“You have to admit, Kavander’s living proof of the theory of evolution,” Ollie Schantz once observed over an afterhours beer. “Trouble is, he’s evolving the wrong way. First he was a whistle, then he was a badge. Now he’s a suit that’s turning into a jock-strap.”
Sitting across from Kavander in the captain’s office, McGuire remembered Ollie’s joke and smiled.
“You think this is funny, McGuire?” Kavander growled.
“Not a bit, Jack.”
“Damn right it isn’t. Look, I don’t care if Rosen says you sleep with diseased camels, you don’t lose your cool in court and try to pop a defence lawyer in the mouth.” He pulled a toothpick from the box in his desk and began chewing on it, the residual habit of a reformed two-pack-a-day smoker. “What if this bag of shit, this Wilmer kid, what if he walks?”
“He can’t walk,” McGuire protested.
“Higgins thinks he will.”
“Higgins can’t let him. He knows the kid is as guilty as Judas.”
“Rosen’s going after bail until the trial is rescheduled.” Kavander examined the end of his toothpick. “He’ll probably get it too. Won’t be the first time.”
“It’s a wonderful world,” McGuire muttered.
The telephone on Kavander’s desk rang. He picked it up, snarled his name, and grunted single-syllable words into the receiver before crashing it down again.
“The kid walks,” he said, staring out the window to Berkeley Street. “Judge Scaife declared a mistrial. Higgins is pissed. We’re months from a new trial date, and the commissioner wants to see me in an hour.” He swung his head to face McGuire. “What the hell am I going to do with you, Joe?”
“I could always resign.”
“The very idea is giving me a hard-on.”
“Want to call your wife, give her the good news?”
“You used to be funny, McGuire. Keep it up, you could be the funniest unemployed cop in town.”
“Then you’ll have to push me, Jack. Because I’m not jumping.”
“The commissioner will want your ass.”
McGuire felt the colour rise in his face. “Tell him to come and get it,” he spat at Kavander. “Tell him by the time he arrives I’ll let every paper in the state know this is the same commissioner who awarded me three commendations in the last five years—”
“You and Ollie,” Kavander growled.
“What?”
“He gave them to you and Ollie together. And frankly, McGuire, since Ollie retired you haven’t been worth a hell of a lot to me.”
McGuire lowered his voice, trying to keep his emotions under control. “We had the best conviction record in the state—”
“And the more I think about it,” Kavander exploded, “the more I’m convinced there was only one brain between the two of you and it’s lying in bed over in Revere Beach!”
McGuire stood up, his hands in his pockets. “Jack, I’m as good a cop as you’ve got here.”
“Then prove it to me, McGuire.” Kavander’s voice softened. “Find a way of proving it to me and keeping your nose clean until we put Wilmer some place where he can spend the rest of his life being gang-banged on a fixed schedule.”
“You got any ideas?”
Kavander leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I got some ideas. Sit down and I’ll tell them to you.”
“Grey files? He’s got you doing grey files?” Bernie Lipson poked at the slice of lemon in his soda water, not believing what he heard.
McGuire nodded and sipped his Kronenbourg, savouring the slightly sweet French beer.
“That’s only until the new trial, right?” Ralph Innes surveyed the interior of Hutch’s, the dark Stuart Street clam bar favoured by headquarters cops. “They get that snot-nosed Wilmer back in court, you testify again, and you’re back in harness, am I right?”
“If I want it,” McGuire replied. He slumped against the back of the booth.
“You’ve got to want it, Joe.” Bernie Lipson stared solemnly back at McGuire. “Guy like you, you can’t throw away a career just because you tried to rearrange a lawyer’s face.” Lipson grinned. “By the way, apparently Judge Scaife can’t talk to anybody about what happened in court yesterday without breaking up. He says the expression on Rosen’s face when you grabbed him was the funniest thing he’d seen in thirty years on the bench. He wanted to do it himself, that’s what I bet.”
“Oh my goodness,” Ralph Innes interrupted. “Here comes paradise, mounted on the two longest legs in the city.”
The other men looked up to see Janet Parsons striding through the crowded bar to their table. On the way, she acknowledged greetings from police officers and ignored the stares of strangers admiring her lean figure, her long dark hair swaying in a loosely-curled ponytail. The strangers assumed she was a fashion model; only the police officers knew she was in fact Detective First Class Janet Parsons, Homicide Squad, Boston Police Department.
“Hi, sweetie,” Innes said as he slid along the booth to make way for her. “What do you say we go back to my place from here? Just you and me and a whip and two midgets.”
“Jesus, Ralph, don’t you ever stop?” Bernie Lipson scowled at the younger man. Devoted to his family, Lipson rarely engaged in after-hours social sessions. The news of McGuire’s confrontation with Kavander had drawn Lipson to the nearby bar for one glass of soda water.
Lipson had become McGuire’s partner when Ollie Schantz retired, but when his relaxed style conflicted too often with McGuire’s intensity, Kavander had split the team and reassigned them. They continued to take an interest in each other’s concerns. Especially when it came to dealing with Jack the Bear.
Janet Parsons settled herself in the booth and waved the waiter over, ignoring Innes’s comment. She ordered a Dubonnet on ice and smiled at McGuire and Lipson.
“Can’t figure you out, Legs,” Innes grinned. “With all my other girls I’m a regular Rudolph Vaselino.”
“Ralph,” she replied, looking down at her lap as she smoothed her skirt, “sometimes you are so repulsive I’m surprised your right hand still goes to bed with you.” She turned quickly to catch McGuire’s eye. “I don’t believe what I heard. Has Kavander really got you working the files?”
“Grey files,” McGuire nodded. “Review them, look for screw-ups, see what’s worth running down, then send them off to the Bomb Shelter.”
Grey files were dormant, unsolved homicide cases. No murder case was officially declared closed until a conviction had been secured. When a team of detectives had exhausted all leads and moved on to a new case, the information they had assembled was “grey-filed”—set aside; the case remained open but inactive. All the documentation was stored in grey envelopes identified by file number, victim’s name, and date and location of the crime. Data in these four categories were entered into the department’s overloaded computer for cross-indexing while the paperwork—autopsy reports, crime-scene photographs, witness statements, investigation memos—were transferred to a basement area known as the Bomb Shelter. The majority of grey file murders remained unsolved; convictions happened only as a result of blind luck, guilty conscience or death-bed confession.
“First you bury the victim, then you bury the files,” Ollie Schantz once said to describe grey-filing. “Only difference is, after a year it’s easier to find the victim than the files.”
“All the grey files?” Janet Parsons asked, leaning across the table to McGuire.
“Last year’s,” McGuire answered. “My choice. I take a bunch of them, walk through the records, assess how efficient the investigating team was, maybe check out some new angles.” He rotated the beer glass in his hands. “If this was the army, it would be one step above cleaning the latrines.”
“That’s disgusting, Joe.” Janet sat back in the booth and shook her head. “A guy with your experience, all those years you put in.
Kavander’s acting like a bigger ass than ever.”
“He wants me to resign,” McGuire said, smiling warmly at her.
“Will you?” Lipson asked.
“Not yet. Not until I’m ready.”
“You got any back-up?” Innes inquired.
“I’ve got a car, a desk and a computer terminal. That’s it.” McGuire drained his beer, then looked around at the others, who studied him with solemn expressions. “Come on, it’s not so bad. The retrial is scheduled for six months from now. We’ll get Wilmer put away and I’ll be golden again. Meanwhile I get to come and go as I please. Even work at home.” He grinned at Lipson. “Just might do me good. No nice Jewish boy bringing me bagels and blintzes to stuff in my fat gut.”
“Hey, Joe,” Innes said. “If you need something, anything, you call me, right? Bernie and me, we’ll get you whatever you need. I’ll bet you even put away some of those grey file cases.” He turned to look at the others. “Ten bucks says Joe comes up with something, something solid so he can put the grab on a guy, get a conviction. Am I right?”
“Ralph, it’s a clerk’s job,” McGuire said before anyone could respond. “Let’s not make a big deal about it, okay?”
Innes shrugged, then slid along the booth to bump Janet Parson’s hip with his own. “Hey, how’s your love life, Legs?” he asked. “You getting all you need without me around to sizzle your cymbals?”
“It’s none of your business, Ralph,” she replied, staring at McGuire.
“Which means it ain’t so hot, right?” Innes placed his arm delicately around her shoulder. “What you need is a young stud like me. If things were good in the sack, you would have said something. They’re not so good, so you tell me to mind my own business.” He took a long swallow from his drink. “I rest my case.”
“Also your cock,” Janet said, and Lipson exploded in laughter while McGuire smiled in silence.
“Anything left in your glass?”
She raised herself on one elbow and reached across him to the night table, the motion pulling the sheet from her body and exposing the gentle slope of her back, the slight hollow of her waist, the smooth swelling at her hips.
McGuire traced the lines of her body with his hand, sweeping his fingers back along her stomach, dragging his nails against her smooth skin.
“Don’t,” she giggled. Janet Parsons lay back and studied him, the glass of rye and water in her hand. “You know the best part about sex?” she asked.
“Damn right. It feels good.”
“No, I mean philosophically.”
“Parsons, you’re the only woman I ever met who could get philosophical about sex.”
“Listen to me. Making love forces you to live in the moment.” She reached out with her free hand to touch the scar on his upper lip. “We spend so much time regretting or missing the past, or worrying about the future. Both are a waste of time. But when you’re making love, you’re totally wrapped in now. That’s what makes it so special, isn’t it?”
“Well, I’ll agree that it’s never a waste of time, anyway.” He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips.
“Ralph was getting to you tonight with his wisecracks about me, wasn’t he?” She withdrew her hand and drained the glass.
McGuire shook his head.
“Yes, he was.” She twisted backwards to replace the empty glass on the other night table. “I could see it all over your face. I thought you were going to reach across and punch him at one point.”
“You don’t need any help from me handling Ralph.”
She turned to face him again, a new expression of concern on her face. “Are you really going to be able to handle working alone?” she asked. “It looks to me as though Kavander is trying to humiliate you. He’s trying to drive you a little nuts maybe.”
“Better to be crazy and know it than be sane and have doubts.”
“That’s good. Where did you read that?”
“Ollie used to say it.”
“God, what a tragedy.” She sat on the edge of the bed, turning her back to him, and began dressing. “I’ll never get over what happened to Ollie. And I don’t think you will either.” She stood to pull on her pantyhose. “Do you think Bernie knows?”
“About what?”
“About us. You never can tell with Bernie, can you?”
“No, you can’t.” McGuire sat against the headboard, his hands clasped behind his head. “What about Max?”
She was slipping her bra straps over her shoulders. “What about him?”
“Does he know?”
“Come on, Joe . . .”
“Jealous husbands have a way of ruining your whole day with a shotgun blast to the crotch when you least expect it.”
“Not Max. He’s too wrapped up in the restaurant. Besides, I think he may be making it with one of the waitresses. Some little honey he hired last month.” She stepped into her skirt and pulled it up to her hips. “Silly old fool, going through male menopause. Damn this zipper!”
At the door she turned and kissed him lightly. “Thanks, Joe,” she said.
“For what?”
“For making me feel good.” She smiled and walked down the hall to the stairs, knowing McGuire was watching her but not looking back. She never looks back, McGuire mused.
It always bothered him that she never looked back. And he never knew why. Never tried to wonder why.
Chapter Five
PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATION REPORT
FILE#: 884–239A
INVESTIGATING DETECTIVES: E.D. Vance, T. Fox
DATE: 3/5/89
VICTIM’S NAME: Peter Michael Genovese
VICTIM’S ADDRESS: 2349 Chestnut Hill Drive, Brookline
VICTIM’S AGE: 42
MARITAL STATUS: Single
CRIMINAL RECORD, IF ANY: See attached sheets
INVESTIGATING POLICE OFFICERS: T. Radinsky, D. Barker
DATE/TIME OF INITIAL CALL: March 5, 12:13 a.m.
REPORT DETAILS: Call received on 911 re: hit and run, Atlantic Avenue, S. of Beach. Officers Radinsky and Barker arrived at scene approximately 12:20 a.m. Victim discovered against curbside power line pole; constables confirmed apparent instantaneous death from multiple injuries suffered a) by collision with unknown automobile; b) by secondary impact with power line pole.
Standard procedures followed re: measurement of point of impact from body, location of body, etc. (See attached H&R traffic report #3896509.)
Also automotive parts collected at scene (see above report).
Initial case conducted as standard H&R until approx. 3 p.m. 3/5/89 when unidentified witness called from telephone booth (confirmed via trace: Washington & Winter Streets). Witness reported details of collision with above victim (see attached witness report).
INTERVIEWS (LIST ON REVERSE IF NECESSARY):
NONE: [X]
AUTOPSY REPORT: Attached [X]
Not attached [ ] Why not?
CURRENT STATUS: N.M./N.S.
McGuire poured another inch of brandy in his coffee mug, stretched his legs in front of him, and looked out the apartment window at the floodlight towers of Fenway Park three blocks away.
“N.M./N.S.” No Motive/No Suspects. Fat Eddie Vance had written it under “Current Status” before transferring the Genovese case to the grey files.
McGuire smiled coldly. Silky Pete Genovese had been the most ruthless loan shark in the city, which provided all the motive needed for someone to run him down at midnight on a lonely street near the dockside warehouses. When news of Silky Pete’s death spread through the city, drinks were hoisted and prayers of thanks were offered by hundreds of men who could now afford to miss a payment without the risk of having their kneecaps shattered.
McGuire sipped his coffee and brandy before turning to the traffic report in the Genovese grey file.
PERSONAL INJURY/DEATH TRAFFIC REPORT
>
REPORT#: 89–3871
DATE: 3/5/89
LOCATION: Atlantic Avenue & Beach Street
TIME OF ACCIDENT: 12:00 a.m. (approx.)
INJURIES TO (PROVIDE ALL DETAILS):
VICTIM NAME/EXTENT OF INJURY
1. P.M. Genovese/Death
2.
3.
4.
HOSPITAL(S): MORGUE
INVESTIGATING OFFICER REPORT: Call received on 911, approximately 12:13 a.m. re: H&R, Atlantic Avenue, reported by pizza delivery driver (name, address, statement on attached sheet). Officers arrived approx. 12:20 a.m., discovered victim against power line pole #335-A located 14 feet south of Beach Street. Secured area, called for Medical Examiner, identified collision point as 52 feet south of Beach Street, 3 feet from east curb. Collected following debris:
1 headlight rim
Various headlight glass shards
1 parking light lens
1 chrome strip, approx. 2 1/2 feet long
Debris was subsequently confirmed as consistent with standard equipment on 1988 Buick Le Sabre, Embassy Blue colour.
PRELIMINARY FINDING: Victim was struck at curbside by abovedescribed vehicle (first impact); victim struck power line pole (second impact). Driver of car unknown. Vehicular homicide suspected.
INCIDENTAL INFORMATION: Victim was identified through papers on person; victim was well-known to rackets squad with extensive record of charges and prosecutions. Victim was in possession of $2,380 cash. Victim’s vehicle (1987 Mercedes Benz sedan, plate #920AFP) was parked at curb opposite location of first impact.
And Leave Her Lay Dying Page 4
