by Renee Simons
"Maybe, but you're taking the heat."
Ethan was about to say something when A.D.A. Santorelli swept into the room, high heels clicking resolutely on the parquet floor, plum-colored cape flaring out behind her, dark hair ruffling in the breeze she created. She addressed the police officer briefly, then waved at Ethan and Jordan. "C'mon Caldwell, Ms. VanDien. Inside, please. We have a lot to do today."
They followed her into the library, converted into a war room complete with oversized writing pad on an easel, cork bulletin board and mobile telephone unit. With brisk movements, she removed her cape and settled herself at the long mahogany table around which eight people now sat.
As she opened her briefcase and removed manila folders, she looked around at them. Finally, her gaze settled on two men seated side by side. Although they wore jackets and ties, their sunburned faces and work-roughened hands contrasted sharply with the winter-paled, buttoned down legal types seated to either side of them. She pointed her pen at each in turn.
"Mr. Mosher and Mr. Delavan -- you've been very helpful. We've verified all the material you gathered in your private efforts to help Mr. Caldwell. On the strength of your findings, we have taken statements from the project crew, some of whom have worked on other VolTerre sites. We’re looking into allegations of hiring irregularities and kickbacks, shoddy construction practices and more.
"The time has come for the two of you to bow out. We simply can't have private citizens endangered while they poke around in what is the province of this task force. More to the point, with at least three ancillary investigations under way, anything further you might uncover will more than likely be duplicated by others. And while you might be able to pursue an unofficial investigation, it won't be legal and could jeopardize the official operation."
She looked from one man to the other, saw their disappointment and softened her tone. "Look, I know how important it is to you to help your friend. You can be proud of what you've accomplished. On the other hand, we can't afford the distraction of worrying about you, your families or your businesses. The best way to help from now on is to let us concentrate on guarding those most directly involved. You'll really have to abide by our decision." She looked at them pointedly. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Do we have any choice?" Eric asked.
"None."
The men nodded in assent, shook hands all around and left.
The meeting continued with status reports from two members of the lawyer's staff who were digging into Terence Conlon's finances and connections. He seemed to have the proper credentials and to move in the right circles. From time to time, he'd incurred enormous debts paid with infusions of money that so far proved untraceable. His partner proved even more difficult to pin down. Invisible as well as silent, he had deftly avoided all efforts to identify him. Police Captain Gerald Mahan's frustration was obvious.
"I'm beginning to think he's a bloody ghost," he muttered, evoking smiles around the table at his adoption of Ethan's favorite swear word. When he realized what he'd said, he turned to Ethan. "You mind?"
Ethan laughed. "Hell, no. What's a little lend-lease between Aussie and Yank?"
Mahan laughed also. "Except you're from Boston originally, aren't you?"
"Yes," Ethan replied. "In fact, Pete and Eric and I were school chums 'till my family left." He glanced over at Dominique Santorelli. "It meant a lot to find them in my corner when I needed help." His tone left no doubt about his displeasure at seeing his old friends dismissed.
His rebuke sent a mild blush to her cheeks. "I'm sure it did. I regret hurting their feelings, but that's better than regretting any real harm they could have suffered. As you have already discovered, we're dealing with a rough crowd."
Pete and Eric were unassuming, decent men with families and businesses, who'd put themselves at risk to help an old friend. Neither would have backed away voluntarily. Jordan was glad to see them out of the line of fire, despite their disappointment over missing out on "all the fun," as they'd referred to coming events. With boyish enthusiasm and many references to the Three Musketeers they'd been in their youth, they'd preferred to view this as an adventure, just as Ethan had told her they would.
Dominique was right. Far better that they got out early with their fantasies and lives intact. For the rest of them, nothing would ever be as it had been before the adventure began.
Drew touched Jordan's arm, gesturing that Dominique was looking at her. The women smiled at each other. Different as they were, they'd hit it off immediately.
"What have you got for me today?" Dominique asked. "Any surprises?"
"Not really. This was all grunt work - comparing your biographical data on Conlon to mine, correlating your background search with the one that Drew's operative compiled." She grinned at her. "Very boring stuff, for sure."
Dominique laughed. "Sorry about that. So, did you find anything?"
"For the past ten weeks, Conlon's been traveling back and forth to Switzerland. It appears he's taking some special therapeutic treatments at a spa in Berne. Drew's investigator pal, Elliot Brock, has photos of him entering and leaving a private sanitarium there. He isn't the patient, however. His wife is. That backs up what Conlon told me the one time we met."
"What exactly did he say?" Dominique asked.
"That his wife had suffered a breakdown and was confined to a sanitarium."
"Why do you suppose he told you when he makes a point to conceal her problem from the rest of the world?"
The question had come from Lieutenant Bernardo Torres, who headed the surveillance team and who, she'd noticed, listened more than he talked and missed nothing.
"I don't know. Maybe to gain sympathy?" He nodded noncommittally and she continued.
"According to Brock, Mrs. C. is in treatment for drug and alcohol abuse stemming from Terence Junior's death in the building accident. The treatment is costing Conlon a fortune that doesn't show in his checking account. I think he probably stashed the money in one of the three or four banks he visits each time he makes the trip. Elliot's list of banks matches yours."
Dominique continued to take notes for a moment, then looked up at her and asked dryly, "Anything else?"
"I'm not sure..."
"What's bothering you?"
"Well, it could be something or nothing. His flight records show that on each trip he makes at least one stop in the islands, sometimes once going and once coming back. There are no records of his registering at any hotels, no rental car contracts or anything else. He just lands and two days later takes off again. Obviously, he's being picked up each time and is someone's house guest. I'd like to know what he's doing during that time and where he’s doing it. I also find myself wondering why he's so blatant in his actions. Why he doesn't cover his tracks better. He must be very sure no one's watching."
"Or maybe he doesn't care," Dominique observed.
"He didn't strike me as a man with a death wish."
"No," D.E.A. agent Furlong agreed, "but he has powerful friends. He spends the time on a private island called Peter's Key. A South American who's into drugs big-time and who's bought protection from the law owns the place. So maybe Conlon feels he's beyond reach. We're still digging into the connection, but we're pretty sure it's tight and dirty."
Ethan shifted restlessly in his seat. Dominique turned to him. "Something wrong?"
"This cops and robbers, Miami Vice claptrap might do for you lot, but it leaves me no nearer to solving my problem. I still have to figure out what caused that skywalk to collapse. That means a site inspection."
"What do you need?" Dominique asked.
"Whatever kind of paper it takes to get me in there."
"That would be a mistake," she said. "A search warrant would tip our hand. We have too much to lose."
"No more than I do," he reminded her.
"He's right, you know," Jordan interjected. "Before this task force entered the picture, all our efforts centered on clearing Ethan and getting his career ba
ck on track." She looked from one brother to the other. "While there may have been problems, at least we had a common goal. Now that you people have stepped in, the emphasis has changed. We're on the outside with our noses pressed up against the window."
Dominique turned to Ethan. "Is that how you feel?"
"Exactly."
"All right," she said with a nod and a smile for him. "We'll find a way around the injunction and get back to you."
Ethan nodded grudgingly and slouched against the back of his chair.
Dominique looked at Jordan again. "What about Conlon's history. Anything there?"
Determined to concentrate only on what her research had uncovered, she shrugged and examined a sheet of paper. "We can't track him any further back than fifteen years ago, when he started his construction firm. During my research, I'd found incorporation papers. Although Conlon himself admitted there was someone he didn't choose to call a partner, I was unable to come up with a name. Why would he need one?"
"The mob needed Conlon," Lieutenant Torres said. "When they expanded their territory, they wanted a finger in the construction industry here to match their involvement in other places. VolTerre gave them that."
"How did they get a man like Conlon to go along?" Ethan asked.
The lieutenant shrugged his slender shoulders. "They tumbled to some skeleton he didn't want out of the closet, I guess. We don't know for sure what."
"Something about his wife, maybe, or her family," Drew suggested.
"She's Philadelphia mainline," Ethan said, "and I know for a fact he isn't."
"How do you know that?" Torres asked.
"He once made a crack about growing up so poor he couldn't even see the wrong side of the tracks."
"Did you and he get along?" Torres watched him with steady, dark eyes.
Ethan returned the look. "I thought we did. He handled everything very efficiently and smoothly. Very professionally." He grimaced and added, "Including my hanging."
"His charm and polish are deceptive," Dominique said. "He had us fooled for a long time."
"Maybe it's time someone conned the con man," Torres remarked. "Teach him a little humility."
"Drew," Dominique said. "You're unusually quiet today. Anything bothering you?"
Drew opened his notebook, flipped a couple of pages and tapped his pen as he examined their contents. He looked up. "You know about this thing called the commission and the bid rigging scheme they've put in place?"
"We know," Dominique said. "How do you?"
"I can't say, but I trust the source." Drew fiddled with an unlit cigarette, then pushed it away. "As you know, I started out wanting only to clear my brother's name and restore his reputation. I expected to find evidence of the builder's mismanagement, incompetence, shoddy building methods, even illegal hiring practices. I did.
"In addition to the long-standing pattern of such practices on project after project, Jordan and I found evidence of a chronic tendency to bring in jobs substantially over budget. Despite this, VolTerre wins out over others in one out of every five instances. My informant told me that for the last six years, there has been in place a mechanism to rig bids on numerous projects in both the public and private sectors.
"The source tells me a governing body decides which company will enter the low bid while all others enter higher bids. The low bidder kicks back 10 percent to this group for the privilege of landing the opportunity. Such payment insures that the contractor will be in the running again in the future. Five companies take part and take turns. Only once has an outside company won. The firm was so beset with union problems, it lost the job and others that followed and eventually went bankrupt.
"I've heard of such activities taking place in other cities and always under the control of some mob or crime family that controlled the area. Is that what we're dealing with here in Boston?"
Dominique nodded.
"Who are these people?" Drew asked.
"I can't tell you. I'm sorry." She looked at Captain Mahan and the lieutenant for a moment, then turned back to Drew. "To give you details would endanger the mission of this task force. All I can say is that your information is accurate. If I were you, I'd keep that source very happy."
The discussion moved on to other matters. The meeting ended two hours later. The others returned to their offices and Drew excused himself to resume his work. Jordan carried the teapot into the kitchen. Ethan followed behind her with the coffee urn, setting it on the counter as she emptied the heavy ceramic pot and rinsed it clean.
"Thanks for siding with me in there," he said softly.
"I'm glad Dominique agreed to take some action."
"I'm sorry for doubting you."
"You felt betrayed. Once a trust has been broken, it takes time to rebuild." She tipped the pot into the sink to drain and dried her hands on the towel he held out. "I've had some experience along those lines."
The window framed a charcoal gray sky. "More rain," she said as a distraction from his presence.
"This protective custody deal is the pits," Ethan said. "More like house arrest, if you ask me. D'you want to get out of here?"
"Have you figured out a way to sneak past our watchdogs?"
"C'mon. Let's go into the library."
"Why?"
"You’ll see."
Inside the room, he went to the back wall and felt along the side of a bookcase. He pressed something beneath one of the shelves and stepped aside when seconds later, the unit rotated slowly away from the wall.
"Straight out of a Gothic romance," she said.
"More like the Underground Railroad."
"How do you know that?"
"I found it while checking the construction of the bookcase. Turns out this was a safe house for fugitive slaves during the abolition period."
He opened the door. It swung back easily on its hinges. Jordan moved to his side and peered into the black emptiness. A musty odor drifted out toward them, reinforcing her earlier impression of antique eerieness.
Ethan glanced at her. "You game?"
"Why not? My dull and quiet life could use a little more excitement."
Ethan grinned at her dubious tone. "C'mon, then." He ushered her onto the landing ahead of him. "Hold up a minute." He reached into the room to bring the wall of books to its original position and close the secret door behind him. "You're not claustrophobic are you?"
"It's a little late to ask, don't you think?"
"Are you?"
She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. "Let's go."
Ethan led the way down the steps. At the bottom they entered the tunnel. Walking slowly, they moved deeper into the absolute darkness, without any reference points except each other. Her reawakened fear of dark, closed-in places threatened to overwhelm her. She shuddered and froze.
"What's wrong?" Ethan asked.
She didn't trust him enough to tell him the truth. "Cobwebs. And crawly things I'd rather see than touch."
"Here," he said as he took her hand. "Hold on to me."
She welcomed the strong yet gentle touch of his fingers entwined with hers and matched his steady pace. Their footsteps echoed in the space around them, filling the emptiness where they'd been, cutting through the dark silence ahead.
The tunnel seemed arrow-straight except for a stretch where the track sloped downward. Here they sloshed through water that had seeped in from some hidden fault. Their shoes sank into a layer of mud. As the tunnel slanted upward, the ground beneath them became dry and firm again and remained that way for the rest of the walk.
"We're almost there," Ethan said.
"How can you tell?"
He passed her hand along the wall until her finger tips found a groove running from roof to floor of the rough-hewn tunnel. "I counted those, same way the fugitives did all those years ago."
"How often have you been through here?"
"Three or four times." At the end of the passageway, he opened, then closed the door behind them as the
y stepped into a small vestibule. He passed his hand over the brick wall facing them. Another door opened, letting in rain-dampened air and light filtered through a screen of ivy. As they stepped outside, the door swung closed. From the street, its existence became undetectable beneath the ivy’s thick cover and the patterns made by the fading red brick of a garden wall.
"We’re almost a mile from the house," Ethan said.
A gentle drizzle misted Jordan’s skin, cleansing and refreshing. The moist air cleared away the musty odor of the tunnel. Ethan watched her.
"What?"
"That was hard on you, wasn't it?"
"I just wish it didn't show."
"Nobody would know."
"You did."
"I'm starting to recognize your chin up, 'I've got to tough this out' stance."
She laughed.
"Let's go somewhere and talk," he urged.
Neither of them minded the rain while they searched for a coffee shop Ethan thought he remembered. Because of the weather, the usual crowds had deserted Charles Street. They felt safe enough to enjoy their freedom.
By the time they found the little hole in the wall nestled at the end of an alley, their clothes were thoroughly soaked. Laughing, they ran under the awning, eager to shake off some of the wetness, which turned out to be impossible, leading to more laughter.
Careless of whether she should take the liberty, Jordan reached up and combed her fingers through Ethan's rain-darkened hair. His gaze softened as his hand came around her waist and gently pulled her close. She closed her eyes to focus on his lips grazing her wet, spiky lashes and trailing down her cheek to nestle just beneath her ear where she could feel his warm breath. She sighed.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"I’ve never much liked walking in the rain. Until now."
He lifted her chin and looked into the eyes that now watched him. "Depends who you're walking with."
"Apparently."
His gaze traveled to her mouth. His lips followed, gently caressing hers, tasting, warming, then releasing them just as she decided her legs would give way if the kiss went on much longer.
