Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 10/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  "Yeah, my daughter fell in with a bad crowd for a while. But that's all over with now."

  "Maybe not, Sammy," I told him. "Eddie thinks we may have to turn the Fergis brothers loose—"

  Eddie held up his hand like he was working traffic. "I too have had a change of heart," he said. "Don't worry, Mr. Podrazo. I'll sell it to the Grand Jury somehow, and keep you out of it. The Fergis brothers will be indicted first thing tomorrow morning."

  Then Eddie Plum folded his hands and leaned in close.

  "Now, Sammy," he whispered. "What else have you got?"

  I went for a run that evening, heading into the flat slanting rays of the setting sun. When I got home it was dark, and late, but I felt good, like I'd accomplished something. I went to pick up the mail before going into the house. I don't know what made me feel worse—the mail that still came for her and that I never tried to stop, or the fact that Liz waited for two months before I got around to digging the hole for the post to mount her mailbox on. What could I have been doing for two months that was more important than planting that mailbox for her? It'd bothered me a lot over this past year. But no more. Not after tonight.

  I took a quick shower, then put on my bathrobe and wandered through the empty rooms of my big empty house, switching on lights and switching them off again. When I figured it was time, I got a beer from the fridge and put The Ghost and Mrs. Muir in the Blu-ray player, and pulled my service pistol from my bathrobe pocket and laid it on the table next to my recliner. I sat there for a long time with the sound turned low, watching the movie without really watching it, waiting, half dozing, and when Liz came I could sense her standing beside me, reaching for me. I put my hand to my shoulder, where I felt the soft caress of her fingers.

  "Thanks for the tip about Cody Fergis and the orange van," I told her. "It came in real handy."

  Copyright © 2012 Raymond Goree

  Previous Article

  Next Article

  Previous Article

  DEPARTMENTS

  FICTION

  CRAZY EIGHTS

  DAVID EDGERLEY GATES

  Art by Ron Chironna

  Their caseload was murder that October. Literally. Boston had seen seventeen homicides in the month so far, a spike mostly attributed to gang violence, but the month wasn't half over. Major Crimes was backed up, running on fumes, short of manpower, everybody pulling overtime, nobody good with it.

  Weinstock and Kinsella caught number eighteen.

  Friday night, early Saturday morning. Three A.M. The bars had already closed. Landsdowne St., behind Fenway Park. Fenway was dark, the Red Sox long since out of the playoffs.

  Guy on the sidewalk, bled out. Police perimeter secured, crime scene techs mapping the evidence, EMTs waiting to pick up the body when they were done. Same sad story.

  Jean went over the responding officer and flashed her shield. "Detective Weinstock, MCD," she said. "What do you see that I don't?"

  He was a patrol cop, sergeant's stripes, early forties. His nameplate read Bosshard. He'd seen this before, maybe a few too many times. "Two in the chest, one to the head," he told her. The so-called Mozambique drill. Just in case the guy wore body armor. These days, you couldn't tell.

  "Professional hit?"

  The sergeant shrugged.

  "ID?" she asked.

  "I never touched him."

  It was obvious he hadn't needed to check for vital signs. The head wound had blown open the back of the guy's skull.

  "Time frame?"

  "Took the call at two forty, shots fired."

  "He hasn't been dead half an hour, then."

  "My guess. Blood's still pooling."

  She nodded. Coagulation started immediately, on exposure to air. He was giving her the benefit of his experience. Nothing more to ask. If there were any witnesses, he would have told her. Bosshard wasn't playing his cards close.

  Kinsella came up. "What do we know?" he asked her.

  Jean shrugged. "Time of death, is about all," she said.

  "Steve," Kinsella said to the patrol sergeant. They shook hands. Jean was never surprised that her partner knew almost every working cop in town. It was a gift, one she hadn't relied on, the old boys' club.

  The techs had laid out their physical finds on the tailgate of their SUV, bagged and tagged.

  "Shell casings, three."

  "Nines?" Jean asked, meaning 9mm.

  The senior crime tech shook her head. ".38 Super."

  "Not all that common a caliber," Jean said.

  ".38 Super is basically a hot nine," the tech told her. "Heavier round, maybe a 130-grain bullet, vice 90, and a faster muzzle velocity, call it fifteen to eighteen hundred FPS, out of the gun. Weapon of choice, back in Dillinger's day."

  "Risk of overpenetration?" Jean asked.

  The tech nodded. "They're all through-and-throughs. We're looking for spent rounds."

  "What else?"

  "Driver's license, credit cards, frequent shopper at Sam's Club," the tech said. "Cell phone—we'll break out the recent calls, any text messages. People leave footprints. And there's this." He smiled. "Analog, not digital."

  It was a business card, somebody named Jack Thibault.

  "Private dick," Kinsella said, looking over her shoulder.

  Jean nodded. Again, why should she be surprised?

  "Tony Thibault's older brother," Kinsella told her. "The hockey player, signed with the Bruins? Got creamed on the ice a couple of seasons back. Crippled him for life."

  No big sports fan, she vaguely remembered the story.

  "More to the point, Jack's friendly with Frank Dugan," he said. Dugan was a detective lieutenant, downtown. In the heavy, the expression had it, organized crime task force, senior liaison with the Feds.

  "How well do you know Dugan?" she asked.

  "Well enough that he'd return my call," Kinsella said.

  "Let's get some background," Jean said.

  My kid brother Tony was coaching league hockey that year. The boys were thirteen going on fourteen. You might find it odd, having a coach in a wheelchair, but they didn't give it a second thought. They treated Tony like he was ace high in the deck.

  Practice started early, four o'clock, right after school. Three days a week, they got an hour and a half on the rink, each team doing scrimmage and drills, maybe a short pick-up game if there was time. I was watching one of Tony's kids doing lazy figure eights mid-ice. He was utterly concentrated, in a world of his own, almost isolated, and he didn't seem to interact much with the other guys.

  "Adam Pacharz," Tony told me.

  "Kind of a loner," I remarked.

  "He's high-functioning autistic, Asperger's syndrome."

  "You play him?" I asked.

  "Sure, he's the best goalie his age I've ever seen. Most saves in the league. Little shy on social skills, but that's not a handicap in deep defense. He can read the pattern of the game like it's a chessboard."

  "We aren't all gifted with social skills," I said.

  Tony grinned at me. "You'd be the one to know," he said.

  Adam was making near-perfect circles, leaning into his turns slightly, switching his weight from his left skate to his right as he crossed the centerline of the figure eight. There was something hypnotic in the repetition, and I admired his easy grace, entirely natural, like a bird in flight.

  "Jack Thibault?"

  I turned.

  Well-built woman in her middle thirties, dark hair cut short, sensible pants suit. The jacket didn't conceal her weapon. The guy with her was older, lean and horse-faced, Irish by look of him. Cops.

  They ID'd themselves. Weinstock and Kinsella, Major Crimes Division.

  "What can I do for you, Detectives?" I asked.

  "You have a client named Evans Carmody?" Kinsella asked me.

  I shook my head.

  "Let's broaden the question," Weinstock said. "Do you know an Evans Carmody?"

  The dangers of giving a literal answer. I'd already put myself one in th
e hole. "He was referred to me by a guy named Max Quinn, who used to do legwork for an attorney I've done jobs for myself, Kitty Dwyer."

  "What was the job?" Kinsella asked.

  "A money drop."

  "Why didn't you take it?" Weinstock asked me.

  "It didn't feel right," I said.

  "Didn't feel right, how?"

  This probably wasn't the time to go into my overcomplicated relationship with Max Quinn, but I knew I'd have to give him up sooner or later. "Too many variables," I told them. "He wanted me to meet a guy I didn't know, at a location of the guy's own choosing. And it was a lot of money, a hundred large. I took a pass."

  "What was the money for?" she asked.

  "I don't have a clue."

  "Where was the meet?"

  "We never got that far."

  "He give you the guy's name?" Kinsella asked.

  "I'd tell you if I knew," I said.

  She handed me her card. It had both her office number and her cell. "Anything," she said, "and I mean anything, Jack, you call me. Don't be half smart."

  "One thing," I said. "Why are you asking?" I already knew what she was going to tell me.

  "Carmody caught a bullet last night. Or three, in point of fact. You were right to turn the job down."

  They left.

  "So?" Tony asked.

  "Trouble," I said, fingering the edges of Weinstock's card.

  "You in the middle of it?"

  "Not yet, but my guess is somebody wants me there," I said.

  I figured Max had set me up.

  "You buy him?" Kinsella asked.

  "So far," Jean said. "Why wouldn't he be straight with us? Dugan gives him a clean bill."

  "What do you think?"

  "I'm thinking Carmody made the meet himself, and whoever it was took the money and left him dead on the street."

  "Which leaves us a long way from the shooter."

  "Study on this, though," Jean said. "If it were a buy, or a ransom, or a quid pro quo, a trade, you wouldn't shoot the guy. He's got something to give you in return."

  "Meaning that whoever shot Carmody had nothing to lose."

  "And everything to gain."

  Kinsella shrugged. "Follow the money," he said.

  Jean nodded. "You know this Max Quinn?" she asked.

  "I think he was with the States. Fell under a bad odor."

  "Crooked cop?"

  Kinsella shook his head. "Word like that gets around fast. He'd be unemployable, any kind of security work."

  "But if he's on the sketchy side?"

  "Sketchy is as sketchy does," Kinsella said.

  "Why in the name of sweet bleeding Jesus would you do any favors for Max Quinn?" Kitty Dwyer asked me.

  "I owed him one."

  "If anything, the other way around," she said.

  "He doesn't see it that way."

  "Jack, you'd better tell me what's up with this. You're cruising for a bruising, I'll need as much cover as you will, if not more so."

  "Okay, story thus far," I said.

  Max had asked me to meet him the day before, and I didn't have a good reason to say no. It was a bar called the Plough and Stars, on Mass. Ave. between Harvard and Central Square. He had a smooth-looking gent in his late forties in tow, manicure, Rolex, razor-cut hair, soft suede jacket and pleated pants. Max introduced us and we shook hands.

  "Pleased to meet you, Jack," Evans Carmody said.

  They were drinking Bushmills 21, top shelf. I let Carmody buy me one. He gave me the impression it was pocket change.

  "Got something we thought you might be able to sort out for us, Jack," Max said.

  I took a sip of the malt.

  "Nothing too strenuous," Carmody said. "I need a bag job."

  "What are you buying?"

  He smiled, and raised his glass.

  "Fair enough," I said. "Where does this happen?"

  "I'm waiting for a phone call."

  "Who from?"

  Carmody smiled, again, sadly. "I can't trust you with that information, Jack," he said.

  I looked at Max.

  "One hundred K," he said. "All you have to do is deliver."

  "What's my end?" I asked him.

  "Five hundred, an hour's work, no questions asked," he told me.

  I pretended to think about it.

  "None of this smelled ripe to you?" Kitty asked.

  "The whole thing smelled ripe," I said.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said no."

  Max was disappointed in me. Carmody was offended. He gave Max a poisonous look.

  "How much of this did you tell the cops?" Kitty asked.

  "All of it."

  "Did you tell them about your history with Max?"

  "I thought it would clutter the narrative."

  "You better come clean, Jack," she said. "They talk to me, I'm going to open up like a bad cantaloupe."

  "You've got to get some traction," Jean's lieutenant said.

  Jean nodded.

  "Can you squeeze this private dick?" he asked.

  "You catch more flies with honey," she said.

  The lieutenant wasn't buying. "He's a material witness, we can tie him up six ways from Sunday."

  "Better he isn't tied up," Jean said.

  "Something you're not telling me?"

  "I read the guy as square, and I think he's a little pissed off. That might be useful."

  He tucked his chin in his chest.

  Kinsella stuck his head into the lieutenant's office. "Thibault's downstairs," he said to Jean. "Sorry to interrupt," he said to their lieutenant. He closed the door again.

  The lieutenant shrugged. "Your call," he said.

  They brought Jack up to the bullpen. If he was surprised not to be put in an interrogation room, he didn't show it. Kinsella asked him if he wanted a coffee. Jack said thanks, but no. The three of them sat down at Jean's desk. She had the case file in front of her, but she didn't open it. The two cops looked at him. He'd come to them.

  "Okay," he said. "I don't know how far you've gotten, but better we don't have any misunderstanding. I told you Carmody was steered in my direction by a guy named Max Quinn, but what I didn't tell you is that Max has a beef with me."

  Carmody didn't realize he was a bit part in a script he hadn't written.

  The two cops said nothing.

  "Year before last," Jack went on, "I got mixed up with some bikers who were dealing speed. Max was working off the books for the States. For him, it was a grudge match. In the end, it went south, and he blames me for gumming up the works."

  Kinsella nodded. "I discern the lineaments of a story," he said.

  Jean raised her eyebrows. "The lineaments?"

  "Big meth bust," Kinsella said. "Gang called the Disciples were heavy in the trade."

  Jean looked at Jack. "We on the same page?" she asked.

  "It would have been bigger," he told her. "Max figured on taking out the entire Springfield–Hartford corridor—bikers, mob guys, the whole nine yards."

  "What's he hold against you?"

  "We shut down a local cooker, and the guy who laundered the money. Small change to Max."

  "Let's roll the tape back," Kinsella said. "You think that Max Quinn wanted you to take the fall for Carmody?"

  "I think he's got a score to settle," Jack said.

  "What am I missing, here?" Jean asked.

  "It's personal," Jack told her. "Max lost his daughter to meth. He'd sell his soul to even up the game. Throwing me over the side counts for nothing."

  "How does Carmody fit into this picture?"

  "I don't know anything about Carmody," Jack said.

  "He was what they call a rainmaker," Kinsella said. "A guy who brings in business because of his previous connections."

  "What were his previous connections?" Jack asked.

  Jean cleared her throat. Kinsella had already said more than he should have. "Let's get back to Max Quinn," she said to Jack.

  "I've
given you what I've got," he said.

  "Max appears to have gone to ground."

  "Not a good sign," Jack said.

  "Don't play games with me," she told him.

  "Believe me, I'm not," Jack said. "I'd like nothing better than to be shut of Max Quinn."

  "If you hear from him?"

  "You'll be the first to know."

  "All right," she said. She stood up. "That about it?" she asked Kinsella.

  He hesitated, and then nodded.

  "Thanks for coming in," she said to Jack.

  He stood up, too, and they shook hands.

  "Oh, and Jack," she said, as he started to turn away. "Do yourself a favor. Don't call Frank Dugan. We already talked to him. He won't take your calls."

  I left probably knowing less than when I got there. Well, no. Weinstock and Kinsella were apparently as much in the dark as I was, and I had one possible advantage. Max might come to me. And there was one other thing working in my favor, which is that nobody knew what the money drop was for.

  A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of change to most people, but for Carmody, it looked to be a down payment, earnest money. Kinsella had called him a rainmaker, which I took to mean a fixer. In this case, the fix was already in, even if the wrong guy got fixed.

  Or did he? They must have assumed there was some risk involved, or they wouldn't have tried to enlist a third party. And then when I turned them down, why didn't Carmody hand it off to Max? He knew his way around the shady side of the street. In other words, which one of them was the key player? I thought it might be Max, and Carmody didn't realize he was a bit part in a script he hadn't written.

  Too many variables, I'd told the detectives. Like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn, there were a lot of knots to untangle. Besides, the first thing you learn in this trade is never to cross the cops. I was looking at a hit for obstruction of justice, if not an accessory charge, if I involved myself in an active homicide investigation. Weinstock and Kinsella didn't strike me as overly forgiving types.

  Then again, they'd dangled Carmody in front of me. I didn't think it was an accident, Kinsella's slip of the tongue. Jean Weinstock was capable and ambitious, and maybe a little ruthless, or she wouldn't have made senior rank. It wasn't affirmative action that had pushed her up the chain of command. Another knot to untangle. Was she using me as bait, the way Max had?