Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel

by Tom MacDonald

  “Where’s your affable partner, McClellan?”

  “Get in the car, Sparhawk.”

  I got in the front seat and buckled up, hoping for blue lights and sirens. Instead, Partridge puttered along, taking in the sights. After dillydallying through the city, choosing the least direct route, he rolled into police headquarters and escorted me inside. As we were walking into the building, Partridge said, “I have to warn you, Hanson is ripping mad at you.”

  “Is that supposed to be news? He’s always pissed at me.”

  “McClellan dropped a massive snapping turtle into Hanson’s pool. Hanson got on his raft with a gin and tonic in hand and floated to the deep end, and the snapper attacked, biting through rubber. Hanson sank in front of his party guests.”

  “I stand forewarned.”

  “I didn’t get to the warning part yet. McClellan made an anonymous call to Hanson and told him that you threw the snapper in the pool.”

  “Great.”

  “Like I told you, too much combat in Kandahar for McClellan. The poor guy is soft as shit and getting softer by the week.”

  And he’s armed with a gun.

  In the front lobby Detective McClellan greeted me with a wiseass smirk on his face, and after he finished taunting me, he and Partridge took me to an interrogation room. I sat at a long table and looked at my cellphone. I had missed a call from Kiera McKenzie, the forensics expert who examined the bag for prints. Partridge’s car ride and Kiera’s phone call couldn’t be a coincidence.

  I was in trouble.

  McClellan said, “You got big problems, Sparhawk, and I mean big fuckin’ problems.” He walked to the door and peeked out the small window. “And not just of the turtle variety.”

  “It doesn’t look good for you,” Partridge added.

  “Here comes Hanson.” McClellan hurried back to his seat. “Your ass is grass.”

  The door burst open and Hanson stormed in, wearing his customary attire: navy blue suit, purple tie, starched white shirt, all of which complemented his silver hair and darkening face. He sat across from me and opened a folder, but the folder was a prop. It could have been upside down for all the attention he paid to it. He tightened his Windsor knot with a tug, locking in the anger. He was now ready to take my head off. Partridge and McClellan sat quietly and waited for the beating to begin. Hanson didn’t disappoint them.

  “Where were you two nights ago?” he said.

  “Home,” I said. “Why?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Sparhawk. Can anyone verify that?”

  “No,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t quaver.

  Hanson stared at me. I tried not to blink. He got up and walked around the room and came back to the table and stood over me.

  “Kiera McKenzie ran fingerprints for you. Am I correct in saying that?”

  I told him he was correct.

  “Why did you go to Ms. McKenzie?” he asked. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

  “The way I obtained the prints was iffy.”

  “Iffy, as in inadmissible in court,” Hanson said. “Dumb move as usual, Sparhawk, you worked against your own self-interest.”

  “I know.”

  “Here’s something you don’t know. The prints you gave to Ms. McKenzie matched the partial print at the Murray murder scene, which means they also matched the prints on a car we recovered at Mystic Piers. What do you have to say about that?”

  I didn’t answer. Why did Kiera tell me the prints were too smudged to use?

  “Ms. McKenzie told us about the first test she ran, which she limited to the bag. Those prints were useless. She later dusted the bottle inside the bag and guess what she found — usable prints. The prints on the bottle matched the prints on the car and the partial in Gertrude Murray’s apartment. Ms. McKenzie told us that the bottle came from Avakian’s Market, so guess what we did next.”

  “You went to Avakian’s.”

  “Boy, you’re smart.” He closed the folder. “We talked to the employees. One of them, a squirrelly twerp who thinks he’s a fuckin’ genius, told us something interesting. Do you know what he told us?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “He told us that a big man wearing a ski mask kidnapped Mr. Avakian at gunpoint two nights ago. The twerp called the Avakian family and told them about it, but they never called the police, because they were waiting for the kidnapper’s demands.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “According to the twerp, the masked man forced Avakian into his own car,” Hanson said. “Tell me, Sparhawk, do you have any idea who the masked man might be?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Avakian hasn’t been seen since.” Hanson walked round the room in tightening circles, a hawk closing in on prey. “Why did you suspect Avakian of the murder, Sparhawk? You must have had a reason to get his prints.”

  “It was a hunch.”

  “A hunch?” He scoffed. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

  “I was asking around town about the silver coins Gert collected. When I went to Avakian’s Market I got a bad vibe.”

  “A bad vibe?” He grunted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Something struck me as fishy.”

  “Are you getting smart?”

  I told him I wasn’t.

  “Here’s what I think happened,” Hanson said, never sounding more confident. “You figured out that Avakian killed Gertrude Murray. In turn, Avakian figured out that you pegged him for the murder, so he tried to run you down. But the poor prick is half blind and hit Cheyenne Starr instead. You figured out that Avakian hit Cheyenne, you wanted revenge, you kidnapped him, and you killed him. How does that sound for a crime theory, Sherlock?”

  “Solid work, Dr. Watson, but there’s one major flaw. It wasn’t me.”

  “I’m going to nail you, Sparhawk, and I’m going to enjoy doing it. Oh, there’s one more thing. Don’t leave town.” He went to the door. “By the way, I know about the snapping turtle. If you go near my pool again, I’ll drown you.”

  Hanson left the room. If he had tail feathers, they’d be preening.

  Detective McClellan roared laughing and said, “Ehhh! Hanson’s gonna drown you the next time I throw a snapper in the pool. Ehhh!”

  “You’re fucked in the head, McClellan.”

  “You’re not too sharp yourself, Sparhawk. Ehhh!”

  The only thing sharp about McClellan was the shrapnel in his head. I opened my mouth to say something, but Partridge cut me off. “Get out of here, Sparhawk.”

  56

  I was drinking coffee at the kitchen table when the doorbell rang. I ignored it and kept working on the Boston Globe crossword puzzle. I filled in twenty-one across, eight letters, the clue was ‘opening,’ the answer was premier. The bell rang again. This time I went down to answer it. Rod Liveliner was standing on the porch, looking over his shoulder toward Bunker Hill Street. I invited him in, but he said no and asked me to come out to join him. The whole thing struck me as strange, but I complied, joining him on the porch.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is it about the boat?”

  “Joe Gun wants to see you at his club tonight.”

  “Joe Gun?” Joe runs an after-hours club in a Charlestown industrial park, in an area that turns into a ghost town when the sun goes down. It’s the perfect location for illicit activities. “Why didn’t he call me himself?”

  “Joe doesn’t like phones, too risky.”

  “I gave you my number. Why didn’t you call me? Why trek over to my house?”

  “I’m getting nervous, Dermot. All this stuff with Bo Murray and Skeeter and Victor Diaz, let alone the Avakian thing. I don’t want a phone record, no offense. The last thing I need is to end up in court with some asshole lawyer carving me up.”

  “Did
Joe say what it was about?”

  “No, they just said they wanted to talk to you.”

  “They?”

  “Joe and his friend Smitty. You know Smitty, the guy Joe played basketball with, they said it was very important.” Rod crossed his flaking forearms in front of his chest. “They drove to Little Mystic Channel to talk to me. It must be important.”

  At two in the morning I drove to Joe Gun’s place, which was housed in a dilapidated building next to an elevated section of I-93. The noise from the highway was deafening, even in the wee hours of the morning, but the club itself was shielded from the outside world, with acoustic tiling and thickly insulated walls.

  I went inside and stepped into a different domain, a make-believe domain where it was always happy hour and last call never comes. There must have been two hundred or more people drinking cocktails as if it were the Roaring 20s, hollering and singing and toasting to life. Watching it, I thought of The Great Gatsby — without the gowns and tuxedos. They gathered round tables and stood in circles. Some leaned against the forty-foot bar, as three bartenders hustled to keep up with the demand. Five or six waitresses delivered drinks to the cash-paying customers, who threw around tens and twenties, expecting no change.

  I saw Joe Gun sitting at a table, overseeing his realm, accompanied by Smitty, his lifelong friend. I weaved through the tippling throng and sat in the chair between them. Joe was drinking a lime beverage in a tall glass. Smitty had a can of Red Bull.

  “Rod gave me your message,” I said.

  Joe Gun’s white-blond hair was thick and wavy, and he combed it straight back so that it looked like a lion’s mane. His pal Smitty had big blue eyes that continually scanned the club, checking for potential problems. Twenty surveillance cameras couldn’t take in what Smitty’s two eyes took in, and they sure as hell couldn’t interpret the data the way Smitty could.

  “Coffee?” Smitty said.

  I said yes and he signaled for a waitress.

  “We were just talking basketball,” Joe Gun said, “specifically the Boston Celtics, the greatest sports franchise ever assembled. Who do you think was their best player of all time?”

  I played along.

  “Paul Pierce and Kevin Garnet took home a banner,” I answered, knowing I was about to get a lesson in Celtic lore.

  “You’re still young,” Joe said. “Bird was better, and Russell and Cousy were the best. And you can’t forget Cowens and Havlicek. Havlicek won eight titles, and so did Heinsohn.”

  “Heinsohn won ten if you count his coaching,” Smitty added. “Sam Jones won ten, too.”

  “What do we talk about next, the Bruins?” I said. “Bobby Orr and Phil Esposito?”

  The coffee came. Smitty slid the mug over to me and said, “Are you still looking into Gertrude Murray’s murder?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Still trying to prove Diaz didn’t do it?” Smitty went on. “Or his accomplice?”

  “Diaz didn’t kill her, and neither did his accomplice.”

  Smitty looked at Joe Gun, who leaned forward and said, “Sometimes people drink a little too much in here, and sometimes the drink loosens their tongues. Are you following what I’m saying? And sometimes they say things they might later regret, or they say things they might not remember at all. You of all people know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sadly.”

  “Crystal Light lemon,” Joe said, holding up his glass. “Anyway, getting back to what I was explaining, sometimes they lie, trying to impress the saps around them. You never know what to believe is what I’m saying.”

  “What did you hear, Joe?”

  Joe Gun and Smitty looked at each other. Their tacit exchange conveyed more than words ever could. Townie telepathy. Smitty nodded, Joe leaned farther forward. “This conversation we’re about to have never happened, understood?”

  “The Charlestown code of silence,” I said. “We’ll be like Get Smart, the cone of silence. You can be the chief, I’ll be Max.”

  “Wise guy,” Joe said. “There’s this guy who drinks here, a lawyer, and he got a little sloshed one night and started crying in his beer. Self-pity is pathetic, especially when the whiner is drunk. Anyway, this lawyer I’m talking about, he started moaning to me and Smitty, slobbering all over us like a two-year-old child.”

  “And?”

  “And he said he was responsible for Gertrude Murray’s death.” Joe Gun glanced over his shoulder. “He said Gert’s murder was his fault.”

  “Did he say why?” I asked.

  “He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask, because Smitty and I figured Diaz killed her. Then we heard maybe he didn’t. Then we heard you were ruffling everyone’s feathers downtown, so that’s why we asked you here tonight, to tell you what we heard. The lawyer I’m talking about, the one with the loose lips, his name is Remus Shonta.”

  “Shonta, I’ve seen his office,” I said. “He’s in Sullivan Square, across from the Teamsters building.”

  “Shonta specializes in wills,” Joe said. “He writes and files wills in probate court. He’s a back-office lawyer, which is a good thing, because he’d wither in front of a judge. The poor bastard drinks like a whale, hardly coming up for air.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  “He just left.”

  I drank some coffee and sat back in the chair. The joint was now completely jammed and the atmosphere was getting rowdier. The bartenders shifted into overdrive, and the waitresses raced and delivered trays of drinks.

  “Do you ever get raided?” I asked.

  “Never,” Joe said. “The cops were the first people I talked to before I opened. There are more guns in here tonight than in the armory in Dorchester.” Joe Gun lit an expensive cigar and blew out the match with a stream of smoke. “The good thing about running an illegal saloon is everything that happens inside it is legal, like smoking.”

  Investigating Remus Shonta seemed like a waste of time — knowing that Avakian had killed Gert Murray — but I went to his law office the next morning anyway. When I got there the receptionist asked for my name. I told her, and she told me to take a seat, and she went into Shonta’s office. Five minutes later she came out and said, “Mr. Shonta is tied up all morning. Can you come back later this afternoon, say four o’clock?”

  “Tell Shonta I’m friends with Bo Murray,” I said. “If he doesn’t talk to me now, I will go to Bo with what I know.”

  She stiffened. “Please wait here,” she said, and went back to his office.

  A moment later a puffy-faced man with a pink complexion came out. A gray rumpled suit covered his plump body, and scruffy stubble of gray dotted his blooming jowls. He stared, apparently not sure what to make of me, and invited me into his office. He sat behind his desk. I sat across from it.

  “So, you’re friends with Bo Murray,” Shonta said.

  “More like enemies, you know how it is in Charlestown.”

  “The receptionist said you were his friend.”

  “I lied.”

  “What’s going on here?” Shonta’s eyes watered in an effort to focus. “I could call the cops, you know.”

  “You won’t,” I said. “I work for the law firm that represents Victor Diaz, the man accused of murdering Gertrude Murray.”

  “I heard about the murder, it’s an open-and-shut case.”

  “You heard wrong. Diaz didn’t kill her.” I paused for effect. “A reliable source told me that you were responsible for Gert’s death. You admitted it to him. Would you like to tell me about that?”

  “Me? I don’t know what you are talking about. I never said any such thing, and you can’t prove I did.”

  “I figured you’d say something like that.” I got up and walked to the door. “Have a good day, Mr. Shonta.”

  “That’s it? That’s the end of it?”

  “No
t by a long shot,” I said to him. “When Victor Diaz goes to trial, and as you know it will be a very public trial, we will subpoena you to testify.”

  “Testify to what?”

  “To why you said you were responsible for Gertrude Murray’s death. You can tell it to a jury. We’ll also subpoena the man who overheard you saying it at Joe Gun’s club, and I can tell you this much, he won’t be happy about getting dragged into court. And, of course, Bo Murray will be there when you spill what you’re hiding.”

  “Jesus, it’s not what you think. I didn’t —”

  “I don’t care what you did or didn’t do, Mr. Shonta. You don’t look like a killer to me, but I know you’re holding something back. All I want is information. If I get it in court, fine. If I get it right here, right now, that’s fine, too. Tell me what you know, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Shonta tapped his left index finger on the desktop, stopped, opened the bottom drawer and took out a bottle of Old Thompson. Needless to say, the seal was already broken. He poured an inch into his coffee cup and drank it in a swallow.

  Pride goes out the window when the thirst is upon you.

  “I was Gertrude Murray’s lawyer,” he said. “I wrote her will, which included the administration of a small life insurance policy.”

  “How small?” I asked.

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” he said. “One of the Murray twins, he said he was Arnold but I can’t tell them apart, came to my office and asked me why his mother was here the day before. I told him I couldn’t discuss it with him, period. Arnold, if that’s who it was, pulled out a gun and aimed it at my head. He was shaking and sweating, and I got scared, so I told him about his mother’s will. What else could I do?” Shonta poured another stiff one but didn’t drink it — yet. “I told him that the proceeds were to be divided equally among the three sons, but that there was a stipulation clause in the will.”

  “Explain.”

  “If any of the Murray boys were in prison at the time of Gertrude’s death, they would be excluded from the will.”

  “What else?”