Among Thieves

by David Hosp

  Finn flashed his lawyer’s pass at one of the guards through the window, and the guard pressed a button, opening the door and waving him through.

  “Attorney Finn,” the guard said. His voice wasn’t quite friendly, but it wasn’t hostile either. Some of the corrections officers understood that Finn was just doing his job. Others…

  “Officer DiNoffrio,” Finn replied.

  He noted Finn’s casual attire. “You going to the Sox game today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  “Yeah. I’d offer you one of my other tickets, but…” Finn shrugged.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Yeah. It’s the thought that counts, though, right?”

  DiNoffrio shook his head. “Not even close. Who are you here to see?”

  “Devon Malley.”

  “Shit. You serious?”

  “I guess.”

  “You might as well give me your ticket. By the time he finishes trying to explain this, it’ll be the bottom of the ninth.”

  “I charge by the hour.”

  “Still…” DiNoffrio swiveled in his chair, facing back out toward the cell block. He grabbed the microphone that extended up from the control board at the center of the guard station, flicked the power switch on. “Devon Malley. Visitor.” His amplified, mechanized voice echoed off the smooth cement surfaces of the cell block. It didn’t sound like him; it sounded like God. For those living on the block, it might as well have been. He looked back at Finn and nodded toward another steel door off to the side of the guard station. He pressed a button and the door unlocked. “He’ll be in in a minute.”

  “Thanks.” Finn walked over and stood in front of the door. He looked up at a clock in the guard station. Nine forty-five a.m. The first pitch was at eleven oh-five. Devon better talk quickly. He took a deep breath and walked through the door.

  The room was small—smaller even than the single cells in which the inmates were kept for most of the day. Two plastic chairs were the only furnishings. No table. The lock on the door behind him buzzed shut, and Finn took quick, shallow breaths, trying to keep the stink of inmate sweat and vinegar-based disinfectant from reaching too deeply into his lungs. It was useless, he knew from experience. The odor would stay with him for the rest of the day.

  The buzzer on the door that led directly into the jail’s common area sounded, the door swung open, and Devon Malley stepped into the room. He was dressed in the standard-issue faded blue smock and drawstring pants. The two men looked at each other without saying anything.

  Devon looked more or less the same as he had the last time Finn had seen him a few years before. He was around five years older than Finn—late forties—and just over six feet tall. He had dark hair, cut short and streaked with gray, and a round face with well-defined features. His eyes had a guileless look to them incongruous with his chosen profession.

  Finn had known Devon since the old days, when Finn was still running with his gang in the Charlestown projects. He wasn’t part of Finn’s crew—he was from Southie—but they hung around some of the same people. Devon was the sort of guy people usually took little notice of. He wasn’t bright enough to be a leader, but he was pliable, and he could round out a decent crew. He wasn’t a complete psychopath, which was refreshing. Many of the people Finn knew from back then would kill without thought or provocation. That was never a worry with Devon. Finn didn’t think he had killing in him. Finn liked him for that.

  Neither of them said anything for a moment, and the silence was awkward in so small a room. Devon finally stepped forward, extending his hand. Finn shook it.

  “It’s good to see ya, Finn,” Devon said. His heavy South Boston accent brought Finn back to his youth. “R”s came out as “aah”s and the gerund form “-ing” had been lost forever. Curses replaced all punctuation. Finn had worked hard to lose that dialect.

  “You too,” Finn replied.

  “It’s good of ya to do this. Showin’ up on a fuckin’ holiday and all.” Devon let Finn’s hand go and stepped back, pulling one of the chairs over and sitting down.

  “Anything for an old friend.”

  “Anything for an old friend who’ll pay your fuckin’ fees, you mean,” Devon corrected him.

  “That, too.” Finn pulled over the other chair and sat in front of his client. “You can pay my fees, right?”

  Devon smiled, but avoided eye contact. “We never change, do we?”

  “Not in any way that matters,” Finn agreed.

  “Jesus, what’s it been, five years? Ten? How you been?”

  “Okay.”

  “From what I hear, you been better than okay,” Devon said. “You’re gettin’ a fuckin’ reputation for yourself. ‘Miracle worker,’ that’s what I heard you called.” He rocked back and forth as he spoke.

  “Really? That’s a good one. I’ll have to put it on my business cards.”

  “No fuckin’ need. You do right by the right people and you don’t need to advertise no more.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself of something. “You must be making a pretty fuckin’ penny, too, huh?”

  “Right. That brings me back to my fees.”

  He nodded, still not looking directly at Finn. “I’ll pay ’em. I need a miracle worker.”

  “Apparently. You want to tell me what happened?”

  Devon shrugged. “I don’t fuckin’ know. My night didn’t go like I planned it.”

  Finn looked around the tiny room. “So it would seem.” He went silent for a moment. “You want to tell me about the lingerie?”

  Devon put his head down. “That’s all anyone’s gonna fuckin’ talk about, isn’t it. Fuck.”

  “You’ve got to admit that when a guy gets caught with an armful of women’s underwear it paints a picture that’s hard to forget.”

  “It wasn’t just underwear,” Devon said. “It was dresses, too.”

  “Right,” Finn said. “Dresses, too. Does that make it sound better?” He watched his client get up and pace in the tiny room like a tiger at the zoo. “The cops are calling you the G-String Bandit.”

  “Fuck ’em. They ain’t got nothin’ better to do with their lives but fuck with me? I got enough to worry about, right?”

  “It was apparently a toss-up between that and the Panty Raider. Personally, I like the Panty Raider, but that’s probably because I went to college at night, so I feel like I missed out.”

  Devon stopped pacing and looked at Finn. “This is fuckin’ funny?”

  “Maybe a little,” Finn replied. Then he turned serious. “Tell me what happened.”

  Devon sat down, leaned back in the little chair, and took a deep breath. “It shoulda been the easiest night of my fuckin’ life. You know Gilberacci’s on Newberry Street? High-end fashion place?” Finn nodded. “They just got in the new shipments for summer. The place was stocked.”

  “A little smash-and-grab?” Finn asked. “The notion of you getting pinched fondling a bunch of silk bras is a little hard to swallow.”

  “You’re not listening,” Devon said. “This wasn’t no fuckin’ smash-and-grab. I had over fifty designer dresses, up to six thousand retail for each one. Plus some jewelry and—yeah—very expensive panties and bras and shit like that. All in all, close to half a million dollars in the store, low six figures on the street.”

  Finn whistled. “That’s expensive underwear.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’. Plus, it shoulda been easy. Johnny Gilberacci’s one of the owners, and he’s got a serious fuckin’ gambling problem.”

  “Johnny Gilberacci? He’s the guy who’s always in the society pages with his little dog with the pink collar, right?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “A little weak in the wrists, isn’t he?”

  “He’s queer as a fuckin’ ballerina, but he’s still got a gambling problem.”

  “Really? What does he bet on?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Whatever it is, he’s no fuck
in’ good at it. He loses a fortune, and he’s been paying off Vinny by stealing the shit outta the stuff in his store. This was gonna even everyone up. He’s got insurance on the place for twice the inventory that’s actually there. I had the keys and access to the loading dock in back. No risk, and no one could get hurt.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  Devon nodded. “Yeah, here I am.” He looked around the small room. “There was no fuckin’ warning. Everything was goin’ fine. I had most of the shit loaded up already, and I’d just gone back in to grab a few more things. All of a sudden I look up and there are these two fuckin’ cops looking back at me, these big, wide, shit-eating grins on their faces.”

  “So, what do you think happened?” Finn asked.

  “Only one possibility.”

  “Someone dropped dime?”

  “I don’t see how else this happens. There was no alarm, I didn’t make any fuckin’ noise, and there was no one else around. The cops had to be tipped.”

  Finn thought about this for a moment. “Who else knew?”

  “I got the job from Vinny. You know Vinny Murphy, right? He’s moved up, and I’ve done a bunch of work for him. He’s always been a stand-up guy, though, and I don’t see his angle on me gettin’ busted, so I don’t think it was him. I don’t know who else coulda known, but someone did. If I was out on the street, I’d find out quick enough. In here I’m fucked, though.”

  Finn nodded in understanding. “I could help with that, at least. I could probably have you out of here pretty quick,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Bail hearing shouldn’t be too bad. I took a look at your sheet, and it’s been a while since you’ve picked up any convictions. The DA will be looking for high bail, but I’m guessing the judge would be reasonable about it if it’s handled right.”

  “I been arrested a couple times in the past few years,” Devon said. He sounded skeptical. “And the shit I was caught with ain’t cheap.”

  Finn shook his head. “Bail isn’t what I’d be worried about. The problem is what happens after bail. Your case sucks.”

  “No shit. That’s why I need a fuckin’ miracle worker.”

  “Even miracle workers hate to lose cases, Devon. Unless you’ve got something to give to the DA to get him to make a decent plea offer, you’re screwed. You really think you can get some sort of helpful information once you’re out after the arraignment? Something we might be able to trade?”

  “Maybe. When’s the arraignment?”

  Finn scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved that morning and a dark patch of stubble covered his face. “Don’t know yet, it hasn’t been scheduled. You were picked up on Sunday, and today is Patriots’ Day, so the courts are closed. They’ll put you on a schedule when they get in tomorrow, but given the three-day weekend and the inevitable backlog, I wouldn’t expect you to be seen anytime before Wednesday.”

  Devon shook his head. “No good. The longer I stay in here, the colder the fuckin’ rat’s trail gets. You want me to get you something to use with the DA, you gotta spring me sooner.”

  “You may be putting too much stock in the ‘miracle worker’ reputation I have. There’s no way I can change the court’s schedule.”

  “No, I guess not,” Devon said. He looked down at the floor as he tapped his feet anxiously. Then he looked up at Finn. “How ’bout if you was to move things on the outside?” he asked. “You know, poke around, see what you can find out?”

  “I don’t do windows,” Finn replied.

  “C’mon,” Devon pleaded. “I’m not askin’ for much. Just ask a few fuckin’ questions. Otherwise, we may never find out who tipped off the cops.”

  Finn thought about it. He hated the idea of getting his hands dirty; he’d given up that kind of work. “I charge by the hour,” he said. “You’re not going to want to pay as much as it would cost.”

  “I may not want to pay it, but I will,” Devon said. “I’m desperate, and payin’ you beats the shit out of going to jail. Besides, don’t you have some sort of private investigator you could use?”

  “Sort of,” Finn admitted. “But he’s an ex-cop. He’s not the kind of guy someone like Vinny Murphy is gonna want to talk to.”

  “Take him anyway. You want someone ridin’ shotgun. Guys like Vinny don’t fuckin’ play. They’re serious people.”

  Finn considered the suggestion some more. “It’s gonna cost you a boatload of money, y’know? Not a little—a lot.”

  “I know. I’ll pay it,” Devon replied simply. “I need this.”

  Finn shot Devon a look. “And you really can pay my fees?”

  “I swear to fuckin’ God, Finn. The second you get me out, I’ll pay you cash for what you done so far. Plus a fat fuckin’ retainer for the rest. I swear it, on my mother’s fuckin’ grave.”

  “Your mother passed?”

  “Not yet, but she’s got the cancer. Any day. Shit, Finn, I just need your help.”

  Finn rubbed his hand over his stubble again. “I’ve got to talk to the others in the firm. If you’re really willing to pay, we’ll think about doing some poking around. Don’t get your hopes up too high, though. I don’t know whether my people are gonna want to take this on, and even if we do end up taking the case, I can’t imagine we’re gonna get too far.”

  “You’re a good shit, Finn,” Devon said thoughtfully. “A really good shit.”

  Finn sat up straight in his chair. He caught a calculating tone in Devon’s voice. “What is it?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Devon. There’s something else.”

  “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Devon was silent for a moment. “Okay. I got one other favor to ask,” he began.

  “Of course you do.”

  “There’s a woman in my apartment. It’s a little fucked up with her.”

  “You never change, do you Devon.”

  “Like you said, not in any way that’s important. I didn’t call her when I got pinched, so she’s probably a little twitchy. She’s gotta go down to her ma’s place in Providence today.”

  “You want me to get her a message?” Finn asked.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Finn frowned. “Why isn’t it that simple, Devon?”

  Devon looked hard at Finn. “I trust you,” he said.

  “You’d better,” Finn replied. “I may end up being your lawyer.”

  “You don’t understand; there’s no one else I trust. I’m not in the right business for trust—not when it comes to shit that really matters. You know that better than anyone, right?”

  Finn didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. “Crap,” he muttered. “What’s this about, Devon?”

  Devon sighed. “It’s about my daughter.”

  Chapter Two

  Detective Paul Stone drove. He and Elorea Sanchez had been partners for two weeks. Though he’d been a cop for five years, he was a rookie on the homicide squad, and she had every right to take the wheel, but never did. They walked out of the station house that first day to the dented, unmarked Lincoln and Sanchez had tossed the keys onto the driver’s seat. She’d never said a word about it, and Stone had driven ever since. He’d joked once that she must like having a younger man chauffeuring her around the city, but it hadn’t gone over well. She just stared at him with a hard look that was effective at cutting off conversation.

  She wasn’t easy to figure out. They’d spent nearly ten hours a day together for two weeks, but they seldom spoke more than a few words to each other at a time. Her idea of conversation was to tell him where to turn. Most of what he knew about her he’d gotten from her personnel file and station gossip. She was fifty years old, female, Hispanic of unspecified geographic origin, five-seven, one hundred and thirty-five pounds. She had joined the police force later in life than most cops—after the army, college, and a master’s degree in
criminal justice. She’d even done two years of law school, but hadn’t finished. No one knew why she’d dropped out. What people did know was that she had shot up through the BPD ranks with incredible speed. The jealous credited affirmative action, ignoring the fact that she had the best clear rate in the homicide unit. In her fifteen years on the detective squad, she’d cleared over seventy-five percent of her cases. That meant that if a case was assigned to her, three out of four times someone was convicted of the crime. The national average was sixty-five percent. In Boston, the average had sunk in recent years as low as thirty-three percent. That meant that only a third of all murders were being solved. It was one of the worst records in the country. Given that grim reality, affirmative action or not, seventy-five percent made Sanchez a star.

  Word was, though, that she was difficult to work with. Since joining the detective squad, she’d churned through five partners. Those inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt claimed that her intensity burned partners out. Those less charitable said it was because she couldn’t be trusted, and without trust there could be no real partnership. Whatever the reason, she was working alone when Stone was bumped up to homicide. He’d been told the arrangement was on a trial basis, but had been given no indication when the trial would end or by what criteria he would be judged. He was a team player, so he kept his mouth shut. At the very least, he figured, he could learn something riding with someone who had a seventy-five percent clear rate, no matter for how short a time.

  “You got the address?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t need the address; he’d grown up in Southie. Never left there, in fact. When he was growing up, the Body Shop had been a landmark. The sign that hung from the grimy, low-slung stucco building read “Murphy’s Car Body and Engine Repair,” but it was known to everyone in the neighborhood simply as the Body Shop. It was located on an oversized lot fringed with knee-high weeds, set back from the street, in an area that drew little traffic. That hardly mattered, though—no one ever took their cars there anyway. A mechanic was on the premises during the daytime to keep appearances up, but anyone looking to have a car repaired was invariably told that all of the appointments were booked. The only auto-body work performed there took place at night, and few of the cars that found their way into the garage emerged again in one piece.