Conley glanced under the coffin, past the green straps supporting it over the grave. Dirt crumbled from the edge of the hole, became a wisp of dust, and powdered the bottom.
Cemetery workers stood near the road, watching the curiosity of a funeral as big as a rock concert, waiting. When the minister finally spoke, it felt as if God had commenced the Apocalypse.
“Welcome the Lord into your life every day, my friends.” He clutched the Bible with both hands, fingers pressed around the cover as if The Book might fly away. “Our great Lord needs to welcome you only once. And today He welcomes Lloyd, beloved husband, father, and friend.”
The pallbearers stepped away from the coffin, and when they walked past Madie she caught Stefanos by the arm and locked him in place next to her. She motioned Conley to her other side. With her face hidden behind the black veil, her whispers seemed more like thoughts than spoken words.
“Thank you. Thank you for your friendship.”
Stefanos’ face whitened. She pulled him closer.
“Thank you for loving Lloyd like I did.”
Conley closed his eyes and listened to the minister’s final prayer. The hardest words stayed with him.
Eternal…everlasting…forever…
Madie gently pushed her sons forward.
Kit followed his older brother to their father. They climbed the green skirt that surrounded the grave, and Kit bent briefly to look in the deep black hole. They laid their carnations on the casket.
The silence seemed impossible. Hundreds of mourners stood motionless, and when the preacher finally walked away, it felt like a signal for the world to turn on its axis again. Sage and Sheila Thompson cried softly.
Stefanos’ jaw twitched as he turned to Conley. His eyes were clear now, focused, and his thoughts needn’t be spoken.
Woe to Lloyd’s murderer.
Because mercy was an instrument they no longer had use for.
Chapter 37
The Massachusetts State Police laid siege to Nahant. They scoured the island for clues—for it really was an island now, cut off from the mainland with a roadblock that allowed only emergency vehicles.
Citizens complained that a police state had been created, and those who complained most were sudden targets of harsh interrogations and veiled threats. The rest of the tiny town got the message. Nahant had left the United States of America, as if the island had broken loose and floated into the North Atlantic.
Conley and Stefanos stood on a small dock with a view of Ocean Park. They’d found hemp fibers, tiny strands lodged under the base of a cleat. “Did you hear anything that night?” Stefanos said to the dock owner.
“I thought I heard a girl’s voice, but the voice spoke gibberish. Maybe it was a raccoon. Lots of them around town this year.”
“What did she say?” Stefanos asked.
“I told you, it was gibberish.”
“Tell me the gibberish. Repeat the sound.”
“I can’t remember gibberish.”
Conley rose from the dock. “Do you own a boat?”
“Yes.”
Conley pointed to the fibers on the cleat. “You the type of guy who’d use rope on a cleat?”
“No. My lines are nylon.”
Stefanos bent and looked at the strands.
“Notify the lab,” he said to a patrolman.
They stood and looked toward Ocean Park. Smokestacks billowed near the Ocean Parkway, and long black clouds streamed toward downtown. Sun reflected off moving cars, sparkling like a giant necklace lain on the ground.
“She’s not here,” Conley said. “She’s not here.”
****
No place was safe from police in Ocean Park. No place. On day five of Channary’s disappearance, they invaded the city. Residents complained they were more dangerous than criminals—better-manned, better-armed, and righteous. Citizen’s rights were trampled along with their backyards, homes, and vehicles.
Stefanos commandeered the meeting room at Ocean Park Police headquarters and made it known everyone worked for him—local patrolmen, county sheriffs, even firemen, like it or not. The Chief of Police didn’t complain. The invasion of cops had made Ocean Park the safest city in the world.
Murphy’s Tap was overrun with police seeking clues. William O’Neil was nowhere to be found, and Sage could only stand by and watch as most of Teddy’s customers were taken away for outstanding warrants, illegal possession of firearms or drugs, and even, in one case, failure to obey a police officer in a timely manner. Mazzarelli thought that one up.
Spring arrived, an unimportant marker. The important measure was that weeks had passed since that last night in the safe house, and they’d collected no leads to Channary’s whereabouts…or to the murderer of Lloyd Kendricks.
Chapter 38
Conley rang the bell to the townhouse. He was exhausted and wired, so strung out on caffeine that the hair on his arms stood as if electrified. He rang again. Sheila Thompson opened the door, but not the Sheila Thompson he was used to seeing. This one was casual in T-shirt and jeans, and her eyes were tired and glassy. She looked like he felt.
“I saw your light on,” he said.
She studied him and shook her head. “Looks like neither of us is getting any sleep these days.”
She waved him inside and crossed the living room. The place was a showpiece—gleaming leather couches, oil paintings, and antiques, but her desk was a different story. Printouts and photos covered the top and the hardwood floor underneath. Empty Coke cans surrounded a laptop glowing with a collage of pictures. She sat at the desk chair, handed him a cold soda, and worked the mouse.
“Let me save these files.” Her voice sounded worn and brittle. “I’m tracking chatter about Channary on Facebook and Twitter.” Windows appeared and disappeared on the laptop. Smiling faces of young girls—and older ones too, mostly Asian. The older faces were more colorful, with rouge, blush, and lipstick. And less were smiling.
Her hands flew over the keyboard. “I’m also watching Backpage and Craigslist. Reading Cambodian jokes—not funny—and a whole bunch of heartbreaking stories about other kids in trouble.ˮ
“No luck?”
“Nothing yet. Nothing but the feeling I need a shower after texting with a lot of first-class creeps. I’m out of ideas. I just wish our army was as big as the bad guys’.”
“Don’t worry, I have a tip,” he said, pulling a chair close and sitting. “Steven Pinto. Two sources confirmed him. You have access to the Sex Offenders’ Registry—SOR, right?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Pinto’s the king of the Ocean Park perverts,” he said and leaned near her to watch the screen. “He had something to do with this, I’m sure of it, but I can’t find his police file. I need an address.”
The Massachusetts State homepage came up. She clicked through menus, entered an ID and password, and searched.
“Here he is.” A mugshot of a defiant-looking man with a high forehead and stringy hair glared. His cheeks were scarred and a wisp of a goatee dirtied his chin. She traced her finger down an extensive rap sheet printed in red and black.
“You’re right, he’s got quite the resume.”
She turned to the next page, to the bottom block for home and work addresses. “You’re not going to like this, Conley. Check out Pine Grove Cemetery. He’s deceased. Died last January, complications of alcoholism. He’s not your man.”
He lowered his face into his open hands, exhaled, and clenched his fists. “They played me. I wasted three days on corroboration.” He relaxed his hands and straightened. “Prepare yourself, Sheila.” The evenness and gravity of his voice surprised him.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s been too long—15 days. You know this business. They kidnapped Channary to silence her. Chances are they already have.”
“Don’t say that,” she snapped.
The words climbed his dry throat, unstoppable. “It’s better if you prepare.”
�
��Enough.”
“Face it. Every day that passes reduces her chances exponentially.”
He massaged his temples with his fingertips. A buzz started inside his head, a building drone of cicadas. I don’t sleep at night. Bagpipe music keeps me awake. Little boys in black suits stand beside my bed. A widow is with them, her face hidden behind lace—and a beautiful, brown-eyed girl.
And of course Brandon. Always Brandon.
Her voice halted their crescendo.
“You left them—Kendricks and Channary—and things went terribly wrong. You can’t change that. You had to make a decision.”
“The wrong one.”
“Forget it. I know what Channary would do.”
“What?”
“Pray.”
The room became eerily quiet. The digital clock on the mantel blinked and changed to midnight.
“Right,” he said and rolled his eyes.
She folded her arms. The photo of Steven Pinto—the late Steven Pinto—flickered behind her.
“Channary believed in prayer,” she said.
Wind rattled the windows. A dog barked in the next townhouse and stopped abruptly. He stared at her long and hard before setting the can on the desktop. He laughed.
“Channary’s just a child.”
“A very precocious child. She was teaching us a lesson, Conley.”
“Wonderful. I haven’t got time for this.” He stood and stretched. A calmness came over him. The caffeine had worn off, leaving nothing but the sting of acid indigestion—and a millstone of regret. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. I’m so very sorry.”
She clicked off the computer, sat back in her chair, and took a long drink. She waited a full minute before answering.
“Apology accepted, on one condition.”
He spread his arms and opened his hands.
She leaned forward and her breath smelled like sweet apples. Her face, her porcelain face, so fresh and serious, so different from the hard, made-up face at the Paladin, was all he could see.
“Don’t give up.”
The words hung in the air. Her voice was gristle and sandpaper, filled with resolve.
“Don’t get frozen, Conley. Look forward, not back. To hell with the past. Don’t sleep, don’t get frustrated, and whatever you do, don’t stop. Don’t stop until you find Channary.”
****
Samay climbed the steps to Ocean Park Police Headquarters on the first Monday in April. Cops brushed by, hurrying in and out. He averted his eyes and cursed as he prepared to carry out another dangerous task from Pon.
When would they end?
The policeman Conley was waging his own personal war on River Street. He wouldn’t find Channary there, but what else would he discover? Would one of the gang crack? Would they make a mistake and give him the answer he sought? Conley followed the gang constantly, randomly, like a lamprey on fish. He sat in his car in the courtyard at night, behind tinted windows, and his invisibility was more disturbing than his spectacle. There seemed to be an army of him—watching, following, asking questions. Worst of all, he couldn’t be bought or bullied like the other Ocean Park cops.
Madness.
Sooner or later, someone would talk because Conley’s face said he would die before giving up. When Pon gave Samay his latest mission—in the dark of night—for the first time his leader seemed to lack composure.
Samay stopped at the front desk. Glass protected a cop with heavy gray glasses who worked a computer. Behind him stood a bank of desks, mostly empty, and a solid wall of metal file cabinets. A man with hair as black as shoe polish sat at one of the cluttered desks, writing on a yellow pad, phone cradled to his ear.
Finally, the busy computer cop turned, dipped his head, and peered at Samay.
“What can I do for you?” the cop asked through silver vents in the metal circle in the glass.
“I want to talk about the girl named Channary.”
The cop adjusted his glasses. He whistled to the man on the phone and turned back to face Samay.
“You and half the city. Detective Mazzarelli will take your statement. That’s about all he does these days.”
Chapter 39
The Asian boy named Samay led Conley and four speeding police cruisers to a crowded neighborhood that bordered the Boston and Maine railroad tracks. Tenements loomed on both sides of a narrow street, their shadows darkening the cars that hurtled past. Gray pulleys on third-floor window sills held dingy clotheslines that stretched high overhead, sagging with the weight of sheets and blankets that swung and snapped. Shafts of light peeked from small spaces between close buildings and flashed on the speeding convoy like a strobe.
They braked in front of the three-family at the street’s dead end. Conley and Thompson stepped out of the lead car. He looked back. Cruisers blocked the exit to the main street. Neighbors gathered on balconies and porches, pointing. A cool staleness blanketed the dark courtyard, covering it like wet gossamer.
Something was strange about this house. Different. Conley had felt it as soon as they turned the corner and saw the pale blue apartment building blend into the crystalline sky above it. This place had something to tell.
Something we need to know.
Car doors opened and slammed in the quiet courtyard. Stefanos took a step forward and surveyed the house, the peeling paint on asbestos shingles, the dirty windows, the rickety porch. An army of trash barrels stood on a patch of soil. Broken lattice sat near the dark opening that led under the porch.
Mazzarelli climbed the steps and knocked on the plain wood door, dull knocks echoing in the still morning.
Samay stood in back, cops flanking him.
Stefanos turned to the other houses as they waited, and considered every window, every tilting porch.
Mazzarelli knocked again, slower, harder, longer.
An old man with skin the color of milk chocolate opened the door. Wisps of salt-and-pepper hair plastered his scalp. He shuffled outside, sandals scraping the porch. Mazzarelli showed his badge and Channary’s picture as he spoke.
The man listened, nodded hard, and leaned toward the gathered crowd.
“No girl here,” he called. “No girl.” He held his pudgy hand up in a quick salute, pointed fingers down, and waved his backhand at them in a shooing motion. “Sorry. Good-bye.”
Mazzarelli spoke. “This is Mr. Desh, Captain. He owns the building. Says the girl’s not here.”
“No shit, Mazzarelli,” one of the local cops muttered.
“Ask him if we can take a look,” Conley said.
Desh headed back to the house. Mazzarelli blocked his way and started talking again, selling the idea with lively, coaxing hands that carved the air between them. Desh lifted his chin to avoid the flying mitts and adamantly refused. Mazzarelli used a lull in the bickering to give an update.
“He wants a search warrant. Says he knows his rights.”
Suddenly Samay broke away, strode past the trash barrels, and stood at the head of the narrow alley next to the house. He lifted his arm and pointed to a rusted metal bulkhead attached to the house’s foundation like an ugly tumor.
Stefanos walked to the hatch.
Desh ran to them, knees high, sandals flapping. He crossed his arms and stood in front of the bulkhead like a sentry.
“No,” Desh said insistently, head turning back and forth so hard his jowls shook. “You have no rights here,” he said, pounding his chest with the side of a fist. “I’m not scared of Cups.”
Cups.
“You go away now. Right now.”
Sheila put her hand on Conley’s shoulder. Stefanos reached in his jacket and drew his automatic. Desh’s eyes widened and his pleas jumped several octaves. Stefanos held the gun upright and locked eyes with the harried landlord before he spoke.
“Step out of the way, Mr. Desh.”
****
One side of the bulkhead swung upward with a long, aching creak, and locked on its hinges with a twang. Three wooden steps
led down—rough, unfinished planks without risers—to a green door. Conley went first, descended the stairs, and pressed the thumb latch on top of the curled handle. He pushed his knee into the door and it protested, swollen wood holding tight at header and jamb. A kick worked. The door scraped open with a loud crack.
The dank cellar was filled with junk. Old, hard suitcases sat in columns on his right, handles and straps hanging from them as if tired from traveling. A gritty path was on the left, a way through the mountains of debris. Light shone through narrow windows milky with grime.
Stefanos and Mazzarelli followed. Mr. Desh started up again outside, beseeching the unanswering cops, his muted, hurried voice drifting through the open bulkhead.
“I tell you no girl, no girl, no girl,” he chanted.
Conley shut him out as they zagged left along the path, past an old steamer trunk with a gouge on the top that showed the brown board it was made of. A discarded, rust-colored washing machine sat to the left, top lid missing, knobs gone too, wires snaking from the naked control panel.
Something round was next, big as a barrel—a sheet metal canister with holes like a giant colander.
They passed a pegboard that held a collection of awls and chisels, old, gray, and dull. The wooden handles were wrapped with frayed electrical tape. The workbench under the board had a dark, round stain in the middle of its battered countertop. Tools hung from nails in the rafters. Conley pushed aside a row of hacksaws and the blades clanged, singing like dull chimes.
They turned a corner, past leaning towers of cardboard boxes lined with white, crusty calcium.
A tattered bamboo screen stood at the end of the aisle, dim light filtering through its tiny slats. A wisp of steam escaped, climbed over the top of the screen like a living thing, and tumbled toward them. Metal clinked, a faint sound.
Stefanos and Mazzarelli stood on either side of Conley as he clutched the screen’s edge—and pulled it aside.
Channary sat on blankets on the floor, a picture book on her lap, a reading light over her shoulder. One of the Aunties squatted next to her on her haunches, a kettle boiling and clattering on a hot plate in front of her.
Ocean Park Page 15
