusty to fly.

  McNulty brought the binoculars up and turned them onto the gap between the two floats. The rat had scurried across the open space without leaving a trail but something had left its mark w
hen it had been dragged away. Something big and heavy and carnival-related. Fresh tracks. Just before the Fourth of July. Why would you move a dilapidated carnival float unless you were going to renovate it and use it in the parade?

  Several thoughts ran through his mind and coalesced. John Wayne throwing a punch that missed but looked like a strike. Larry’s movie car chase that was supposed to look like a miss but ended up being a collision. The art of movie magic and the reality of distraction, a technique used by the military and the police when forcing a breach. Whizz-bangs and smoke grenades.

  Distraction.

  What would be the best way to steal a million dollars from security guards and armed police? First, make sure there weren’t as many armed police. Harris had been frustrated that his staff had been pulled from the investigation to perform close-order protection on the hanging judge. He’d also complained about half the cops working the parade being diverted as well. Bottom line: Fewer armed police covering the million-dollar giveaway.

  Next thing. Misdirection. What could they do that was big enough to draw all the attention away from the money truck? McNulty had smelled marzipan but thought plastic explosive and a carnival float. Far-fetched? Possibly, but as some famous detective once said, if you eliminate the impossible then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

  A shiver ran down McNulty’s spine. The thing now was what to do about it? The police wouldn’t listen and there was nobody else to tell. He looked at the smoke coming out of the frontier cabin. Or was it? He raised the binoculars again and wondered if the Cloverleaf Boys knew they were about to get shit on from a great height.

  FORTY-TWO

  McNulty left the car with the hood up and the warning triangle behind it and walked back down the on ramp until he was low enough to climb over the barrier. He dropped into the scrubland bordering the Charles River and kept one of the concrete supports between him and the junkyard. The river snaked in and out of the underpass and all the way to Boston. Like half the roads in America, it seemed to go on forever. Foliage in the river basin was thicker than around the junkyard. Seeds and sticky buds clung to his trouser legs. His shoes sank into the soft earth.