Channary looked up from the book and smiled.
Conley did something he hadn’t done in a long time, indulged in a luxury he didn’t think he was capable of anymore.
He smiled back.
Chapter 40
Conley watched from a crowded sidewalk still wet from the first rainstorm of April. Mazzarelli was waiting to cross Cambridge Street, the four-lane racetrack that fed Boston’s busy downtown. The tips of Mazzarelli’s Oxfords aligned perfectly with the edge of the curb. Pedestrians gathered beside him.
One Central Plaza loomed above, a long, sweeping, macaroni elbow of a building whose curved design allowed a panoramic view of City Hall and Government Center. Perfect place for Boston’s FBI Headquarters.
The pedestrian signal flashed WALK in bright white letters and Mazzarelli meandered onto the street with the crowd, parading in front of idling cars and trucks. He passed skyscrapers, swinging his leather briefcase in the crisp morning, nearing the wide steps to City Hall Plaza. Conley stepped out from behind a concrete wall next to the staircase and fell into lockstep.
The briefcase stopped swinging
“Conley, what are you doing here?”
“Spying on you, Mazzarelli.”
Mazzarelli looked back over his shoulder at FBI Headquarters, head pecking like a pigeon’s as he counted up six floors and scanned the long row of curved windows.
“They’ll see us. We’re out of this now. The feds have taken over the Diaz and Rodriguez investigations. The EFF-BEE-EYE, Conley.”
“It’s Friday. You’ve been up there all week. What did you learn from them?”
“Nothing,” he said, banking left between parked cars and dashing across the street ahead of a swarm of traffic. Conley tried to follow, but speeding cars blocked him. The swoosh of traffic blew his hair back, ruffled his clothes, and watered his eyes with high-octane exhaust.
Mazzarelli hopped onto the sidewalk across the street and hurried past restaurants and souvenir shops. Quincy Market was just ahead.
Sheila Thompson stepped beside him and matched his lope.
“Mazzarelli, how’s Channary?”
Mazzarelli almost stumbled, and looked back at the building again.
“You’re not supposed to be doing this,” he hissed.
“Neither are the feds,” Conley said, catching up. “Tell me, Mazzarelli. What are they up to?”
Mazzarelli started off again, but they were faster, cutting him off, working together like tugboats slowing a ship. Conley and Thompson got in front of him and blocked his way. Two faces spoke one question after another like a very persistent Siamese twin.
“What’s their next step, Maz?”
“Who are they questioning?”
“Is Channary okay?”
“Did they arrest Desh?”
“Listen,” Mazzarelli said. “A congressman’s been accused of child trafficking and now he’s dead. The FBI has jurisdiction. They impounded my case files.”
“And they couldn’t care less about who murdered Lloyd,” Conley said.
Thompson leaned into Mazzarelli’s space.
“So you’re telling us you just spent three hours with the FBI and you know nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.”
A horn blared behind them on Clarendon Street. She held her place, warm breath steaming like a locomotive, bright brown eyes locked on his.
Mazzarelli adjusted his glasses and sunlight glinted.
“I wouldn’t say nothing.”
****
That night at Morgan’s Tap, Conley tapped his fingers on William O’Neil’s desk. Mazzarelli was on the other side sorting a stack of paper. Sage paced behind them, listening.
“The FBI finished interrogations,” Mazzarelli said. “They capture the data on these forms—FD 302s. They’re not transcripts. They’re summaries.”
“How’d you get them?” Stefanos asked.
“The FBI Information Management Assistant left them in the copy room.”
“You made illegal copies of a federal investigation?”
Mazzarelli sat straight and adjusted his tie.
“I did.”
Stefanos nodded, smiled, and turned to Thompson and Conley. “Read through these. Look for inconsistencies. Look for Lloyd’s killer.”
Mazzarelli removed the top one and handed it to Thompson. The thickest one went to Stefanos, the third to Conley.
Conley and Thompson sank into the leather couch. Stefanos chose the hard chair next to the desk.
The room was quiet, but sounds from the bar seeped through the door. Glasses and bottles clacked. Voices chattered, chairs and tables clattered across the wood floor. Stale, pungent cigarette smoke drifted inside like a curious mist.
Conley read.
Raul Desh.
The landlord from Winston Place told his life story with emphasis on the trials and tribulations of owning a six-family in a city of immigrants, poverty, and crime. Leaky pipes, finicky furnaces, and holey roofs. Vandals, bums, and neighborhood punks haunted his days and sleepless nights. India didn’t seem so bad after a few years toiling in Ocean Park. If he wanted to make a few extra bucks for an illegal apartment in his basement, where was the harm?
Where was the harm?
Conley read the last page and looked up. Thompson had finished her file. They waited like kids after an exam, and when Stefanos finally lifted his head, Mazzarelli said, “Switch.”
Thompson handed him…
Channary.
He imagined her smiling brightly, sitting at a big table, and answering questions from serious guys in suits. Plain, simple, and honest, that was Channary. They asked her questions and she told them answers, answers with a little extra, innocent observations and feelings from someone who, despite what she had been through, still thought the world was a good place.
She remembered a sleepy journey with strangers, a boat trip in the middle of the night. The air was cold, and waves wet her clothes and made her freeze. Then a quick car ride to her basement apartment, and weeks spent with Aunt Maly and the funny Mister Desh. Wind blew through dirty cellar windows. The noisy furnace smelled like a wet, smoky fire.
The report ended with her questions to the FBI—“Where’s Conley? Is Kendricks all right?”
Conley sat back and fought tears.
Sage left, but soon came back with Teddy, who carried a tray of white mugs of black coffee. He wore a pained smile; a grimace that looked like it might break his face. He kept his head down, laid the oval tray on the edge of the desk, and backed out of the office like a manservant.
They took cups and traded stacks.
Last folder…
Samay.
High school dropout. Father unknown, mother living in Newport Beach. The Aunties took care of him too. Talented soccer player at Ocean Park High who might have won a ticket to higher education had it not been for a truancy record as fat as a phone book. Samay was between jobs, mostly crewing on lobster boats, day work that was hard, low-paying, and sporadic.
Conley read the meager background and flipped to an appendix, Samay’s statement to Mazzarelli that led to Raul Desh’s basement.
He finished the short report and re-read it, then dropped the folder on the floor and took Channary’s file from Thompson. He ruffled through the pages and pulled one out of the pile.
The others stopped reading, watched, and waited. Conley spoke.
“Samay says he spotted Channary in a 7-11 in McDonough Square and followed her to Desh’s house.”
He held the two sheets in the air.
“Channary said she never left the basement.”
Glass tinkled in the bar. Voices murmured.
“So who’s telling the truth?” Mazzarelli said.
“Channary, that’s who,” Conley said, making eye contact with each of them, like a prosecutor coaxing a jury. “Why would she lie?”
****
When they were done, Mazzarelli gathered the folders, straightened their contents, and fit them carefull
y into his briefcase. Thompson and Stefanos filed out of the office behind him. Sage placed her palm on Conley’s chest and told him to wait.
She walked behind the desk and opened the bottom drawer. It slid easily, scraping along the metal track, echoing hollowness. She did the same with the others, one by one, pulled them back and pushed them forward, her eyes on his. Conley glanced past her and noticed William’s framed pictures were missing and the desktop was clear.
“William’s gone,” she said.
“Where?”
She closed the last drawer and turned away. Tears welled. “I don’t know.”
Conley took her hand away from the pull and wrapped his arms around her.
“I’ll find him, I promise.”
She pushed him away.
“This obsession of yours took him from me,” she said. “It became his curse too. You brought this into our lives. I wish heʼd left you bleeding on the floor.”
“Sage, I’ll find William. In the meantime, I can’t find Lloyd’s killer without you. I need help.”
She placed her palms on her cheeks, dried her tears, and blew a long breath.
“At least he taught you that,” she said.
Chapter 41
On Sunday night, Conley watched Samay through a coffee shop window. Samay sat on a stool at the counter, studying a young waitress as if she were prey. She balanced a tray on her delicate left hand and plucked donuts from the silver platter with her right. She placed the pastries in neat rows on slanted, well-lit shelves, careful to join them with others of their own kind. The upper part of her tanned arm slid in and out of her short sleeve like a gold piston. The white uniform caressed slender hips, stretched across a slim back and under a spill of hair so light their colors almost matched.
Samay’s legs encircled the metal shaft under him—there seemed to be more joints than just ankle and knee. Elbows rested on the countertop with wrists bent and hands pecking at a cruller on the dish in front of him. He dissected the food slowly and popped torn pieces into his mouth. Steam rose from the paper cup in front of him, curled, and dissipated.
He said something to her, cheeks full, mouth still chewing. She ignored him. He spoke again, several times, until she finally turned, unsmiling, and spoke back.
He laughed and spun on the stool.
The girl walked into the back room, show over. Samay unwrapped his legs and drained his cup before he left.
Conley followed.
****
Minutes later, Samay took a quick look over his shoulder, saw darkness, and decided to light up. He brought a fat joint out of his pocket, ends twisted like taffy. He admired its heft and the tightness of the roll, and ran his tongue along the gummed seam. He lit up.
Lori liked him, he was sure. Girls always played a part, acting angry and irritated. He ran his tongue again, this time across his upper lip. He tasted sugar from the donut she’d given him, the one she’d touched.
I wonder if Lori tastes as sweet?
Another pull on the joint. He inhaled and felt his lungs warm. The familiar hum began in his head. A new world was coming.
The dark sidewalk stretched in front of him, a beautiful lane with lush hedges and trees that formed a green canopy under a hazy half moon. Music drifted from a house, from windows with rippling curtains and mysterious silhouettes behind them. He smiled and held the joint sideways, appreciating the beauty of the glowing tip.
Vithu’s ganja—Good stuff.
A car’s engine surged from behind, growling like an animal. Suddenly a dark metal behemoth jumped the curb, tires carving tracks in the thin strip of sidewalk grass.
Samay stared, frightened, as the car stopped in front of him. Dark tinted windows hid the inside, and he wondered if a driver was behind the wheel or if the angry vehicle was acting on its own. A click sounded, the wide trunk yawned, and the lid quivered.
A tiny bulb reflected on something inside. He approached, more curious than afraid. Was this another of Vithuʼs games? A shovel lay on the floor, rocking back and forth. The wood handle was pocked with light-colored scars, the pointed gray blade mottled with dirt.
Strong hands clasped his arms from behind, powerful fingers clamped his triceps. Samay punched and kicked, and stiffened his body as he was forcefully fed into the trunk. The lid slammed shut and the car growled again and accelerated. A breath of greasy exhaust seeped into the closed space.
He felt overhead and ran his hand across the roof of his prison. The car banked and he was pressed against cold metal. Another turn and he slid, shoulder biting into the rear quarter on the other side.
Stop. Accelerate. The darkness got darker. Was the trunk really closing in on him? He reached out, tentatively, and touched the lid to determine if it was closer than before.
The car slid to a stop on rough surface and the trunk lid opened again, quiet and slow. Hands grabbed at his clothes, found belt and collar, and dragged him out. He fell on hard ground.
Another kind of smoke filled his lungs. Light shone from a high, crackling fire. Conley and Stefanos—the cops who had found Channary—stood between him and a blazing campfire. They wore heavy clothes—boots, jeans, pullover tops whose long sleeves ended in black gloves, and their faces were marbled red from the flames. Conley reached into the trunk and retrieved the shovel. It passed over Samay slowly, as if levitating.
Conley turned and marched away, shovel resting on his shoulder like a rifle.
Samay stood and sprinted around the perimeter, but couldn’t find the road they’d come from, or even a path in the black woods. Trees surrounded the clearing, undulating shapes that turned sea green as light flickered on leaves. A howl came from nearby, an anguished sob that cut through the crackling fire. A black woman stood next to a tree, arms held above her head by a rope slung over a branch.
He recognized her dark, tight hair and handsome face. She’d been at the house in Nahant the night they took Channary. So Vithu hadn’t killed her after all. But why was she here?
Samay stood unsteadily. A beat began behind him, a metallic sound.
Chock. Chock.
He turned. Conley was thrusting the shovel into the ground on the other side of the fire. Stefanos stood behind, next to smoke ghosts rising from the blaze.
Samay shuffled to the writhing girl, his legs still aching from the ride. He slowed as he neared. She saw him and stopped.
“Help me,” she pleaded.
Chock. Chock. Chock.
The fire’s light made a long shadow behind her, a giant marionette, all legs and arms, a tall, black cobweb against the thick forest. Samay watched his own slow shadow join hers as he approached—until a third shadow grew. Stefanos. Samay turned to him.
“Why have you done this?”
Stefanos stepped past him toward the girl. She lifted herself on the rope like a gymnast, muscles straining before her arms went limp and she fell back. He swung a backhand, high and hard, that knocked her face to the side. Stefanos put his face in front of hers and spoke evenly.
“Who killed Lloyd Kendricks?”
Samay stepped back.
Vithu. This was about Vithu.
Her head lolled and she cried.
“I don’t know. You have to believe me. I don’t know.”
And she doesn’t.
Slap. “You were part of it. Last chance.”
Chock. Chock. Chock.
Stefanos repeated the question over and over, his voice smooth and deep.
“Who killed Lloyd Kendricks? Who killed Lloyd Kendricks? Who killed Lloyd Kendricks?”
Did he say it three times—or three hundred? The question became a string of sounds, words that made no sense. Samay stumbled away, the gibberish ringing in his head. He crossed the clearing, closer to the chocks. Conley was working, chest-deep, in a long, narrow hole. Sweat poured from the young cop’s brow and his face was dark crimson now. Samay slowed and stepped back when he realized the devil was toiling in a grave.
A shot rang from behind. Samay
turned, saw the black girl go limp, arms drawing the ropes taut, legs bending and swaying. Stefanos cut her ropes and her lifeless body fell to the ground. Samay collapsed to his knees, placed one palm in the loose dirt, and pointed back to the still girl.
“Why have you done this?”
Conley turned and looked back at the dead girl with mild interest.
“Because she might have known.”
Might have known?
Stefanos was behind him again. The man moved magically around this hellish knoll. He just kept appearing, still as stone. He held the gun loose by his side, and when Samay looked at it, the automatic rose to greet him.
He watched the gun lift, one with the glove and dark sleeve, and stared at the hole in its end, wondering if he’d be able to see the bullet when it left the barrel.
Stefanos said, “Who killed Lloyd Kendricks?”
Samay laughed.
Was this their plan? Kidnap every person who breathed the same air as the murdered cop—then question—then kill?
“Who killed Lloyd Kendricks?”
Did they think he’d betray the gang? Never again. They wouldn’t just kill him for betrayal, they’d make Samay an example for new Asian Boyz. Hell only knew what they had in store—boil him alive maybe, skin him, crucify him. Those were the torments Vithu liked to talk about now that Pon was gone—back to Cambodia, some said.
Samay would rather the bullet. At least death would be quick.
A third time.
“Who killed Lloyd Kendricks?”
“I don’t know.”
Conley was neck deep now, but he managed to reach out and snare Samay’s ankle.
“Don’t waste the bullet,” Conley said.
Stefanos nodded and lowered the gun.
Conley pulled Samay’s leg toward the hole. He bent, hands bracing the ground, and tried to kick free. Stefanos clamped his biceps with steel fingers and helped him toward the grave. One leg cleared the edge and Conley pulled it hard toward the bottom. Stefanos denied any purchase, lifting Samay’s hand every time he clawed at ground.
Both legs were in the hole now. Conley swept Samay’s legs out from under him and pushed his shoulders into the bottom. Samay tried to rise, but a foot pinned the small of his back.
Ocean Park Page 16
