“What do you want me to say here?” he said. “I don’t know what’s waiting out there. I’m the one who’ll catch the first bullet anyway.”
I tapped his chin with my gun. “And the second, John. Remember that.”
“Who the hell are you, man?”
“I’m the really scared guy with the fifteen-bullet clip. That’s who. What’s the deal with this place? Is it a cult?”
“No way,” he said. “You can shoot me, but I’m not telling you shit.”
“Desiree Stone,” I said. “You know her, John?”
“Pull the trigger, man. I ain’t talking.”
I leaned in close, looked at his profile, at his left eye skittering in the socket.
“Where is she?” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I didn’t have time to question him or beat the answer out of him now. All I had was his wallet, and that would have to be good enough for a second round with John at a future date.
“Let’s hope this isn’t the last minute of our lives, John,” I said and pushed him into the foyer ahead of me.
7
The front door of Grief Release, Inc., was black birch without so much as an eyehole glass in its center. To the right of the door was brick, but to the left were two small rectangles of green glass, thick and fogged over by a combination of icy wind outside and warm air inside.
I pushed John Byrne to his knees by the glass and wiped the glass with my sleeve. It didn’t help much; it was like looking out from a sauna through ten sheets of plastic wrap. Beacon Street lay before me like an impressionist painting, foggy forms I took for people moving past in the liquid haze, the white streetlights and yellow gas lamps making everything worse somehow, as if I were staring at a picture that had been overexposed. Across the street, the trees in the Public Garden rose in clumps, indistinguishable from one another. I couldn’t be sure if I was seeing things or not, but it seemed that several smaller blue lights flashed repeatedly through the trees. There was no way to know what was out there. But I couldn’t stay here any longer. I could hear voices growing louder in the ballroom, and any minute someone would risk opening the door onto the staircase.
Beacon Street, in the early evening just after rush hour, had to be semicrowded. Even if armed clones of Manny waited out front, it wasn’t like they’d shoot me in front of witnesses. Then again, I didn’t know that for sure. Maybe they were Shiite Muslims, and shooting me was the quickest route to Allah.
“The hell with it,” I said and pulled John to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“Shit,” he said.
I took a few deep breaths through my mouth. “Open the door, John.”
His hand hovered over the doorknob. Then he dropped it and wiped it on his pant leg.
“Take the other hand off your head, John. Just don’t try anything stupid.”
He did, then looked at the doorknob again.
Upstairs, something heavy fell to the floor.
“Any time you’re ready, John.”
“Yeah.”
“Tonight, for instance,” I said.
“Yeah.” He wiped his hand on his pants again.
I sighed and reached around him and yanked open the door myself, dug my gun into his lower back as we came out on the staircase.
And came face-to-face with a cop.
He’d been running past the building when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, pivoted, and looked up at us.
His right hand went to his hip, just over his gun, and he peered up at John Byrne’s bloody face.
Up the block at the corner of Arlington, several patrol cars had pulled up in front of the corporate offices of Grief Release, their blue and white lights streaking through the trees in the Garden, bouncing off the red brick buildings just past the Cheers bar.
The cop glanced up the block quickly, then back at us. He was a beefy kid, rusty haired and pug-nosed, with the studied glare of a cop or a punk from one of the neighborhoods. The kind of kid some people would take for slow just because he moved that way, and never figure out how wrong they’d been until this kid proved it to them. Painfully.
“Ahm, you two gentlemen have a problem?”
With John’s body blocking my own from the cop’s view, I slipped my gun into my waistband, closed the suit jacket over it. “No problem, Officer. Just trying to bring my friend to the hospital.”
“Yeah, about that,” the kid said and took another step toward the stairs. “What happened to your face, sir?”
“I fell down the stairs,” John said.
Interesting move, John. All you had to do to get rid of me was tell the truth. But you didn’t.
“And broke the fall with your face, sir?”
John chuckled as I buttoned my topcoat over my suit jacket. “Unfortunately,” he said.
“Could you step out from behind your friend, sir?”
“Me?” I said.
The kid nodded.
I stepped to John’s right.
“And would you both mind coming down to the sidewalk?”
“Uh, sure,” we both said in unison.
The kid’s name was Officer Largeant, I saw as we got close enough to read his name tag. Someday he’d make sergeant. Sergeant Largeant. I had the feeling that somehow nobody would give him a hard time about it. I bet nobody would give this kid a hard time about much of anything.
He pulled his flashlight from his hip, shined it on the door of Grief Release, read the gold plate.
“You gentlemen work here?”
“I do,” John said.
“And you, sir?” Largeant pivoted in my direction and the flashlight shone in my eyes just long enough to hurt.
“I’m an old friend of John’s,” I said.
“You’d be John?” The flashlight found John’s eyes.
“Yes, Officer.”
“John…?”
“Byrne.”
Largeant nodded.
“I’m kind of in some pain here, Officer. We were going to walk up to Mass General to get my face looked at.” Largeant nodded again, looked down at his shoes. I took the moment to pull John Byrne’s wallet from my coat pocket.
“Could I see some ID, gentlemen?” Largeant said.
“ID?” John said.
“Officer,” I said and put my arm on John’s back as if to steady him. “My friend might have a concussion.”
“I’d like to see some ID,” Largeant said and he smiled to underscore the edge in his voice. “If you’d step away from your friend. Now, sir.”
I shoved the wallet into the waistband of John’s pants and removed my hand, began searching my pockets. Beside me, John chuckled very softly.
He held the wallet out to Largeant and smiled for my benefit. “Here you are, Officer.”
Largeant opened it as a crowd began to gather. They’d been on the perimeter the whole time, but now it was really getting interesting and they closed in from either side of us. A few were the Messengers we’d seen earlier, all wide-eyed and gee-gosh-golly about this example of late-twentieth-century decadence happening right in front of them. Two men getting rousted on Beacon Street, another sure sign of the apocalypse.
Others were office workers or folks who’d been out walking their dogs or having coffee at the Starbucks fifty yards away. Some had come from the perpetual line out in front of Cheers, presumably deciding that they could take out a second mortgage to buy a beer anytime, but this was special.
And then there were a few I didn’t like seeing at all. Men, well dressed, coats closed over their waists, eyes like pinpoints bearing down on me. Sprung from the same pods as Manny. They stood on the edges of the crowd, spread out so that they surrounded me whether I headed up toward Arlington, down toward Charles, or across to the Garden. Mean-looking, serious men.
Largeant handed John’s wallet back and John gave me another little smile as he placed it in his front pants pocket.
“Now you, sir.”<
br />
I handed him my wallet and he opened it, shone his flashlight on it. As inconspicuously as possible, John tried to crane his neck around to get a look, but Largeant snapped it shut too quickly.
I caught John’s eye and smiled myself. Better luck next time, shithead.
“There you go, Mr. Kenzie,” Largeant said and I felt several of my internal organs drop into my stomach. He handed me back the wallet as John Byrne beamed a grin the size of Rhode Island, then mouthed “Kenzie” to himself with a satisfied nod.
I felt like weeping.
And then I looked out on Beacon and saw the one thing that hadn’t depressed me in the last five minutes—Angie idling by the Garden in our brown Crown Victoria. The car interior was dark, but I could see the coal of her cigarette every time she brought it to her lips.
“Mr. Kenzie?” a voice said softly.
It was Largeant and he was looking up at me like a puppy and I suddenly felt pure dread because I had a pretty good idea where this was going.
“I’d just like to shake your hand, sir.”
“No, no,” I said, a sick smile on my face.
“Go on,” John said gleefully. “Shake the man’s hand!”
“Please, sir. It would be an honor to shake the hand of the man who brought down those skells Arujo and Glynn.”
John Byrne raised an eyebrow at me.
I shook Largeant’s hand even though I wanted to coldcock the stupid bastard. “My pleasure,” I managed.
Largeant was smiling and nodding and rippling all over. “You know who this is?” he said to the crowd.
“No, tell us!”
I turned my head, saw Manny standing on the landing above me, a smile even bigger than John’s on his face.
“This,” Largeant said, “is Patrick Kenzie, the private detective who helped catch that serial killer Gerry Glynn and his partner. The hero who saved that woman and her baby in Dorchester back in November? You remember?”
And a few people clapped.
But none as loud as Manny and John Byrne.
I resisted the urge to drop my head into my hands and cry.
“Here’s my card.” Largeant pressed it into my hand. “Any time, you know, you want to hang out or you need help on a case, you just pick up the phone, Mr. Kenzie.”
Any time I need help on a case. Right. Thanks.
The crowd was dispersing now that they were reasonably sure no one was going to get shot. All except for the men with the buttoned-up coats and the stony faces—they stepped aside for the other onlookers to leave and kept their eyes on me.
Manny came down the steps to the sidewalk, stood beside me, leaned in close to my ear.
“Hi,” he said.
Largeant said, “Well, I guess you have to get your friend to the hospital and I have to get over there.” He gestured in the direction of the Arlington Street corner. He clapped my shoulder with his hand. “A real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Kenzie.”
“Sure,” I said as Manny took a step closer to me.
“G’night.” Largeant turned and stepped out onto Beacon, began to cross.
Manny clapped his hand on my shoulder. “A real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Kenzie.”
“Officer Largeant,” I called, and Manny dropped his hand.
Largeant turned, looked back at me.
“Wait up.” I walked to the curb, and two pituitary cases stepped in front of me for a moment. Then one of them glanced over my shoulder, made a face, and then both parted grudgingly. I stepped between them and out onto Beacon.
“Yeah, Mr. Kenzie?” Largeant seemed confused.
“I thought I’d join you, see if any of my buddies are at the scene.” I nodded in the direction of Arlington.
“What about your friend, Mr. Kenzie?”
I looked back at Manny and John. They had their heads cocked, waiting for my answer.
“Manny,” I called. “You sure you’ll take him?”
Manny said, “I—”
“I guess your car is faster than walking. You’re right.”
“Oh,” Largeant said, “he’s got a car.”
“Nice one, too. Ain’t that right, Manny?”
“Cherry,” Manny said with a tight smile.
“Well,” Largeant said.
“Well,” I said, “Manny, you best get going. Good luck, John.” I waved.
Largeant said, “So, Mr. Kenzie, I’ve been meaning to ask you about Gerry Glynn. How’d you—”
The Crown Victoria slid up behind us.
“My ride!” I said.
Largeant turned and looked at the car.
“Hey, Officer Largeant,” I said, “give me a call sometime. Really, it’s been great. Have a good one. Best of luck.” I opened the passenger door. “Keep up the good work. Hope everything works out. Bye-bye.”
I slid in, shut the door.
“Drive,” I said.
“Pushy, pushy,” Angie said.
We pulled away from Largeant and Manny and John and the Pods and turned left on Arlington, past the three patrol cars parked in front of Grief Release’s corporate offices, their lights bouncing off the windows like ice afire.
Once we were reasonably sure no one had followed us, Angie pulled over behind a bar in Southie.
“So, honey,” she said, turning on the seat, “how was your day?”
“Well—”
“Ask me about mine,” she said. “Come on. Ask.”
“Okay,” I said. “How was your day? Sweetie?”
“Man,” she said, “they were there in five minutes.”
“Who? The police?”
“The police.” She snorted. “No. Those freakazoids with the glandular problems. The ones who were standing around you and the cop and the guy with the busted face.”
“Ah,” I said. “Them.”
“No shit, Patrick, I thought I was dead. I’m in the back office clipping some computer discs, and then, bang, the doors are flying open all over the place, alarms are going sonic on me, and…well, it wasn’t pretty, partner, lemmee tell ya.”
“Computer discs?” I said.
She held up a handful of 3.5 diskettes, bound by a red elastic.
“So,” she said, “besides busting some guy’s face and almost getting arrested, have you accomplished anything?”
Angie had made her way into the back office just before Manny arrived to take me over to the Therapeutic Center. She waited there as Ginny shut off the lights, turned off the coffeemaker, pushed chairs neatly into their desks, all the while singing “Foxy Lady.”
“By Hendrix?” I said.
“At the top of her lungs,” Angie said, “complete with air guitar.”
I shuddered at the image. “You should get combat pay.”
“Tell me about it.”
After Ginny left, Angie went to step out of the rear office and noticed the thin beams of light shafting across the main office. They crisscrossed one another like wires, and rose from the wall at several points, some as low as six inches off the ground, some as high as seven feet.
“Hell of a security system,” I said.
“State-of-the-art. So now I’m stuck in the back office.”
She started by picking the locks of the file cabinets but found mostly tax forms, job description forms, workmen’s comp forms. She tried the computer on the desk, but couldn’t get past the password prompt. She was rifling through the desk when she heard a commotion at the front door. Sensing the jig was up, she used the pry bar she’d used on the window to bust the lock on the file drawer built into the lower right side of the desk. She ripped a gash in the wood, tore the drawer off its rockers, and wrenched it from the desk frame to find the diskettes waiting for her.
“Finesse being the operative word here,” I said.
“Hey,” she said, “they were coming through the front door like a plane crash. I grabbed what I could and went out the window.”
There was a guy waiting out there for her but she popped his head with the pry bar a coup
le of times and he decided he preferred to sleep in the bushes for a while.
She came out onto Beacon through a small yard in front of a nondescript brownstone, found herself in a stream of Emerson College students heading to a night class. She walked with them as far as Berkeley Street and then retrieved our company car from its illegal parking spot on Marlborough Street.
“Oh, yeah,” she told me, “we got a parking ticket.”
“Of course, we did,” I said. “Of course, we did.”
Richie Colgan was so happy to see us he almost broke my foot trying to slam his front door on it.
“Go away,” he said.
“Nice bathrobe,” I said. “Can we come in?”
“No.”
“Please?” Angie said.
Behind him, I could see candles in his living room, a flute glass half-filled with champagne.
“Are you playing some Barry White?” I said.
“Patrick.” His teeth were gritted and something akin to a growl rumbled in his throat.
“It is,” I said. “That’s ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love’ coming from your speakers, Rich.”
“Leave my doorstep,” Richie said.
“Don’t sugarcoat it, Rich,” Angie said. “If you’d rather we came back…”
“Open the door, Richard,” his wife, Sherilynn, said.
“Hi, Sheri.” Angie waved through the crack in the door.
“Richard,” Sherilynn said.
Richie stepped back and we came into his house.
“Richard,” I said.
“Blow me,” he said.
“I don’t think it’d fit, Rich.”
He looked down, realized his robe had opened. He closed it and punched me in the kidneys as I passed.
“You prick,” I whispered and winced.
Angie and Sherilynn hugged by the kitchen counter.
“Sorry,” Angie said.
“Oh, well,” Sherilynn said. “Hey, Patrick. How are you?”
“Don’t encourage them, Sheri,” Richie said.
“I’m good. You look great.”
She gave me a little curtsy in her red kimono, and I was, as always, a little taken aback, flustered like a schoolboy. Richie Colgan, arguably the top newspaper columnist in the city, was chunky, his face perpetually hidden behind five o’clock shadow, his ebony skin splotched with too many late nights and caffeine and antiseptic air. But Sherilynn—with her toffee skin and milky gray eyes, the sculpted muscle tone of her slim limbs and the sweet musical lilt of her voice, a remnant of the sandy Jamaican sunsets she’d seen every day until she was ten years old—was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever encountered.
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