Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel

by Tom MacDonald

“We lost our baby?”

  “You are not to blame, Dermot. It was the accident, not you. I have to go now.”

  George walked out of the room.

  “Fuckin’ Nick Avakian,” I screamed. “I’m gonna kill him.”

  “Wait.” Glooscap got to his feet. “Do not act foolishly, Dermot. Please, do not —”

  Glooscap staggered forward, reaching for me, and collapsed on the floor.

  An ambulance took Glooscap and me to Mass General, where a medical team rushed him into ICU. I called Harraseeket Kid from the waiting room and told him what happened. Kid showed up twenty minutes later. An hour after that, a young Asian doctor came to the waiting area and updated us on Glooscap’s condition. She said that Glooscap was stable, but they were running more tests. We asked to see him, she told us not yet. She came back an hour later and led us to his room. Along the way she filled us in.

  “His vitals are perfect,” she said. “His heart is strong and his oxygen levels are superb. He has the pulse rate of a marathoner. We are trying to ascertain what caused the collapse, but at the moment we still don’t know.”

  Glooscap was sitting up in bed, watching the Red Sox game when we came in. Except for the tubes and monitors, he looked the way he always looked, hale and hearty and ready for life. He told us that he was feeling fine, that there was nothing to worry about, and that he couldn’t understand what happened in the garage. Glooscap hit the mute button and instructed Kid to take care of a few things at the shop, tedious tasks that had to be done.

  “I just got here,” Kid complained. “I came to see how you were doing.”

  “I am doing much better, just a harmless scare,” Glooscap told him. “I might be laid up for a few days, so please take care of those things for me.”

  Tension filled the air, as Kid stared at his father, insulted by his dismissal. Then Kid shrugged. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “No sweat. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Dermot,” Glooscap said to me. “I would like you to stick around after Kid leaves. We need to talk about something.”

  Kid took the hint and left the room. I waited for Glooscap to begin, but his eyelids sagged and he fell asleep. I stayed for an hour, waiting for him to wake up, but his breathing deepened and slowed. I heard snoring. The monitors beeped evenly, almost hypnotically, and his blood pressure and pulse remained perfect — perfect for a trained athlete half his age. Confident that he was in good shape, I left the room and headed for Charlestown.

  I crossed the locks behind the Garden to Paul Revere Park, and that’s when it happened. The Murray twins, Albert and Arnold, got out of a car and pointed guns at me. They had parked under the Zakim Bridge, hidden from public view, a surprisingly smart move on their part. One of them, I can’t tell them apart, told me to get in the back seat. I did as he instructed. You don’t argue with buffoons holding guns.

  “Drive, Arnold,” Albert said. He tapped my head with the gun barrel and told me not to move. Bo had tapped my head in the same way. “We’re going for a ride, Sparhawk, and you’re gonna keep your mouth shut. Get on the floor facedown.”

  He covered my head with a blanket. We drove for what seemed a long time, a twisting route that went up and down hills. My stomach filled with nausea. We finally pulled into a garage. I knew it was a garage because of the smell. It reminded me of Glooscap’s shop. The engine shut off, the garage door came down.

  “Get out,” Albert said. “Sit over there.”

  He pointed to a wooden chair next to a workbench. Arnold, the driver, went to the ‘shitter to take a leak.’

  “What now,” I asked Albert.

  “Now we wait.”

  We waited for hours. Night had fallen. The Murray twins kept the garage dark, the only light coming from a low-wattage desk lamp on the workbench. They kept their guns trained on me, dying for an excuse to shoot. I did my best not to give them one. Albert’s cellphone rang, breaking the silence. He answered, mumbled something incoherent and hung up. He looked at Arnold and said, “Let’s go.”

  Arnold opened the garage door. They got into the car and drove away, leaving me behind. What was going on? I stepped out to a quiet street and saw the Boston skyline in the distance. Based on the position of the Hancock Tower and the Prudential Building, I was north of the city, probably in Cambridge or Somerville. The quiet street led to Hampshire Street, which was in Cambridge, and I plotted a course to Central Square, where I hailed a cab.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked me.

  “Charlestown,” I said. “Avakian’s Market, 725 Terminal Street.”

  The cabbie clicked the meter and drove to Charlestown, taking the Prison Point Bridge. He cruised along Chelsea Street, next to the Navy Yard, and I wondered if I’d ever see the harbor again after I killed Nick Avakian. The cab went under the Tobin Bridge and turned on Terminal Street, where the dark skies were illuminated with blue light — police blue. Five cruisers and a fleet of unmarked cars surrounded Avakian’s Market. A cop stepped into the street, stopping the cab, and told the driver to turn around. The street was closed he said. I paid the driver and got out. The cop told me the street was closed to pedestrians, too.

  “I’m friends with Hanson and Pruitt,” I said.

  “Good for you,” he replied. “Get back in the cab and go home.”

  I heard gunfire and bullhorns and more gunfire. The salvo of shots was followed by yelling and confusion. Cops were running everywhere. Radios squawked and sirens chirped. I got back in the cab and the driver took me home.

  59

  She called the next morning and and told me to meet her at Uncle Joe’s Diner at eight o’clock. When I got there I saw Kiera McKenzie sitting in a booth reading a newspaper, her red hair pulled back off her face. I sat across from her and noticed a cup of coffee waiting for me. I added cream and sugar and drank some. She folded the paper and put it on the bench she sat on.

  “I finished processing Avakian’s evidence at five this morning,” she said. “The crime scene was a mess.”

  “I heard about it.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “I don’t know anything for a fact,” I said. “But I think Bo Murray killed Nick Avakian, because he found out that Nick murdered Gert.”

  She looked out to the street. “Bo was right about Nick killing his mother. Nick’s prints matched the partial in Gertrude’s apartment. I’m sorry to tell you that they also matched the prints on the car that ran over Cheyenne.”

  Kiera confirmed what I suspected, that Nick was the killer.

  My eyes filled with tears, and I turned away. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “But I’m guessing you already knew that,” she said, as Betsy the waitress refilled our cups. We sat silently for a minute, long enough for the 93 bus to stop and pick up riders and drive on to the Navy Yard. Finally, Kiera said, “I wonder how Bo Murray found out about Nick Avakian.”

  I had a pretty good idea, but I would never divulge it.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “No one seems to know, and no one has seen Mr. Avakian since the kidnapping. Maybe Bo was behind the kidnapping, too.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I also need to apologize to you, Dermot.”

  “Apologize for what?”

  “I told Hanson about the fingerprints on the wine bottle before I told you.” She drained her coffee cup in one final gulp. “I had to, it’s my job.”

  “I’d have done the same thing.”

  “I tried to warn you, but I couldn’t get through.” She looked at her cup. “I left a message. I hope you got it in time.”

  “Everything’s fine, Kiera.”

  “Hanson and Pruitt will come at you hard on this,” she said. “The media, the newspapers, they all want answers. Last night was a complete nightmare. It made national news.”

  “I saw the polic
e cars and heard the bullhorns and gunshots.” I smelled the cordite in the air, too. “Hanson and Pruitt must be a little perturbed.”

  “You are the master of understatement,” she said. “Nick Avakian is dead. Bo Murray is dead, suicide by cop. A store clerk got shot. He’ll probably die. And Mr. Avakian has vanished. It is safe to say that Hanson and Pruitt are not happy. They’re looking to hang this on someone, Dermot.” Kiera stood from the table. “I hope you can handle them.”

  “Me, too.”

  60

  They came at me hard, just as Kiera predicted. Superintendent Hanson and Captain Pruitt pinned me in an interrogation room and hammered me with questions about Avakian’s Market, accusing me of abetting Bo Murray in Nick Avakian’s death. My only hope to stay out of jail was to lie through my teeth. No lawyer, con man, or politician could have done it better. At one point I thought Hanson had boxed me in.

  “How did Bo Murray know about Nick Avakian, Sparhawk?”

  “Why would I know?”

  “How did Bo know that Nick killed his mother?” Hanson leaned across the table. “Bo was no genius, we both know that, so how did he figure Nick for killing Gert?”

  “Why are you looking at me,” I asked.

  “Someone told him, and you’re the only one who suspected Nick Avakian. That’s why you gave Kiera McKenzie the wine bottle with Nick’s prints on it, because you suspected him.”

  Actually, I suspected Mr. Avakian

  “That’s true, I suspected him.”

  “And then you told Bo about the matching prints,” Hanson continued. “And that dumb bastard acted on it and blew Nick’s head off.”

  “I didn’t know about the matching prints until you told me, Superintendent. I asked Kiera to check the bag, not the bottle, and the prints on the bag were smudged. I didn’t find out about the matching prints until after the police found out. Bo had friends in the department.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Half the police force grew up in Southie, Dorchester, and Charlestown, where Bo ran his rackets.” I leaned closer to Hanson. “Hell, you yourself knew about the prints before I did.”

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Hanson said, gritting his perfect teeth. “We are going to sit here, and you are going to tell us everything you know.”

  “I don’t know much.”

  “You are going to tell us why you suspected Nick Avakian in the first place. You are going to tell us how you got word to Bo Murray about Nick Avakian. And you are going to tell us what the hell happened to Mr. Avakian. Do you understand me? You are going to tell us every goddamned, infinitesimal, minuscule thing there is to tell, so start talking.”

  I thought it over. This was no time to be coy.

  “I hope you have time,” I said, “because it will take a while.”

  “Talk!”

  “Before I start I want to make one thing clear,” I said. “I did not tell Bo Murray about Nick Avakian.”

  In the end I told them virtually everything, except for one self-incriminating detail: the boat ride to Stellwagen Bank with Rod Liveliner and Mr. Avakian. Why sign my own prison sentence, and why get Rod in trouble? I told them about the winning lottery ticket, and when I did, their attitude changed. The lottery ticket was new information. It gave them Nick’s motive for robbing Gertrude Murray.

  Hanson said, “How did you know about the winning lottery ticket?”

  “The missing red star,” I said. And then I lied like a bastard, hoping to keep Skeeter Gruskowski out of it, but I doubted I could. “When I saw the missing star next to the winning number, I got curious and went to lottery headquarters in Braintree. After some wangling I got the name of the man who cashed it.”

  “Who the hell was it?” Hanson asked.

  “A Jamaica Plain businessman named Michael Cawley,” I said. “He cashes lottery tickets for people who want to protect their privacy. He takes a piece of the winnings, of course, but it’s a legitimate business from what I understand. Cawley cashed the Avakian ticket. If you want to talk to him he’s the golf pro at Franklin Park Golf Course.”

  Hanson leaned back and tapped a gold pen on the table and then he came forward with a smile on his face.

  “You are full of shit,” he said. “How did you know the ticket was sold at Avakian’s? The chart must have dozens and dozens of numbers without red stars.”

  I couldn’t protect Skeeter. I had to tell the cops what I knew, and when I finished telling them, Hanson waded in. “You’re telling me that you followed Gruskowski across the country on Route 66, and you didn’t catch up with him until he came back here to Charlestown.”

  I told him he was correct.

  “And you’re telling me that because Gertrude Murray was getting forgetful, she gave Gruskowski a winning lottery ticket to hold.”

  “Yes, but Gruskowski didn’t know it was a winner until days later, days after the murder,” I said. “And Gertrude never knew at all. She was murdered before she found out.”

  “According to Gruskowski he didn’t know until days later,” Hanson said. “He could have been snowing you, Sparhawk.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so.”

  “Then Gruskowski gave you a copy of the ticket, and you went to Avakian’s Market, and you checked it against the chart, and you noticed there was no red star next to it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Jesus.” He tossed the pen on the table. “Keep going.”

  I told them about Norm Yorsky, Mr. Avakian’s friend at the lottery, who called the market and left a message about the winning ticket. I speculated that Nick Avakian heard the message, reviewed the surveillance tape, identified Gertrude Murray as the buyer, and saw an opportunity to escape a lifetime of working at the market, a job he hated. Gertrude’s winning ticket was Nick’s ticket to freedom. Nick went to rob her and killed her in the process.

  I went back to the red star again. I told them that I was looking at the chart a week earlier, checking my lottery tickets — actually Kid’s tickets — and that Nick Avakian must have seen me scanning the chart. I further speculated that Nick started to worry that I’d make the connection to Gertrude Murray’s ticket. Nick decided to get rid of me by running me down with a stolen car, but he hit Cheyenne instead.

  Hanson and Pruitt looked at each other but didn’t speak. Then Hanson talked about Victor Diaz and admitted that he had nothing to do with Gert’s murder. As they were talking about Diaz, I thought about Bianca Sanchez, and I decided to keep her name out of it if I could. She had enough troubles, thanks to me.

  By the time the interrogation ended, Hanson and Pruitt seemed somewhat satisfied with my take on the matter, but that was another assumption on my part. I was getting used to making assumptions.

  Hanson pointed at me and said, “We still don’t know what happened to Mr. Avakian. And we still don’t know who told Bo about Nick Avakian.”

  Pruitt said, “Maybe Bo whacked Mr. Avakian before he took out Nick. It wouldn’t be the first time he kidnapped someone. Remember the bank manager’s wife?”

  “Of course I remember.” Hanson stared at me. “I still think you got word to Bo about Nick Avakian.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Revenge,” he said. “Nick ran over Cheyenne.” He got up from the table. “I can’t prove it, not yet, but I’m staying on it until I do. I will go through every phone call and every email you ever sent, and I will nail you. Now get out of here!”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice.

  61

  I drove to Glooscap’s garage and went in. As usual, the smell of pipe tobacco filled the work area, and when I entered his office, he was blowing a cloudy stream from his mouth. He looked at me and took another puff. I sat in a chair.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “I made a quick recovery. They
let me go this morning.”

  “I know they did.” I leaned forward and rested my elbows on his desk. “You faked the heart attack to save me from myself.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.” He studied the smoldering bowl, sniffed it, and bit on to the stem. “I felt lightheaded, fainted, and that is all there is to it.”

  “The doctor said you have the heart of a stallion. Your pulse could power a compressor.”

  “That is good to know.”

  “You got word to Bo Murray,” I said. “You told Bo that if he kidnapped me, you’d tell him who murdered Gert.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “You wanted Bo to kill Nick before I did.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “You saw my anger, you knew I’d act on it, and you pretended to get sick. You did it to to stall me,” I said. “You tied me up long enough for Bo to do his thing. Bo ordered the twins to kidnap me and detain me until he whacked Nick Avakian.”

  Glooscap said nothing in response, and in his stillness I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings. Here was Glooscap, my uncle and my father’s half-bother, doing something he would never do under ordinary circumstances: fingering a man for murder. He did it to protect me.

  I said, “I appreciate that you always look out for me.”

  “I still do not know what you are talking about, but if you will indulge me, I would like to move on to another matter.” He struck a wooden match and relit the bowl. “I am inviting a friend to join us. I want you to listen to what we have to say. Agreed?”

  “Sure, agreed.”

  “Good.” Glooscap dialed his cell phone. “Ah, you are in. Can you drop by the garage to discuss the matter we talked about earlier? Very good, I will see you then.” He hung up.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  “You shall see,” Glooscap answered. “Be patient.”

  An hour later the door opened and Rod Liveliner came in, his face gray, his movements stiff. I wondered if he had slept since the Avakian incident.