He gave her a hard look and repeated his warning. “Only if you’re good.”
“I promise to be good—you’ll see.”
He smiled at her. “It’s good to see you’re adjusting. Come on.”
Cheryl gingerly followed him down the stairs. Days of confinement in the room’s dim light had made her super-sensitive to the bright sunshine, and she paused at the door, shielding her eyes.
“Go on.” He pushed her onto the porch.
16
Jimmy O’Leary sat at his desk, smoking a cigarette. “You hear what happened to Mike with the whore?” he asked Gordon Winter.
O’Leary chuckled. “Fucking idiot,” he said.
Winter, too, had a laugh at Houston’s expense and said, “Next time I see him, I’m not gonna let him live this one down.”
“Yesterday afternoon I took him to Del Vecchio’s place. Gordon, there’s something weird going on. Hookers been disappearing all over the city.”
“There ain’t anything weird about that.”
“This ain’t the usual turnover, Gordon. Even the pimps are getting uptight.”
“Do you think we got a turf war going on?”
“It doesn’t feel that way. Women that been with their pimps for years have gone missing.”
“And the cops don’t care.”
“To them it’s no big deal. They couldn’t really give a shit—less work for them.” O’Leary ground his cigarette out in an ashtray. “For some reason, this has got me interested. Let’s call a meeting.”
“With who?”
“Mike and Anne need to talk to Shiloh Baines.”
17
Houston hung up the phone. He had called every talent agent in New York, as well as an acquaintance on the NYPD. Nobody had seen nor heard of Cheryl Guerette or, for that matter, of Cheri. He scratched his head in frustration. Nobody could disappear as completely as she had. It was not possible.
The phone rang, and he snatched it up.
“Houston.”
“Boy, you sound grumpy,” Bouchard said.
“You would, too, if you’d just spent three hours with a cell phone stuck to your ear—and all for nothing. What have you learned?”
“Mike, something really scary is going on. Lisa and I have talked to seven women, and they’re scared to death. The only thing they know is that every time a streetwalker goes missing, a truck from Maine is in the area. They can’t put their fingers on anything, but he seems to be around every time there’s a disappearance. The women call the driver the Fisherman.”
“The Fisherman?”
“They say sometimes he drives a big truck, no trailer. The cargo box is built onto the back—sounds like a modified eighteen-wheeler to me. At other times he’s in a van. They gave him the name because the insides of both his trucks smell like dead fish.”
“Can anyone describe him for us? Maybe we can get a police sketch artist to do a drawing?”
“Mike, these women are not about to deal with the cops. They are truly terrified.”
Houston recalled his encounter with the streetwalker. “I believe that.”
“If we’re going to meet with Jimmy and this pimp Shiloh Baines, we should get going.”
_________________
O’Leary held the door for Houston and Bouchard and then followed them inside the bar. Once they were off the street, they paused for several seconds, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the diminished light, and then scanned the room. O’Leary spotted Shiloh Baines sitting at the bar. “There he is,” he said.
Baines turned when the door opened and let in a bright shaft of light. O’Leary knew that the pimp was playing his street character. He sipped his drink and waited for them to approach. After a few seconds, O’Leary tapped on his shoulder. He turned and said, “Jimmy Fuckin’ O’Leary! Hell, man, I ain’t seen you in what—?”
“Knock off the phony splib crap, and join us at that table in the rear.”
“Jimmy, Jimmy, man, you got to get with the times,” Baines said, sliding off the barstool. “This is the twenty-first century. No one uses words like splib anymore.”
“Right, and I guess you don’t call me a cracker behind my back.”
“That be the honest truth.” Baines’s eyes seemed to sparkle when he added, “We call you that goddamned mick cracker.”
O’Leary smiled. “One thing I always liked about you, Shy. You like to push the envelope.”
“An’ you don’t? You gotta be crazy to come waltzing in here with a cop.”
O’Leary turned and gestured Houston and Bouchard forward. “This is Anne Bouchard and her partner Mike Houston. You’re right, they were detectives but they ain’t cops anymore. They’ve gone private and have some questions.”
“Shit, cops always got questions.”
Baines retrieved his drink and followed them to the table. Once seated, he turned to his visitors and said, “Okay, Jimmy, you knock off the tough guy shit, and I’ll do the same with the ghetto rap.”
“Works for me.”
Baines looked at Bouchard and Houston, then asked, “How you doin’?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” Bouchard replied.
O’Leary said, “Anne and Mike are investigating the missing women.”
“There isn’t much I can tell you. One night they were working the streets—the next they were gone. It’s as if they were snatched.”
Houston said, “I don’t know if snatched is the right word, but I’m in agreement that there’s no way they just took off.”
“One or two may have but not all of them. Let’s be truthful here, shall we? Most of these women would be homeless, sleeping under bridges, addicted to heroin, and probably being raped on a daily basis if businessmen like me didn’t give them a job and a place to stay. Even if they wanted to go, where would they run to? I learned a long time ago that you never run away from home until you have a place to which you can run. I won’t insult you by trying to convince you that what I do benefits society because like any business, I don’t care—I’m in it strictly for the profit.”
Bouchard could not help but be impressed by the pimp’s honest, straightforward attitude. “You sound . . .” she paused trying to think of the right word.
“Too educated for a lowlife pimp?” Baines chuckled. “Boston College, class of ’95. I have a BS in Business Management. This time next year I’ll have earned my MBA.”
He grinned at Bouchard’s look of astonishment.
“Yeah, I know a thing or two about running a business. The first rule is to maximize your resources. I don’t beat my women, nor do I hook them on H or any other narcotic. If they’re high, they can’t earn. If they’re addicted to smack, they’ll steal to get it. I give them a decent place to live—usually no more than three to an apartment.”
“And in return you ask for . . . ?” Bouchard said.
“Just like any other manager, I give my employees goals and objectives—hell, I even give them a form of profit-sharing. I receive a given percentage of their take to cover rent and various expenses. Anything they spend on clothes for the job, I reimburse, and anything they earn over quota, they get a twenty percent bonus—that’s a better deal than you’d get as a salesperson for Microsoft. Hell, three of my younger women attend college during the day.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that you’re an extraordinary pim— . . . manager. Is there anything else that you can you tell me about the missing women?”
Baines sat back, drank his whiskey, and then motioned to the bartender for a refill. “You guys want anything? It’s on me . . .”
“In that case,” Bouchard said, “I’ll have a white wine—Chablis, preferably.”
Baines looked at Houston and O’Leary; both ordered beer.
“Any particular brand?” the bartender asked.
“Whatever you got on tap.”
“Got Sam Adams, that do you?”
O’Leary said, “Yup.” Houston nodded.
The bartender placed Bai
nes’s drink on the table and said, “You got it, boss.”
“You own this place?” Houston asked.
“I told you I’m a businessman, and it happens that I’m in the adult entertainment business. I own two clubs on Route 1 in Revere, three bars in Boston, and of course there’re my escort services. Hell, if you knew everything I owned, you’d think I was a conglomerate. Now let’s talk about the women. The first one I lost was three-and-a-half years ago in February. Her name was Victoria . . . on the street she used the name Ineeda Mann.”
O’Leary chuckled, and Bouchard gave him a stern look. “Sorry,” he said and then burst out laughing. “Ineeda Mann for Christ’s sake! That’s too much.”
“Yeah,” Baines said, “she thought it was hilarious, too. I really liked her. She had a great sense of humor and, when she wasn’t using, had a good head on her shoulders. I was trying to get her into rehab, earning her GED, and then going to college. Hell, if I could have gotten her clean, I was considering taking her off the streets and having her manage the business. Then on one bastard of a cold night, she just up and disappeared.”
The bartender returned and placed their drinks before them. He asked, “Can I get you anything else?” When Baines raised the fingers on his left hand, he nodded and returned to his post behind the bar.
“You’ve never heard anything from or about her?” Houston asked Baines.
“Nope, haven’t heard a word or a rumor of her—not so much as a Christmas card in three years. She disappeared like a wizard in a fantasy novel. Since then, four more of my escorts have vanished—more than that, I can’t tell you.”
18
Houston followed Anne, carrying the first cup of precinct coffee he’d had in over a year. When they walked into Dysart’s office, the captain was surprised by their sudden appearance and asked, “How the hell did you get up here? Nobody called up from the desk saying that I had visitors.”
“Desk Sergeant remembers us from the old days,” Bouchard said.
“Sometimes I think that if that sonuvabitch saw Whitey Bolger with a gun, he’d recognize him and just let him sashay up here, too.”
Dysart turned his attention to Bouchard. “And how is my all-time favorite detective doing?” He pointed at Houston with his right thumb. “This degenerate treating you okay?”
Bouchard smiled. “I’m fine, Cap. How’re you doing?”
“Broke my heart when they retired you on medical disability . . .” He again pointed to Houston. “Him, I don’t miss so much.” His craggy face broke out in a smile, and he motioned to the chairs that fronted his desk. “Sit down, guys. Christ, I wish I had you two back. You two were the best closers we had.”
Houston sipped on his coffee and sat quiet while Dysart and Bouchard reminisced. After studying the oil slick that floated on the top of the cup for several seconds, he raised his eyes and stared at his old boss. Things had changed. In the past, Dysart would have performed his ritual of lighting a cigarette, taking one or two drags, and then tossing it out the window. He turned his attention to the windows and grinned when he realized that here at the new police headquarters the windows were sealed and could not be opened.
After several moments, Dysart sensed Houston’s eyes on him and turned to him. “Jesus Christ, Mike, what’s with you? You look like you’re ready to kill something. You still suffering from your little mace exposure?”
Houston shrugged. “Nothing.”
Dysart’s smile belied his words when he said, “Nothing, my ass. I don’t hear from you two for twelve months and then you’re in my face unannounced. You want something all right. So cut to the chase, okay?”
Houston chuckled. “I guess I’m as conspicuous as a ten-dollar whore wearing a thousand-dollar dress.”
“That’s one way of saying it.”
Houston placed his coffee on the edge of the desk and said, “Bill, talk to me about all the missing hookers.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Come on, don’t yank my chain, okay? We go back too far for that.”
Dysart glanced around the room as if trying to ensure they would not be overheard. “Okay, I’ll tell you how things are. We’ve heard about the disappearances. However, to date, not a single whore has shown up, alive or dead, so nobody gives a shit. Come to think of it, the only hooker I’ve seen on Beacon Hill lately is the statue of General Hooker—of course, I can’t speak for Government Center. You’re likely to see anything there.” He chuckled. “You know that’s where the expression hooker came from, right?”
“No, I didn’t,” Bouchard said.
“Yeah, the whores who followed General Hooker’s army around during the Revolutionary War were known as Hooker’s Girls—hence, hookers.”
“Thanks for the history lesson. . . . Now can we get back to the issue at hand? You’re admitting to us that because you have no bodies, the problem gets swept under the table?” she said.
“Shit, Anne, nobody said that. We follow up when they file a missing persons report. I know you two been out of touch for a year, but nothing has changed around here. It’s the same as when you worked for me—I don’t have five or six detectives just sitting on their asses waiting for something to happen. Hell, right now we’re working sixteen cases—half of them homicides. Just how much manpower do you think I’m going to spend looking for whores who go to the powder room and don’t come back?”
“Bill, we’re talking fifty women or more in a three or four year period,” Anne said.
Dysart leaned back. His chair squeaked under his weight. “So call out the fucking National Guard—maybe they got the resources.”
“Have you ever heard of a guy they call the Fisherman?” Houston asked.
“Nope, the waterfront’s full of fishermen though.”
“Very funny. . . . This guy’s not local. We believe he’s from Maine.”
“Well, there you have it, then. Last time I checked, I don’t have jurisdiction up there.”
“That’s it?” Houston said.
“Bring us a body—a Boston body—something for me to go on. Until then, I got enough shit piled up to keep me shoveling for the next six months. Have a good day, Mike.”
Houston stood up and looked at his former boss. Dysart looked as if he were wearing down. The rigors of the job and age were taking more out of him than he had to left give. Still, Dysart’s reaction to their visit irritated him, and he said, “Alright, Bill, we’ll get you something. When we do get it, where do you want it? Is on your desk okay?”
Houston motioned to Anne that they should leave. When he turned, he could almost feel the heat of Dysart’s glare burning into his back. He paused at the door. “Oh, by the way, Jimmy O’Leary is setting up a meet with most of the pimps working the hub. Call me if you want in on it—you never know, it might prove interesting.”
“Who’s to guarantee I’ll get out alive?”
“If Jimmy sets it up, he’ll protect you,” Bouchard said.
“When did you and Jimmy O get so chummy?” Dysart asked her.
“He has his good points,” she replied. “I think you should do it.”
“Now that ought to do wonders for my reputation. Get the fuck outta here.”
_________________
Dysart met Bouchard and Houston outside the warehouse, and they led him in. It looked as if a convention were taking place. The building was empty, and off to the left of center, the large open area was set up like a conference room; folding tables were butted end-to-end and side-to-side to form a six-foot-by-twelve-foot rectangular table. Around the edges sat a group of people the likes of which Houston thought he would never see congregated outside a courtroom or a precinct house.
“I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this. I should have sent one of my sergeants,” Dysart said. “If a reporter ever snapped our pic we’d be in front of a review board by eight tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll be alright. O’Leary set this up,” Houston said.
&nbs
p; “For five years now, I’ve let you talk me into situations like this, Mike.”
“And I always get you through them. The fact that a captain showed up will cool things. These people are close to taking things into their own hands. You can rest assured that Jimmy has everything under control.”
“Really? I can’t believe anyone can control this bunch of frigging Apaches.”
“You don’t know Jimmy like I do. They all know that they either toe the line or Jimmy and his people will bust their asses. Let’s get closer.”
They walked through the room, ignoring the stares and malevolent looks from the gathered pimps. Satisfied that they had shown their distaste, the leaders of Boston’s illegitimate sex trade turned their attention to O’Leary, who stood at the head of the table. The room and everyone in it seemed tense, and Houston thought the scene was macabre. Houston saw sweat on Dysart’s brow and thought he looked as if he were wearing lead boots in a minefield—sure signs that the career cop felt uncomfortable if not threatened. Nevertheless, Dysart maintained his cool and otherwise seemed unaffected by the display of distrust and hatred. The three investigators found a convenient spot along the wall and settled back to watch the goings-on.
Houston folded his arms across his chest, stood between Dysart and Bouchard, and leaned against the wall. This, he thought, should be more interesting than watching a monkey try to fuck a football.
“Okay, okay,” O’Leary said without a glance to acknowledge the presence of the three outsiders. “For the next hour or so, let’s put all our differences aside and follow one of the guiding principles of AA. That means who you see here and what you hear here stays here.” He paused, obviously wanting to add emphasis to his words. “Now we’re all in agreement that there’s some serious shit going down, are we not?”
The assembly nodded.
Houston watched the proceedings with renewed interest; he had never seen O’Leary act as a mediator, a facet of the man he would never have thought existed.
The Fisherman Page 10
