by David Hosp
The car pulled to a stop, but didn’t turn around. Instead, both doors opened and two men got out. Stone squared his shoulders, drawing on the authority of indignation. He slowed, though, as the bigger of the two men pulled himself from the low-slung passenger seat and looked at him. Stone recognized the man instantly.
“Jesus,” Stone said. “Kozlowski. You’ll get yourself shot, pulling into a crime scene like that, y’know? You’re not a cop anymore, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Maybe if they’d put a real cop in charge here it wouldn’t be such a problem,” Kozlowski replied. “Maybe someone who wasn’t a rookie, and who’d know to put the tape back up in front of the driveway.”
“Been a while since I was a rookie. Been a while since I saw you.”
“No shit? I’m old; time moves faster for me,” Kozlowski said. He looked Stone up and down. “I’d heard they put you in civies full time,” he acknowledged. “Vice?”
Stone shook his head. “Homicide.”
“No shit, again. A real job? I guess they’ll take anyone these days, then, huh?”
“They have to. We used to have a bunch of old guys who fucked things up pretty bad.”
“I never fucked up a case in my life,” Kozlowski growled.
“No, you never did,” Stone admitted. “You just pissed off the wrong people in the department.” He moved forward and put out his hand. “How you been?”
Kozlowski shook the hand. “Getting by.”
“Good to hear.”
“You remember Scott Finn, right?”
Stone regarded the second man. “From the Caldwell case, right? Hard to forget.” Neither of them offered his hand. “I heard Koz was working with you now. Hard to believe. If I remember right, he had you pegged as a murderer a few years ago.”
“I was wrong,” Kozlowski said.
“He also had you pegged as an asshole,” Stone said.
“So, he was partially wrong,” Finn replied.
Stone turned back to Kozlowski. “What are you doing out here?”
“We need to talk to Vinny Murphy,” Kozlowski replied. “I take it he’s not around?”
“That’s an understatement.”
Kozlowski exchanged a look with Finn. “How so?” he asked.
“I mean he’s gone. Really gone.”
“Arrested?” Finn asked.
Stone shook his head. “That’d be an upgrade. He was murdered. You read the papers?”
Finn shook his head. “I had a busy morning. I haven’t had the chance.” He looked at Kozlowski, who just shrugged. “What happened?” he asked Stone.
“Pretty nasty. We’re not sure exactly yet.”
“When?”
“Saturday night. Maybe early Sunday morning.”
“Any leads?” Kozlowski asked. He still sounded like a cop.
“Not that I can talk about,” Stone said.
“Anything you can tell us?” Finn asked.
Stone hesitated. Kozlowski had been one of the best detectives in the department; his insight might be useful. Stone wasn’t going to give up any information without getting something in return, though. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here first.”
The two men looked at each other. “We can’t,” Finn replied.
“No?”
Finn shook his head.
“Well then, it looks like we’re not going to be able to help each other.”
Finn sighed. “We’re here for a client. For information. That’s all I can say.”
“I could ask you to come down to the station to talk,” Stone said. “This is a murder investigation.”
“Wouldn’t do you any good,” Finn replied.
“No, probably not. But without more, this conversation isn’t gonna go anyplace.”
Finn put his hands in his pockets, but Kozlowski spoke up. “Devon Malley was picked up Sunday night for a robbery.” Finn’s head spun toward the private detective, but Kozlowski waved him off. “Rumor had it that Murphy might know something about the crime. We were just out looking to see what we could find out.”
“Koz—” Finn protested, but Stone cut him off.
“Don’t worry,” Stone said. “I know Devon. He’s got nothing to do with this.”
“What makes you say that?” Finn asked.
“Devon’s a thief, not a murderer. Right circumstances, he might be able to push a button on a guy—maybe even pull the trigger himself if he was scared enough. But that’s as far as he’d go. He wouldn’t be a part of what went down here. He’s not the brutal type, and this was brutal.”
“How so?” Kozlowski asked.
“Vinny was worked over before he was killed. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. Lots of pain, but nothing that would kill until the final shot. Very fucked up. They used chains, they broke bones. They did stuff to him you only read about.”
Finn frowned. “Why?”
“That’s the question.” Stone looked at Kozlowski. “You got any thoughts?”
Kozlowski shrugged. “I don’t know enough about the man’s business to tell. He chose a livelihood that makes this sort of thing a risk.”
“True,” Stone said. “But this doesn’t seem like just a turf war. There’s something more. Something I can’t figure out. They didn’t do anything to conceal the body or make it difficult to identify him. They left him in a heap in his place of business. There’s only one reason to do that.”
“They wanted to send a message,” Kozlowski said.
“That’s the only thing I can come up with,” Stone agreed. “But to who?” He thought about the message written in blood, but decided it would be disclosing too much.
“That’s your problem, not mine,” Kozlowski said. “I don’t get paid by the city anymore.”
“We should go,” Finn said. There was an edge in his voice.
Kozlowski put his hand out first this time. “If I hear anything on the street, I’ll pass it on if I can,” he said.
Stone shook his hand. “I’d appreciate anything I can get.”
Finn was already heading back toward his car, and Kozlowski followed him. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. As he started to lean down to get in, he looked over the soft top and spoke again. “Stone,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“The civies look good on you, but it’s not the clothes that make the cop.”
“You taught me that one already.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not still true.”
Finn started the car, whipped it around in a mangled three-point turn, and pulled out into the street. He didn’t say anything until Stone had faded from the rearview mirror. “What do you think?” he asked then.
“Bad luck for Murphy,” Kozlowski replied. “Bad luck for Devon, too.”
“Anything else?”
Kozlowski sighed. “You mean, do I think this has anything to do with Devon?” It took him a moment to answer. “I don’t see how. Even if Murphy set Devon up and dropped a dime on him for some reason, Devon hadn’t been picked up by the cops yet when Murphy’s ticket got punched, so he wouldn’t have known to be pissed yet. Where’s the motive? Plus, the level of violence doesn’t fit. Stone’s right about that, it wouldn’t be Devon’s style, even if he wanted to kill the man. He’s not a psychopath.”
“I don’t disagree,” Finn said. “We’re still shit outta luck with no place to go.”
“Murphy definitely isn’t going to be of any help at this point.”
“Clearly not.” Finn blew out a long breath as the lines of Southie’s row houses flashed by, each corner dividing one block from the next with identical pizza parlors, pubs, and liquor stores. “Sounds like he went out in a bad way.”
“Unlike all those good ways to go out? He played the game. He had it coming.”
“Maybe. I knew him. He wasn’t all bad.”
“Right. Hitler liked dogs and kids. I’m still not gonna shed any tears for him.”
The scenes kept rolling b
y, and as they passed a bodega on West Broadway, Finn spotted three young Irish-looking men tumbling loudly out the door, slapping each other on the back, laughing. They wore jeans and sweatshirts, and they pulled out cigarettes in unison. Construction workers, Finn thought, on their way to the work site, a little late for the job but without any real care in the world. Or boyos, back from a night of mischief, stopping off for a quick bacon-and-egg sandwich before heading back to their apartments to sleep for the first time in days. There was no way to tell the difference from the driver’s seat of Finn’s car.
“Coulda been me,” Finn said. “I was in the game.”
“You were a kid,” Kozlowski said, waving his hand. “Besides, you got out.”
“I got lucky.”
“That’s not luck. Not in this world.”
“A lot of it’s luck. I think about the people I ran with; the stuff we did. Then I think about what I do now. I’m not sure there’s a difference in the end.”
“There’s a world of difference.”
“Is there?”
Kozlowski looked at him and shook his head. “Goddamned Irish. Angst-ridden to the core, every last one of you. Why the hell is that?”
“The Irish are cursed with brains. You’re Polish, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not. So, what now?”
Finn shrugged. “I guess I’ll drop you off at the office and head over to Nashua Street to see Devon. Maybe there’s someone else who can give us some information.”
“Sounds good.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Kozlowski said, “You’re gonna pay for the Polish crack. You know that, right?”
Finn smiled. “I figured. I couldn’t resist.”
Chapter Eight
“So, are you, like, dating that guy?”
Sally’s elbows were on the dented metal table, a fried-egg-and-bacon sandwich hanging from her fingers. As Lissa suspected, Finn hadn’t fed the girl any breakfast. There was a diner near the office, and still almost an hour before Sally had to be at school.
“Which guy?” Lissa asked, sipping her coffee, feigning ignorance.
“The guy you kissed. The guy with the fucked-up face.”
“You shouldn’t swear.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m buying you breakfast.”
“Everybody swears.”
“Not at breakfast.”
Sally took a huge bite of her sandwich and yolk dripped down her chin, splattering on the table. She didn’t seem to notice. “So, are you dating him?” Her mouth was full and more yolk trickled down her face.
Lissa pulled a napkin from the dispenser on the table next to the ketchup bottle and put it on the table in front of Sally. The girl picked up the napkin and moved it over next to her plate, careful to keep it as far away as possible from both the egg on the table and the egg on her face. “That’s a personal question,” Lissa said.
“Not really,” Sally argued. “If I asked you when was the last time you guys had sex, or what he was like in bed, that would be a personal question. All I asked was whether or not you were dating.”
Lissa took another napkin from the dispenser and reached over toward Sally, moving the girl’s plate so that she could mop up the egg on the table. She was tempted to go after the girl’s face, but thought better of it. “Are you sure you’re only fourteen?”
“Half the girls in school are pregnant,” Sally said. “It’s not like I don’t know about sex. You want to ask me anything?” She looked up at Lissa through her uneven, razor-cut bangs, a challenge in her eyes.
“Yeah,” Lissa said. “I’m dating him.”
The girl kept looking at her, as if deciding whether to believe her. Finally she lowered her eyes to her sandwich and took another bite. “Cool.”
“So, how long have you lived with your father?” Lissa changed the subject.
“A year,” Sally replied. “Maybe a little less. My mom split. Couldn’t handle the pressure anymore.”
“That must have been hard.”
Sally shrugged. “I don’t know why she waited so long. I mean, why bother putting up with the first thirteen years if she wasn’t going to stick it out, you know? It’s like she waited around for long enough to see what I turned out like, and then took off when she didn’t like what she saw. Pretty fucked up, huh?”
Lissa nodded. “It’s not as unusual as you think, though. And you seem smart enough to know that it had nothing to do with you.”
“Did your parents take off, too?” The look in the girl’s eyes resembled hope.
“Not officially. They didn’t need to. They ignored me instead.”
“That’s like Devon—my father. He lets me stay with him, but that’s about it. He can’t seem to really figure out the whole dad thing, y’know?”
“Do you have any aunts or uncles—grandparents, maybe?” Lissa asked.
“Nope. It’s just the nuclear family for me. As in meltdown.”
Lissa stared at her coffee. “So,” she began carefully, “if your dad ends up going away for some amount of time, do you know where you’ll stay?”
The girl attacked what was left of her sandwich. “Not really. I’ll figure out something, though. I’ve been getting by more or less on my own for a while now.”
She shoveled the last of the yellow-stained English muffin into her mouth. Lissa tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to her. She opened her mouth and took a breath, but no sound came out. She went to try again and Sally looked up at her. For a moment the air between them was charged with expectation, and then the moment was over. Sally picked up the napkin and wiped her chin. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I gotta get to school.”
“Murphy’s dead.”
Finn delivered the news to Devon as soon as he was alone with him inside the tiny visiting room at the Nashua Street Jail.
“Dead?” Devon seemed shocked, and Finn could read nothing from his reaction. “How? When?”
“Murdered. At the Body Shop, looks like on Saturday night. Ugly stuff, too. He was beaten beyond recognition from what they say. Then shot in the head.”
Devon hadn’t even had time to sit. Now he slid slowly into the tiny chair in front of Finn. “Jesus,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “Do they know who did it?”
Finn shook his head. “If they do, the cops aren’t sharing. Not yet, at least.”
“No, I guess they wouldn’t, would they.”
“Devon, I need to know if this has anything to do with your case.”
“Are you asking if I killed him?”
“Not really. I just don’t like surprises.”
Finn would have expected Devon to be offended or defensive. He wasn’t, though. He just sat there, impassive, his eyes focused on some imaginary point in the distance. “How could I have anything to do with it?” he asked at last. “He’d just given me a job to do. Why would I?”
“He’d just given you a job that landed you in here.”
Devon shook his head. “That wasn’t his fault.”
“So you’ve told me,” Finn said. “It all seems a little coincidental, though—you get busted and send me out to talk to Murphy, and now Murphy’s dead.”
Devon lost the thousand-yard stare and looked at Finn. “I had nothing to do with Murphy’s murder, Finn,” he said.
Finn kept looking at him for another few seconds. “Good enough.” He sat down in the other chair in the room.
“What now?” Devon asked.
“I guess that’s up to you. Murphy was the only lead you gave me. Is there anybody else?”
“Maybe,” Devon said. “You’re not gonna like it, though.”
Finn frowned. “Who?”
“Eddie Ballick.”
“The Fisherman? You’re kidding, right?”
“Ballick was Murphy’s boss. If anyone would know anything, it would be him.”
“Maybe, but so what? What’s Ballick gonna say to me that’s gonna be us
eful? He’s not gonna incriminate himself just to get you out.”
Devon shook his head. “No. But maybe he’d give up someone else. I been tryin’ to figure out something to give the DA. I give them someone good enough, maybe I can cut a good deal. Maybe even stay outta the joint?”
“I guess that depends on who you could give them. I’m not sure they’re gonna be interested in Ballick tossing them Murphy at this point. They’ll probably feel like justice has already been served as far as he goes.”
“What if we could give them someone more interesting?”
“It’d have to be someone pretty interesting. Who did you have in mind?”
“How about Johnny Gilberacci?”
Finn thought about it. “Play it out for me.”
“I told you,” Devon said, “it was an inside job. Johnny’d been boost-in’ shit from his own store—stealing from his partners—for almost a year, just to keep his legs in one piece. Even that was only enough to keep up with the vig. This job was gonna get him off the whole fuckin’ nut. Murphy and his people were gonna take the merchandise to sell on the street, and the insurance was gonna be split down the middle.”
“So what happens now?” Finn asked. “Given that the whole thing blew up?”
“With Murphy dead, who knows? There’s gonna be a fight over his business, but a lotta shit falls through the cracks. Johnny might come out of this pretty good. In some ways, it’s a pretty good motive for Johnny to kill Murphy, don’t you think?”
Finn laughed. “Murphy wasn’t killed with pinking shears, Devon. You really think Johnny Gilberacci did the kind of damage we’re talking about to Vinny?”
Devon shook his head. “No, probably not. But we can still give him up on the burglary and insurance fraud, right? The murder angle is just a bonus that the cops might want to play with a little.”
