Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  Once we reached the stable door, I realized I didn’t have a flashlight with me. I was about to mention this when Shane reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a penlight. “You just think of everything, don’t you?” I said.

  “I’m a professional.”

  “Yeah. A professional mop-pusher.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder, then pushed open the door. Shane flicked on his penlight. We stepped into the stables and I closed the door behind us. Shane’s light provided limited visibility. I could see about six feet in front of us before everything went dim. Boxes were piled on either side of us, stacked against the walls.

  “Might as well start right here,” Shane said. “Why don’t you pull down the top box from that stack and I’ll hold the light while you dig through it.”

  “I see I’ve been assigned the more labor-intensive portion of this task. I know, I know, you’re 108 years old and you’re going to drop dead any minute.”

  I reached up and tugged on one corner of the top box, about a foot above my head. It didn’t budge. “This thing is fucking heavy.”

  “Well, put some elbow grease into it. I swear, you kids today are all pampered fairies.”

  It took a while. I’d shove the box a couple inches one way, then a couple inches the other way. My rudimentary understanding of physics suggested there was only one way for this to end, but it’s not like paintings are fragile objects, right?

  Sure enough, I felt the box giving way and stepped aside. It crashed to the floor and I heard something shatter inside.

  “Nice, kid. You’re a regular cat burglar. Subtle as a fucking earthquake.”

  “What can I tell you? If you can’t help me move these things, maybe we need another accomplice.”

  “Fuck that. Open it up and see what’s inside.”

  The box was roughly the size of my illegal dorm fridge. I popped open the top and removed part of the lamp that had broken on impact. “Isn’t this box a little small to be holding those paintings?’

  “They ain’t all big. There’s a few drawings by Degas that would fit in there easily. Finding those might not be quite as good as finding the Rembrandt or the Vermeer, but it would definitely be worth our while.”

  “You sound like quite the art expert.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to study up on these things.”

  “Yeah. Forty years. You said.”

  “You’re a real fucking smartass, kid. Didn’t your father ever smack you around when you ran that mouth of yours?”

  “I’m sure he wanted to, but my mother wasn’t having it. She said this smart mouth of mine would make me a lot of money someday.”

  “Well, the jury’s still out on that one.”

  “Look, there’s nothing in here but junk. I mean, for all I know these ashtrays date back to the Ming dynasty and are worth a fortune, but there’s definitely no art in here.”

  “Next box.”

  And so it went. We made our way through six boxes on the left and six boxes on the right. Maybe an hour and a half, maybe two hours had passed. The beam from Shane’s light began to flicker and he slapped the penlight against his thigh a couple times.

  “Your batteries are running out,” I said. “I think that means it’s time to call it a day.”

  He reluctantly agreed. I opened the door half an inch and peered into the hallway. The coast was clear. We stepped back into the basement and I locked the doorknob behind me, leaving the deadbolts alone.

  “I think maybe I should hang onto the key,” said Shane.

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you coming down here and looking without me. What with you living here and me…not living here.”

  “How about if we make a copy of the key? Each have one.”

  “That doesn’t change the scenario I just outlined to you, does it? Doesn’t alleviate my concerns.”

  “I guess not.” Honestly, I couldn’t fault his logic. I probably would have looked without him if I’d had the key. So I handed it to him and he pocketed it.

  “Thanks, kid. Now let’s go up and say goodnight to Missy. You know, I think I got a shot with her.”

  “You’ve got a sense of humor. I’ll give you that.”

  “You wanna put money on it?”

  “I sure don’t.”

  MAY 7, 2014

  Coleman picked up a bleacher seat from a scalper outside Remy’s restaurant and took in the getaway day game between the Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds. It was a Wednesday afternoon and he had nothing better to do, even though it was a fucking interleague game, which he hated on principle. In a few days he’d be back on the job, on desk duty, trying to dig his way out of the doghouse. But here and now it was a warm, sunny day at Fenway Park and the beer was cold and the World Champs were winning.

  Exiting onto Lansdowne Street to the victorious strains of “Dirty Water,” Coleman checked his phone and saw he’d missed a call from the Rhode Island cop, Childs. He hit Redial and ducked into the souvenir shop across the street.

  “Childs.”

  “Hey there, Sergeant. It’s Detective Coleman up in Boston.”

  “How’s it going up there?”

  “Just walked out of Fenway after a Sox win, so it doesn’t get much better.”

  “Nice. It’s been way too long since I got to a game.”

  “My treat, next time you get up this way. I saw you called me earlier?”

  “Yeah, you asked me to keep you posted on the Charles White investigation.”

  “For sure.”

  “Well, the bad news is I’m not gonna be able to do that much longer. J. Edgar is taking this thing over so this is my last day on the case.”

  “The Feds, huh? What do they want with this?”

  “They weren’t interested in sharing that information with me, if you can believe that.”

  “Will wonders never cease.”

  “Anyway, they’re gonna search this guy White’s apartment up there in Boston. I figured I’d let you know in case you want to get in on it.”

  “Hey, I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Just tell me I can still give you a ring for those Sox tickets whenever I get up there.”

  “You best believe it.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Before the FBI took this thing over, we put in a request for White’s phone data, like I told you. It hasn’t come through yet, but I’m expecting it this afternoon. If you want, I’ll keep you in the loop on that.”

  “That would be great. Was his phone on him when he was found? Melted or whatever?”

  “Nope. We sifted through the ashes in that dumpster and no such luck.”

  “So if someone still has it and they use it now…”

  “We’d definitely get a hit on that.”

  “Oh, one more thing, as Columbo used to say. No security cameras in the alley?”

  “Nah. We checked the ones from the parking lot and inside Dunkin’s, but if they pulled in the back and left the same way, we wouldn’t see shit anyway.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yep. Anyway, if that phone data comes in, I’ll shoot you a call. Probably a couple hours or so.”

  “That’ll work.” Coleman hit End Call and pocketed his phone. He felt a little bad for not telling Childs he was no longer on the case, but not too bad. He figured he’d do more with the information than Carny ever would.

  Coleman milled through the postgame scrum down to Kenmore Square. He popped into Nuggets, the used record store that remained virtually unchanged through all the upheaval the square had seen over the decades. Everything surrounding it was shiny and upscale, but Nuggets was still the cramped little dungeon it had always been. Coleman didn’t even own a turntable anymore, but he enjoyed browsing through old album covers, particularly in the jazz section. They evoked a smoky, mysterious night world he’d always wanted to inhabit but never managed to locate.

  After an hour or so, he wandered down to the Corner Tavern and drank a
Harpoon Ale at the bar. He didn’t know it, but twenty-five years earlier the Corner Tavern’s location had been occupied by a much seedier bar called the Fallout Shelter. It was a Cold War era joke that expired in the early ’90s, along with the original version of the bar. But the contours of its interior were not all that different. It smelled better and the beer was more expensive. That was about it.

  When he finished his beer, Coleman checked his phone. It was quarter past five. Jackie should be home soon. He scrolled through his contacts, found the number for Woodward, the art detective, and hit Send. The call went to voicemail. “Mr. Woodward, Martin Coleman here. Sorry I haven’t been in touch in a couple days, but…I’ve run into a bit of a snag. workwise. Give me a call when you get a chance and we can compare notes.” He ended the call. Maybe Woodward had given up and gone back to England.

  Coleman paid for his beer and walked the block back to Charlesgate East. He stood, hidden by the corner of the building, and watched. Twenty minutes later, Jackie crossed the street at Beacon and headed into the building. He gave her a five-minute head start, then walked over to the entrance and buzzed her intercom number.

  “Hello?”

  “Boston police.”

  “Are you downstairs?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Are you stalking me? You know I don’t react well to that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah, but I also know you won’t file a restraining order, so what the hell.”

  She let him dangle for fifteen seconds, then buzzed him in. He rode the elevator up to the sixth floor and knocked on her door. The door opened. A roll of toilet paper bounced off his nose.

  “You’re a dick,” she said.

  “Still guilty,” he replied as she opened the door wider and let him in. “I sure do love this fucking condo.”

  “I know. I’m starting to think you’re going to marry me and then kill me so you can inherit it.”

  “Can we arrange that? Can we rework your will right now? I can call my lawyer.”

  “Eat shit. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

  “Sure. Can we drink it on my soon-to-be patio?”

  “So you can push me six stories to my death? How can I resist?” She fetched a bottle of merlot and two glasses and they sat on the rooftop deck, watching a car attempting to navigate around a row of garbage cans in the alley below.

  “So I talked to Charles White’s replacement at the Emerson alumni office today,” Jackie said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Cute girl. He harassed the shit out of her, too.”

  “Sounds like a real loss for humanity.”

  “She says she didn’t kill him.”

  “Good enough for me. Although, funny little footnote. Turns out the Feds are interested in this thing.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they’re taking over the investigation.”

  She sipped from her glass. “Are you watching me for a reaction?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you expecting me to break down sobbing and say ‘I confess! I killed him!’ I mean, I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  “Jesus. Of course not.”

  “Really? Because I can’t seem to shake the feeling that you think I killed this guy. Or at least had something to do with it.”

  “I’m a cop. We always seem suspicious. Seriously. I don’t think any such thing.”

  “Why not?”

  He set his wine on the table, leaned in and kissed her. She didn’t try to stop him and he didn’t stop for a long time. Finally he came up for air. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Not really,” she said. “I think you’d want to kiss me even if you thought I was a murderer. Do you deny it?”

  “You’re paranoid. But no, I don’t deny it.”

  “Okay, so eliminate me as a suspect. You’re the cop. Tell me why I couldn’t have done it.”

  “I can’t do that. You could have done it. Based on the limited information I have at this point, anyone could have done it. I just don’t think you did.”

  The opening chords of “Dirty Water” emerged from Coleman’s pocket. He pulled out his phone, checked the number and answered it. “Coleman.”

  “It’s Childs again. I have an update.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We got the records request back from Verizon. I’m texting you the phone numbers for the last five calls he made. Or at least, the last five that were made from his phone.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I’ve got to send the data on to J. Edgar, but there’s also a photo taken a few hours before we found his body. Means nothing to me, but maybe it would to you. I’m texting it to you now.”

  “You’re a prince, Childs. I’m gonna get you home plate seats for the fucking World Series.”

  “I won’t forget you said that. I gotta go.”

  “Later.”

  Coleman ended the call and checked his text messages. A photo message appeared at the very top. He tapped it and the photo filled his phone screen. It showed an upscale condominium Coleman recognized immediately, because he happened to be sitting in it at that very moment. A framed movie poster was smashed on the floor, glass scattered all around.

  Coleman checked the next text. A list of phone numbers and call times popped onto the screen. At the top of the list—the last number called from White’s phone—was Jackie’s cell.

  JUNE 23, 1946

  As Violet had predicted, a week passed before her sister announced it was time for Violet to make her way back to Boston or wherever the hell else she wanted to go as long as it wasn’t Sally’s house. Also as predicted, Sally’s husband Norm had collected rent for her visit in the form of a 3 a.m. blowjob on the couch. What she hadn’t guessed was that the latter event would instigate the former, as Norm’s sounds of ecstasy had been loud enough to wake up Sally, prompting her to discover her husband’s dick in her sister’s mouth. Violet couldn’t blame her for making it very clear that she wouldn’t be invited back for Thanksgiving dinner.

  That didn’t matter anymore. By now the heat would have died down at the Charlesgate. She could slip back in, make sure the paintings were still in their hiding place, then track down whoever was now running things in the building and try to cut a deal. She’d been following the story in the papers and rumor had it the Gardner planned to offer a reward for the safe return of the stolen art, possibly up to $50,000. She figured she could leverage her inside information into a management role on the sixth floor, maybe split the reward fifty/fifty with the house. Jake would be pissed off if he ever came back, but that was his hard luck. He hadn’t offered her anywhere near that much, and she didn’t owe him a thing. Quite the opposite. Besides, possession was nine-tenths of the law, right?

  She caught the first bus to South Station in the morning, then rode the T to Kenmore. As soon as the Charlesgate was in sight, she could tell something was wrong. When she got closer, it became clear that her plan had hit an unexpected snag. Two cops were standing in front of the main entrance, which was bolted shut with chains and padlocks. She took a deep breath and walked up to the slightly nicer-looking cop.

  “What happened here?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I live here.”

  “No, you don’t live here. Nobody lives here no more.”

  “How’s that?”

  “This building has been seized by the Boston Police Department. The people who used to live here and work here, they don’t no more.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about this, ma’am, but turns out there was a great deal of illegal activity taking place here. In the course of a criminal investigation, it was discovered that the owners of this building, on paper anyway, had not paid any property taxes in quite some time. Consequently the building has been completely evacuated and is set to go on the auction block. Rumor has it that some these big colleges around here have interest in using it as dormitory space.
”

  Violet’s heart sped up; she could feel it beating in her neck. The cops had always turned a blind eye because they’d always been paid off. Now, on the same night, the two men with the biggest interest in keeping the police at bay—Dave T and Jimmy Dryden—had both met an untimely demise. If no one else had stepped in to fill the void, the cops would no longer have an incentive to ignore the illegal goings-on at the Charlesgate. On the contrary, they could bust the place and sell it to the press as a big win. Which was apparently what had happened.

  “Anything else I can help you with, lady?”

  “No…thanks. I was just curious.” Violet smiled and turned back toward Kenmore Square, weighing her options. She could come back later and try to break into the building. She might find an open window or maybe sneak in through the stables. But she expected the stables would be locked up tight, and there might even be night watchmen stationed inside the building. A smarter move would be to talk to someone in a position to get the Charlesgate reopened for business. Someone with whom she could cut a deal. Dave T and Dryden may have run things at the Charlesgate, but they didn’t run organized crime in Boston. She remembered Jimmy bitching a few times about having to pay ten percent to a man in the North End who would cause big trouble if he didn’t get his cut. And surely this man wouldn’t be happy that his cut would no longer be forthcoming. If she could reason with him, maybe he could settle things with the cops and get the Charlesgate up and running again. Maybe they could partner up, split the reward for the paintings and the take from the sixth floor. Maybe even find someone to take over Dave T’s poker game. She knew this man would miss that game if it wasn’t around anymore. So it was settled. She would have to go see Marko.

  He would recognize her. The boss of the Boston mafia had stopped in to see her a few times after finishing up with poker night, at least until he’d traded in for a younger model when Dorothy came around. He’d always had very specific, unusual requests. He liked her to bite his nipples until she drew blood, and he liked to bite hers, too. He liked her to squeeze his balls until he screamed. One time he asked her to wear a dildo in a harness and mount him from behind, but he’d chickened out as soon as the rubber tip touched his anus.