Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel

by Tom MacDonald

  “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, Mr. Avakian.” I sat next to him. “Now tell me, where is the car?”

  “What car?” He grabbed my leg. “I don’t know about any car.”

  “Where is the goddamn car?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I looked at Rod, who shrugged his shoulders. I said to Avakian, “Gertrude Murray bought a lottery ticket from you the night she was killed.”

  “She bought them all the time.”

  “The ticket she bought hit for one-point-four million dollars. A man named Norm Yorsky called your store and told you about it. Yorsky works for the lottery.”

  “I know he works for the lottery.” Avakian seemed bewildered. “Norm and I are old friends. We grew up in Watertown.”

  “Yorsky told you about the winning ticket.”

  “He always tells me about winning tickets. It’s an excuse to talk.”

  “You used the timestamp on the ticket, you searched the surveillance video, you found the person who bought it: Gertrude Murray. You went to her apartment to steal the ticket, and something went wrong, and you killed her.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said. “I don’t even know how to work the surveillance video, and I didn’t hear Norm’s message ’til the next day.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  I sat on the edge of the boat as waves crashed over the gunwales, splashing everything and everyone on board. The icy spray soaked my ski mask, and I said fuck it and took it off. Rod yelled at me to keep it on, but I didn’t listen. I stared at Avakian.

  “You?” he said.

  “Yeah, me. And I don’t care you know it’s me, because I am going to get what I need, and we are going to march into the police station together and tell them everything.”

  “Tell them what?”

  “We are going to tell them about the murder of Gertrude Murray and the maiming of Cheyenne Starr.”

  “Cheyenne who? You’re crazy.”

  “Like hell I’m crazy,” I said. “I went to your store and looked at the lottery chart. Gert Murray’s number wasn’t marked with a red star. The other winners you sold were marked with red stars, but not hers. When you saw me studying the chart, you knew I figured out you killed Gert, so you ran me down. Except you didn’t run me down, you ran down my girlfriend instead.”

  “I didn’t run anyone down,” he said. “It’s impossible. I don’t even —”

  “It was dark and rainy,” I said. “You confused her for me and you mutilated her.” Then I floated a bluff. “And there’s the fingerprint.”

  “What fingerprint?”

  “The one you left at Gert’s apartment,” I said.

  “I’ve never been to her apartment. I don’t even know where she lives.”

  “You followed her.”

  “Followed her? That’s impossible,” he said. “Even if I heard Norm’s message that night, which I didn’t, Gert was already gone. The store was closed when he called.”

  “A friend of mine bought a bottle of wine from you. I watched while you sold it to him. I gave the bag to a fingerprint expert.”

  He didn’t respond, so I resumed.

  “The prints on the bottle matched the prints at Gert’s apartment,” I said, lying to get the truth out of him. “You killed Gert and you tried to kill me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Tell me where the car is, Mr. Avakian, the car you used to hit my girlfriend. Tell me or you’re going overboard.”

  “The fingerprint matched the one at Gert’s?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  Avakian started to say something, but stopped and got to his feet. An odd expression swept across his face, not a grimace but a look of submission that said all was lost, that there was no use in going on. I’ve never seen a look like it before.

  “No more lies.” He picked up the anchor and shuffled to the edge of the boat. “I can’t do the time, not at my age.” He fell backwards into the ocean like a scuba diver.

  “What the fuck?” I shrieked, as the rope unwound. “Gimme a hand, Rod!”

  We grabbed the rope and pulled, going from dry to wet fibers, jerking the line as fast as we could. Avakian must have sunk thirty feet or more into the water. We kept pulling and got into a rhythm and pulled in unison. Avakian appeared on the surface, his head under water, his body slack in a deadman’s float. I reached over the gunwales and yanked him into the boat. He wasn’t breathing. I pushed on his chest and blew into his mouth. He lay inert. I blew and pushed and blew and pushed. A spittle of spray came from his mouth, followed by a gush of salt water. He coughed and gasped for air.

  He was alive.

  I untied the anchor from him and flopped on my back. Avakian was on his back, too, breathing more easily now. I crawled to the side of the boat and vomited, spewing an acidy discharge into the waves. What had I done? I puked again, half of it spurting out my nose. I only meant to scare him. After ten minutes I was doing okay, and Avakian was back to normal — or as a normal as a man can be after a kidnapping and suicide attempt.

  “I killed her,” Avakian said. “I didn’t mean to, but I killed her. I don’t know what got into me. I only wanted the ticket.” He looked up to the dark sky and shook his head. “I will not go to jail for this.” He stood and grabbed my arms. “Give me three days, that’s all I’m asking for, three days. I’ll make arrangements to leave the country, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Why should I give you three days?” I said.

  “If you don’t, I’ll tell the police you kidnapped me, and all three of us will go away.” He looked again at the starless sky. “I know you won’t kill me, because you just saved my life.”

  “We could change our minds,” Rod said, taking off his mask.

  “You won’t,” Avakian said. “You seem like descent men.”

  “Maybe I don’t care about going away,” I said. “Maybe I’ll march you into police headquarters and soon as we dock.”

  “You’ll gain nothing by doing that,” Avakian turned to me. “Nothing you tell them can be used in court.”

  Avakian was right. Nothing he said could be used in court, not his confession, not his admitted motive, nothing. Besides, I kidnapped and coerced the confession out of him, crimes that could land me in prison myself.

  I said to him, “Victor Diaz will go away for your crime.”

  “Diaz doesn’t deserve to go to jail because of me. And I won’t let that happen. Once I get settled, once I’m safely tucked away, I’ll write a confession and mail it to the Boston police.”

  “Do you expect me to buy that?” I said.

  “I’ll write the confession here, in Charlestown. I’ll leave it with my lawyer and tell him to deliver it to the police when I’m gone. He won’t know it’s a confession, because if he knew, he’d be culpable in my escape. When the police get the confession, Diaz will get released.”

  “Right-o, he’ll be released,” I said. I doubted Avakian would confess, and I doubted it would result in the charges being dropped against Diaz, but what could I do? I had no leverage. I had fucked it all up, and I didn’t want to go to prison.

  “We have to get back,” Rod said, opening up the throttle.

  Before long, Boston Light came into view, and then the airport and Castle Island, and we soon came to the Navy Yard and then to Mystic Piers. I hopped off the boat and secured the line, and Avakian stepped onto the pier.

  “Now what?” he said.

  “You’ll need these.” I tossed him his car keys. “You got three days.”

  Avakian got in his car and drove off.

  I said to Rod, “That went well.”

  “Terrific,” he deadpanned. “I have
to return the boat.”

  I untied the line and tossed it on the deck, and Rod churned away from the pier.

  I went into St. Jude Thaddeus church and sat in the front row and faced the tabernacle. I didn’t pray. I didn’t ask for forgiveness. I sat silently. I took out my rosary beads, and feeling like a fraud, I put them away. I heard the big doors open, and one by one, parishioners drifted in for morning Mass. The sacristy bell rang. Fr. Dominic walked to the altar and genuflected. I left the church, taking a side aisle. I went by the marble holy-water font, but I didn’t dip my fingers, fearing they’d sizzle off.

  I stood on the top step of the church and looked across the street and saw the dim lights of the Horseshoe Tavern burning in the window. The Horseshoe opens early to accommodate the morning drinker and the third-shift crowd getting off work. I crossed Bunker Hill Street and opened the door. The smell of stale beer punched me in the face. I went to the bar. Without saying a word, the barman, a Townie named No Nose, placed a shot of Old Thompson and a mug of Narragansett in front of me. I hadn’t been to the Horseshoe in six years, yet he remembered my order. I grasped the shot glass, which is dubbed a shaker glass, because it is large enough that a shaking hand doesn’t spill the first vital sip. It felt good in my hand, natural, like a football in the hand of a quarterback.

  I moved the shaker back and forth on the mahogany countertop, never lifting it off the wood. Circles of varying sizes scarred the bar, circles etched by alcohol. The small circles were made by shot glasses, the medium by beer bottles, the large by beer mugs — permanent tattoos engraved by booze. I gazed into the cracked mirror behind the bar. My face reflected between bottles of gin and rum and vodka, the long necks of the liters resembling prison bars. I let go of the shaker glass. If I was going to do prison time, I was going to do it right — in a cell, not a bar. I would surrender to the authorities and confess my crime.

  I dropped a twenty on the bar and walked outside to the curb, and that’s when my cell phone rang. It was my sponsor, Mickey Pappas, who said, “An image of your face came to me, so I took it as a sign to give you a call.”

  “Thanks, Mick.”

  “You don’t sound so good. Did something happen?”

  “I just ordered whiskey and beer at the Horseshoe.”

  “Christ,” he said. “Did you drink?”

  “No, I’m on the sidewalk out front.”

  “Stay there, I’m on my way.”

  I watched the parishioners exiting the church after Mass. Frail yet smiling, they moved with caution down the steep granite stairs, clutching the railings, feeling for the next step with a dangle foot. I wondered what sins they were carrying inside. I doubted kidnapping was one of them. Mickey’s Toyota Avalon pulled up in front of me. I got in the front seat.

  “The Horseshoe Tavern, are you serious?” he said, pulling away. “What’s going on?”

  I told him what I did to Avakian.

  “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.” After circling Charlestown twice, he drove under the Tobin Bridge and into the Navy Yard at Gate 4. “I’ve heard some crazy things before, but this is the craziest — and I’m a Townie.”

  “I know.”

  “Let me see if I got it right,” he said. “You kidnapped Mr. Avakian to find the car that ran over Cheyenne. You thought he knew where it was, and you tried to scare it of out of him.”

  “That was my thinking.”

  “Thinking?”

  “Maybe I’m giving myself too much credit.”

  “Unbelievable.” Mickey shook his head so vigorously, I thought it would spin off his neck and into orbit. “Alcoholism,” he said. “You switched obsessions from alcohol to Cheyenne. Obsession. You’re obsessed with finding the guy who ran her down. That’s why you kidnapped Avakian, because you’re obsessed with finding out.”

  “And I did find out, Mick, that’s why he jumped overboard.”

  “He didn’t get any help jumping, did he?”

  “He jumped on his own. Nobody pushed him,” I said. “Why would I save him if I pushed him in?”

  “True enough, just asking.”

  “But I can’t live with the guilt. It’s eating me up inside, like I’m going insane.”

  “Okay, okay, slow down.”

  “I’m turning myself in, because if I don’t, Diaz will go away for twenty-five, maybe longer. I know the truth. I know Avakian killed Gert. I’m the only one that can help Diaz.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait a second now, we need to talk this out.” He parked next to the Navy Yard Bistro. “Give me a minute to think.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” I said. “Diaz’s freedom depends on me.”

  “Hold it, will ya? Christ almighty, gimme a chance to think,” he said, drumming the steering wheel with his blunt fingers. “This is complicated, very complicated. I want you to listen to me real closely.”

  “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “Don’t be selfish,” he said. “You gotta think about Rod Liveliner. If you turn yourself in, you’ll take Rod down with you, and maybe the guy that lent him the boat.”

  “I won’t rat out Rod.”

  “Your confession will rat him out. The cops aren’t stupid. They have cameras all over the harbor, probably the Mystic Piers, too. If you spill, they’ll find out what happened, all of it, and it’s sayonara Rod.” Mickey lowered the widows and killed the engine. “Avakian murdered Gert Murray and he maimed Cheyenne, and you caught him. Avakian knew he’d be going away, so he weighed his options and tried to deep-six himself. And I don’t blame him for taking the Dixie dive, because I’d have done the same thing.”

  “What about me? What about Diaz?”

  He rubbed his face with two open palms.

  “First of all, you didn’t kill Avakian.”

  “I tied an anchor to him.”

  “I didn’t say you were smart, but he’s alive, you didn’t kill him.” Mickey faced me. “I know you’re feeling bad, and I know you want it to go away, but it’s not that simple because of Rod. Here’s what I want you do. I want you to tell Fr. Dominic what happened, all of it. Will you do that for me?”

  “Go to confession?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “If you’re going to spill, spill to Fr. Dominic.”

  “And Diaz goes to prison?”

  “Give it time. Maybe Avakian will confess like he said he would.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” I asked.

  “Give it a week, Dermot,” Mickey said. “See what’s up in a week. Decide then.”

  I knocked on the rectory door and Fr. Dominic opened it. He looked at me and said, “What’s wrong, Dermot? I noticed you left Mass early today.”

  “I need help.”

  “I thought you might. Come in.”

  54

  Buckley Louis sat in a wheelchair behind his big oak desk in our Navy Yard office. We were looking toward the harbor at the storm clouds looming on the horizon. The Red Sox had already canceled tonight’s game.

  “The DA’s office sent a report.” Buck picked it up and read from it. “The police found an abandoned car and ran forensics on it. They got the fingerprints, DNA, too.” Buck placed the report on the desk. “It’s the car that hit Cheyenne Starr.”

  “What?”

  “DNA, blood, it’s definitely the car that hit her.”

  “Where did they find it?”

  “Mystic Piers,” he said. “There’s more. The prints on the car matched the partial print in Gertrude Murray’s apartment. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You’re saying the man who killed Gert is the same man that ran over Cheyenne.”

  “That’s right, the same man.”

  I already knew this, thanks to the boat ride with Avakian, but I had decided not to tell Buck about the Avakian kidnapping. Why burden him with my boneheaded play?

&nb
sp; “This proves that Victor Diaz is innocent,” I said.

  “Not yet, not until the cops catch the accomplice. If the accomplice’s prints don’t match the prints on the car, Diaz is off the hook.”

  “Tell me more about the car.”

  “It was sitting at Mystic Piers for days. One of the shippers figured something was wrong when a tire went flat. He checked it, saw the dent, saw the blood, and called the police.”

  “The car had been there for a while.”

  Lightning flashed and thunder growled. The skies opened up. Whopping raindrops pelted the office windows and bounced off the walkway surrounding Dry Dock 2. People scattered for cover, holding newspapers over their heads. Seagulls flew up and perched under warehouse eaves, waiting for the downpour to end. A commuter boat docked at Pier 3. After the ramp had been secured, passengers raced off the boat to awaiting cars with glowing headlights. Everything changes when it rains.

  “Gertrude Murray and Cheyenne Starr,” Buck said, “what do you think connects them? I’m only bringing this up because sooner or later the police will be asking.”

  “They both kept great company,” I said.

  “Get serious.”

  “Okay, I’ll get serious. I’m the connection. But Cheyenne was a victim of circumstance. The driver mistook her for me. I was the intended target.”

  “And why would the driver want to hit you?” Buck asked.

  “He probably thought I was getting close to identifying Gert’s killer.”

  “Yeah, I came to the same conclusion, and so will the cops.”

  55

  I was walking up Bunker Hill Street when I saw a gray sedan idling in front of my house. The tinted windows and curly antenna got my attention. The LEDs behind the grille increased my suspicions, and my suspicions were confirmed when Partridge stepped out of the car. I went up to him.

  “Detective Partridge,” I said. “Touring the neighborhood?”

  “Hanson wants to talk to you, hop in.”