“I bet Van just made it up as he went along. Said ‘fuck it,’ let everyone figure it out for themselves.”
The bartender came down with the bottle of Jack and poured their shots. Kevin swallowed the whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The girlfriend I was telling you about . . .” He was trying hard, and failing mightily, to keep the edge out of his voice.
“The prosecutor?”
“She’s working the Sandra Patterson case. Asked if I’d poke around here for a day or two. See what I could turn up.”
Bobby took his time, peeling the label off his beer bottle with his thumb. “So she thinks her cop killer’s from Brighton?”
“She had the Jordan file in her bag like I told you . . .”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. Doesn’t it seem a little convenient?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe she wanted you to find the file. Figured you’d take one look and come running to me.”
An image popped into Kevin’s head—Lisa shedding water as she leaned out of the shower, smiling in the steam and heat, asking Kevin to dig through her bag. “That’s not Lisa.”
“I’m supposed to take your word on that?”
“I came here to tell you what was going on, Bobby. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“And I can trust your girlfriend?”
“You can trust me.”
The label came off in one curled piece. Bobby laid it flat on the bar. “I knew Sandra Patterson. She had a different name at Habitat, but I knew her.”
“How well?”
“Talked to her once or twice on the job. Sure as shit didn’t know she was a cop.”
Doucette and his Irish buddies had cleared out. The kids shooting bumper pool were in their own world, laughing and preening, studying their shots and looking at themselves in the whiskey mirrors every chance they got. Kevin pulled out the ballistics report.
“More presents from your girl?” Bobby said.
“It’s a ballistics report dated the day before yesterday. Links the gun that killed Curtis Jordan to Patterson’s murder. Also links it to Rosie Tallent.”
Kevin watched Bobby’s eyes as he read. When he was done, Bobby shoved the paperwork back across the bar. “This gonna fuck you over for the Pulitzer?”
“What? No. If anything it helps prove James Harper was innocent. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“If they think you did Jordan, they’re gonna come after you for the others.”
“Know what I think?”
“What?”
“Someone’s playing games with you.”
“Everyone knows you were a suspect in the Jordan thing. With this connection . . .”
Bobby held up a finger. “Stop talking.”
Kevin went quiet.
“Wait here a second.” Bobby walked behind the bar, whispered something to the bartender, then disappeared through a door. He was back in a moment. “Let’s go.”
The temperature had dropped and small bits of moisture blew off the rooftops, sparkling in the cut of the streetlights before being swept into the night. Bobby’s coat billowed with the wind as they crossed Market and Kevin thought he caught a hint of metal underneath as Bobby levered himself into the car. Then Kevin slipped behind the wheel and they drove off.
28
THE CHESTNUT Hill Reservoir sits on the eastern edge of Boston College’s main campus, a stone’s throw from the football stadium and Kelley Rink. During the day, it’s filled with joggers circling the mile-and-a-half loop. At night, it’s pretty lonesome. Kevin pulled into a small parking lot beside the Resie and killed the engine.
“What are we doing out here?” he said.
Bobby just sat, listening.
“Bobby . . .”
“How often you think about dead people?”
“Cut the shit.”
“I’m serious. How often?”
Shuks’s face dropped down onto the hood in front of Kevin, pulling at a Lucky and streaming smoke across the windshield before dissolving back into the night. “No idea.”
“You don’t think about ’em hardly at all. Nobody does. Why the fuck would we? Truth is once you’re under the ground, you’re gone. I loved your grandmother, but who’s gonna know she even existed in fifty years? Hell, who’s gonna know we existed?”
“We’ll know.”
“We’ll both be dead.”
“Yeah, but we’ll know. And that’s gotta count for something.”
“Everything from this world goes into the dirt with you, Kev. Just how it is.”
“You are one cheerful motherfucker.”
“You still got your soul. Wanna hear about that?”
“Not really.”
Bobby chuckled, banging his wrapped hand lightly against the window. “It’s the whiskey. Gets me talking ragtime.”
“What happened there?”
He held up the bandage and unzipped a seamless grin. “You worried?”
Kevin kept his face still. “Didn’t say that.”
“I cut it with a Skilsaw at work. No big deal.” Bobby dropped the hand into his lap. “The report you showed me on the ballistics. It said the bullets they took out of Sandra Patterson and Rosie Tallent matched the thirty-eight that killed Jordan. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re wondering where that gun is?”
“Something like that.”
“Come on.” Bobby climbed out of the car, long coat pulled tight around his body. They slipped through a hole in the fence and wound their way down a black path skirted on either side by twisted stands of trees and overgrown bushes. Bobby took out a silver flashlight and clicked it on. A crust of frost ran along the edge of the bank; a thickening mist swirled and scurried across the water. It smelled like rain.
“Just follow the waterline.” Bobby pointed with his flash and began to walk. Kevin followed, moonlight dodging his footsteps between cracks in the trees.
“I tell you I’m gonna be heading out of town for a bit?” Bobby’s voice was rough with the cold.
“You didn’t.”
“Got some business to take care of. Be leaving tomorrow. This way.”
They walked the curve of the bank for another hundred yards, then moved up into the tree line. Bobby stopped at a small clearing and propped the flashlight against a rock. His face was soaked in yellow, and his shadow sprang to life on the screen of foliage behind him.
“Right here.” He toed the ground with his boot.
“Right where? What are you talking about?”
Bobby pulled a small shovel from under his coat, unfolded it, and began to dig. “I marked this place out years ago. I knew the land was protected because of the Resie. No one was gonna build condos here or any of that shit. As for this particular spot, you didn’t see the signs but it’s loaded with poison ivy.”
Kevin jumped back. “Fuck.”
“Small price to pay.” It was awkward to shovel with the bandage, but Bobby managed. Kevin didn’t offer to help. After about ten minutes, Bobby dropped to his knees. He’d broken through the hard cover and the soil underneath was soft and yielding. When he spoke again, his breath came in small bursts of cold. “Know what I’ve got down here?”
“Why don’t you tell us, Mr. Scales?” A second light clicked on, harsh and white in their faces. “Get up on your feet, slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them and stand by Kevin.”
Bobby did as he was told. Lisa Mignot stepped forward. She was wearing jeans and a short leather jacket with a silk scarf that bled red wound around her neck. She wore black leather gloves and had a gun in her right hand.
“Now, who wants to tell me the story?”
Neither Kevin nor Bobby said a word. Lisa dug a toe into the hole Bobby had started and nodded at him. “Finish.”
He threw the shovel at her feet. “Do it yourself.”
“Bobby, this is my girlfriend, Lisa Mignot. She
’s a prosecutor for the Suffolk County D.A. and, apparently, licensed to carry a gun.”
“Looks like I was right,” Bobby said. “She’s been using you, Kev. Planted those files where you’d find them, then followed us out here.”
The truth of Bobby’s words flashed across Lisa’s face, all the worse because of her beauty. Then, it was back to business.
“I could have come out with a car full of cops,” she said, “but I didn’t. I’m alone and no one knows I’m here. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t want to help you. Both of you. And, believe me, you need it.”
“Dig the hole, Bobby.”
“Fuck her.”
“Dig the hole. Whatever it is, she’s gonna find it anyway.”
Bobby picked up the shovel and began to dig. Four shovelfuls later, the edge of his spade hit something metal. Bobby wedged a cream-colored box out of the black earth.
“Leave it, Mr. Scales.” Lisa hadn’t holstered her gun. She pointed with it toward the base of a tree. Bobby did as she asked.
“What’s in here?” Lisa said.
Bobby didn’t respond. Lisa looked at Kevin.
“No idea.”
She crouched down, fumbled with the catch for a moment, then pried the box open. “It’s empty.”
“Guess you can put the gun away,” Bobby said.
“You want to tell me why you buried an empty box in the middle of nowhere?”
“I’m fucked in the head. Ask Kevin.”
Lisa holstered her weapon. “Come here.” She crooked her finger and walked down the bank to the water. Kevin followed.
“What’s supposed to be in there?”
“I told you. I have no idea.”
“We’ve got a wire in his apartment.”
“So he’s a suspect?”
“He’s up to his eyeballs in this, Kevin. And if you’re not careful, you will be, too.”
“Was he right about the file on Jordan? Did you leave that out for me?”
“I didn’t think it would turn out like this.”
“Fuck, Lisa. Fuck.”
She wet her lips and peeled her eyes back toward Bobby, who was sitting with his spine up against a tree and his bandaged hand resting on a knee. “I was telling you the truth. I’m the only one who heard the wire tonight. And no one else knows I’m here.”
“You offering a deal?”
“I keep this quiet. He tells me what was supposed to be in the box.”
“Curtis Jordan killed my grandmother.”
“I read the file and I’m sorry. But Bobby Scales was the investigation’s number one suspect.”
“He was never arrested.”
“It was 1975, Kevin. The cops in Brighton probably threw a fucking party when they heard another project nigger bought it. Thing is, the gun’s back in circulation. And two days ago it was used to shoot an undercover cop.”
“If someone killed Jordan and kept the gun, why pull it out and use it years later? Makes no sense.”
“You’re right, but these things don’t always make sense. And you know that as well. Either way, your friend’s involved.” She shifted her weight, gun creaking in the leather holster clipped to her belt. “You know it’s possible he’s playing you.”
“How?”
“He takes you out to where the gun is supposed to be buried and, surprise, surprise, it’s gone.”
“You’re telling me this was a show?”
“He lets you see the empty hole, gets you to believe someone else dug up the thirty-eight and is killing the women. I was a complication he didn’t count on, but so what? It’s still just an empty hole.”
“You believe that?”
“I met the guy five minutes ago.”
“Maybe I killed Jordan.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Part of you does. Part of you is thinking that might be exactly what happened.”
“To be honest, I had you pegged for the twenty-two. Postmortem contact wound to Curtis Jordan’s head. At fifteen, that’s plenty of weight to carry around.”
Kevin started to turn away. She touched his shoulder. “No one’s interested in who pulled the string on Jordan. Least of all, me. We just want the gun.”
“Postmortem wounds were part of the M.O. on Tallent and Patterson.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with killing those women, Kevin. I know that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Easy. I love you. I understand you. And I fucking live with you.”
“Not anymore.”
“Really?”
“Pack up your shit and leave the key.”
She stared at him like someone she might have known once, then blinked her eyes frozen and didn’t seem to see him at all. On her way up the bank, she kicked at a root before crouching so she was level with Bobby. “I’m gonna sit on this for another day or two. Talk it over with Kevin, then call me. Otherwise, we come get you. And if I were you, both of you, I’d think about getting a lawyer.” Lisa tucked a card into Bobby’s hand and left. She never looked back at Kevin. And she took the box with her.
29
“YEAH.”
“Frank. It’s Lisa.”
“Something pop on the wire?”
“It’s not gonna work.”
Frank DeMateo moved the phone from one furry ear to the other. He should have been home in bed with his wife. Instead, he was standing in a pitch-black lot behind the Winship Elementary School in Brighton. “Scales has got the gun. Or he knows where it is.”
“Maybe he got rid of it.”
“And someone found it and just started offing people? I don’t believe it. Has he said anything?”
“He’s been in his apartment all night. No visitors. No calls.”
“Fuck.” The district attorney for Suffolk County dropped his head back and stared at a couple of muddy stars, nearly lost in an inkblot sky. He had a bad feeling and wasn’t sure if it was about Scales or his colleague. Maybe both.
“What do you want to do?” Her voice ran smooth and still.
“Shut it down.”
“You sure?”
“The task force is gonna come in and push everyone around anyway. Let them set up their own fucking wire.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”
“Am I gonna be off the case?”
“That’s up to the task force.”
“Which means I’m off.”
“Shut down the wire, Lisa. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Good night, Frank.”
DeMateo stuffed the phone in his pocket and began to walk. He was half sorry. And that was only if he tried real hard. Lisa Mignot was too smart for his own good. On top of that, she was black. As the only elected Republican in Suffolk County, DeMateo sat in slot number one on the Dems’ hit list. And Mignot was their wet dream. If she’d gotten lucky with the wire and broken open the Patterson thing, he’d have been as good as fucked in the next election cycle. Now, however, he had a shot. All he had to do was make a case against Scales, which was why he was out in the damp and the fucking cold, chasing ghosts in Brighton.
The Winship lot was split into two levels with a set of concrete stairs connecting them. DeMateo strolled down the steps, jingling loose change in his pocket like he had all the time in the world. A uniform was waiting on the lower level.
“What’s your name?” DeMateo said.
The cop rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet. He had clean, white teeth that flashed in the night when he spoke. “Officer Clavell, sir. Jose Clavell.”
“You found the body?”
“Yes, sir. It was rolled up in a tarp.”
“Show me.”
Clavell chased the path with his flashlight, leading DeMateo to a pickup pulled next to a Dumpster and the wall of the school. Clavell turned his light on the backseat as the D.A. stuck his head in. The tarp was peeled open like an overripe banana, revealing a head of black hai
r with a pale streak running parallel to the part.
“This is how you found him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s with the eye patch?”
“EMT said he lost an eye.”
“No kidding. Nothing wrapped around his neck?”
“Neck? No sir.”
“Cause of death?”
“EMT said it was multiple stab wounds to the chest.”
“And the tarp was just like this?”
“It was taped up at both ends with electrical tape. I cut it open. That’s how I made the ID.”
“But the body’s the same? Head back. Mouth open. All that shit’s the same?”
“Yes, sir.”
DeMateo knew what Clavell was thinking. What was the Suffolk County D.A. doing out here in the middle of the night on a nothing murder? DeMateo had already gone ten rounds with the detectives working the scene. Then, their boss. He had every right to be here, but there was a protocol involved. Fuck protocol.
“Name’s Seamus Slattery?”
“Yes, sir. He lives the next street over on Mount Vernon.” Clavell pointed vaguely toward an iron fence.
“The pickup is his?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Priors?”
“Busted for possession twice. Cocaine and weed. Both times dismissed. Couple drunk and disorderlies. A DUI last year. He was an Irish citizen.”
“Erin Go Fucking Bragh. What about a green card?”
“Ten years ago.”
DeMateo took the light from Clavell and probed the backseat. “Tell me what you see there.”
“That’s his right hand, sir.”
“I know that.” DeMateo held the light steady on the corpse’s palm, flung awkwardly toward the two men as if inviting them inside.
“It’s bandaged, sir.”
“You got a knife?”
Clavell produced a small pocketknife. DeMateo reached in and cut away the white gauze pad wrapped around the corpse’s hand. “What do you see now, Officer?”
“It looks like a puncture wound.”
“Maybe two, even?”
“Yes, sir.”
DeMateo pushed the light up to the dead man’s face. “Looks like he might have gotten bashed in the head as well.” He snapped off the light. Thirty yards away, two detectives were huddled by a crime services truck, drinking coffee and chatting with one of the techs.
Brighton Page 18
