Scar Tissue

by Samantha Simard

  “Laine?” the woman in the lab coat asked, her voice tinged with some kind of accent—Russian, maybe? “I am Doctor Ivanova. Do you remember me?”

  A bead of sweat trickled down Laine’s temple. “No,” she whispered, and she shook hard enough to rattle the manacles. Why was she shaking if she couldn’t remember? Why couldn’t she remember?

  The noise that Doctor Ivanova made was one of disapproval, and she put a checkmark on the clipboard she carried. “Oh, don’t worry, dorogoy,” she said, and motioned to one of the orderlies. He went around behind Laine, and then something heavy and hard was clamped around her head—some kind of helmet? “You may not remember me, but I am in your mind somewhere. We will just have to search until we find that place, da?”

  The other orderly shoved a clunky rubber mouth guard between Laine’s lips, a leather strap covering her lower jaw a moment later. The next thing she knew, electricity coursed through the helmet and into her head, peeling her brain apart like onionskin. If she screamed, she didn’t feel it, and nobody heard her.

  ~***~

  Chapter Thirteen

  Flynn and Lottie were left in charge of taking Bobby home and threatening him some more, and Constantin and Sebastian departed the laundromat in a car that Anton sent over as the sun came up. Scarlett and Wolfe decided to go back to Angela’s to have breakfast so Wolfe could have a heart-to-heart with his errant little brother—whatever was going on with Jake needed to be addressed pronto. Since David drove them to the laundromat he brought them back to Putnam Street but declined the invite for pancakes.

  Jake was still curled up on the couch under one of Maura Sullivan’s quilts when Wolfe brought him a cup of coffee. The other part of the L was empty, so Wolfe’s first question was, “Where’s Lacey?”

  “Left as soon as she could stand up,” Jake replied, mumbling his thanks when Wolfe pressed the warm mug into his scarred, crooked hands. His hands had once been so elegant, and now Wolfe knew Jake could barely hold a paintbrush without being in pain; it reminded Wolfe of Sebastian and his piano, and not in a good way. “Go ahead and yell at me, Jimmy. I know I deserve it.”

  Wolfe sighed as he took a seat next to him, scrubbing a hand over his face and wondering if he looked as tired as he felt. “I’m not gonna yell at you, but I need you to talk to me. How in the hell did you wind up doing Rapture with Lacey Stahl, let alone going to a swingers’ club with her?” Jake told him the story in halting pieces—from his near-breakdown in the parking lot at Caruso’s to now—and by the time he was done Wolfe felt like the worst brother in the world. “God, Jakey, I had no idea. You were doing so well when you were staying with Caitlin and Ryan, I just thought…”

  “That’s because I didn’t have to do anything when I was at their place, except go to physical therapy or my shrink appointments,” Jake said. He took a sip of his coffee and tentatively met Wolfe’s eyes. “So… you’re not mad?”

  Wolfe chuckled. “Of course I’m mad. But as long as you swear to me that you’re not going to pull something like this again—that you’re done with the Rapture—then I’ll get over it, and more importantly I won’t sic Ma and Caitlin on you.” He hesitated for only a second before he slipped an arm around Jake and bit the inside of his cheek to stave off tears when Jake leaned into him. Ever since the Mass Art Murderer, Jake had been, well, touchy about people touching him, for good reason… and that almost made Wolfe want to ask Jake if he was absolutely sure he didn’t remember that monster’s face, or voice, or something.

  That train of thought was derailed by Scarlett from the kitchen: “Jimmy? You should come see this.”

  Wolfe gave Jake’s shoulder a gentle parting squeeze and got up, walking back into the dining area to stand at the window with his mom and Scarlett. Three black Cadillac SUVs rolled up in front of the Sullivans’ house, along with Nikki Shaw’s Volkswagen Beetle. The SUVs, Wolfe noted, all bore a startling resemblance to the ones that had tried to overtake him and Sebastian on Comm Ave after the shooting at Fenway.

  Only one of those vehicles had made it out unscathed, so the other two had to be replacements—but he still couldn’t put a motive to the car chase, at least until Peter Vaughn got out of the lead vehicle. Scarlett was out the door and Wolfe was hot on her heels, taking the stairs down two at a time to catch up. He realized absently that they both probably looked crazy—her in her cut-down gown, and him in the shirtsleeves and pants from his dress uniform, both of them bloodstained from the fight outside the laundromat.

  Scarlett reached her father first and from her posture, it looked like she stopped just short of punching him in the nose. “Dad, what the hell? I told you we didn’t need your help!”

  “Turns out that’s not up to you,” Peter said, hooking his sunglasses to the front of his Ralph Lauren polo. He spotted Wolfe and grimaced. “Ah, the illustrious Jim Wolfe. Still don’t know how to use a razor, I see.”

  “Mr. Vaughn,” Wolfe said, and made a point to smile in a way that reflected his namesake. “Still an asshole, I see. Was there a particular reason you tried to kill me and my date after the shooting at Fenway Park the other night, or do you just commit vehicular homicide on the side for kicks?”

  Peter’s grimace deepened, and to Wolfe’s surprise he didn’t try to deny the accusation. “I apologize for that. Vaughn Securities was asked to shadow you—”

  “By who?” Scarlett interjected.

  “Me,” Nikki said, walking over from her car. Her black hair was in a loose bun and her lipstick was so perfect Wolfe wondered if it was tattooed. “It was Christopher’s idea to hire you, not mine, and he never said I couldn’t put someone more competent on the payroll.”

  “Ouch.” Wolfe nodded like he agreed with her. “I can see how a former Special Forces operator and an ex-NYPD detective would be way less experienced than—I’m sorry, Peter, what shady military contracting group did you start post Nine-Eleven to take advantage of two war-torn countries and soldiers with PTSD who didn’t know how to stop fighting?”

  “As I was saying…” Peter sounded like he was trying hard not to burp or Wolfe had struck a nerve. “I did authorize three cars for that operation, but my second in command decided to take matters into his own hands when he saw you leave the ballpark. He thought Scarlett was with you, not Sebastian Codreanu. Things got out of hand when you took off, and I apologize.”

  “I thought Walters was your second,” Scarlett said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I thought he had working eyes in his head—I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Sebastian and I don’t look the same.”

  “Walters was a schmuck,” Peter deadpanned. He mirrored Scarlett’s pose. “Fleischer’s my second now.”

  Scarlett’s eyes went wide like saucers before they flashed with anger. “You made my ex-boyfriend your second in command?”

  “Is Keane Fleischer the same ex-boyfriend who turned out to be spying on you for your dad and was one of the reasons you left New York? The one with the weird Irish and German accent?” When Scarlett and Peter both glared at him, Wolfe raised his hands. “Sorry, I just like to know who I’m mad at.”

  By now, Christopher, Melissa, Frankie, Maureen, and Patrick were all on the front lawn, along with a dozen well-armed, well-suited gentlemen of various races with crew cuts and bad attitudes. They were all packing heat—Wolfe could tell from how they carried themselves and the tailoring of their jackets—and they all sported earpieces and non-reflective sunglasses.

  Scarlett’s gaze flitted over the bodyguards before returning to her father, her face hard like stone. “So if Keane’s your second, where is he?”

  “With the rest of the boys, securing the venue for the governor’s chili cook-off in Nahant.” Something pithy and smug wafted through Peter’s expression like a bad stench. “Which you won’t be attending—at least not as Christopher’s security detail.”

  “You’re fired,” Nikki clarified, shoving her hands in the pockets of her blazer. “If you want to help, the best thing you c
an do is stay out of the way.”

  Wolfe looked at Christopher, who met his gaze briefly before glancing away. “I’m sorry, Jimmy,” he said, and while he sounded genuine the words rang hollow in Wolfe’s ears. “I have to protect my family. They come first.”

  The Sullivans and Nikki were ushered inside by Peter save for Melissa, who hung on to Frankie’s arm. “I’ll stay with her,” Frankie said to Peter’s men. When they didn’t budge, he gestured toward Wolfe and Scarlett, who had crossed the street to stand in Angela’s driveway. “She wants a minute to talk to them, okay? I’m a cop, I’ll bring her back in one piece.”

  The Vaughn Securities goon squad took up positions inside and outside of Patrick and Maureen’s home. Wolfe stood close enough to Scarlett that he practically felt her vibrating with outrage, so he put a hand flat against her back, between her shoulder blades. She relaxed in increments under his touch, the pink flush that had started creeping up her neck receding. Right before Frankie and Melissa joined them she glanced at Wolfe and inclined her head, a wordless thank you. He just smiled back—as far as Wolfe was concerned, Scarlett never needed to thank him for anything.

  “I want to hire you,” Melissa declared without preamble, smoothing out the wrinkles in her long black dress. In the daylight, she looked eerily like an old-style widow attending a funeral. From her clutch purse she pulled out a checkbook and a pen. “Not to protect us, but to investigate. You can go places police detectives can’t, not without everybody clamming up.” She scribbled out a check and handed it to Scarlett, who raised her eyebrows at the sum and tilted it so Wolfe could see. “Can you find out who’s trying to kill my husband?”

  “We can certainly try,” Wolfe said, and while the retainer she gave them was enough to pay the rent for a few months, he felt kind of skeevy taking it. “Mel, you don’t need to—”

  “Yes, I do,” she insisted, snapping the clutch closed again. She handed it to Frankie, who held it in both hands like it was a brick instead of a purse, and reached out to put a hand on Wolfe’s arm. “I believe in you. Just do your best.”

  ~***~

  Over in Mattapan, Kamienski and Silent Mark parked their unmarked cruiser across the street from Aiden Parker’s apartment building. The place was derelict even by Mattapan’s standards, a five-story brick box on Blue Hill Avenue stained with bird shit and within spitting distance of the Neponset River. Kamienski was thankful the stretch of abysmally hot weather had broken. This wasn’t the type of place that had air conditioning and the temperature went up ten degrees as soon as they stepped into the vestibule that led to the stairs.

  “You know I’ve sweated through every work shirt I own in the past month?” Kamienski griped, yanking at his tie so it felt less like a noose. “It’s pleasant as fucking punch outside and in here it’s a goddamn Easy Bake oven, because this is where we have to be.”

  Silent Mark didn’t look remotely uncomfortable.

  Five flights later, Kamienski rapped on Aiden Parker’s door. It was little more than plywood painted brown, plastic decals from the hardware store indicating the number. Aiden slid back a bolt lock and pulled the door open a few seconds later. Late twenties, a muscular six-foot-five with close-set hazel eyes and buzzed-down red hair. He wore basketball shorts and a Linkin Park t-shirt, and a quick peek behind him showed a run-of-the-mill bachelor pad, with a fan oscillating mercilessly in the background. “Hi. Can I help you?”

  “Aiden Parker?” When he nodded, Kamienski showed his badge in unison with Silent Mark. “We’re Detectives Kamienski and Hale, Boston Police. We’d like to ask your sister, Laine, a few questions about the shooting down at Fenway Park the other night. Have you seen her recently?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Aiden replied with a frown. He leaned a beefy shoulder against the doorjamb. “Is she in trouble?”

  “We have reason to believe she might be involved somehow—an eyewitness puts her in the area at the time of the shooting,” Kamienski hedged, watching Aiden’s face for tells. The kid was good, not even a twitch of a lip or an eyebrow. “Do you know where she might be?”

  “Last I heard she was going back to Blakely Manor for some kind of outpatient treatment.” Aiden scratched the back of his head before he shook it a little, like an idea had evaded him. “We don’t talk much. I’d check with them.” He stepped away and added, “Good luck finding her,” before he shut the door in their faces, the bolt sliding back into place.

  Kamienski waited until they were down in the cruiser to speak: “Well, that was hokey as hell. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think Wolfe’s right—they’re in on this together and Aiden’s covering for Laine. The question is, how do we prove it?”

  ~***~

  Sebastian had expected his father to go ballistic as soon as he and Constantin walked through the door of Anton’s Beacon Street brownstone, but it didn’t happen.

  Anton sat at the head of the dining table when they arrived—solid cherry, polished to a glossy sheen and big enough to seat twenty guests—sipping his morning coffee and reading the finance section from the Boston Globe. The rest of the paper was set off to the side along with a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs; Sebastian tried to remember the last time he’d seen his father eat and found he couldn’t.

  When he saw them in the doorway, Anton snapped the newspaper shut and almost smiled, a spasmodic twitch of his mouth. “Sebastian, baiatul meu! Come in and have a seat.”

  Sebastian was shocked but did as he was told, sitting down at his father’s right hand in an antique Victorian dining chair. He felt more than saw Constantin come to stand behind him, back to the wall, no doubt as perturbed by Anton’s cheeriness as Sebastian was. “Father… forgive me, but I did not expect you to be in such a good mood.”

  “After the debacle at the veterans’ gala last night, neither did I,” Anton admitted. “But you getting kidnapped worked out better than I could have predicted. Not only has Bobby Wolfe been castrated as the leader of the Winter Hill Gang by his nephew, but Danh Sang has one less weapon in his arsenal to attack us with to get the Rapture formula.”

  “So… you are not upset that I went to the gala with Jim?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “You were last night,” Sebastian pointed out, resisting the urge to pinch himself under the table to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He felt like a gymnast poised on a balance beam, one misstep away from a broken leg… or a broken neck.

  Anton shook his head, taking another sip of his coffee. “You misunderstood my ire, Sebastian. I was angry that Constantin chose to spend time he was supposed to be guarding you chasing down that Stahl girl at one of Lavinge’s little side projects. Which I hear is no longer under her control, thanks to the efforts of the Mahoney Mob.”

  Sebastian glanced through the windows that looked out on the bustle of Beacon Street for a moment, thoughts racing. For the first time in months, his teeth itched for a line of cocaine. “You… you didn’t plan the raid on Lavinge’s club,” he said, watching Anton’s face for his reaction. “But you put the idea in Mahoney’s head, didn’t you?”

  “You did not honestly think that fool decided to do that on his own, did you?” Anton asked with a chuckle. He folded his hands in his lap and nodded toward the door. “Get out of here. I need to speak with Constantin. Alone.”

  Reluctantly, Sebastian stood. He traded a glance with Constantin on his way out, and hoped the fact that his father and Constantin had been best friends since childhood still held some sway. Other bodyguards had been killed for much less grievous offenses than letting Sebastian attend a party alone. Even if Sebastian hadn’t actually been alone… he’s been with Wolfe, which was endlessly more complicated.

  He stepped out of the dining room into a walnut-paneled hallway, but instead of going back upstairs to his bedroom, Sebastian checked around to make sure no house staff or guards were watching before he wandered further down the corridor. Toward the back of the house near the kitchen was what had once been a lib
rary; it now functioned strictly as Anton’s office, and the door was always locked.

  To Sebastian’s knowledge, the only person who had a key was his father, and not even the housekeepers were allowed inside without Anton’s supervision. Reaching into the back pocket of his tuxedo pants, Sebastian pulled out his lock picks and got to work. It didn’t look as cool as it did on television, but he was able to get the door open and slip inside. This was uncharted territory, and he took a slow three-sixty turn inside the space.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled every wall, making the two cutouts for windows look like long, despondent eyes in a bumpy face. The windows were covered with blackout shades, even during the day. An ornate, heavy-looking desk took up the middle of the room, much like the one that had occupied the closet-sized office Anton had had in the back of Seams. There were no visitors’ chairs or any other furniture, and the only things on the desk were a laptop computer, a green-shaded lamp, and a neat stack of pay-as-you-go cell phones still in their packaging.

  The obvious target was the laptop, but Sebastian knew his father better than that. He only kept what records were absolutely necessary, and never on a computer; technology was too fallible and an easy way to get caught. That was part of the reason the CIA and other federal agencies had had such a hard time pinning any kind of crime on Anton for all these years. Unlike his counterparts, he hadn’t kept up with the times—with the exception of the burner phones, a necessary evil after the death of the payphone.

  Sebastian was about to start snooping when there was the barest whisper of a noise in the hallway. He froze, hand stopped mid-reach for one of the drawers, but the tension drained from his shoulders when Diana came inside and shut the door quietly. “Sister—you damn near gave me a heart attack.”