Scar Tissue

by Samantha Simard

  Caitlin piled on, busting out the puppy dog eyes: “Come on, Jimmy! Christopher might be an ass, but if somebody kills him my mom’s gonna cry. Do you want to see my mom cry?”

  Wolfe sighed, running a hand through his short reddish-blond hair and making a face when he got it all sticky with sugar from his hands. “Ah, hell, okay. Where is he?”

  “Well, he did get shot,” Caitlin said, “so we figured the hospital was a good place.”

  ~***~

  A few blocks from Wolfe & Vaughn Investigations—across from where Boylston met Arlington Street and kitty-corner to the Public Garden—was a tailor’s shop called Seams, which occupied a faux-vintage storefront and served as camouflage for one of Anton Codreanu’s many “secret” offices scattered throughout the city. He owned it under an alias and collected the legitimate profits while avoiding most of the hard work that came with being a small business owner.

  David Wolfe—back-from-the-dead ex-Army Ranger and current CIA spook—and his partner, Diana Johnson, sat in a rented sapphire-blue Toyota Camry a few cars down from the intersection next to the Arlington Street Church, its Black Lives Matter banner blowing gently in the humid breeze. The Camry was arguably one of the most nondescript cars in the United States, and while David appreciated that, he hated that it had the approximate legroom of a Tinker Toy.

  “I have a question for you,” Diana said, Serbian accent barely touching the words, even to David’s trained ears. “Did you pick up worms while we were on that job in Spain?”

  It took a second for her words to percolate through David’s brain—maybe the dye he’d used to color his hair from its natural blond to brown killed off some brain cells. “What? No, I don’t have worms!”

  “Then how do you explain all the squirming you are doing?” Diana gestured at him with silver rings that distracted from gun calluses, long black hair slipping over her shoulders like slick oil. “You haven’t been still for longer than thirty seconds in the past four hours and it’s driving me insane.”

  “Sorry,” David said, and he meant it, because he was shifting around again. People who were six-foot-two were not meant to drive mid-sized sedans, let alone a six-foot-two person teetering the line between capable field agent and old man who should be golfing. “There’s zero leg room behind the wheel of this thing and I can’t feel my ass.” He paused. “I blame Otis. Why did he have to go missing?”

  “I don’t know, but I just hope Anton didn’t have anything to do with it.” Diana frowned, glancing down at her watch. David gave that to her for her eighteenth birthday; he was surprised it still kept time, and that she still wore it. “It’s almost ten o’clock—Seams is supposed to open at nine, and we haven’t seen anyone go inside.”

  “Well, we already know there’s no delivery door,” David mused, “so maybe we should take a walk over and see what’s what?”

  His partner rolled her hazel eyes as she reached for her door handle. “Your detailed, nuanced planning style is why I keep you around.”

  They hustled through the crosswalk right as the light changed—much to the dismay and honking horns of every driver at the intersection—and when they got closer to Seams, it became apparent that something was off. The shades were drawn down over the windows, and the security cameras positioned at the building’s corners had been coated with black spray paint, obscuring their lenses.

  David’s eyebrows drew down as he tried the door. Locked. “Somebody covered the cameras but they didn’t break in?”

  “Sranje,” Diana cursed. She glanced around covertly, looking for Anton’s goons but seeing none. “This isn’t good news for Otis.”

  David automatically maneuvered his large frame between Diana and the street when she pulled out her lock picks—the worst thing an outsider would see was a guy loitering in front of a tailor shop. “You think Anton knows what we’re up to?”

  Diana shook her head as she felt out the lock with a torsion wrench and a pick. “If he did, I’d already be dead.” Someone in Anton’s inner circle—adopted daughter or not—wouldn’t last long if he discovered they were a spy. “Perhaps he suspects Otis was going to talk to the police?”

  “The idea that the only guy you trusted inside Anton’s operation vanished right when we were going to ask him to testify against his boss doesn’t fill me with the warm fuzzies,” David said. He held the door for Diana when she got it open and slipped inside, running up her back when she stopped short of the front counter. She smelled like orange blossoms and gun oil. “Sorry.”

  She waved away the apology—a privilege, since Diana didn’t like people in her personal space—and together they silently examined the scene. Enough daylight filtered in through the slats in the blinds for them to see without turning on the overhead fluorescents. The business part of Seams was fairly small, with a couple of chairs for people who wanted to wait for their alterations, a tall freestanding magazine rack, and bead board paneling crawling up the walls. David knew from Diana that the door behind the counter went to a hallway, which led to the tailoring space and Anton’s office.

  Diana hopped the counter with ease, boot heels clacking against the linoleum. She shuffled some work orders around and rifled through the drawers under the countertop. Each time she moved something she always put things back exactly the way she found them, like only a careful spy—or in Diana’s case, child assassin turned spy—would know to do.

  Something crunched under David’s foot when he took a step forward, and when he looked down he saw the glint of broken glass on the floor; it was swept to the side like someone was in a hurry, and he followed the trail of shards to the magazine rack. Sticking out from under the rack was the corner of a picture frame, and David bent to pick it up.

  “D?” he said. “Otis is married, right?”

  “Yes, but his wife is ill,” Diana replied, coming around the counter to look at the picture in David’s hands. It was faded with age and showed a pretty young woman with short dark hair and a button nose, standing in front of a remnant of the Berlin Wall. “I wondered where this was—it’s been on the counter every time I’ve come here.”

  “If there was a struggle, the picture was the only casualty.” Carefully, David pried the picture from the wrecked frame and slid it into the inner pocket of his denim jacket. He looked a little odd wearing a coat in the summer swelter, but it was the only thing that concealed the gun in his waistband. “How sick is his wife?”

  “Last I heard Anton paid for some new high-tech treatment for her cancer, but it didn’t work,” Diana said. “She’s in hospice care in Lynn, and I’m fairly certain Anton’s paying for that too.” She paused, head tilting in a way that always reminded David of a bird of prey considering its next meal. “Perhaps we should drive up there and see if Otis has been by to see his wife.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” David replied. The picture of the curly-haired woman felt uncomfortable in his pocket, almost like an omen. “Lead the way.”

  ~***~

  “Explain this to me again,” Scarlett said. “Real slow this time, to make sure I understand.”

  Wolfe huffed out a laugh and spun the wheel of Scarlett’s 1969 Chevrolet Corvette, falling in behind an ambulance as it turned down Stuart Street. “I don’t know what’s so hard to understand. I’ve had four accidents in the past year, and my insurance agent told me if I reported another one he’d drop me like a hot potato, even though I’m ridiculously sexy. That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

  The last of those accidents had occurred in the driveway of Wolfe’s mother’s house about four months prior. A lot of things changed that night in April, all of them more important than Wolfe losing his Mustang to the wrath of Frankie Sullivan’s police cruiser. Within the span of a few hours, Wolfe had found out his dream girl was engaged to another man, his brother Jake was almost tortured to death by a serial killer, and his… friend Sebastian had almost died after being poisoned with an experimental drug by his own father.

  “You’r
e not using your car for work anymore—I get that part.” They were approaching Tufts Medical Center, and Scarlett took the opportunity to pull her long blonde hair into a ponytail. With a hairband clamped between her teeth she continued, “What I don’t get is how that equates to you driving my car.”

  “… I have control issues?” Wolfe guessed, banging a U-turn so he could park on Stuart before it became Kneeland Street. They’d have to walk a little ways, but it was better than trying (and failing) to park in the garage. “Plus you hate parallel parking.”

  Scarlett snorted. “Bitch, I’m from New York. Parallel parking is an Olympic sport.”

  Tufts Medical Center was a sprawling network of buildings that resembled a protractor when viewed from the air, the middle of the complex arching over Washington Street like the arm of a compass. This center branch connected the parking garage and the Floating Hospital for Children to the rest of the facility; Scarlett and Wolfe went in through the main doors, and once the receptionist called up to Christopher’s room to double-check, they were directed to an elevator that would take them to correct floor.

  It was the little things about hospitals, Wolfe thought as they stepped out at MedSurge, that made him want to run back the way he’d come. The clashing aromas of chemicals and sickness were mixed with TV chatter, beeping machinery, and the moaning of people in pain. Nurses and other medical personnel shuffled between rooms, the sallow lighting making everyone look half-dead. Before he knew it, the spider-web of scar tissue that spanned Wolfe’s side was aching, and the space behind his eyes throbbed in time with his pulse. Everything seemed more vivid, and the tang of copper stung the back of his throat even though the blood wasn’t there anymore, even though they told him they’d gotten rid of it all—

  Scarlett’s hand on Wolfe’s arm snapped him back to reality. The way his scarred skin felt under her fingers had never bothered her. “You okay, big guy?”

  Wolfe blew out a breath and rolled his bad shoulder; his muscles felt like stone, they were so tense. “Sorry. Last time I was in a hospital was…”

  “With Jake. I remember.” Scarlett’s pale green eyes knew Wolfe too well as they gazed into his face. “But you weren’t a traumatized big brother just now. You were a solider.”

  Wolfe mustered up a smile, just for her. “I’m always a big brother… and I never stopped being a soldier, Scar.”

  She squeezed his arm in a gesture of support, and knocked on the door to Christopher’s room once before entering.

  The gubernatorial candidate was asleep in his bed, tubes and wires trailing from his chest and arms to an IV stand and some monitors. He was in a private room that looked like it belonged in a hotel, outfitted with couches, a television, and its own coffee maker. Melissa Sullivan was curled up in a recliner in the corner, a conservatively-cut pencil dress taut around her drawn-up knees. Her Jimmy Choo heels lay discarded nearby, red toenail polish visible through her pantyhose. Frankie Sullivan sat in an armchair at the opposite end of the room, murmuring quietly into his cell phone and pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Melissa jumped up from her chair. “Jimmy! Oh, thank God!” She threw her arms around Wolfe’s neck, her platinum blonde hair throwing off notes of Guerlain perfume and sheetrock dust from Stela. Despite her height—she reached Wolfe’s chin without her heels, a rare thing—Melissa’s rounded face and wide-set eyes gave her an almost childlike in appearance. At that moment, she looked less like Massachusetts’s next first lady and more like a worried wife. “I’m so glad you’re here—Caitlin asked you, didn’t she? You just missed a couple of detectives from the police department.” She made a face. “One of them had a funny name and the other one didn’t talk.”

  “Yes, Caitlin asked us to come,” Wolfe said, easing Melissa back into her chair before he and Scarlett took seats on a nearby couch. He had a feeling the detectives were Kamienski and Silent Mark from that description, so he cut to the chase: “How is Christopher?”

  “They have him on pain meds, and the surgery to remove the bullet went well.” Melissa said. She bit her lip, cutting into lipstick that probably cost as much as an oil change. “We haven’t put the TV on because we didn’t want to wake him up. Was anyone…?”

  Killed was not a word she used often, Wolfe thought, which explained why she had a hard time saying it. Melissa grew up in Cambridge and was the only daughter of Reuben Quinn, a founding partner at Quinn, Goldstein and Wickersham, the Boston-based law firm that made its money from representing only the scuzziest criminals the state had to offer—providing they could afford a hefty price tag.

  “Thankfully, no. It looks like the most serious injury was Christopher’s,” Scarlett said. She leaned forward, arms braced on her knees and her hands clasped. “Look, Mel, we know this is a shitty time to be asking questions—”

  “But if they’re gonna protect this idiot when I have to go back to work, then they need to know stuff,” Frankie interjected, coming over to join the powwow. “Mom and Dad are on their way, and Kevin says he’ll stay with the kids as long as you need, Mel.”

  “Okay, okay—Christ, I almost forgot about the kids.” Melissa dropped her face into her hands and took a deep, shuddering breath before she looked up again. “I’m sorry. How can I help you guys?”

  “You don’t need to apologize.” Wolfe grabbed a box of tissues off a nearby table and offered them to Melissa; tears had been streaming silently down her cheeks since they got there. “Why were you guys at Stela last night?”

  “It was a campaign fundraiser,” Melissa said, dabbing carefully at her mascara-ringed eyes. “The cover charge bought dinner and an open bar for two. Mr. Codreanu was gracious enough to host us.”

  “Did he donate to Christopher’s campaign?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Anton Codreanu has a lot of legitimate business interests, but he also keeps some interesting company,” Scarlett said. “Danh Sang, for example.”

  Melissa sniffled, blinked in confusion. “Who’s that?”

  “The leader of the Red Dynasty. They’re the big Vietnamese outfit that runs Dorchester,” Wolfe said. “We suspect—but can’t prove—that Anton Codreanu hired the Mass Art Murderer to help him achieve certain goals. Getting Sang out of prison was one.”

  “Seriously?” Melissa looked at Frankie. “Did you know about this?”

  “Yep.” Frankie shrugged his shoulders. “Tried to tell Chris that Codreanu was bad news, and Caitlin did too. But you know brother dearest.”

  “Once he gets an idea in his head, he’s as stubborn as a fucking donkey,” Melissa said. “And the million dollars Anton donated to the campaign would have only made him more pigheaded.” She rubbed her forehead. “I realize I don’t sound like the most sympathetic spouse right now, but sometimes that man drives me insane.”

  “He wouldn’t be your husband if he didn’t.” Scarlett patted Melissa’s knee. “It’s more likely the real target of the shooting was Codreanu and the campaign fundraiser was as good of a bullseye as any.”

  “I hate to ask this,” Wolfe began. He scratched at the scruff growing along his jaw. It was too short to be called a beard, but he rarely bothered shaving down to the skin. “Does Christopher have any enemies? Anybody who dislikes him enough to try something like this?”

  Melissa snorted out a laugh. “Chris is a politician. He makes enemies everywhere he goes.” She sobered quickly. “But no, I can’t think of anyone. That’s what I told the police.”

  A groan came from the hospital bed, startling all four of them. “Jesus Christ on a pogo stick,” Christopher rasped, “what does a guy have to do to get some sleep in this hospital?”

  “Chris! Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay,” Melissa exclaimed. She rushed over to pour him a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. “How do you feel?”

  “A lot like I got shot, hon.” Despite the somewhat snarky answer to her question, Christopher grabbed Melissa’s hand and held on as he took in the rest of the faces
in the room. “Wolfe? Vaughn? What are you doing here?”

  “Your sister stopped by our office,” Scarlett said. She’d never liked Christopher for a few reasons, not the least of which was his less than amicable relationship with her partner. “She bribed us with coffee and donuts—and we all know Jimmy here is a sucker for anything from Kane’s.”

  Wolfe snorted. “Yes, and the rest of those donuts definitely won’t meander back to your condo.” He leaned forward. “Caitlin’s worried about you, man, and so are a lot of other people after what happened last night. I can’t tell you what to do, but it’s probably in your best interest—and the best interest of your family and the people working on you campaign—if you retained us as bodyguards, at least until the primary is over. We already know your family, and I bet our rate is significantly cheaper than most protection firms out there.”

  Christopher pulled a face. “Look, I appreciate you guys stopping by and all, but—”

  “No buts,” Melissa cut in, squeezing her husband’s hand a little too tightly. “We’ll take the protection, Jimmy. Thank you.”

  “Of course you will,” Frankie said, shooting his older brother a look that suggested he shouldn’t argue. “Jimmy and Scarlett are good at their jobs, Chris—they’ll keep you safe and you can focus on the campaign.”

  Christopher’s face twisted into a sneer. “Oh, you mean like they kept those kids safe back in April?”

  Everything stopped. Wolfe bristled like an angered cat, shoulders tensing as he squared his jaw, and Scarlett went pale and red in the face in quick succession.

  “Chris!” Melissa admonished. “Jesus, did you have to say that?”

  Frankie shook his head. “Dick move, bro.”