Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (10 page)

PART TWO

Secret is, when it's raining shit, get a shit umbrella. Deflect the shit so you can get the job done.

—Jim Grant

fifteen

They debriefed Grant
at
Boston Police Headquarters at One Schroeder Plaza downtown. The third-floor conference room was blue and grey. It was bigger than the report-writing room at Ecclesfield Police Station back home and roomier than the entire custody suite at Jamaica Plain station. It said everything about the modern police service that Grant hated. Top-heavy with brass and admin facilities and narrow-based in the trenches.

The mahogany conference table took up half the room and could have landed jet fighters. Comfortable chairs were arranged all the way around it. The far side of the room had three rows of less comfortable chairs facing a podium and a drop-down screen on the wall. The left-hand side was all glass. A picture window replaced the wall and looked northeast towards Back Bay and Beacon Hill. The expensive part of town. It was no surprise that the bosses got that view while the frontline cops lived at ground level. In the valley. Shit view for the shit collectors.

Grant had driven down with Kincaid. He hadn't spoken much. Kincaid appeared to understand. That close to a shooting, most people needed time to adjust. Grant tried not to be too obvious about it. He'd made a big thing about at least not getting blood on his favorite jacket and spoke only when spoken to but other than that had kept tight-lipped. The SWAT officers had traveled en masse. Just like in the army, the infantry always stuck together. Uniform patrol officers made up the rest, and a lone secretary to take notes.

Now they were all in the same room, but even then they fell neatly into three groups. Patrol, SWAT, and plainclothes. If they could have split it down further, then Grant would have been in a group of his own. English visitor versus Irish Americans. He could feel the enmity oozing like sweat from everybody except Kincaid. That threw up its own problem. Kincaid was Grant's only ally in the room, but Grant wasn't sure about the big detective.

He thought about the interview.

He thought about the grenade.

He thought about who had argued strongest to let Grant use the insecure front interview room instead of waiting for the ones in the custody area.

And he thought about Sean Sullivan.

I'd be more worried about watching your back if I was you.

The district commander from E-13 called the room to order. He'd been in charge at the scene and was in charge of the debrief. The chief of police wouldn't get involved unless mistakes had been identified and only then if he needed to apportion blame and deflect the press. The press were already all over the story. It was big news. The second coming of the Resurrection Man. That didn't sit well with Anglo-Irish relations either. The chief made a cutthroat sign across his throat for the secretary not to record anything yet.

“Okay. Let's get one thing straight. This was a clean shoot.”

There was a murmur of approval.

“They said so on TV, so it must be true.”

A smattering of laughter.

“But let's not forget what got us into this mess. Some fuckwit with a gun shooting at cops in the street.”

Grant felt his hackles rise. His patented calming technique worked in reverse when his bullshit detector kicked in. It always kicked in when the bosses started shit spreading. He waited all of three seconds before he abandoned restraint and spoke his mind. “He shot a traffic light.”

“That's a traffic signal, me lad.”

“Not a cop, though, is it?”

“I didn't say a marksman with a gun. Same general direction as cops in the street is close enough for me.”

A murmur and a smattering of laughter. Somebody clapped briefly. The man with the gold braid on his cap leaned both elbows on the podium. “And let's not forget the other reason the shit hit the fan. The Resurrection Man walking in there like Jesus fucking Christ and forcing officers to take the shot.”

“Sullivan was going to hand the rifle over.”

“Didn't look like that on TV.”

Grant couldn't argue. He'd said as much to Sullivan. The chief indicated the three shooters sitting apart from the rest of the SWAT.

“And it didn't look like that to the officers entrusted with protecting your life.”

No murmur this time. The room fell silent apart from the chief. “A life that was only at risk once you went inside, since the subject didn't have a hostage up until that point. When a respected and decorated BPD detective made the suggestion.”

Kincaid appeared to shrug off the criticism. You needed broad shoulders to bear the weight of service. Most of the weight came from above, not outside.

Despite Grant's reservations, he didn't like the bosses shifting the blame to the guys in the trenches. “You were mobile command at the scene.”

The chief pushed off from the podium and stood erect. Grant continued. “So the decision was yours. You saw a way of ending the siege without any of your officers being at risk. Just some mad fuck Englishman, and what's to lose there, right?”

There were other things to be said, but this wasn't the place to say them. Things that Sullivan had suggested before he was shot. Grant didn't hold with conspiracy theories so he didn't see Sullivan being killed as a way of silencing whatever he knew about his brother. For the bad guys, you'd have to say it was very convenient, though. Life was rarely convenient; mostly, chaos reigned.

The chief regained his composure. “We're going to lose you anyway. With both Sullivans dead, there's nothing to detain you further. Be sure to say goodbye before you leave.”

Grant felt the weight of opinion was on the chief's side. He glanced around the room and couldn't find a single friendly face. It surprised him because his view had always been different. If you were part of the emergency services, whether it be the police, ambulance, or fire department, you were brothers. Army, navy, or air force: same thing. He'd never understood the rivalry between army and navy. He'd never understood the antagonism between police and fire, especially in America. Didn't they all shed the same blood in the Twin Towers? There was no arguing against it in Boston, where the Anglo-Irish mix gave the debate added spice.

The chief waved down the smattering of applause and laughter and brought the room to order. He nodded to the secretary to begin recording the meeting.

“Informal proceedings over. Let's get down to business. Individual reports from each branch of the operation, starting with the first officers on the scene—over to you.”

The debrief proceeded. Each part of the operation was discussed. There would be an IAD investigation into the shooting later, but this was simply to get the facts straight for the official report. Grant took a backseat to the sworn officers of the BPD. He went over to the water cooler and filled a paper cup. The view out of the window was breathtaking, but he wouldn't be sorry to leave it behind. The holiday assignment had proved to be anything but a vacation. He was sick to the back teeth of listening to bosses protecting their careers and Internal Affairs sticking the knife into the frontline cops. As he stood beside the water cooler, what he saw was the filing trays at Ecclesfield Police Station.

“I want to
lock
crooks up.”

Jamie Hope kept his voice low. He looked uncomfortable as Grant put his tie and epaulettes in the clerical tray and prepared to leave for the last time.

“You will. Got to keep your job long enough first, though. What did I tell you about stab vests?”

Hope smiled. “They cover both sides for the bosses stabbing you in the back.”

“That's right.” Grant pushed the tray closed and turned back to Hope.

“Don't stick your head above the parapet until you know it's safe.”

Hope nodded. “I'll remember that. But you'll be back soon, won't you?”

Grant thought about lying but decided on being vague instead. “We'll see.”

Out in the car park, smoke drifted in the cold night air. From the unofficial smokers' corner beside the dog kennels, Inspector Carr, the D&C bulldog, stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. His gold fillings caught the light again as he grinned. “Warrant card?”

Grant took a step towards the D&C inspector. “I've been suspended, not sacked. I keep my warrant card.”

Carr took one step backwards to preserve his personal space. “For now.”

Grant struggled to keep his anger in check. To remain calm on the outside despite being pissed off on the inside. He wasn't completely successful as he took another step towards Inspector Carr. “For always. And if I find out you've gone after PC Hope, they won't find your teeth with a metal detector.”

“Still protecting the weak, eh, Grant?”

“Still backing my colleagues. You should try it sometime.”

He turned away from the D&C inspector and got into his car. It was late and the realization was finally setting in that tonight he was no longer a policeman. There was only one place to mourn that, so he turned left out of the driveway and headed towards the Woodlands Truck Stop and Diner at Snake Pass.

“You want a lift
back to the Seaverns?”

Grant shook his head. He needed some fresh air. The debriefing had finished twenty minutes ago, and it had taken that long for him to get the anger out of his system. Not at the way they'd painted Sean Sullivan as some kind of low-level crook—because that's pretty much what the Sullivan family was, a nest of petty crooks—but at the part he'd played in the younger brother's downfall. If he hadn't walked in there like Jesus walking on water, there'd have been no need to shoot him. Having said that, if Sullivan hadn't decided to hold off the police with a thirty-odd-six, they wouldn't have had to shoot him either.

The Resurrection Man. That name certainly hadn't applied to the Sullivan brothers. Just the man in the orange windcheater, arms held out like the crucifixion. The name was going to dog him for the rest of his stay, he could sense that. Coming out of the conference room had proved it. A faceless uniform shouting across the corridor: “They'll be checking your hands for stigmata next.”

Grant hadn't risen to the bait. He'd simply stalked off down the stairs, ignoring the bank of elevators, and out the front door. Kincaid was lighting a cigarette around the corner from the main entrance. It was the first time he'd noticed the big detective smoking. It was surprising the things you learned about someone if you waited long enough.

“You sure about the lift? No problem.”

“I'll take the T. Thanks.”

He walked to Ruggles Station around the corner. Moving traffic on the main road became parked cars in the back street. Big cars. Gas guzzlers. The low price of petrol was one of the few benefits of visiting America, if he had a car, but the price of petrol wasn't Grant's primary concern as he walked, head down, along the back streets to the T. It was the Sullivan brothers and some of their pearls of wisdom.

This long in the nick, they ain't gonna believe I said nowt. I'm dead.

That had been Freddy, five minutes before his squashed eyeball had been plastered on the ceiling. Said nowt about what? What could the ex-Ravenscliffe burglar know that was so important? And if whoever killed him thought he'd spoken about it, who did they think he'd spilled the beans to? The Resurrection Man.

I'd be more worried about watching your back if I was you.

Sean this time. A warning about the inside man who'd set Grant up with the insecure interview room. It could also be taken a different way. If the person pulling the strings thought Freddy had spoken out of turn, what would he do about the man he spoke out of turn to—the Resurrection Man?

He shook his head as he walked. That argument didn't hold water. If Freddy Sullivan had divulged incriminating evidence to the cop interviewing him, there'd be no point killing the cop. The information would already be in the system, on file with the BPD and any other agency with access to their records. It would make no sense.

Grant climbed the stairs into the darkness of the transport hall. It had been a long day, and he hadn't realized how late it was. Dusk settled over Boston. The lights were on inside, but there weren't many people milling around. It wasn't rush hour. There were just a handful of passengers, some traveling individually and some in groups. A smattering of conversation and laughter echoed around the hall. Grant checked the map on the wall. The orange line. He selected the southbound platform, then bought a token.

His mind was still playing with the possibilities as he descended to the platform. Nobody was going to start killing cops. It was the single biggest mistake anyone could make. Cop killers got hunted to extinction. It was a unifying factor that would draw together all the warring factions of the emergency services. No more army versus navy games. No more police versus fire rivalry. They would all pull together to get a cop killer. That was human nature. If someone was willing to kill a cop, then they'd be capable of killing anyone. Public enemy number one.

He dismissed the possible threat as not credible.

The crowd thinned once he reached the platform. Just a couple of women up at the far end. Three scruffy-looking guys talking near the stairs. Half a dozen individual males and females waiting patiently for the next train. Like any station on the London Underground. Like any platform on the Paris Metro. The evening sky outside was sliding from blue to dark blue. The track began to hum. The next train was coming.

He stepped towards the edge of the platform.

Nobody was going to start killing cops.

Unless the cop got killed in a fatal accident.

The humming grew louder, accompanied by an ever-growing rattle and shake of wheels on track. Sparks lanced into the gloom like fireflies in the distance. Then closer. The chatter stopped. The expectant crowd moved towards the edge of the platform and spread along its length. Grant sensed movement behind him. The train came into view around the distant curve in the track.