“That’s nice you thought of calling me.”
“But you don’t remember it?”
“It was two months ago, Ryan, I’m better now. My doctor cleared me and everything.”
“For gunplay?”
“I can watch my own back. And yours.”
“Great.”
“That wasn’t convincing.”
“Neither were you.”
“Daggett only got Jenn because he was armed and I wasn’t.”
“We’ll fix that.”
“Otherwise I would have kicked the shit out of him.”
“I know you would.”
The gun guy’s name was John Lugo. He lived in a walk-up apartment near Chinatown, where the streets smelled of sour milk and fish water. He was around Ryan’s age, late thirties, heavy enough to stretch out a black Adidas track suit to its max. His thinning black hair was wet from a shower and pulled back in a ponytail. The air was stale with cigarette smoke and fried food. Lugo had the unhealthy pallor of someone who spent too much time under artificial light.
He said, “You guys need anything? There’s coffee ain’t too old, there’s beer if it ain’t too early.”
“We’re good,” Ryan said.
“All right. So Angelo explained the deal to you, right? All sales are final, cash, and every piece comes with a box of shells. And no obscene state taxes, of course. I start around five bills for a basic nine and I can go as high as you can.”
“You have suppressors?”
“Not for every model, but I can cover most of the mainstream stuff.”
He led us into a spare bedroom that had a pine armoire against one wall. There was also a gym mat and weights in one corner. The mat had a fine layer of dust on it. Lugo unlocked the armoire and swung both doors open wide. Handguns hung on pegs on the insides of the doors. He slid out a shelf where a TV might rest and there were more guns lying flat on that.
“That’s the basic collection there. Once you choose your weapons, I’ll match up the suppressors. If you want machine guns, rifles or shotguns, I have to take a trip to a storage unit I got out of state. Fucking Massachusetts gun laws.”
“We’ll see what’s here first,” Ryan said. “We’re hoping we can get by without heavy artillery.”
“A couple of cocky optimists,” Lugo said. “I like that.”
Ryan said, “Show me a Beretta for my friend. The 92 army model.”
“No problem. I got the ten-round version or the seventeen. Takes nine-mil rounds or the Smith and Wesson.40-calibres, which I happen to prefer. Blows a hole just that much bigger in your target. I can do these for seven apiece, six-fifty if you buy two, and no haggling please. It gets me upset.”
“And the suppressors?”
“Four apiece, which is a break, ’cause I could ask four-fifty, five each. But you’re a friend of Angelo’s so …”
“Show him the seventeen-shot model,” Ryan said. “The less he has to reload, the better.”
“I’m in the room,” I said.
“And he will take.40-calibre rounds.”
Lugo slipped a pistol off its peg and handed it to me. It weighed about the same as the model I’d carried in the Israeli army.
“You can dry-fire it,” Lugo said. “It ain’t loaded.”
I adopted a shooting stance and squeezed the trigger until the hammer snapped down. I looked at Ryan and shrugged. “This is fine.”
“And for me …,” he said. He looked up one side of each cupboard door and down the other. He ran his hand over every gun in the sliding shelf until he stopped at one with a flat black polymer body. “Is this the new Glock 17?”
“That’s it,” Lugo said. “The fourth-generation G17. I was at the SHOT show in Vegas when Glock unveiled it. Great piece. I also have the G22, very similar gun but takes the.40-calibres. Only downside is it carries fifteen rounds, not seventeen. I also got the compact versions of both, the G19 and G23.”
“Nice selection.”
“Thanks. You a lefty?”
“No.”
“ ’Cause the magazine release catches on both models are reversible.”
“I’m left-handed,” I said.
“Yeah? You want one of these instead of the Beretta? Only that’s gonna run you a grand, not including the suppressor.”
“Don’t confuse him,” Ryan said. “He should have something with a safety.”
“So one Beretta and one G17?” Lugo asked.
“Make mine the one that blows bigger holes,” Ryan said.
“One Beretta and one G22.”
“I also need an ankle gun. Does that Baby Eagle there take the same.40 ammo?”
“But of course.”
“All right,” Ryan said. “Add it up.”
“Boys going off to play,” Lugo said. “Warms my heart. Can I interest you in holsters?”
“Three. A shoulder and an ankle for me. You?” Ryan asked me. “Shoulder or hip?”
I imagined drawing a gun, wondering which would be quicker. I opted for hip, since that was how I’d carried my Beretta in the army.
“You can throw in the ankle holster,” Ryan said, counting out hundreds from a half-inch stack. “And I don’t like haggling either.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Lugo said.
CHAPTER 22
It wasn’t far to Upham’s Corner, the neighbourhood where Carol-Ann lived. The GPS map showed a straight route along Dorchester out of South Boston and into Roxbury. But not too deep into it: just a few lights past the I-93 overpass.
Jenn had been gone about five hours now. The outside world became a blur as rain began to fall and my fear for Jenn clouded my mind. Sean Daggett was a predator, not above harming her if it profited him or filled some coarse dark appetite.
Traffic slowed, then stopped as orange construction cones closed off the right lane. After a moment of silence, Ryan said, “Cara was not strictly pleased I came down here.”
“I can imagine. You picked up and left pretty fast.”
“It wasn’t that,” he said. “It’s what coming here meant.”
I looked over at him, saw the strong set of his jaw. There’s a scar that creeps along the other side that gets darker when he’s angry. I couldn’t see it now but I’d bet it was livid. “That you might have to kill someone.”
“I tried to leave it behind last summer, you know I did.”
“Yes.”
“Then I went to Chicago in the fall to help you and Jenn out. I was ready to kill if I had to but it never came up. That cop pulled the trigger first. Now I’m here again, I’m armed, I’m gonna do what I have to do to get Jenn back and deal with the fucker who took her. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her and I didn’t do everything to stop it. But for Cara, it’s like I’m a drunk who keeps walking into a bar. Will he or won’t he slip? Is this thing she hates so much coming back into our lives? What if I kill someone here and it leads to some kind of retribution against Carlo? That’s what it always comes down to. That’s why she left me last year.”
“I remember.” He’d been living in an airport hotel when I met him, thrown out by Cara as the Calabrian Mob family he worked for descended into a murderous fight for spoils as their patriarch lay dying.
“But she threw me another question today, one of her nasty curves in the dirt. Something I know she’s always wondered about but never asked out loud: Did I actually like killing or had it always been just business. We never talked about this shit before, never discussed my work once since we took our vows. But now she’s hammering me over the phone, this is while I’m in the cab on the way to the airport, she’s asking me if I’m looking forward to getting back in action. Was there a thrill to the hunt or something like that in it for me?”
“What’d you say?”
“I said I can’t discuss it right now, I’m in a taxi with a driver has ears like a spaniel. We’ll have to talk about it when I got back. So all the way down here, I really thought about it. About every life I took
. I didn’t count things I did in self-defence, or defence of you, for that matter, just the contract hits. And it wasn’t easy. As you can imagine, I’ve never exactly been given to reflection.”
“What do you think now?”
“That I did enjoy the hunt. When I was given a contract, I spent a lot of time following the target around, learning his routine. And it was always a him, right? Never killed a woman. Following another man allowed me to become someone else. As I walked behind him, I’d find myself falling into his walk, and the more I assumed it, the more I knew about him. Did he slouch or stand tall, stride or shuffle? Was he heading somewhere or wandering? Driven or aimless? I could sense his mood, how he felt about himself. How his shoes struck the street, which way his heels would shave down over time. I was on the road a lot, on my own, answering to no one, free of all other responsibility other than to prepare, for however long I needed.”
“Ryan unbound.”
“Exactly. But the actual killing? Ending someone else’s life? No. I had nothing personal against any of these people. All I knew was they had fucked up beyond repair. It was over for them, no matter what. I was always grateful when I could use a gun. But there were times when I couldn’t and I had to use a knife or a wire or my hands. And it disgusted me. Whatever a serial killer is, getting a weird kick out of it and doing all these rituals and collecting shit, I’m the opposite. I hated getting close to them, smelling their breath or their BO. Sometimes their piss or their shit if they freaked. A couple of times I used my hands and had to look in their eyes the whole time. Saw them bulge, and then saw the lights go out. I wanted it over as fast as I could and got out of there. The only person I wanted to be close to physically was Cara, and then Carlo when he came along. My mother when I see her. Not these other people. Not these losers.”
“So you have your answer.”
“Except the minute I got it, bam, I fell into an immediate contradiction.”
“How so?”
“If I have to kill someone to get Jenn back, I won’t hesitate. And if I get a chance to kill the cunt that took her, this Daggett fucker, I’ll enjoy it.”
“Talk like that around Carol-Ann,” I said. “She’ll sing like a bird.”
Upham’s Corner was a pocket in east Roxbury, a decent neighbourhood a few streets wide bordering a larger territory that was hostile and predatory. Gianelli had told me that every other kid fourteen and up in parts of Roxbury was armed. “Boston has a miserable record of juvenile deaths by gunshot,” he said, “and an even worse solution rate. It’s one of the reasons their homicide cops get touchy. All they get is grief over the unsolveds. Some kid gets killed, everyone’s out there laying down wreaths and teddy bears and lighting candles and screaming, ‘Where were the cops?’ But not one of them picks up the phone and calls ’cause that’d be snitching.”
You’d never know any of this on Carol-Ann’s street. It was just off Dorchester, two blocks in length. She lived on the second block in a tidy two-storey house with a small garden fenced off with black wrought iron. The rest of the front had been given over to two parking spots, one for Carol-Ann, I assumed, and one for her upstairs tenant. All the neighbouring houses looked well-kept, free of litter, with gardens being prepped for spring planting.
There was only one car in the parking area, a small blue hatchback. Carol-Ann’s car was a white Camry, Jenn had told me.
“Not home,” I said.
“What do you want to do?” Ryan asked.
“We could sit awhile, see if she comes back.”
“Or break in. Be there when she walks in. Watch her wet herself.”
“That does sound better than sitting around.”
We drove down to the end of the block and left the car there. Ryan walked down a narrow concrete path between Carol-Ann’s house and her neighbour’s to see about a way in the back. I walked up to the front door and knocked. There was a decal on the front door saying the house was alarmed and monitored by SecuriGuard. It figured a single woman living in a pocket on the edge of despair would have an alarm. Suddenly sitting and waiting seemed like the better scenario. We weren’t smash-and-grab artists willing to take the risk that we would get in and out with a laptop before the police arrived. At the least, I wanted to search the house; at best, wait for Carol-Ann to get home. Now it seemed neither was a good idea. I followed the concrete path to the rear to warn Ryan off busting his way in. Turned out I didn’t have to. There was a decal on the back door too. He was peering in through the glass, hands cupped on either side of his face.
“See anything?” I asked.
“I was just wondering if the alarm was for real. Some people are too cheap to install one. They just get the decal and paste it on.”
“And?”
“She’s got the system. I can see contacts on the door frame and window.”
“All right, back to the car. We wait her out.”
We were heading back toward the street when a steel-grey Ford pulled up to the curb and two men got out, both in suits and overcoats and short haircuts. One lit a cigarette. Neither looked happy.
“Fuck,” Ryan said.
“Cops?”
“Gotta be. And by the cut of those suits, I’d say Homicide. They’re usually the snappiest dressers in a squad.” We turned and ran down the path into the backyard. There was a chin-high wire fence all around. Neither of us even stopped. We clambered up the fence, scrambling for toeholds, and vaulted over into the yard that bordered Carol-Ann’s at the rear. Ryan landed clear on the grass. My right foot hit a muddy patch and my legs went out from under me. I landed hard on my back, winded. I was trying to catch my breath when a glass door at the back of the house slid open and an unshaven man in a bathrobe stuck his head out and said, “What the fuck you doin’ in my yard!” My yad.
“You seen a grey tabby cat?” Ryan asked. “It got out of the house and jumped the fence.”
“Bullshit,” the guy snarled. “I seen the woman who lives back there. I never seen a cat there and I sure as hell never seen you.”
“Stay cool,” Ryan said. “We’re just trying to find the cat.”
The guy reached behind him and stepped out brandishing a red aluminum baseball bat.
Another beefcake with a bat. I’d fucking had it with all of them. I got to my feet and pulled the Beretta from my holster and said, “Get back in your house, asshole.”
He put up his hands so fast the bat fell at his feet. Then he backed up into his house and slid the glass door shut. As we moved toward the side of his house I saw him drop a security bar down and turn the blinds closed.
It didn’t take long to get the details on an all-news radio station. An unidentified Roxbury woman had been found beaten to death in Franklin Park, which the news anchor called a “troubled area.” Her name was being withheld until next of kin were notified, but witnesses who saw the body before it was bagged described the victim as a white woman in her thirties. The police refused to comment on whether it was a sex slaying but a spokesman said they were following several leads. I wished I could just phone them and say, “Daggett did it,” and hang up and have it mean something.
“What now?” Ryan asked.
“We bypass her and go straight to Stayner,” I said. “He knows more than he told me.”
“You know where he’d be on a Saturday?”
I opened my cell and scrolled through my recent calls, and selected Tania Hutchison. She answered on the second ring.
“Tania, it’s Jonah Geller, the investigator.”
“Hi,” she said. “What’s up?”
“If I needed to speak to Dr. Stayner today, where would I find him?”
“On a Saturday? I have no idea. It’s not golf season yet or beach weather.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Yes, he had us all out there for a barbecue last year. But I can’t tell you that, it’s-”
“Tania, please. I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t urgent. This isn’t just about Davi
d anymore. My partner’s been abducted.”
“Oh my God. That’s-I–I don’t know what-”
“Dr. Stayner can help me find her. She’s a woman your age, and she was taken by a man who will kill her if I don’t find her first.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do, Tania. You want to find out what happened to David too, don’t you? You told me that. You need to know how you got your new position. Just tell me where Stayner lives. He’ll never know it came from you.”
I heard her take a deep breath in and blow it out. “Do you know Concord at all?”
CHAPTER 23
Dusk was falling as we drove into Concord. It was quaint, historic, a fine slice of period Americana. A month from now they’d be re-enacting the skirmish between the Minutemen and the British regulars that essentially marked the beginning of the revolution. Who gave a shit? I was dialled in on Stayner and how best to approach him. Reason with him? Push him around? Leave him alone in the room with Ryan? There was no guarantee he’d be home. He might have had plans for the weekend, might be gone up or down the Cape or the shore, whatever they called it here. A man of his means might have season tickets to the theatre, opera, a Celtics game. The road was dark-no street lights, banners or bunting out here, just a ditch and a line of hedges or walls in front of houses that were fairly traditional in design but big, the lots at least a hundred feet wide, with long driveways running up to columned entrances.
As the numbers rolled up to Stayner’s, there was nowhere to pull up, get a sense of how many people might be home, if any. There was no curb, barely a shoulder. We either had to go past his driveway for some further recon, or up it.
When in doubt, go up.
His was a large Tudor cottage with a substantial two-storey extension on one side that almost doubled the size of the original house, matched closely but not exactly with timber and stucco. Lights showed on both floors. A black Mercedes SUV was parked on a crushed-shell drive. I parked directly behind it so it couldn’t move. We walked up a flagstone path to a door that had a wrought-iron knocker in the centre, a plain oval that I banged three times hard against oak.
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