by David Hosp
Devon wondered if he’d overplayed the hand. He’d been around cops enough to know that their power and authority was most often projected through aggression. Cops liked nothing less than being questioned, and any time their authority was challenged by a civilian, the response was predictable.
He looked over at the Irishman, who was standing there, glowering at him. From the man’s expression, Devon wouldn’t have been surprised if he slit Devon’s throat then and there if the ruse didn’t play out. Devon had seen the knife the man carried.
Finally, after an eternal moment, the guard came over the intercom again. “I’m not allowed to leave the security desk,” he said. “Do you know where it is?”
Devon winked at Liam and turned to face the camera. “Up on the main floor?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Take a left and then follow the signs for the men’s room. You’ll see it.”
“Okay,” Devon said. The buzzer on the door rang, and Devon reached forward to pull it open for Liam. He didn’t thank the guard; cops rarely thank the person they’ve just browbeaten. Besides, they needed the guard to remain nervous if they were going to pull this off. A lot still could go wrong. Bulger had given them a complete layout of the security system. Devon had never asked where it came from, but it made clear that the only point of contact with the outside world was at the security desk. If the guards managed to set off that switch, they were done. If they could get the guards out from behind the desk, though, the danger would be over. There were no other external alarms that would alert anyone to what was going on inside the place. Now it was all a mental game, and if Devon could out-duel the security guards, they would be fine.
He looked up at the security camera once more and shook his head, as though in utter contempt for the man at the controls. He hoped the guard was watching.
Ballick knew he was alone. He could have run; maybe he should have, but that wasn’t who he was. He accepted his fate with the same ambivalence he’d shown toward life. The precautions he’d taken had not been sufficient. It was enough, and he sat down in the chair out back of the shack to look out at the water and wait.
It didn’t take long. It was only a matter of minutes before he heard a footstep on the gravel to his right. “I figured you were coming,” he said simply.
“So it seems.” Ballick could hear the streets of Belfast thick in Kilbranish’s accent. “Only four? I feel insulted.”
“Who says there ain’t more,” Ballick replied. “Maybe inside.”
“No,” Liam replied. “We’ve been watching. Only four.”
“We? I thought you worked alone.”
“Aye. Except when necessary.”
“Like twenty years ago?”
“Like twenty years ago. Only it didn’t work out so well for me then, did it?”
Ballick heard shuffling off to the left of the building and glanced over to see a shadowy figure blocking any escape in that direction. “Maybe it’ll work out better for you this time.”
“That depends on you,” Liam said. He stepped forward and the thin beam of light cast by low-wattage spotlights hanging precariously from the corners of the roof bisected his face, showing his eyes but concealing his mouth and nose. It made him look like some sort of masked bandit. “Talk,” he said.
Ballick looked at Liam. The determination in his eyes seemed balanced on the edge of madness, and Ballick knew he’d seen his last sunrise over the water. He looked out at the bay, his sight drawn naturally to the horizon, where the dark steel of the water faded into the charcoal sky. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“Try me.”
“We don’t know where they are.”
Liam was standing only a few feet from him now, and he raised his arm, pointing his pistol at Ballick’s head. Ballick hoped he would pull the trigger then and there, but knew it would be too easy. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“I’m telling you, we don’t know where they are,” he said again. “No one does.”
“Someone does,” Liam replied. He motioned toward the door to the shack with the barrel of his gun.
“It’s gonna be like that?” Ballick said.
“It’s up to you.”
Ballick stood. “Nothing I can tell you is gonna be of any use,” he said. Liam didn’t respond, but motioned to the door again. To Ballick’s left, the other man emerged from the shadows. He seemed large and shapeless, and he had a face from a child’s nightmare. He had a gun, too, and he moved with economy and confidence.
Ballick turned toward the water to take one last look. A stiff breeze kicked off the harbor and swept in, working over his face like a farewell. He inhaled deeply, letting the frigid air fill him to the core, closing his eyes in memory, feeling comforted.
Then he took two steps toward the door, and flanked by Liam and the other man, he stepped into the shack.
Devon led the way through the museum hallways and around to the security guard’s desk. He and the Irishman had discussed the fact that Devon was the only one who would talk. He had the thick Boston accent shared by the vast majority of the police on the streets. It wasn’t as though there were no cops in Boston with Irish accents, but it would stick out, and possibly give the guards cause for alarm. They couldn’t afford to take the risk. The Irishman had reluctantly agreed to allow Devon to do the talking.
Devon came around the corner first and saw the guard standing behind the security desk. That was bad. He was hoping the man might have come around from the back, and they simply would have tackled him to prevent him from setting off the alarm. Now it looked like Devon was going to have to lure the man away from his post.
“You the guy givin’ us such a hassle out there?” he yelled at the guard. The kid couldn’t have been older than twenty-two.
“Sorry, Officer,” the guard said. “I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to let the police in. I was told no one gets in after closing.”
“That’s the dumbest fuckin’ thing I ever heard,” Devon pressed. He looked at the Irishman. “You ever heard anything so fuckin’ stupid? It don’t even make any sense.” He turned back to the guard. “You wanna try again?”
The guard was nervous now, Devon could tell. That was the goal—make him nervous. Some ratty little pot-smoking musician-slash-security-guard would be naturally scared of the cops, and fear would make him compliant. “I don’t understand,” he said. “That’s what I was told.”
“Bullshit,” Devon shot back. He stepped in close and examined the kid. He was so close that the guard involuntarily pulled back from the security desk. “Don’t I know you?” Devon asked him.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, I do. I busted you three months ago down on Mass Ave, right? Possession, or some shit like that. You never showed for your court hearing. Bad mistake; you probably would’ve gotten probation, but judges don’t like when you skip. We got a warrant out for your arrest.”
The guard shook his head so hard, Devon thought he might break a vertebra. “You’ve got me confused with someone else, Officer. I swear it.”
Devon made his eyes go dark and he moved toward the desk. “You little shit! You callin’ me a fuckin’ liar? I swear to God, if you are, I’ll make you fuckin’ pay. I know a bunch of guys down at Corrections; I make one phone call, and you’ll be fucked so hard in jail, you’ll shit spunk for weeks. You got that!”
“Yes, Officer, but I swear you never arrested me.” The guard was in a panic now, and Devon could literally smell the fear on him. For a moment he wondered whether the kid had pissed his pants.
“You got someone else here, a partner?”
“Yeah,” the guard stammered. “He’s just finishing his rounds. I called him, and he’ll be right down.”
“He better be, because you’re in a shitload of trouble, and we’re gonna have to deal with it. Is there anyone else here?”
“No, sir, just the two of us. I don’t understand why I’m in trouble.”
“Get your
ass out from behind that desk,” Devon ordered. The guard hesitated. “Move, you little shit! Or I will make you wish you’d never been born, I swear it!”
The guard relented and walked around the desk. “What? What do you want from me?” he asked.
“I want you to shut your fuckin’ mouth, and I want you to move over toward the wall.” As the kid moved toward him, Devon knew it was all just about over. It was unlikely that, even if the guard realized there was a problem now, he could get back to the desk to set off the alarm. Still, Devon wanted to play the role out so that it would make the rest of the evening as simple as possible.
“This is ridiculous,” the guard said. “I haven’t done anything!”
Devon spun him by the shoulder and pushed him in the center of his back toward the wall. “Keep talkin’,” he said. “It only gets worse.” He shoved the guard against the wall and kicked his feet. “Spread ’em,” he said. The guard spread his feet. His hands were already up against the wall. “Now put your hands behind your back,” Devon said.
“You’re making a serious mistake,” the guard pleaded.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Devon said. “I’m gonna call this in and run you through the system. But right now, I want you to put your hands behind your fuckin’ back!” The guard put his right hand behind his back, and Devon closed the handcuff around his wrist. Almost there. “Now the left one.”
The guard put his left hand behind his back, and as the second cuff closed, Devon realized he hadn’t frisked the kid. Not that it really mattered—he knew the guards weren’t armed. But no cop puts someone in cuffs without frisking him first. He turned the guard around and smiled.
“You’re not the police, are you?” the guard said.
Devon could feel his smile broaden.
Just then the other guard walked around the corner from finishing his rounds. He saw the first guard with his hands cuffed behind his back, and the two police officers standing there. “What’s going on, Officer?” he said.
Devon nodded to the Irishman, and passed the first guard over to him. Then he moved toward the second guard. “This asshole’s under arrest,” he said. “You’re next if you don’t watch it. I want you up against the wall, now.” He was manhandling the guard, who was so taken by surprise he wasn’t even resisting.
It took less than five seconds for Devon to cuff the second man, and by the time it was over, the last chance the guards had to avoid disaster had slipped fully away. All he said as Devon put the cuffs on him was, “I don’t understand why you’re arresting me!”
Devon spun the man around. “You’re not being arrested,” he said evenly. “This is a robbery. If you don’t give us any trouble, you won’t get hurt.”
“They don’t pay me enough to get hurt,” the guard said.
Devon smiled. “Good. You boys keep your mouths shut and don’t tell the police anything for a year, and we’ll send you a reward.” Neither of them replied to this. “Which way is the basement?”
“Down the hallway,” the second guard said, motioning with his chin.
Devon nodded again to Liam. “Downstairs,” he said. They walked the two guards down the hall to a doorway that led down to the basement. As they walked, Devon questioned the two captives briefly. “No more guards, right?” he said. That was the information they had—that there were only two guards on duty at night, but that sort of intelligence can be wrong, so he figured he’d confirm it.
“Just the two of us,” the first guard said. He seemed to be the senior of the two, though he was only in his early twenties.
“No other external alarms, right? Other than the one behind the desk?”
“No other alarms.”
Devon stopped them on the stairs. “If you’re lying and the cops show up, the first thing I’m going to do is run down here and put a bullet in your head, okay?”
“I understand.”
Devon looked at the man, but saw no evidence of deception on his face.
They led the two men down to the basement and found two posts about a hundred feet apart. They had the men turn around and bound their hands and feet tightly with duct tape. Then they tore strips and put them over the guards’ mouths and eyes. They pushed them down on the ground and taped them to the posts. “Nighty-night, boys,” Devon said. “We hear any noise and we’re coming down shooting. Remember what we said.” He looked at Liam and nodded.
They were in, and they hadn’t even needed to pull out their guns. His job was done.
Chapter Sixteen
Detective Stone arrived at the waterfront at dawn. The buildings were silhouettes against a gray sky to the east, and a light mist hung in the air, reflecting what seemed like a thousand blue-and-red flashing lights. Police tape blocked the driveway, and a bleary-eyed patrolman directed him to park on the street. “There’s a lot of ground to cover in there,” he said to Stone. “It’s gonna take the crime scene boys a while to finish.”
As Stone got out of his car and started walking toward the driveway, another car pulled up and flashed its brights at him. As it pulled alongside him, Sanchez rolled down the window. “You just getting here?” she asked.
“I just got the call,” he replied.
“Me too.” She looked toward the driveway. “Ballick?”
“Sounds like it. Some of his men, too. We don’t have confirmation yet.”
Sanchez rolled up the window and pulled forward, parking her sedan in front of the unmarked car she and Stone shared when on duty.
The view down the long driveway, flanked by the trees on both sides, seemed surreal to Stone. As the crime scene technicians did their work, flashlights sparked the fog in the growing light, like the warning signals of a dozen tiny lighthouses.
It only took a few yards before they were upon the first signs of the massacre. A body lay facedown in the middle of the driveway, covered with a light sheet. Stone bent down and lifted a corner. “Jimmy Kent,” he said to Sanchez.
“That’s about all the confirmation we need on Ballick,” Sanchez said. “We’ll find him here somewhere.”
“Looks like he was shot in the back. Clean kill would be my guess. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
They could see three other areas of activity outside, one set of lights on both sides of the drive, and a couple of lights on what looked like a pile of lobster pots at the end of the entryway. The little shack out toward the pier, however, seemed to be the center of attention. There were half a dozen cops and technicians milling about in and around the doorway. Even from a distance, some of them looked shaken.
Stone and Sanchez took a brief look at each of the three other bodies outside the shack. They didn’t recognize any of them, but they all had the same look of thug soldiers. “Whoever did this is good,” Sanchez said.
“I’m not sure ‘good’ is the first word that comes to mind,” Stone replied.
“Skilled, then. Whatever you want to call it, we’re dealing with someone who knows what he’s doing.”
They headed over toward the shack and cut through those loitering outside. No one seemed to want to look them in the eyes. As they approached the door, Sergeant McAfee stepped outside. “Detectives,” he said. “You’re not gonna believe this. You may wanna take a minute and get prepared.”
“Like Murphy?” Stone asked.
“Sort of,” McAfee replied. “Only way worse. There are lots of different knives and hooks in there used for gutting, scaling, and cleaning fish. Motherfucker got creative with his work. We assume it’s Ballick, but it’s gonna take dental records to be sure. There ain’t much left that’s recognizable. There’s a huge sink in there. That’s where he is. What’s left of him. Makes it a little cleaner, I guess.”
Stone peered around McAfee inside the shack. He couldn’t see much; there were too many people. He recognized one of them. He was difficult to miss. He was around six-four and black. “Feds are here,” Stone said to Sanchez.
McAfee nodded. “He got here around the same time we di
d.”
“How’d he find out about it?” Stone asked.
McAfee shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe the feds have some sort of newfangled crime detectors they aren’t sharing with us. Could’ve heard it on the radio, but he would have had to have been listening for it.”
Sanchez stepped into the shack. “Hewitt!” She didn’t quite shout it, but it was close. “Out here!”
Hewitt was standing against the far wall of the shack, staying out of the way, observing the crime scene people as they went about their business. He stepped around one of them who was on the ground, pulling up some debris and tagging it. “Detective Sanchez,” he said. He put his hand out.
She ignored the hand. Instead she pushed him toward the door.
“Take it easy, Detective,” he said. His voice was deep and there was a hint of a threat in it. “We’re on the same team.”
“Bullshit,” Sanchez said. “This is my team. I’m in charge here. If you were on my team, I’d know what the hell you’re doing here. I don’t.”
“I told you last time, at the Body Shop,” Hewitt said. “I’m involved in an organized crime task force. We have to investigate when connected guys get killed.”
“Bullshit again. Connected guys get killed in this city every day. I’ve never seen you at a crime scene before.”
Hewitt looked uncomfortable. “It’s a recent investigation,” he said. “This may be relevant to it.”
Sanchez put her hands on her hips. “Oh, well, why didn’t you tell me that? What’s the nature of the investigation? If we know that, then maybe we can help.”
Hewitt’s look went from uncomfortable to pained. “I’d like to, but it’s classified,” he said. “If there was any way…” His voice trailed off.
“Right,” Sanchez said. “If there was any way…. I’ll tell you what, Special Agent Hewitt. You have three choices at this moment. You can tell me what you’re investigating, and we can work together. You can assert jurisdiction right now, in which case I’ll pull all my people off this. Or you can file an official request for cooperation through channels. Barring any one of those three, however, I want you to get the fuck out of my crime scene. I swear to God, if I see you within a hundred yards of any of my investigations, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
