“I have a proposition for you,” Larry said.
“I already don’t like it. And I asked you a question, so I’d say you’re off to a bad start.”
“I’m sorry,” Larry said. “What was the question?”
Ray grimaced. Flaherty was going to eat him alive.
“You’re not very smart, are you, Larry?”
“Maybe not street smart.”
“You’re out of your element.”
“You could say that.”
“How’d you know where to find me?”
“I heard you often come here for lunch.”
“Who told you that?”
“A friend of mine. He said everyone in Southie knows you eat here during the week.”
“What’s his name?”
Larry answered just as they’d rehearsed. “Patrick.”
“And does Patrick have a last name?”
“I don’t want to get him into trouble. And besides, he moved out of Southie a few years ago.”
“You know, Larry, the more you say, the less I believe you. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being lied to. So what I want to know is, why would you disrespect me during my lunch?”
“I didn’t… I mean, I—”
“Who sent you, Larry?”
“Nobody sent me. I’ve got half your money. I just need a little more time to—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Larry. But if you want to discuss business, then let’s go somewhere more private.”
Ray looked at Dearborn. “It’s time to call it off.”
“Relax, Hanley. He’ll probably just check for a wire. And we’ve got all the exits covered.”
“What if he kills Larry in the storeroom?”
“Then we’ll nail him for murder.”
“You sonofabitch.”
“What happened to the audio?” Calhoun asked.
Blackstone turned a dial and the sudden roar of the restaurant crowd made them all wince. “Hang on,” he said, adjusting the settings.
But all they heard was silence.
“Maybe they’re not talking,” Calhoun said.
Dearborn spoke into the mic. “Morgan, what’s happening in there?”
“They went into the kitchen. Should I pursue?”
“Negative,” Dearborn said. “Give it a minute.”
“Do you have a blueprint of the restaurant?” Ray asked Blackstone.
Blackstone keyed something into the computer and a diagram of Finnegan’s Landing appeared on the monitor. Behind the dining area and bathrooms, they could see the kitchen, a walk-in refrigerator, a storeroom, and an office.
“Can you pick up conversations in those other rooms?” Ray asked.
“Let me tap into the extenders,” Blackstone said. He fiddled with the settings and they heard the clamor of pots and pans and men shouting at each other in clipped Spanish.
“Go to the office,” Dearborn said.
But all they got was the sound of someone typing while Neil Diamond sang in the background.
“Can you zero in on the walk-in freezer?” Ray asked.
Blackstone shook his head. “Too much insulation.”
“Try the storeroom,” Calhoun said.
Blackstone adjusted the settings and they heard a faint shuffling that might’ve been someone stocking the shelves.
Dearborn spoke into the mic. “Carter, do you have a visual on the back door?”
“Affirmative. No movement so far.”
Ray headed for the exit. “I’m going in.”
“Like hell you are,” Dearborn said. “Calhoun and I will check it out. You stay here.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Dearborn drew his weapon and flung open the rear door. “Stay put,” he said, leveling a finger at Ray. “That’s an order.”
Ray smacked the ceiling of the truck and swore. “I told you this was a bad idea!” He pulled the door shut and studied the monitor. A few moments later, he could see Dearborn and Calhoun storming through the entrance to Finnegan’s Landing.
“FBI!” Dearborn shouted. “Nobody move!”
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, a sea of heads turning toward the front door in a synchronous swivel. Some of the diners were associates of Flaherty’s, but most were just regular citizens getting a bite to eat on their lunch break. If the situation erupted into a firefight, it would be a bloodbath.
Ray watched the monitor as Agent Morgan moved in to cover the entrance.
“Where’s Flaherty?” Calhoun shouted.
“How the feck should I know?” the man with the Irish brogue said.
A pair of agents charged into the restaurant and escorted diners outside, handing them off to other agents who whisked them away to a safe zone a block and a half farther down Broadway. As the last of the diners exited the building, a contingent of state police cars converged onto the scene with their lights flashing. A team of troopers unrolled a spool of crime scene tape and cordoned off the area.
Ray clenched his hands and listened to the agents conduct a room-to-room sweep. After a few minutes, the search went quiet.
“Where the hell are they?” Dearborn shouted. “Did anyone go through the back door?”
“Negative,” Agent Carter said.
“Maybe they’re holed up somewhere,” Calhoun said. “Let’s sweep it again.”
“Christ,” Ray said, reaching for the door.
Agent Blackstone shot to his feet. “Dearborn told you to stay put.”
“Dearborn can kiss my ass.”
Ray jumped into the street, where a swarm of federal agents and state troopers worked against a backdrop of flashing blue lights erecting sidewalk barricades and rerouting pedestrian traffic down Dot Ave.
Ray gazed diagonally across the street from Finnegan’s Landing to The Rock. Flaherty was rumored to be a silent partner in the restaurant, and regardless of whether he bought in or muscled his way in, he’d be the one calling the shots. He’d done it before with strip clubs, liquor stores, and bookmakers, so why not his favorite restaurant?
A pair of state troopers stood guard near The Rock, facing toward Finnegan’s Landing, where a heavily armed SWAT team stormed out of an armored truck.
Ray couldn’t help but feel like they were all missing something. Flaherty was too smart to get trapped inside of his own restaurant. He thought back to the day of the drive-by shooting when Giabatti’s goons had gunned down Mad Murph and those construction workers.
He suddenly remembered that Flaherty owned a construction company—it was the nearest thing he had to a legitimate business. Ray glanced from Finnegan’s Landing to The Rock, then back again. The two buildings stood approximately 150 feet apart. He lowered his eyes to the pavement.
Christ!
He darted across the street toward The Rock and caught a glimpse of Trooper Garrison coming toward him.
“Where are you going?” Garrison asked.
Ray signaled for him to follow and Garrison fell in beside him. They arrived at The Rock’s front door and Ray threw his weight against the battered green steel, but it wouldn’t budge.
Garrison looked over his shoulder at Finnegan’s Landing. “What’s going on? You think he’s got a tunnel or something?”
Ray kicked the door in frustration, leaving a scuff mark against the emerald green paint. “That’s my theory.”
Garrison hurried over to the nearby troopers. “Get someone from SWAT. Tell them we need to bust down this door right now.”
Ray glanced up at the closed-circuit camera mounted into the brick above the entryway. If Flaherty was inside, he’d already be headed for the back door. Ray drew his gun and stalked to the side of the building. He hopped a chain-link fence and squeezed through a thick row of hedges, Garrison following closely behind.
A parking lot with room for a dozen spaces abutted the rear of the building. It only had three cars at the moment, none of which he recognized as Flaherty’s. Another secur
ity camera peered at them from above a reinforced garage door serving as the sole point of entry into the rear of the building.
Ray extended his middle finger to the camera.
“You think he’s in there?” Garrison asked.
“I don’t know,” Ray said, his eyes sweeping the grounds.
The neighboring building was a paint supply shop that had gone out of business years ago, the storefront windows shuttered for as long as Ray could remember. He’d always assumed that nobody in his right mind would set up shop next to Flaherty, but when he registered a blur of movement in the store’s parking lot, it dawned on him that Flaherty might actually own the place.
Ray and Garrison charged across the parking lot and barreled through the hedges in time to see Flaherty closing the trunk of a gray Chevy Impala before jumping into the driver’s seat.
“Get down,” Ray whispered, pulling Garrison into the hedges.
Flaherty exited onto Silver Street, then made a quick left onto A Street.
A US Postal Service truck idled at the curb a few yards away. Ray could see a heavyset mailman farther down the street waddling toward the door of a nearby business.
“Let’s go,” Ray said. He scrambled into the truck and stomped on the accelerator as Garrison squeezed between the passenger door and a mail crate and braced himself against the dash.
“He’s headed south,” Garrison said. “He knows the other end of Dot Ave is crawling with cops.”
“You got your radio?” Ray asked.
Garrison unclipped it from his belt.
“Let’s not call in the cavalry until we’ve got him in our sights.”
“You got it,” Garrison said.
Ray edged the mail truck up to fifty miles per hour and Garrison grimaced as they blew past parked cars with less than an inch of clearance. Garrison was the type of guy who wore his seatbelt even when parked on the shoulder of the road, and right now he didn’t even have a seat.
“What’s the matter?” Ray asked. “You don’t like my driving?”
“If you get me killed, I swear I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life.”
They caught sight of Flaherty as he turned onto Old Colony Ave. Ray eased up on the gas and kept the tail at a safe distance. Flaherty appeared to be doing the speed limit, trying not to call attention to himself, which meant he didn’t realize anyone had followed. At least not yet.
Garrison brought the radio to his lips. “This is Trooper Garrison requesting backup. We’ve got a visual on Jack Flaherty. He’s headed south on Old Colony in a gray Chevy Impala, approaching Morrissey Boulevard. We believe he’s got Larry in the trunk.”
Morrissey Boulevard was a three-lane highway that led into the neighboring city of Quincy. It was also where Flaherty could pick up the interstate and disappear for good.
“Roger that,” the dispatcher responded. “Alerting all units.”
When Flaherty reached the traffic circle, he surprised them by bypassing Morrissey Boulevard and turning left along the waterfront past the Old Colony projects and Carson Beach, where Ray had once witnessed two homeless people having sex.
Ray leaned over the steering wheel. “Where the hell is he going?”
Garrison spoke into the radio again. “Flaherty is now on William Day Boulevard headed toward L Street. We are pursuing him in a US Postal Service truck.”
A voice blared through the radio. “This is Special Agent Dearborn. Is Flaherty aware of your presence?”
“Negative,” Garrison said.
“Do not engage,” Dearborn said. “Do you understand? We’re setting up a blockade. He’s not making it out of Southie.”
“Copy that,” Garrison said. “Suspect is turning onto L Street.”
“Who’s with you?” Dearborn asked, more of an accusation than a question.
Ray leaned toward Garrison and directed his voice into the radio. “How’s it going, Dearborn? Your boys find that tunnel yet?”
“Hanley? I thought I told you to stay in the truck.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t listen.”
“You’d better not fuck this up, you hear me?”
“I’m pretty sure you already took care of that,” Ray said.
“Crossing the bridge onto Summer Street,” Garrison said.
The Black Falcon cruise terminal came into view on their right, a Norwegian Cruise Line ship towering over the docks.
“Stay on him,” Dearborn said, “but not too close.”
“We know how this works,” Ray said.
Garrison released the talk button and looked at Ray. “Now’s probably not the time to get into a pissing match with the feds.”
“Why don’t you tell him that?”
Ray gazed down Summer Street to where the steely peaks of the Financial District rose into the sky. If Flaherty kept the Impala on course, he’d pass South Station and take Atlantic Ave to I-93.
Instead, Flaherty turned right onto D Street.
“What the hell is he doing?” Garrison asked.
“He’s got a boat,” Ray said. “I bet he’s headed for the marina so he can avoid the dragnet and sail out of here. Drop Larry off for a swim in the Atlantic.”
When Ray steered the mail truck onto D Street, the Impala surged ahead and veered left onto Congress Street.
“He sees us!” Garrison shouted. “He sees us!”
“Move in!” Dearborn yelled.
Another voice came through the radio. “This is Unit 217. We’re headed south on Congress Street, approaching your position.”
Ray slammed on the brakes and did a U-turn, cutting off a white SUV and forcing it to swerve onto the shoulder, where it teetered on two wheels before coming to a rest on all four.
Garrison braced himself against the dash. “What the hell are you doing?”
“When Flaherty sees that cruiser, he’s gonna turn back onto Summer Street and I want to be there waiting for him.” He cut the wheel hard and stomped on the accelerator, emerging from the turn with tires screeching. The mail truck shuddered as he pushed it over sixty, the plastic bins in the back sliding all over the floor.
As they approached the Convention Center, the Impala barreled back onto Summer Street a hundred yards ahead. Garrison drew his gun and leaned out the window, aiming for the tires. “Hold it steady.”
“I am holding it steady. Just take the shot.”
“There’s too much vibration. If I put a bullet into the back of the car, it might hit Larry.”
“We’re losing him,” Ray said, the Impala picking up speed. “Do it now!”
Garrison anchored himself against the door and took aim.
The warble of sirens rose in the distance.
Garrison fired. The bullet struck the pavement and drew sparks. His next shot plunked into the bumper, but the one after that blew out the rear passenger tire and sent the Impala fishtailing across the road.
“Got him!” Garrison yelled, pumping his fist.
The Impala sideswiped a car, jumped the curb, and flattened a fire hydrant, sending a geyser of water shooting into the air. The door swung open and Flaherty staggered out, a trickle of blood running down his forehead. He raised his gun and aimed it at their windshield, but Ray cut the wheel and slammed on the brakes, turning the truck sideways.
Ray shifted into park and hopped out of the truck as Unit 217 rolled up behind them and a pair of squad cars closed in from the opposite end of Summer Street. South Station loomed to their left, towering five stories over the street with its mammoth arched doorways, granite columns, and curved façade.
Flaherty was already halfway to the station, waving his gun in the air and sending a crush of pedestrians scattering in all directions.
Ray and Garrison weaved through the fleeing crowd, losing sight of Flaherty as they entered the concourse. Garrison locked eyes with an elderly flower vendor wearing wrinkled chinos and a red apron. “Where’d he go?” Garrison asked.
The man pointed toward an electronic train schedule sus
pended from a vaulted ceiling.
“Amtrak or subway?” Garrison pressed.
“I don’t—”
Ray didn’t wait for the man to finish. He plowed ahead into the station, holding his badge in one hand and his Glock in the other. Flaherty had a narrow window of time before the transit police shut everything down, but he had plenty of options—buses, commuter rail, subway, or Amtrak.
Ray scanned the crowd as he cut a path toward the escalators, making a quick read of their expressions. A brunette in a blue sundress met his eyes as she rode the escalator up from the lower level, her brow wrinkled in concern.
Ray waved his badge at her. “Did you see something?”
“A man with a gun just ran past me.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Toward Alewife.”
Ray signaled to Garrison and raced down the stairs, following the Red Line signs to Alewife. He emerged onto a crowded subway platform, flashing his badge and keeping his gun aimed at the ground. “Police! Where is he?”
Several people pointed to the tracks.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garrison said.
Ray ran to the edge of the platform and peered into the tunnel. The signal light glowed white in the darkness. It would remain lit until a train was approaching the station.
Ray jumped onto the tracks, his heels striking loose gravel. When he stood erect, he was eye level with the platform.
“What the hell are you doing?” Garrison asked.
Ray gestured to the wall separating the Alewife side of the station from the Braintree side. It contained a series of cutouts large enough for a man to squeeze through. Beside one of the cutouts, a red sign with white lettering read: Danger Third Rail!
“He might’ve crossed over,” Ray said. “Check the other side and get Transit to shut down the trains.”
“Okay,” Garrison said. “But be careful.”
Ray stalked along the tracks, keeping his body close to the edge of the platform. He heard Garrison running toward the stairs, his fleeing footfalls reminding him of the night of his father’s murder. The killer’s footfalls had sounded just like that, echoing through the tunnel as his father’s last breath ended in a liquid gurgle. By then, the coppery scent of blood permeated the air, mingling with the musty heat of the tunnels and the pungent odor of urine wafting off the tracks.
The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller Page 21
