O’Leary pulled a card off the floral arrangement and handed it to Houston, who raised the fold and read it. All that was written on the card was a name: Michael Houston.
Houston and Susie sat across the table from each other. He was suddenly aware that he had no appetite. He couldn’t take his eyes away from his daughter. In his mind, she’d always been an awkward child, yet a mature young woman now sat before him. He felt old and wondered where the years had gone. He had missed so much of her life that it was as if they were meeting for the first time.
“Why did you avoid me, Dad?”
Houston looked at Susie, trying to think of an answer that didn’t make him sound cowardly or uncaring—nothing came to mind. He decided that telling her the truth was better than any excuse he could conjure. However, he had to take care not to denigrate Pam and use her refusal to allow him to come around as a reason. He decided to do the right thing and placed the blame where it truly belonged, on his shoulders. “I don’t know, babe. After the divorce it felt awkward being around your mother, then I buried myself in work, and finally I started drinking heavily and was too ashamed to let you see it.”
She reached out and took his hand. “Aunt Mo told me a lot about you.”
“Really? What did she tell you?”
Susie seemed to be bursting at the seams so Houston listened. For once in his life he had no desire to talk; all he wanted to do was listen and look at his daughter. The skinny, uncoordinated teenager had turned into a beautiful, self-assured, strong young woman. He thought about the turmoil of their home during his final years of marriage and wondered if it was her mother or him who had given her the genes that made her so strong.
“She just told me stuff, about your military service and your life—I had no idea how much violence you’ve dealt with.”
Houston stared at her, amazed at the person she had become. It struck him that she was much more mature than most girls her age were.
“She always loved you,” Susie said.
“What?”
“Mom always loved you. She told me many times that she could never find anyone who could take your place. Nevertheless, she couldn’t handle your job. She told me that waiting for the knock on the door bringing news of your death was more than she could deal with.”
“She never said anything to me.”
“That’s how much she loved you. She knew being a cop meant more to you than anything else . . . ”
“She was wrong.”
“Oh?”
“You and your mother meant more to me than anything else. I guess I wasn’t very good at expressing it.”
“Dad, if you weren’t a cop what would you be?”
Her question struck Houston dumb. He couldn’t think of a single other thing he could do. Being a marine and a cop were the only things he had ever done or even considered. He believed he was ill-suited for anything else.
“You can’t think of anything, can you?”
“Sure,” Houston lied. “I can think of lots of things I could do.”
“Really? Tell me one, just one.”
“I could sell cars.”
“Oh, riiiight.” She laughed. “I can hear you now. ‘Do you want the damned car or not?’ If they didn’t answer, you’d grill them. Face the facts, Dad, you’re the only thing you can be—the only thing you’ve ever wanted to be. You’d go nuts if you had to stay in the same place all day.”
“You got it all figured out, huh?” Houston smiled.
“Well, it’s not like we’re discussing quantum physics.”
They fell quiet for a few moments, and then Susie looked toward the far end of the restaurant. “I like her.”
“Who?” Houston asked.
“Anne.”
Houston looked up and saw his partner walking toward them after visiting the ladies’ room. After the funeral, she had tried to leave him and Susie alone, but they both insisted she join them for lunch.
Houston slid over and Anne sat beside him.
“It looks as if you guys have declared a truce,” she said.
“We’ve ironed out a lot of things,” Houston answered. “I have a lot of ground to make up.”
“Dad, it isn’t all that bad.”
“That’s not what you said a couple of days ago.”
“I was hurt and scared. I mean, I don’t see you for years and then when you finally show up, you tell me Mom’s dead. What did you expect?”
“She’s got you there,” Anne said.
“I think having a grown woman for a daughter is going to take a major adjustment,” Houston said.
Susie gave him a coy, yet confident, smile. “Dad, you have no idea how much I’ve grown up . . . nor do you have a clue about what you’re in for.”
Houston was taken aback by his daughter’s answer and had no idea how to reply. He looked to Anne for support.
After the serious tone of the day, Anne took the opportunity to try to lighten things up. “Don’t look at me,” she said. “You’re the one who opened this can of worms.”
When the women laughed, Houston felt as if he had just become the victim of a coup d’état. Of one thing he was certain; his life was never going to be the same.
22
“Most enemy soldiers will camouflage themselves, their equipment and positions to break up their distinctive outlines, so the sniper, while observing, must be able to detect and identify an object by seeing only parts or bits of it, and from unusual angles.”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Included in Danny Drews’s list were the names of several reservists and Houston decided to check them out. He drove to the Marine Detachment in Charlestown, parked in one of the lots used by the tourists who visited the USS Constitution and walked into the naval yard. He paused for a few minutes and scrutinized Old Ironsides, the oldest commissioned naval vessel in the world. The vessel earned its nickname in a sea battle with the British warship, HMS Guerriere during the War of 1812. British sailors named the ship after they watched their cannonballs bounce off the hull and do little harm to the ship.
It dawned on Houston that he had lived in Boston most of his life and had yet to tour Old Ironsides. He determined he would do so as soon as this case was over. He turned away from the ship and walked across the parade ground toward the red brick rectangular buildings where the naval yard’s small contingent of US Marines and the local reserve detachment resided.
Being back on a Marine base, even if it was primarily a reserve outfit, made Houston nostalgic. It was as if he had stepped into a time warp. The buildings were in immaculate condition and the grounds impeccably clean, which didn’t surprise him. Like Parris Island, the Charlestown Naval Yard was as much a tourist attraction as it was a naval base and therefore the military made sure it was always pristine. Houston knew, however, that inside the quaint colonial buildings, the work of keeping a Marine detachment functional was still going on and their interior would probably be identical to the offices he’d frequented during his time in the Corps.
Houston had called before leaving the precinct to make an appointment to speak with the commanding officer and was surprised at how easily he got an approval to meet with Maj. Francis Estes. A female Marine officer stood in front of the headquarters building. He admired her as he walked toward her. She was nothing like the female Marine officers he recalled. Rather than rough and gruff, she looked like something you would see on a recruiting poster. She was close to six feet tall and had the bearing the Corps strived to have in all of its marines. She looked elegant in her Class A dress uniform, a look which very few women were capable of. Her green skirt and tan blouse were so squared away that she would pass inspection by even the most critical sergeant major. She wore her light brown hair fashionable, but within Corps’ regulations, down to her shoulders, without a single strand out of place.
As he neared her, Houston saw the golden oak cluster insignia of a major. “Major Estes?”
She offered her
hand and Houston took it.
“I’m Michael Houston, Boston PD.”
Her grip was firm, yet did not make him feel as if she were trying to impress on him that she was strong enough to be a marine. “How can I help you, Detective Houston?”
Houston knew that many Marine officers loved protocol and were extremely rank conscious. Not knowing her attitude, he corrected her. “It’s Sergeant Detective Houston.”
She smiled. “After your call I did some research. You’re a former marine scout/sniper, served in Somalia, left our Corps and joined the Boston Police Department. Now, you’re investigating the sniper attacks of the past several days.”
Houston was impressed that she had taken the time and effort to do some rudimentary research into his background.
They walked inside the building, through a large open office. Several enlisted marines were busy typing and answering phones. They ignored Houston and Estes and went about their jobs with quiet efficiency.
“Would you care for some coffee?” she asked.
He nodded and she poured two cups of black coffee from the large metal coffeemaker that sat on a table outside a door, beside which hung a placard that read Major Francis K. Estes, Commanding Officer. She handed Houston one cup and didn’t ask if he wanted cream and sugar. A marine would drink it black.
Houston couldn’t speak for the other branches of the military, but he knew the Marine Corps ran on coffee. Marines would go a lot longer without food than they would without coffee. Even in a combat zone, they would come up with innovative ways to brew a cup. He sipped the steaming liquid and smiled. The coffee was as he always remembered it, strong and bitter. It was like coming home after a prolonged absence.
Estes stopped beside the door and beckoned him to enter first. Her office was laid out identical to every commanding officer’s he had seen in the Corps. Centered high on the wall behind her desk was an eleven-by-thirteen-inch photo of the president of the United States, while below it and equidistant to either side smaller eight-by-ten-inch photos of the secretary of the navy and the commandant of the Marine Corps hung. Flags of the United States and the Marine Corps flanked the pictures. The major walked to a functional, gray metal desk before which were two metal office chairs with gray vinyl seats and backs. A cursory glance revealed no personal items on either her desk or the office shelves. It gave him the impression that Estes, like the office, was all business and she motioned him toward one of the chairs. Rather than sit behind her desk, Estes sat in the other. She crossing her shapely legs and smiled. “Okay, now that we’ve observed all the necessary protocols, tell me why you’re here.”
“I have a file, a listing of scout-sniper trained personnel compiled by one of the vics . . . ” It dawned on him that she might not be conversant in police slang and corrected himself. “ . . . victims, that is. Daniel Drews was a friend of mine and one of the sniper’s latest targets.”
“What does that have to do with me or my command?”
“The file contains the names of two members of your unit.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware we had any scout/snipers here. If you give me the names, I’ll see what I have.”
Houston paused. He found it hard to believe that she was unfamiliar with the military credentials of any marine in her command. Here it comes, he thought. Rally round the flag and preserve the sanctity of the Corps. He steeled himself to deal with resistance. It seemed as if the major were hinting she was not going to tell him anything. Then she smiled in a way that told him maybe he had made a hasty decision. He decided to ride it out. “I’m interested in a Sgt. Lawrence Grey and Cpl. Richard Billips. According to my information, they’re still members of your command.”
Estes stood. “Let me check with my admin chief. I’ll be right back.”
She walked into the outer office and he heard her speaking with one of the enlisted men. Within seconds, he heard the rumble of a metal file cabinet door opening and a few seconds later, closing. In less than a minute, Estes was back with two military service record books in her hands. She placed the SRBs on the desk and then glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Houston, but I’ve got to see about something in the armory.”
Houston didn’t know what was going on and prepared to be escorted out of the building. He assumed she wouldn’t leave him alone in the office with the SRBs. He was wrong.
“I’ll only be a few minutes, so finish your coffee. If you want, we can talk when I get back.”
He stood up and unconsciously stood at attention. “Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled at his involuntary action. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Ma’am?”
It’s amazing how old habits and Marine training never die.” Estes picked up her cover, adjusted it so it sat on her head perfectly and paused at the door before leaving. “I don’t believe any of my marines would do anything to bring disgrace on this Corps of ours. I hope you find the people responsible for these killings and bring them to justice.” She smiled and left.
Once she was out of the office, Houston realized he was standing at attention and shook his head in disbelief. She’s right, he thought, the training never leaves you.
It only took him a couple of minutes to get what he needed from the files. Grey and Billips were still on active reserve status and both lived outside Boston, on the north shore. Houston was surprised at how much they had in common. Even the towns they lived in were close together—Ipswich and Gloucester. He would be able to check them out in a matter of hours. Houston jotted down the addresses in his notebook. He had just put it in his pocket when Estes returned.
“I’m sorry about leaving you alone,” she said with a smile.
“Not a problem,” he said. “But, I should be moving on, so you can get back to work.”
Estes held out her hand. Houston gripped it and she gave him a look that made him wonder if she was coming on to him. It was sort of a half-smile, half-invitation. He wondered if she had a hidden agenda. “Do you still shoot?”
“Only when my job requires that I do.”
“Well, you should give me a call. We have a place up north. For obvious reasons, we call it the Brigade. A bunch of us get together up there every few weeks for some fun and war games.”
“War games?” Houston was not sure he liked the sound of that.
“Sort of, more like paint ball wars. Have you ever tried it?”
“No, after Somalia and my years as a cop, I seem to have lost interest in running around the woods shooting at people.”
“I doubt that. I’m told that once you’ve experienced the hunt, you’re never satisfied with anything else.” Estes finally released his hand.
He let it drop to his side, refusing to acknowledge that he thought she had been flirting with him.
Estes, too, played it cool. “There are a lot of places to shoot up there. We do need to keep our skills current. You know how it is—if you don’t use it, you might lose it.”
Returning to her desk, the major jotted a number on a message pad, tore the page off the pad and handed it to him. “If you ever decide you want to join us for a weekend, call me.”
Houston swore there was a proposition in her eyes. If it had not been for the circumstances under which they met, he might have taken a chance. However, he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I just might do that.”
Back in his car, Houston was confused. Something about the whole scene with Estes did not ring true. She was too willing to help and should never have left anyone alone with the service record books. Then there was that little scene with the unsaid invitation—now that was bizarre. Houston glanced at the dash clock. He still had more than enough time to look up Grey and Billips. He drove out of Charlestown and onto the Mystic River Bridge, heading north on Route 1.
Ipswich and Gloucester were on the coast north of Boston. While Gloucester was a thriving seaport, home to one of the largest fishing fleets in the northeast, Ipswich was inland, nestled on the banks of the Ipswich River. The e
asiest way there was US Route 1 to 128, then 1A into Ipswich. From there it was a quick shot down Route 133 into Gloucester. Since Ipswich was the closer of the two, Houston decided to look up Sgt. Lawrence Grey first.
Grey lived on the outskirts of town in a white cape with black trim. When Houston slowed in front of the house, he saw a man wearing camouflage shorts and a green sleeveless T-shirt sitting on the front steps, drinking from a takeout cup of iced coffee. When he turned into the drive, the man stood and eyed the car with no small amount of suspicion.
Houston got out of his car and removed his badge wallet. He ignored Grey’s visible hostility and studied him as he walked across the freshly mowed grass. Grey was tall, at least six feet five inches, and his hair was cut in a buzz cut with silver scattered through his dark brown hair. He was lean and muscular, with lines from too many hours staring into the sun reaching from the corners of his eyes like a cartoonist’s depiction of sunrays.
“Lawrence Grey?”
“Yeah, you the cop Major Estes called me about?”
Houston knew Estes had been too eager to help. No doubt she’d called her men as soon as he had left her office. “I guess so. I’m Mike Houston, Boston PD.”
Grey’s eyes turned hard. “Estes said you’re investigating that sniper that’s been in the news.”
“That’s right,” Houston said.
“So what brings you here?”
“Your name has come up in the course of the investigation.”
He tensed. “You ain’t pinning that on me.”
His reaction intrigued Houston. Rather than show fear like most innocent people, Grey showed hostility and anger. “No one has even hinted about you being involved. But let’s face facts, scout/snipers are members of a small elite society. Not many make it through the training.”
“I heard you was one, in the Gulf.”
“Nope, I did my time in Somalia. Seems like a lifetime ago.”
Houston noticed Grey had some ugly round purple and yellow bruises on his arms and on his chest where the neck of his T-shirt dipped down. “Those are some nasty bruises you got there.”
Sniper Page 16
