Detective Jimmy Tynan used McNulty as a Trojan Horse to find the deadly sex club and closed it down in a blaze of glory and an exploding factory. They rescued several girls and arrested Telfon Speed. The fallout for McNulty was a lot of publicity and help moving to America. He didn’t mention the search for his missing sister. That was too deep. Just admitted his use of sensual masseuses and a lack of sexual contact since.
The cabin was quiet. The gentle creak and sway of the boat was calming. They were sitting in the corner against fluffed-up cushions and the remnants of two iced teas each. Helen waited to see if McNulty had finished. When she was satisfied that he had, she let out a long, deep sigh.
“No sex at all?”
McNulty frowned. “I felt unclean.”
He scratched the tattoo on his neck as if trying to scrape the dirt off. He stopped when he realized what he was doing. He rubbed his hands together instead, then took a drink of iced tea. He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Talking about it hasn’t cleaned me up.”
Helen raised her eyebrows. “It might have cleaned you out.”
McNulty shook his head. “I’ve never held with the theory that a problem shared is a problem halved.”
“And yet you’ve talked about it just now.”
McNulty blew his cheeks out. “Yeah. I don’t know where that came from.”
She lowered her voice. “Maybe you recognized a kindred spirit.”
McNulty tried to lighten the tone. “You’ve used massage parlors as well?”
Helen kept a steady eye on him. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of.”
McNulty watched her face. “You seem like somebody who goes out and gets what she wants.”
The sigh this time was quiet and sad. “That’s what I’m not proud of.”
McNulty emptied his second iced tea and put the glass on the coffee table. The sun was gone and the sky was dark. He’d been talking for longer than he realized. Evening had turned into night. The cabin was aglow with warmth in a sea of darkness. He looked at the woman who had listened so well. He nodded his thanks without saying it. Helen nodded back then a frown creased her brow.
“So, it’s been four years?’
McNulty looked down for a moment then met her gaze. This felt like it was moving in the right direction, but he wasn’t ready to make the first move. He wasn’t sure if he was ready at all. Helen took the decision out of his hands. She looked in his eyes and lowered her voice.
“You know what they say about riding a bike?”
She reached over and touched his hand. This time he didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He leaned toward her and ran a hand up the side of her face. That was all he could manage. He froze, still unable to climb back on the bike. Then she moved closer, took his hand away, and kissed him gently on the cheek.
TWELVE
Bridgewater Photo Lab was at the south end of Center Street almost across the city limits into Weymouth. It was a single-story building between The Home Depot parking lot and the back of Quincy Adams Station where the T takes the red line all the way into downtown Boston. McNulty doubted if too many people made the journey in reverse. There were nicer places to get your DIY supplies. Thomas E. Burgin Parkway swept past the entrance and joined a sprawling spaghetti junction leading to the I-93. Despite only being mid-afternoon, McNulty could hear the hum of traffic passing Quincy by.
He parked in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and watched the entrance to the lab reflected in the coffee-shop window. It was a standard commercial building without any real shop frontage. There was a single door for customers and a roller-shutter door for deliveries around the side. Some blacked-out windows. The sign out front was faded blue and peeling. Telegraph poles and lampposts were adorned with flyers and advertisements. A shaggy dog peered out from behind one. A gap-toothed girl smiled from behind another. Nobody around here seemed able to hold onto their dogs or kids.
McNulty wound up his car window and got out. A train rattled into Quincy Adams Station. Across the parking lot a delivery truck unloaded kitchen countertops at The Home Depot. Weak afternoon sunshine struggled to break through a thin veil of low clouds that was gathering from the south. A sales rep came out of Dunkin’ Donuts with a tray of pastries and an enormous paper cup. He got into his car and proceeded to eat and drive his way toward the interstate.
Nobody came or went from the photo lab. There were a couple of cars parked along the side toward the rear, probably staff, but none parked out front. McNulty wanted to see what sort of customers the place attracted so he went into Dunkin’ Donuts to keep watch. Glaring colors and bright lights almost blinded him as he stepped inside. He felt like he’d walked into a scene from Toy Story or Star Trek. The decor screamed, “get in and get out quick.” Maybe that was the idea. McNulty wasn’t getting out quick. He ordered a tall skinny latte and sat in the window. Covert observations out in the open. He could be here a while.
In the hour it took for McNulty to drink his latte he saw five customers come and go from the photo lab—three dropping off and two collecting. The ones picking up leafed through photo envelopes on their way out. Of the ones dropping off, two had film cartridges and one had something small, maybe a memory card, for printing. They all looked like Joe Average. Nobody looked suspicious. McNulty had seen enough. He finished his cold latte and threw the empty cup into the bin. The woman behind the counter waved him goodbye. The accent had worked a treat. Maybe all Englishmen took this long over coffee.
Once outside he crossed to the door with the faded blue sign, getting his story straight as he went. A truck was delivering something else at The Home Depot. Another train rattled into Quincy Adams Station. McNulty paused with one hand on the door handle. He took a deep breath, nodded once, then pushed his way into Bridgewater Photo Lab.
“I think we can help you with that. What exactly is the problem?”
The woman at the sales desk was the smiling face of customer service. The interior was bright and cheery in complete contrast to the dull exterior. There was a glass display cabinet with digital cameras behind the main counter and shelves of various computer supplies, and photo paper. A bookshelf held volumes on photography, creative Photoshop and home cinema. McNulty assumed that home cinema meant home movies rather than Hollywood blockbusters on your flat-screen TV.
McNulty looked embarrassed. “Well, I’m still a bit old school. On film, not digital.”
The woman stitched understanding onto her smile.
“That’s good to hear. We started with film developing.”
McNulty nodded. “Great.” Then he cranked up the embarrassed face. “The thing is. I think I messed up.”
Concern creased the woman’s brow.
“Oh dear. How can we help?”
McNulty struggled to find the words, buying time so he could check the layout and staff levels. The customer area was bright and clean and square. He noted the display stands and sales counter and an office in the far corner with big windows and vertical blinds. That accounted for the public front of Bridgewater Photo Laboratories with its blacked-out windows. The real work was done behind a closed door next to the office. Twice while McNulty was talking to the woman, he saw a man in a dirty grey lab coat come out and collect a plastic tray, then go back in. The area inside the door was dark with a hint of red from a bulb along the wall. The darkrooms. Part of McNulty’s mind was processing all that as he spoke.
“We were filming in low light. Natural, not electric.”
The woman prompted McNulty. “And you didn’t use the right ISO.”
McNulty gave an embarrassed shrug to cover the fact that he had no idea what she was talking about. Just like his interview technique in the police, silence prompted a response. The woman helped him again.
“Using the correct film speed in low light is very important unless you have extra lighting.”
McNulty nodded but didn’t speak. The woman again filled the void.
“A
common problem when using daylight film at night. The color temperature of artificial light.”
It was her turn to shrug.
“Not as accurate as color-corrected lighting.”
The man in the lab coat came out again. He was tall and thin with a face so tightly drawn it looked like a skull with eyes and a hooked nose. He was pale and stoop-shouldered, like someone who didn’t get out much. He checked some papers on a clipboard beside the darkroom door and signed several sheets. He opened the door, then hesitated as if remembering something. He wedged the door partly open with his foot while he checked the clipboard. A small scruffy dog barked, and he flicked his foot to keep it from coming out. After hanging up the clipboard, he returned to the darkroom area. The woman was still talking.
“I take it your film is underexposed.”
McNulty looked relieved that the woman understood.
“That is exactly the problem. Yes.”
The woman waved a hand. “Not a problem. We can push process to increase the exposure. The image won’t be as smooth, and the contrast may be affected. Is that all right with you?”
McNulty nodded.
“Sounds great.”
The woman took an order pad from the desk and prepared to begin writing.
“Did you use filters for color correction?”
“No.”
“We can’t guarantee an accurate color palette then.”
“Color isn’t an issue.”
The vertical blinds twitched on the office window. Somebody peered out and then closed the blinds. McNulty leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And to be honest. It’s a bit of a sensitive job—you know? Got to be careful who knows I’ve been filming.”
The woman gave McNulty a stern look. “Nothing illegal, I hope.”
McNulty waved her concerns aside. “No. Nothing like that. Just private.”
This was like buying condoms at the pharmacy. It might have been better if he’d talked to the lab coat. McNulty quivered a hand to indicate doubt.
“Maybe the film stock is a little unofficial. It’s not stolen. More like rented.”
The woman stood poised, pen in hand. “That is not our concern.”
She prepared to fill in the order form.
“What size film are you using?”
“Thirty-five millimeter.”
The pen quivered. The woman glanced at the darkroom door. She put the pen down and stood up straight.
“I’m sorry. We don’t process thirty-five millimeter here.”
The vertical blinds twitched again. A muffled bark sounded from behind the darkroom door. McNulty looked the woman in the eye.
“What if I cut it in half and brought you two lots of sixteen-millimeter?”
The woman dropped the order pad in the drawer and slammed it shut. McNulty smiled and headed for the front door, his eyes checking for CCTV and alarm wires as he went. He didn’t think he’d have a problem with the guard dog.
THIRTEEN
From his seat at Dunkin’ Donuts, McNulty watched the staff of Bridgewater Photo Lab close up and leave. Another one-hour latte. A second visit to the Technicolor coffee shop. The Yorkshire accent got him a double-chocolate-chip donut thrown in. The waitress didn’t seem bothered that it was near closing time for her as well. She busied herself clearing the service counter. McNulty kept his eyes on the prize.
The smiling face of Bridgewater came out first, followed soon after by another woman and a man who looked like the manager. Not exactly a business-suit kind of guy, but dressed in a shirt and tie. There was a long pause before the last person came out. The tall skinny man with the hooknose didn’t use the front door but instead exited from a small door next to the delivery bay and struggled with his car keys. The car beeped and the lights flashed once. He was struggling because his arms were filled with a plastic trashcan liner that couldn’t hide the shape of the film canisters inside. Maybe six reels deep. Wide as a pizza box. He loaded them into the trunk, then turned to lock the building’s staff door. There was no pause to indicate he had set an alarm, which tied in with what McNulty had seen inside.
The car drove off the only way it could, along Center Street then straight across the intersection, ignoring Thomas E. Burgin and the I-93. Heading north. Out of habit, McNulty wrote the plate number on a napkin, then finished his latte and smiled at the waitress.
“Thanks for the donut.”
“You’re welcome. Have a nice day.”
And he thought she actually meant it. He linked his fingers and flexed them until they cracked. The workday was drawing to a close, but McNulty’s wouldn’t start until after dark. Despite the days growing shorter, that was still a long way off. He needed to find a different place to wait. For a moment he considered calling Amy or visiting Helen but he felt guilty on both counts. In addition, he didn’t want to stray too far from the center of operations. He took a slow walk around the parking lot to check for cameras, then jumped into his car. Apart from the donut, he hadn’t eaten all day. Having dinner should kill a couple of hours.
He didn’t have to go far to find a diner, which was just across the intersection opposite The Home Depot exit. South Shore Diner modeled itself on a railroad car but was in fact a low-slung brick-and-mortar restaurant between Paul’s Auto Body and the derelict Lincoln Granite Co. offices. McNulty didn’t know why it was called South Shore because it was nowhere near the coast. Nevertheless, it did have the cozy ambience of an American diner, and that was good enough for him.
He parked behind the derelict building so the car wouldn’t be on display and skirted Paul’s Auto Body to the front steps. The overcast sky made the interior look even more welcoming if you were standing outside looking in. Green walls and yellow lights gave it a warmth that would sustain him until it was time to move. Scarred wooden telephone poles marched along Center Street. Tattered flyers stapled to the wood showed their age. McNulty paused on the diner steps as a new flyer caught his eye. A smiling face with ponytails and freckles.
Jenny Eynon
13 yrs old
Missing
There were contact details and a description underneath the photo, but it was her eyes that wouldn’t let him go. They followed him up the steps and into the diner and haunted him while he ordered from a menu that seemed less appetizing than it had a few moments earlier.
No matter how far he traveled, things always hearkened back to the massage parlors and the sex club and the girls Telfon Speed recruited by force or coercion. The girl on the poster hadn’t looked like Michelle Jamison, but her eyes held the same hint of sadness, despite the smile. Jenny Eynon looked younger, too, but that could have been because of the hard life Michelle had lived before McNulty plucked her from the clutches of Northern X. Saving young girls was a habit that stretched all the way back to Crag View and the slap his sister had taken from Mr. Cruckshank.
McNulty toyed with his cheeseburger and fries but chewing seemed to take forever and swallowing took even longer. He swilled each mouthful with ice-cold Pepsi but it didn’t help. The second burger he’d ordered on the side stood untouched. Blood seeped out of the barely cooked meat. Even the blood reminded him of the past. Missing girls and Northern X were far more worthy causes than stolen film and dodgy processing.
To take his mind off the past he looked out of the window to gauge the light and the time of day. The Home Depot got busier, not quieter, after Dunkin’ Donuts and the Bridgewater Photo Lab closed. He guessed that home improvements started after people came home from work, so the DIY store did its best trade in the evenings and on weekends. The overcast sky brought dark prematurely but McNulty couldn’t make his move until The Home Depot closed and the parking lot emptied. That left plenty of time for his mind to wander and a lot more chewing before he could swallow his past.
Saving his sister had only forced Cruckshank to send her abroad. McNulty’s first attempt at stepping up to be counted had felt like a success at the time, but
Cruckshank had twisted the knife by destroying the records and selling her for adoption. McNulty’s belated attempt to find her led him to join the Savage PD and eventually hire a private investigator. Look how well that had turned out. McNulty had beaten another bully and lost his job again. The PI had lost the scent and Susan McNulty was still missing in a country filled with immigrants.
“It’s been thirty years. She might not remember the abuse. Do you really want to bring it back up?” Sobering words from Bob Marocco, the PI he’d hired, but McNulty wasn’t ready to give up yet. The trouble was he had nothing else to go on, so he needed to distract himself. Finding Larry Unger’s film thief was a good distraction.
McNulty checked his watch then glanced out of the window. The traffic was thinning. The parking lot across the intersection was growing emptier. The big orange Home Depot sign was plunged into darkness. The home improvement warehouse was closing. Give it time for last-minute purchasers to clear the checkout and the staff to lock up, and McNulty reckoned he was half an hour from blast off.
“Is everything alright for you, sir?”
The waitress did her contractual duty and reminded McNulty that she deserved a tip. She also forced him to use his Yorkshire accent, which she appeared to love.
“That was gorgeous. Thank you very much.”
He indicated the second burger.
“Do you think you could wrap that to go?”
The waitress beamed a smile that wasn’t just a stitched-on fake. “Why of course, sir. Can I get you anything else?”
Final Cut Page 6
