“You got that from the blood location and the body outline?”
“Yes. Plus there was no outline for the arms. They must have been in front of him and he fell on his face, not on his back.”
“Okay. How did you get he was shot, not stabbed? He could have been mugged.”
“If it were a knife, I’d see a blood drop pattern on the sidewalk. There wasn’t any. It’s a busy area. Lots of people coming and going. The sidewalk is not a place for mugging. That’s why it was an unintentional killing. If it had been a mugging, he’d be pulled in between the buildings. Plenty of places between the Bowlerama and the next intersection.”
“What kind of an accident?”
“When I knew it was Waltham and he wore a sport coat, I knew he didn’t come here to bowl. Waltham is a center for lawyers. It’s close enough to Boston for a significant work volume from the city and yet still close enough to the affluent suburbs to hope for some wealthy firm-type clients. Attorneys are a dime a dozen in Waltham. He removed the tie to be more casual. Most likely he was meeting someone. It wouldn’t be a client. He wouldn’t be investigating. Perhaps he was looking for a witness. But that wouldn’t prompt violence. Why a gun? To steal? No. To get something he was bringing or carrying? Yes. A logical conclusion is blackmail.”
“That sounds like part of your instinct, not evidence.”
“No it’s evidence from history. Other patterns. Other actions. Other crimes. Other situations.”
“Why a woman and a man?”
“If you ask for blackmail money and ask for a meeting to hand it over instead of a dead drop, a woman is less threatening. Who ever met him face-to-face had to be cool and controlled. That person wouldn’t be rattled and shoot the attorney. So there had to be a second person. The reason for the meeting was to ask for more. No blackmail ends after one payment.”
“Why shoot him?” Mac asked.
“Panic. Something went wrong. What could go wrong? Most likely the lawyer said he didn’t have it with him. He had it in his car. The lawyer probably said it would not be as much as they asked for. Most likely, if he was the kind of lawyer that handled blackmail payments, he was the kind to skim some of it. The man gets mad. He threatens. He’s shaky. The gun goes off. Or maybe they even fought for it. I didn’t get to see the body.”
Chad directed an accusing look to MacDonald.
He continued. “Since you did not know who he was, you didn’t have his wallet, or cell phone. Assuming that the money was not on him they would take the wallet, phone, and keys and look for the car. Since the car was still there, they did not find it. The logical place to park was the parking deck. They most likely went there to find it. Did the cameras catch them on video?”
“Sort of. Go on.”
“Inside the bowling alley, they wouldn’t have heard the shot. Too noisy. But there would be people leaving and more coming at that time. Not as busy as between six and nine. That’s why I placed it around eleven. Otherwise, you would likely have a witness. By the time the blackmailers give up finding the car, the police would have been called. That’s pretty much it.”
“That’s good. The man was an attorney. Roger Moore.”
“Really? Like the actor?”
“I know. Wonder if he wanted a life as double-oh-seven. There was twenty-five grand in the car. Twenty in an envelope hidden in the trunk. Five more in the glove compartment.”
“Did you get a picture from the garage?”
“Fuzzy. The man avoided the camera, wore a hoodie. We got her face, though. The FBI is running facial recognition. Bartenders in the bowling alley remembered Moore and thought he was with someone or was waiting on someone.”
“Do you know who was blackmailed?”
“No. No clues in the car. There was a note that said Bowlerama ten o’clock. Waltham police notified Moore’s wife. He has two kids in high school. She hadn’t reported him missing. Seems he often is out all night. Guess maybe he does some of his own investigations. He’s not real successful. Does a lot of criminal work. Bottom of the barrel stuff. The police in Waltham closed off his office. We’ll go through records and files tomorrow.”
“What about his phone? If they took it, it could have a locator.”
“Tried. It’s dead right now. Turned off. They probably destroyed it.”
“What’s next, Mac?”
“Hopefully, another beer.”
Chapter 11
“Where did you go to school? Here? BC?” Mac asked.
“Mac, I have this feeling you know everything about me. You’re going to have to respect me more than that if we’re going to work together?”
“Is that what we’re going to?” Mac asked.
“You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Either you still need help with Roger Moore or you think you might need me in the future.”
“H-m-m. Is that based on more forensic history?”
“I could be wrong. You might have come here to apologize.”
“I don’t apologize.”
“You don’t make mistakes?”
“All day every day. I don’t admit them. It’s my inherited Irish pride.”
“So blame your ancestors, huh? Isn’t MacDonald a Scottish name?”
“My kids are the eighth generation Irish. The family came here in the potato famine, the 1840s. You are right. There are Scottish MacDonalds. In fact, somewhere in those seven generations there was marriage between a Scottish and an Irish MacDonald.”
“Any other police in those seven generations?”
“Many. We are six generations of cops. Countless uncles, great uncles, great aunts.”
“Thanksgiving must be a hoot.”
“Oh it is. Lots of blue. So, here is what I know about you. Some kind of genius. Graduated high school at sixteen, did college at BC in three years. Went out in the world, for a few years. Came back to get a doctorate in archeology here at BC. Been teaching for three years. What else do I need to know?”
“I like chicken parmigiana. I don’t like broccoli.”
“What about your running. You stay in shape running? How far do you run?”
“I’ve run ever since cross country in high school. I do ten miles almost every day. Unless it’s too cold. I’ve run a few marathons.”
“Did you run the Boston in thirteen?”
“I did. I was a mile back when the bombs went off. Were you working that day?”
“I was off, but I went in when I heard. Did you run in 2014?”
“I did. I felt like I was helping make a statement. Haven’t run one since then. How about you? Work out?”
“Some stationary bike, some weights. I get to the gym a few times a week. Kids keep us busy, running around. You do any weights?”
“Sometimes. I’ve taken up rock climbing. You ever try it?”
“No. A good workout?”
“It is. If you want to go sometime, there’s an indoor place in Cambridge. Let me know.”
“I will. Chad, is this detective stuff just a hobby?”
“Not even a hobby. If I’m asked for help, I help.”
“You’re good at it. If you ever get bored with teaching, you should consider doing it full time. Consulting, maybe.”
Chad wondered if Mac had been reading his mind. “I think my destiny is a teacher. I feel I make a difference and it fulfills some higher life purpose.” He wondered if it sounded convincing to the detective. It certainly didn’t sound that way to him.
Chad realized he didn’t say excavating was his destiny.
A quiet hung between them. It was not an awkward silence. It was a comfortable moment, the kind that old friends have. A sharing moment.
MacDonald broke the silence, “Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”
“Tolstoy? You’re quoting Tolstoy?” Chad asked.
“Don’t look so surprised, Archer. Boston University 2005. Did you think I was some uneducated, stereotypical, Boston-Irish cop?”
; “It must be your bad sense of humor. But then again, it is just Boston University. Puh-ping,” Archer chided.
“Okay professor, I’ll give you that one. I better go. You gonna be around next week? I heard you give the students the week free of classes.”
“No. I’m meeting a friend in England. I have to leave you on your own on the Moore case.”
“We’ll try to muddle along without you. If you happen to get a flash thought on where we find the perps or who the blackmail target is, call me.” MacDonald handed a card to Archer. “But I think when we get an ID on the woman and go through Moore’s files, records, and phone, we’ll find the blackmail target.”
Chapter 12
Archer boarded the jet at Logan Monday evening. He consoled himself that the last row, evidently the only seat available at the late date, was in fact the safest part of a plane. He wasn’t the only one to think that.
“Young man,” said a petite elderly lady to the large man seated next to Chad, “Would you trade with me? I have an exit row seat, but I would prefer the last row. It’s safer.”
“Sure,” was the grateful answer and they switched seats.
Chad focused on the actions of his new row-mate while pretending to be reading an archeological journal.
“This is the safest place on a plane if we crash,” she whispered to Chad, as if everyone around them hadn’t heard the earlier exchange.
“I’ve heard that,” Chad smiled.
“Hi, I’m Vivian,” she said as she buckled herself in.
“I’m Chad.” Noting her British accent, he added, “Are you going home?”
“Yes, I am. I was visiting my daughter in Cincinnati. You?”
“Boston is home. I’m going to York.”
“Lovely city. Historical. Vacation or business.”
“A little of both. Visiting a friend.”
“A girl?”
Chad blushed, “No. He’s a former teacher of mine.”
“You’ll have to forgive my bluntness. I’m sixty-five and don’t waste time any more. I come right to the point.”
“I appreciate directness,” Chad said.
“Am I talking too much, Chad? Just tell me to shut up, if I am.”
“Not at all I appreciate the conversation. It will be better than reading.”
They talked about his life as a teacher and her visit to Ohio.
She pulled pictures from her wallet. One of her daughter and several of her grandson and granddaughter.
“But, I miss my home and my garden and my friends.”
Chad noticed she did not mention her husband. He thought he should ask, but was not sure how to do that.
Reading his mind, she added, “My Stanley passed away ten years ago. I retired from government work a few years later.”
“What did you do?”
“Boring stuff. Clerical work. Filing and researching property records.”
“Do you miss it?”
“At first. I missed the interaction with my fellow inmates. I have found though, that my time with neighbors and friends has increased and replaced them just fine.”
“You garden?” he prompted.
For the next thirty minutes, Vivian described the flowers, the bushes, the hedges, the seasons, and the activities that occupied most of her time. Chad wondered if a thousand years from now, some archeologist would uncover the layers of her garden and her life.
“Chad, I must be boring you. Going on and on about my flowers.”
“Not at all. I’ve learned a lot.”
“Tell me more about the archeology field,” Vivian insisted.
Chad consumed the next thirty minutes telling Vivian about archeology.
“Now, this is boring stuff,” Chad said. “We both work in dirt. However, you are working with live things, me with dead ones.”
“It was my turn to learn.”
They were interrupted by the flight attendant finally reaching the last row for a meal.
“Vivian, I’m not going to eat this meal. It’s part of my attempt to minimize jet lag. This is when I try to sleep.”
“You go ahead, Chad. I’ll stay quiet.”
Chad covered his eyes with a blackout mask, put on his noise reduction Bose headphones, plugged into his iPod, and chose scramble mode.
He tried to sleep, but the conversation with Vivian had awakened his repressed thoughts once more. His academic position required two things. Publish a book and lead his own excavation. With a reputation, he would attract and continue the student enrollment in archeology at the College. They needed him to do this. Ultimately, his job depended on it. No students, no teacher needed.
So, here I am, Chad thought. At a crossroads. Do I like teaching? Do I still like archeology? Publish or perish weighed heavily on him. All of his life, the next step, the roadmap, was laid out for him by others. He’d reach the end of that map. Now he had to lay out his own road for the next several years. And, soon. He had not even heard from Henry about this summer. Chad knew he should ask, but was putting off the question. Why? Did he want to do something else? For ten years his summers were digging in the dirt. Backpacking? Others had tales of the summer of their graduation. Tales of travel. Tales of adventure. Tales of a fling without responsibility. A one and only time of their lives. Chad had missed that. Maybe he would take this summer off. Backpack across Europe. Then, in the fall apply for a grant for his own dig, start his book, and teach. He did enjoy teaching.
Chad admitted to himself that he was excited to see Doc again. Henry’s private research contract had occupied him since last November, even consuming the holidays. This was the first year they had not spent some time together at either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Henry even took a sabbatical from teaching this semester. Chad understood the conditions of a private contract. Henry had a few of these before - digs or research that were not on public land or country-controlled sites. Often, Henry would add Chad to his team. This time Henry remained close-mouthed. That added to the intrigue and Chad’s curiosity. Chad felt the email was enticing – a puzzle to solve and a need for his skills. Chad postponed his life decision for the moment. He let himself enjoy the excitement.
Chapter 13
Archer’s jet had just cleared Boston Logan airport when Dr. Henry Clark entered the Crossed Arms Pub in York. It was nearly midnight. Shaking off his light raincoat and removing his floppy waterproof wide-brimmed hat, he let his eyes adjust to the light. The three booths on the left were filled with young men and women. A television set showing a soccer match held their attention. Football, Henry corrected himself. The tables scattered in the middle of the room displayed many empty mugs, some stacked on top of each other, keeping score for the dozen young men all wearing jerseys. From their demeanor, their team was winning.
The bar seats were the preferred choice of the regulars. All in all, it was packed for eleven forty-five at night. If the match was the reason for the late night crowd, it must be a couple time zones away.
On the immediate right, the corner held two easy chairs and a long padded bench fronted by a table. Two couples Henry’s age were just leaving.
Henry made eye contact and pointed at their vacated place with his cane. They nodded and smiled - all yours. He stopped at the bar and ordered a double Bushmills and then took a seat on the bench, folding his cane, putting it behind him on the seat, and faced the room and the bar at the end of it.
Henry nursed his whiskey as he waited. The cheers and groans of the crowd let him know how the match was progressing. Henry vicariously enjoyed their camaraderie and looked forward to Archer’s arrival tomorrow. He would let Boyer know tonight that he was bringing in a friend to help. He lied to Archer about who paid for the ticket.
Thinking of Boyer, the man materialized inside the front door. Boyer held a collapsed umbrella. He wore the same unperturbed look and dark blue pinstriped suit that he did at their five previous meetings. His casual acceptance of the weather caused Henry to wonder if he was originally from England
. So far, his dialogue and diction had not provided a clue. Except for the one meeting with Wayne Haskin, Mr. Boyer had been the only contact with Stella Enterprises.
Boyer’s eyes darted through the room faster than Henry could raise his hand. Boyer’s slight nod stopped Henry’s arm from rising any higher. Boyer stopped at the bar. The bartender gave him a quick once-over as he took the order, a half pint.
Boyer placed his glass on the table and extended his hand to Henry, “Dr. Clark, good to see you again.”
Henry thought the slight change in Boyer’s face almost passed for a smile. “Mr. Boyer, it’s good to see you again. It’s a terrible night, though. That’s why I suggested we should wait until tomorrow.”
“This is not a problem at all. I’m still on Dallas time. I even slept a little on the plane and besides there is business in London tomorrow. I appreciate you seeing me so late. Although your choice of venue…” Boyer let it drift off as he glanced around the pub.
“It’s my favorite place in York. Food here is great. They stop serving food at ten, but I have been here often and have seen fish and chips emerge from the kitchen even in the early morning hours. I could ask.”
“No thank you. I am fine. I ate a small dinner before we landed.”
Henry nodded knowingly. One of the perks of this contract was the use of one of Stella’s private jets for his travels - and travel he had these last four months.
“Dr. Clark, it was unusual for you to prompt this update. Should I be optimistic that you have found it?”
“I am very close. It’s one of the two reasons that I asked to meet.”
“Good. Mr. Haskin will be pleased to hear this. What are the two things you wished to talk about?”
“Mr. Boyer, I know what the object is.”
“I don’t understand. You always knew what we were looking for. It’s written in our contract.”
“Yes. But, now I know exactly what it will look like. What I need to know, is what will you do with it.”
“Dr. Clark, you were paid to find it. What it is and what Stella will do with it is not your concern.”
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