by Al Boudreau
Apparently not light enough.
I was about two-thirds of the way across the lobby when I heard the sounds of fast-paced footfalls echoing throughout the space. I glanced over my shoulder and saw security bounding across the marble floor in my direction.
There was no point in making a run for it. It would only serve to escalate an already tense situation involving men with guns. I knew for a fact these Protective Service guys never saw much action, their daily routines boring 99% of the time, so they had a tendency to overreact. Truth be told, they were dying for some action to break the monotony.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you to show me some identification.”
I stopped and turned to face the officers. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, I’m talking to you. ID. Now.”
I reached for my wallet and produced my NH driver’s license, as well as my newly minted private investigator’s license.
“Mr. Peterson. What is the reason for your visit to Causeway Place this morning?”
“I was hoping to speak with Ronald McEntee.”
“About?”
“Excuse me?” I replied, not entirely impressed with the man’s tone. I wasn’t too excited about his partner’s hand being wrapped around the grip of his holstered weapon, either.
“Sir, Mr. McEntee informed us he doesn’t know you. He also told us you have no appointment with him or Stratashield. So I’ll ask you again. What is the nature of your business?”
Now I was pissed. “Okay, seeing how you asked so nicely, I was hoping to sell him a subscription.”
The words had barely left my lips when I found myself on the floor, zip-tie handcuffs cinched around my wrists so quickly I couldn’t help but be a little impressed. One fact was irrefutable: these guys had no sense of humor.
The pair reached beneath my armpits and hoisted me upright. The second officer, who had kept quiet up until this point said, “Mr. McEntee will see you now.”
Chapter 13
My not-so-cordial escorts shoved me inside of the elevator. Instead of choosing one of the five buttons corresponding to each floor indicated on the directory, one of the officers unlocked a small access panel and tripped the switch inside. Up we went.
The lift came to a halt, and the doors slid open to reveal a short but wide windowless hallway with what appeared to be pricey works of art on the walls. At the end of the space stood the most intricately carved set of double doors I’d ever laid eyes on. The flooring was consistent with a level of luxury I’d only seen at the most exclusive addresses in and around Boston. Likely Italian marble, each of the massive squares was onyx black with shiny gold veins running randomly throughout.
As the three of us entered the space, one of the officers reached inside his jacket pocket. The double doors ahead swung open to reveal a breathtaking view of the downtown skyline and waterfront beyond. The second officer grabbed my arm and led me inside. As we entered I took note of the plush atmosphere. The room was a wide-open space with a huge rectangular conference table surrounded by 20 or so chairs. I was led down the entire length of the table as the leading officer slid out the chair at the head.
“Sit,” he commanded, then pulled a communication device out of his pocket and spoke into it. “All set, sir.”
I had to assume Ronald McEntee was now on his way to us.
Both officers stood in position over each of my shoulders as I sat facing the opened double doors and the elevator beyond. Had I not been so annoyed I would have laughed out loud, the sheer audacity of McEntee and his minions reminding me of a bad B-movie. It was third grade all over again, awaiting the principal so he could berate me for my failure to follow the rules. The drama might have been an effective scare tactic for some folks, but after wearing a uniform and pulling overnight shifts on the streets of this city for too many years, the effort was wasted on me.
The elevator doors opened to reveal McEntee, along with a fifty-something woman dressed in conservative clothing. She marched out of the elevator as if she was alone, eyes locked on me. Her gaze was unwavering, her gait confident and purposeful. Though no more than 5’-2, 5’-3 max, she concerned me more than McEntee and these other two clowns combined.
Without a word, she reached in her pocket and produced a pair of reading glasses. As she put them on, I couldn’t help but notice how different they were compared to the $20 drug store specs I needed as of late. They were unquestionably custom-made and looked as though they cost more than my Buick did when it was new.
McEntee, standing behind her, held a file. She turned and snatched it from his grasp, then took the corner seat to my right. Meanwhile, McEntee walked around and grasped the headrest of the chair to my left with both hands – as if it were an amusement park ride about to lurch to life – and stood facing the mystery woman.
After scanning the contents of the file, the woman calmly closed it and slid it out of the way. “Mr. Peterson, I can only assume you’re here to scrounge up information regarding our tragic loss last evening.”
I waited for her to continue for an uncomfortable length of time. “Was that a question?”
McEntee leaned forward over the headrest of the chair. “You’d be wise to fall into line.”
The woman thrust her pointer finger at McEntee, who took a step back and promptly shut his mouth like an obedient hound. “I’m well-acquainted with your type, Mr. Peterson,” she said, never having diverted her eyes from me. “It never ceases to amaze me how investigators of your ilk think they can waltz into an organization like Stratashield and expect answers to questions you have no business asking. Who on earth do you think you are?”
As powerful as this woman seemed to be, I was done with her berating game. I turned and looked toward the window when, from behind, I felt a pair of hands grab my squash like Larry Bird intercepting a basketball during the mid-80s. The officer spun my head back around toward the woman and held it there for a second longer than I would normally have tolerated. It was everything I could do to sit still instead of launching skyward and taking out this guy’s chin with the back of my skull.
“You’re going to learn the hard way what happens to men who meddle in the affairs of those with clout,” she commanded.
I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of thinking her power play had affected me, so I simply raised my eyebrows and stared directly into this female Napoleon’s eyes.
Just to piss her off.
I heard movement behind me. The woman looked up. “What is it?” she asked the officer. The sheer volume and annoyance in her voice caused McEntee to wince.
The officer behind me approached, bent down, and whispered in her ear.
“Go,” she said. “Close the doors behind you.”
McEntee leaned in. “Should I go with?”
The woman turned and shut McEntee down again, wagging a finger in his direction before shifting her focus back to me. “I sincerely hope you’re not responsible for this little stunt, Mr. Peterson. Decisions made in haste tend to have unpleasant consequences.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied.
“Time to dispense with your little act of bravery and tell me what you’re really up to, Mr. Peterson. My patience is a limited commodity, and diminishing with each passing second.”
I was about to hit her with some off-handed comment when what sounded like a fierce argument in the hallway disrupted my train of thought. Everyone turned toward the carved wooden doors. There were at least three voices involved in the shouting match, but one stood out, hauntingly familiar in tone and delivery.
McEntee glanced at the officer before taking several steps back toward the windows while Ms. Fiesty’s attention bounced from face to face then back toward the double doors. “Do something, you idiot,” she screamed while tossing her hands up in the direction of the remaining Federal Protective Service officer.
The officer drew his weapon and cautiously made his way across the room to about the halfway point b
efore stopping. He raised and lowered his revolver so many times I was beginning to think he’d turned into a motorized manikin, apparently on the fence about whether or not he was willing to take a .40 caliber slug for this woman.
I heard that familiar voice again, this time more clearly as the entry doors swung open. And I knew who it belonged to. I was seconds away from an exceedingly bizarre reunion with my former Boston police partner, Tommy O’Hearn.
Three Boston police officers – Tommy included – marched into the conference room, guns drawn. A fourth Boston officer remained in the hallway to keep the second FPS officer who’d previously left the room at bay.
Tommy, who led the charge, was the only one of the four Boston cops I recognized. He pointed his service revolver directly at the remaining FPS officer’s chest and said in a calm voice, “Holster your weapon and stand over there next to the guy in the suit.”
The officer did so with no hesitation.
The cop who I assumed to be Tommy’s new partner kept his weapon trained on the FPS officer’s center mass while Tommy and the other cop in the room holstered their weapons.
“CP, you all right?” Tommy asked as he cut the zip-tie handcuffs off my wrists.
“I’m fine, O’Hey. Thank you,” I replied, calling him by his nickname out of force of habit.
“You two,” he said, pointing at McEntee and the woman. “Let’s see some identification.”
The woman turned toward the FPS officer, a bewildered look on her face. “I cannot believe the level of incompetence I’m witnessing right now. Your purpose is to protect this property and the individuals within. Congratulations, you’ve failed miserably. You’re fired.” She turned and shouted, “That goes for you, too,” at the second FPS officer out in the hallway.
McEntee handed his driver’s license over. O’Hey looked at it briefly then walked over to the woman. “Where’s yours, sweetheart?”
I struggled to tamp down my urge to laugh, still in the dark about just who this woman was.
“I don’t cart my identification around within the confines of this building, officer. Unlike you, I belong here. However, I have a question for you. Who gave you the go-ahead to raid a federal building?”
O’Hey reached inside his jacket. “Got a warrant right here,” he said and threw it down on the table. “If I don’t see some identification from you in short order I’m going to give you a nice piece of jewelry like the one you had your rental cops put on Mr. Peterson. Be smart like Mr. McEntee here and do what I say.” O’Hey motioned to one of the other cops. “Escort our lovely friend down to wherever she keeps her ID, then bring her and said ID back up to me.”
O’Hey looked at me as the pair walked out and shook his head. He then looked over at McEntee. “McEntee, huh? What are you lot doin’ harassing a retired Boston cop, anyways? You’re obviously Irish, right? You ought to know better. Shame on you. Here, have a seat, McEntee. Trust me, you don’t want to make me nervous.”
“What are you guys doing here, Tommy?” I asked.
“Kind of an asinine question, don’t you think, CP? We take care of our own. You, of all people, should know that.”
“Of course I do, but that’s not what I’m asking. How did you know I was here? How’d you know they were detaining me?”
“Seriously?”
I held my hands out at my sides, palms up.
O’Hey furrowed his eyebrows. “How long you been off the force now?”
“Ten plus years,” I replied.
“Guess you haven’t been keeping up with politics,” he said. “I got a call from Maynard.”
“Who’s Maynard?” I asked.
“Who’s Maynard?” O’Hey laughed. “You’re killin’ me. Not who, CP, where. Where would be the thing to ask, but I know you know where Maynard, Mass is, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I know Maynard.”
“Well, Stiltsy left the force a few years back and works in Maynard now.” O’Hey paused. “The Fusion Center,” he added, tossing his palms high in the air, most likely in response to the blank look on my face.
I shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
O’Hey tipped his head back and laughed. “You’re puttin’ me on. You mean to tell me you really don’t know nothin’ about Commonwealth Fusion Center? C’mon, man, you need to keep up. The Fusion Center’s where all the state’s tech feeds get monitored. Federal, too. Facial recognition, traffic cams, automatic license plate readers, cell phone signal trackers, surveillance cams. They all get funneled over to The Fuse. Joint’s staffed by state and local law enforcement, but we’re stuck with the feds breathing down our necks, too. FBI and Homeland are there right along with us. Anyway, this is a federal building.” O’Hey pointed out three different video cameras in the room. “Got those cameras all over this building. That’s how Stiltsy was able to watch the entire take-down in real time on his monitor. Recognized you, saw you were in a pinch, and called me. And here we are to set these cowboys straight,” he said, pointing to the FPS officers. “These Federal Protective Service cops talk a big game, but they never give us any resistance here in town.”
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. I’d been aware of future plans to integrate all the latest tech and knew the feds had been pushing to gain access to municipal information, but had no idea actual implementation had come so far so fast.
“You okay, CP? You’re lookin’ a little pekid, there.”
“When did all of this start?” I asked.
“The Fuse? Been around for years now. Every state’s got at least one of these centers.” He hesitated, then smiled. “How could you not know about this?”
I was flabbergasted and more than a little embarrassed. No one, including Detective James, had ever discussed fusion centers with me. “Nope. Hate to admit it, but I had no idea.”
“Yeah? Well, you know what they say. Ignorance is bliss. So I hope you enjoyed your time in the dark, ‘cause once you know Big Brother’s watchin’ your every move it’s hard to unknow, you know?”
“True enough. Thanks, Tommy. Thanks for bailing me out. These clowns were definitely way out of line,” I said, making eye contact with McEntee before turning back toward O’Hey. “I hope you don’t take any heat for this.”
“For this? Nah. We butt heads with the feds every single day. Kinda breaks up the monotony.”
I laughed out loud. He really hadn’t changed a bit.
I heard the elevator doors slide open. The mystery woman stormed out, the Boston PD officer close behind. He handed the woman’s ID over.
O’Hey studied it briefly, looked at her, then back at the ID. “Peg Franklin, Sturbridge, Mass. Wow, quite a commute, Peg Franklin. Fancy place to call home.”
“I’m quite certain the fanciness of my hometown is none of your concern,” she shot back.
“Have a seat next to McEntee, here, Ms. Peg. And try to behave yourself. None of us want our little get-together to escalate any more than it already has, now do we?”
The scowl on Franklin’s face was priceless as she made her way over to the table and took a seat. Despite my constant concern for Sarah, I was enjoying my former partner’s game of toying with these people.
Franklin placed her hands on the table, one atop the other, looking as smug as anyone I’d ever seen. “I know you’re having a good time with all of this, Officer O’Hearn, but rest assured your fun will be short-lived. Five minutes after this little exercise of yours has ended, my fun will begin. Then we’ll see who has the last laugh. That goes for you, too, Mr. Peterson.”
O’Hey smiled. “CP, no reason for you to hang. These rude, out-of-line corporate shmucks have wasted too much of your time, already. You’re free to go. C’mon, I’ll even walk you down. Make sure no one else tries pullin’ a power trip on you.”
As I stood up to leave, Peg Franklin shot me a world-class sneer. I smiled, knowing I’d won this round. Aside from the knowledge that this woman held a position of power, I’d also gaine
d insight as to what her name was and where she lived. Yet, the most important question remained.
Who was she?
Chapter 14
I tried to make sense of what I’d just been through as I merged onto Rt. 1 and headed back toward Bridgeport. It was good to see my ex-partner again, and I was grateful that Boston PD never failed to take care of their own. Even after having been away 10 years, those guys were there when I needed them. And though I’d learned scant details about the murder of Stratashield accountant Rita Bennett, O’Hey promised to keep me in the loop as evidence came in.
What I had gained as a result of the bizarre turn of events was the knowledge that I had some catching up to do. I’d always taken pride in my ability to make use of the latest high-tech gadgets to gain the upper hand on those I investigated, but apparently I’d been asleep at the wheel when it came to the big picture as it related to current technology. The fact that the cavalry was able to ride in and save my hide like that was almost more than this old dog could comprehend.
And yet I’d just lived it.
One thing was certain: I’d never look at those tower-mounted cameras alongside the interstate the same way again as O’Hey’s words played back in my head. I hope you enjoyed your time in the dark, ‘cause once you know Big Brother’s watchin’ your every move it’s hard to unknow, you know? And his comment about cell phone signal trackers had me thinking about Sarah’s message again. With so much at stake I kept going back and forth. Was my gut right on this one? Had the individuals who killed Mike Webber involved Sarah in some ruse to throw everyone off track? And if so, to what end?
I was beginning to feel like a human pendulum, swinging toward panic one moment then confidence the next. Back and forth. Back and forth.
The ringtone of my cell phone interrupted my thoughts. I checked the screen before answering. “Hey, Brian.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Carter. And these guys won’t tell me why they’ve got me pulled over.”
“Whoa, slow down. First off, where are you?”
