Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “Sit down, Coleman.”

  Coleman sat. “What’s up, LT?”

  “I’m guessing you already know what’s up. I’m taking you off the Charlesgate case. You’re going to be riding a desk for the foreseeable future.”

  “I’m gonna plead ignorance and ask you to explain why.”

  “Because you’ve been fucking a key witness in the case and because you’ve withheld evidence from this department.”

  “Whoa, slow down. I’ve been fucking who?”

  “Can it, Coltrane. One of our only leads in this Charlesgate matter is the fact that this Jackie Osborne got her condo broken into and her laptop stolen, and you’ve been treating Mrs. Osborne to the black snake moan on the regular ever since you and Carnahan questioned her on the matter.”

  “Oh, so Carny ratted me out.”

  “Is that a confession?”

  “Fuck this. Jackie is not a witness. She’s barely a person of interest.”

  “Evidently she’s of interest to you.”

  “We went on a date, that’s it. And she’s divorced, by the way.”

  “I’m sure your wife will be thrilled to hear it.”

  “That’s a whole other story. And what’s this evidence I’ve withheld from the department?”

  “This cocksucker from the Emerson alumni office turned up dead in the Bucket. You didn’t think that was worth sharing with your partner?”

  “Hey, I didn’t know the guy turned up dead until Carny told me. I just put in a call to the Rhode Island staties to run a routine check on the guy.”

  “And why is this the first I’m hearing about it? Why would you think this Charles White had anything to do with the Charlesgate murder?”

  “Well, Jackie… Mrs. Osborne had been working on a project with him. Planning a class reunion.”

  “And? So?”

  Coleman hesitated. He couldn’t see any way that mentioning the Gardner paintings would help his current situation and lots of ways it might hurt. So he didn’t mention them. “There’s a possibility he would have wanted to get his hands on her laptop. She has some contacts in the alumni community he didn’t have.”

  “What, so you think he slashed this O’Brien girl’s throat just to get a few contact numbers for his day job? That is one dedicated motherfucking employee. I could use a few guys like that. Except alive instead of dead.”

  “This is why I didn’t bring it to you, LT. Of course it’s a long fucking shot, but we’ve got jack and shit otherwise. I was just covering the bases. Didn’t think it was even worth mentioning.”

  “Except now the guy is dead. Coincidentally.”

  “I don’t know any more about that than you do.”

  “And you won’t until you read it in the Herald. You’re off the case, like I said. And I don’t want to see your face around here for a week. Administrative leave.”

  “Come on, LT.”

  “Should I make it ten days? Look at the bright side. You’re free to date whoever you please. You want my advice, though, you should patch things up with Donna. Be a steady presence in your daughter’s life. A stable home life, Coltrane, makes for stable police.”

  “Thanks, Confucius. You mind if I get a few things from my desk before I go?”

  “Be my guest. See you in a week. I’ll have some pretty exciting paperwork waiting for you when you get back.”

  Coleman made a beeline for Carnahan’s cube and caught him heading for the exit.

  “There he is! My own personal Judas.”

  “Misquote Depeche Mode at me all you want, Coltrane, but I’m not gonna have my partner making a chump out of me. I warned you one time and you chose to ignore it. First rule of this job is CYA and that don’t stand for Christian Youth Association.”

  “Blow me, Carny.”

  “No, I think you’ve got that department covered. And I don’t have those pillowy lips like Mrs. Osborne. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some police work to do.”

  Coleman watched him go. Once he’d stepped onto the elevator, Coleman took a seat at Carnahan’s desk. As he’d expected, there were several yellow Post-its surrounding the phone, including one that said SGT. HAYDEN CHILDS-RISP above a 401 phone number. Coleman picked up the desk phone and punched in the number.

  “Childs.”

  “Sergeant Childs, this is Martin Coleman from Boston PD homicide. I wasn’t sure if my partner had called you back yet.”

  “No, I haven’t heard from anyone. You called about Charles White, right?”

  “Yes, he’s a person of interest in an ongoing investigation up here. But I gather I’m not going to get a chance to interview him.”

  “Not without Miss Cleo’s help. We found him stuffed in a dumpster behind a Dunkins, burned beyond recognition, two slugs in the back of his melon.”

  “Sounds like someone didn’t like him much. Any suspects?”

  “Not yet. No match on the slugs. Now that we’ve identified him, we’ve subpoenaed his phone data, Internet, all that. May know more in a day or two, but right now it’s a mystery.”

  “Any priors? That’s what I was calling about before all this happened.”

  “No convictions. He was in trouble, though, back in ’06. He was tried on a rape charge. But like I said, not convicted. Physical evidence wasn’t there, but the accuser had earlier filed a stalking complaint and gotten a restraining order against him.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, she was a RISD student. He was working there in some administrative capacity and apparently pursued her quite aggressively. Says in the complaint that she came home to her dorm and he was sitting outside her door. Followed her into her room and she had to get campus security to remove him. He left peacefully that time but according to the student, he later attacked her off-campus. He’d followed her to a bar, waited her out, then dragged her into his car and had his way.”

  “No physical evidence in his car?”

  “He reported it stolen the next morning and we were never able to recover it.”

  “So the fucker did it and got off anyway.”

  “Our old friend reasonable doubt.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, that was about the end of his time at RISD. They didn’t fire him—they couldn’t, legally—but they made it clear that his work life would be very unpleasant if he stayed. I ended up having a beer with someone close to the situation and I was told that he was given a, quote, neutral letter of recommendation, unquote, if he’d agree to leave the institution of his own volition.”

  “What the hell is a neutral recommendation?”

  “I’m guessing they said the bare minimum to allow him to find a new job without being too enthusiastic about it.”

  “So he becomes someone else’s problem.”

  “Yours, it sounds like.”

  “Maybe. Hey, Sergeant Childs, you mind keeping me up to speed with anything else you might find out about this case? I’ll text you my cell number.”

  “Sure thing, Detective Coleman. Just remember my name if I ever need a solid from the Boston PD.”

  “You got it.”

  Coleman hung up. He peeled the Post-it with Childs’ number on it off the desk and stuffed it in his pocket. If he knew Carnahan, he’d never miss it.

  JUNE 16, 1946

  The first hint of daylight appeared over Boston Harbor as Jake approached the Rusty Anchor social hall. His wounded left arm was screaming and as far as he knew he was the most wanted man in Boston. Four hours earlier, he and Shane had made their way to the Charlesgate, leaving two dead men behind them at the Gardner Museum. Neither of them had thought to kill the security guard they’d tied up in the basement. By the time they were half a dozen blocks away, the cops had probably arrived on the scene and by the time they were closing in on Comm Ave the security guard had probably told the cops everything he knew. He had seen them both. His descriptions probably wouldn’t add up to much, aside from the fact that they had mustaches and dressed as cops, but that would b
e enough to put the real cops on their trail. They’d already peeled off the fake facial hair, but they hadn’t ditched the uniforms yet. They also had to stash the paintings, at least temporarily, until the heat died down—they couldn’t exactly lie low while each holding an armful of the hottest merchandise in town. That’s why Jake suggested the Charlesgate. It was nearby and his special friend Violet kept late-night hours there. Shane wasn’t convinced this was the best idea.

  “We’re gonna leave this priceless shit with a whore? We’ll never see it again.”

  “I’m ready to hear your better idea anytime.”

  “I don’t even know this broad.”

  “But I do. She tipped us off to the poker game.”

  “And that worked out like gangbusters.”

  “Not her fault. Our cousin Pat and his big mouth are to blame there.”

  “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “My point is our options are limited. Violet is right here. Do I trust her one hundred percent? Of course not. But I’m about thirty seconds from passing out and…”

  The sound of a distant siren, becoming less distant by the second, completed Jake’s thought better than any words could.

  “Okay,” said Shane. “I guess we got no choice.”

  There was still one potential obstacle in their way if the hotel had someone on duty in the lobby. During poker games and other important occasions, a low-level goon was usually tasked to ride the front desk. The night they’d robbed Dave T’s game, Violet had left a window ajar on the Marlboro Street side of the Charlesgate, a favor for which Jake still owed her $300. But there had been no time to place a similar request tonight, so they’d have to take their chances with the front entrance. Fortunately, as Jake and Shane were well aware, Dave T wasn’t hosting a poker game this night and happily the front desk was unmanned.

  The lobby was swimming around Jake as they crossed to the elevator and he nearly lost his footing when it began to crank upward. Either Violet would be out on the streets scaring up some business or she’d be in Room 601, getting down to business with a customer. Jake was betting on the latter. When they arrived on the sixth floor, he took a deep breath and gathered his strength.

  “All right. There’s no delicate way to do this.” Jake set his armload of paintings down outside the door of 601, then tested the knob. It was unlocked. He pushed open the door and Shane, his arms still full of paintings, followed him through.

  “Hey!” A pasty whale of a man rolled off Violet, his erection bouncing against his jiggling belly fat. Jake pulled the nowempty revolver from his belt.

  “Boston Police. This is a raid.”

  Violet was staring at him, an uncomprehending look on her face. Jake didn’t make eye contact. He kept the revolver trained on the john. “This would be a good time to put your pants on. Leave her money on the dresser with an extra ten for us.”

  “You corrupt sonsabitches.”

  “Hey, it’s either that or we run you downtown and the missus can make your bail.”

  The whale fumbled in his pants for his money clip, peeled off a few bills, and dropped them on the night table next to the bed. He zipped his fly and began buttoning his shirt.

  “You can finish getting dressed outside. Leave your jacket here. Now get lost.”

  The whale shot a nasty look at Violet, who offered only a sheepish shrug. Then he pushed past Shane and was gone.

  “What the hell, Jake?” Violet pulled on a robe as she stood. “Why are you dressed like a cop? And who is this? And what are you doing here?”

  “Your boss in tonight?”

  “Jimmy? He’s in and out like always. What is all this stuff? Carpeting?”

  Shane dumped the canvasses on the floor.

  “This is Shane,” said Jake. “And I’ve been shot in the arm.”

  “Jesus. Sit down on the bed!”

  Jake did one better. He pitched face-forward onto the bed, briefly losing consciousness.

  “I need rubbing alcohol, tweezers, bandages and a lighter,” said Shane.

  “You think this is the emergency room? I’ve got tweezers and a Zippo. And a bottle of scotch. We can tear up the pillowcase for bandages.”

  “Fine. Just get ’em.” Shane rolled Jake over so his breathing passages faced upward, then tore the left sleeve off his brother’s uniform shirt. It was soaked through with blood and stuck to the bullet’s entry point. When Shane ripped it free, the blood began to flow again and Jake moaned.

  “Okay, you’re still alive. Good start.”

  Violet returned with the requested items. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I guess you could suck his dick while I take care of his wound. Isn’t that what you usually do?”

  “Fuck you. I’m helping you out here. I don’t have to do this.”

  “Just give me the scotch.” She handed him the bottle. He pulled off the cap and took a long swig, then poured a generous double shot into Jake’s wound. Jake moaned again. Shane set down the bottle. “Okay, now the tweezers.”

  Violet passed them over. Shane leaned in close to the wound and jammed the tweezers into the hole. Now Jake was wide awake. Shane’s first clue was the screaming.

  “We can’t have that,” said Shane. “We don’t need to attract any attention here. Just pretend you’re hiding from the Japs in the jungles of Oochie Boochie or whatever the fuck.”

  “Give me…something to…bite on.”

  “Sweetheart, hand me one of those pillowcases.”

  “I’m not your sweetheart.” Violet passed him a pillowcase, which he folded several times until it resembled a serviceable gag.

  “Open wide,” he said. Jake did so and Shane shoved the pillowcase into his mouth. Jake bit down and Shane got back to work with the tweezers, poking and prodding his way through torn flesh until he heard the clink of metal on metal. “Found it,” he said. He dug deeper. “Hold tight, I think I’ve got a grip. On three. One…two…” Shane yanked on the hunk of metal in Jake’s arm, prying it loose along with another gush of blood. Jake stopped screaming, only because he’d passed out again. Shane took the pillowcase from his mouth and tied it around Jake’s upper arm, turning the gag into a makeshift tourniquet.

  “Whiskey!” said Shane. Violet handed him the bottle. He took another pull, then poured the rest of it over the ragged hole in Jake’s arm and tossed the bottle aside. “Hand me the Zippo.” She did so and Shane flipped it open. He took the tweezers by its bloodied pincer end and held the handle in the lighter’s flame.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.” Shane held the flame steady on the handle even as the pincers grew nearly too hot for him to hold. When the handle began to glow red, he snapped the lighter shut, tossed it aside, and pressed the handle to Jake’s wound. A sizzling sound and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Shane counted to five, then pulled the handle away, revealing a blackened patch of skin on Jake’s arm. “There. The wound is cauterized, or partly cauterized anyway. Enough to stop him from bleeding to death. Now tear up that other pillowcase and use the strips as bandages. I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” While Shane tended to his business, Violet found a pair of scissors and cut the pillowcase into lengthwise strips. She carefully wrapped the strips around Jake’s arm, tucking the edges inside the wrap to hold it in place. When she was done, she slapped his face. She didn’t hold back.

  Jake stirred awake. “Where’s Shane?” Just as he asked, he heard the toilet flushing. “Oh.”

  “You mind telling me what’s going on here? If Jimmy shows up, we’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “So tell me.”

  Shane returned from the bathroom. “Might as well tell her, Jake. We don’t have any secrets left at this point.”

  “I’ll tell her. But you gotta get out of here, Shane.”

  “What?”

  “Like Violet said,
if Dryden comes back here and finds us, the shit is gonna hit the fan. I mean even more than it already has. You don’t need to stick around for that. Get out of here. Get rid of that uniform. Get home. I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll figure out our next move.”

  Shane hesitated. “So what, I just leave you here? With her? And the paintings?”

  “Well, I doubt you’ll get far tonight with a bunch of paintings tucked under your arms. The cops are already all over the museum. They’ve circulated our descriptions. The sooner you get out of here, the better.”

  Shane took a moment to gather his thoughts, then nodded. He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, then looked back over his shoulder. “Be careful, Jake.”

  “I will. And I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

  “All right.” With that, he was gone.

  “Okay,” said Violet. “First of all, you owe me three hundred bucks. Second, what the hell is going on here?”

  He told her everything.

  OCTOBER 20, 1986

  The Red Sox had won the first two games of the World Series on the road and were coming home to Fenway. The Mets were in big trouble. So was I.

  I met Shane Devlin at the Fallout Shelter on the travel day. “How ’bout them Sox?” he said, as if he hadn’t half-strangled me to death the last time I saw him.

  “Yeah. Pretty exciting.”

  “Why don’t you buy me a Knickerbocker?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t I?” I did, and two for myself.

  “So what’s the good news?” he asked.

  “Good news?”

  “Yeah. I assume you’ve been working on our little project. Like we discussed.”

  “I’ve been working on it. I have a possible lead. Turns out there are these old stables in the basement of Charlesgate. There’s a bunch of old shit stashed away down there, including, I’m told, some paintings.”

  “Fantastic. See that? Everything’s going our way.”

  “Oh yeah. For sure.”

  “So let’s go check them out.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy. I’m pretty sure they keep the stables under lock and key.”

  “So let’s go look at it. I’ve picked a lock or two in my day, kid.”