Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (20 page)

That was a sobering thought.

“I can see you, Muscles.”

Grant never stood with his back to the door unless he had to. Cornejo had his back covered as far as the corridor was concerned. The door behind the desk was in front of him. The door in the far left corner should have been out of his sight line, but his peripheral vision was as acute as his foresight. He was right. It was where the heavies waited in case their boss needed help. One of them had slid quietly into the room and closed the door.

“Why don't you come and join us?”

The man was built like a brick shithouse. Tall and wide and with a neck that was thicker than the head it supported. He was Oddjob without the bowler hat. Grant smiled at the analogy. Grant loved the early Bond movies. Oddjob glanced at Delaney, who gave a barely perceptible nod. The big guy came over and stood to one side of his boss, mirroring Cornejo's position behind Grant. Mexican standoff.

Delaney remained calm. This was his office.

“When you arrived at Logan, at the luggage carousel, were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“No. You were in a roomful of others collecting their baggage. Did you know any of them?”

“No.”

“Ever meet any of them?”

“No.”

“Not strictly true, though, is it? You probably rubbed shoulders with half of them. Spent, what—eight hours in a confined space with all of them? So you did meet them. You just don't know them.”

“That's a really clever argument. They teach you that in gangster school?”

“You think I'm a gangster?”

Grant felt his body relax. Preparing. One eye on Delaney. One on Oddjob.

“I think you're a low-rent toad who climbed out of the pond and made it big. So big you had your employee whacked in case he blew the whistle on your latest venture. Well, guess what? He blew.”

Oddjob flexed his muscles but didn't move. Delaney smiled. “Blew up. Yes. The only thing we didn't get on WCVB.”

Grant breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Twice. His arms hung limp at his sides. He flexed his knees so they could move quickly. Half turned to face the threat without actually moving at all. “Maybe you should have tipped them off it was going to happen. Got the cameras there early.”

Delaney ignored the comment. He let out a sigh, and his face took on a nostalgic, thinking-of-the-past look. His smile developed a sinister twist. It danced across his lips, but his eyes remained hard as flint. Dangerous.

“I always wanted to be a carpenter. Do something with my hands. Or maybe a butcher. Carving meat and hanging it to drain. You know? It must be very relaxing doing something like that. So long as you're not the meat.”

The flint eyes focused on Grant.

“How is Terri Avellone these days? She still compensating for the loss of her little sister by befriending prostitutes?”

The mention of Terri shook Grant. He felt a shiver of unease run down his spine. He was beginning to like her more than just as a one-night stand. Delaney's smile became a smirk.

“You really don't know what's going on, do you?”

“More than you think.”

“But less than you think. Which adds up to nothing at all.”

Grant could sense something big coming. The bluff had worked. He was about to learn something he hadn't known before. He waited. Oddjob waited. Grant remained alert. The best time for the bodyguard to attack was just after the big reveal. He took half a step to his left, giving Cornejo a direct line to Delaney if Grant had to defend against Oddjob. Delaney's eyes noted the move but didn't look worried. “You think I bombed the police station to silence Sullivan?”

Grant waited.

“You think that. The BPD thinks that. Maybe that's because somebody else wants you to think that.”

Grant waited.

Delaney was savoring the moment. He was practically licking his lips.

“But I've got local knowledge on my side. JP is my—what do you call it? Patch?—lived there man and boy. I hear things.”

Grant looked straight at Delaney but was really watching Oddjob. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Cornejo move into the open space to his right. Delaney was on a roll.

“What I've heard lately is this.”

Delaney paused for effect. Grant kept his knees loose. Delaney smiled.

“What if Sullivan wasn't the target?”

A smokescreen. A distraction. Grant hoped that was the case.

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“The statement is, you pissed a lot of people off at Snake Pass. And the Dominguez cartel don't forgive and forget.”

Grant felt the small hairs on the back of his neck bristle. “They're not Boston-based.”

“They weren't Snake Pass–based either. Boston's closer than Yorkshire. You need to watch your back.”

I'd be more worried about watching your back.
That phrase kept coming back to haunt him. For the first time since he'd entered the room, Grant was unsure of himself. A half-glance towards Oddjob confirmed he wasn't going to attack. The no-necked bruiser had relaxed his stance. Delaney bent down and picked up the matchbook. “Not easy to keep a low profile when you're national news, is it? Maybe you should change the color of your jacket.”

“It's my favorite.”

“Maybe go for one of those Quadrophenia coats—you know, the ones with the bullseye on the back.”

“And ride around on a Vesper?”

“Optional but not recommended.”

Oddjob took a step backwards. Confrontation over. Cornejo looked confused but kept quiet. Delaney was milking the situation for all it was worth. He looked like the cat who had swallowed the cream.

“But thanks for dropping by. It's always nice to meet a celebrity.”

The office on the southeast corner of One Post Office Square had slipped into darkness as the sun set in the west. Logan International was in shade. The sky turned a darker blue in preparation for night. The room lights came on automatically as dusk settled over Boston.

Delaney tossed the matchbook to Grant, who caught it one-handed.

“We don't keep those here. I'll send you some if you like.”

There were no farewell handshakes. Grant nodded and walked to the door. He let Cornejo out first, then threw one last glance at the head of Delaney Enterprises. Frank Delaney looked like a man in total control.

Round one to the bad guys. Back to the drawing board for the good guys.

twenty-seven

Back to the drawing
board
for Grant meant reviewing the evidence. The only evidence was the CCTV footage at E-13. There was also a forensics report and the bag of Sullivan's property, but it was the recording of the incident that might shake things loose.

It was dark by the time Grant arrived at the reception counter. Dusk had come and gone. Night had taken over JP. What little light was left in the sky was dark blue and fading fast. The streetlamps had come on automatically, just like in Delaney's office. The parallel was amusing. The streets of Jamaica Plain were where Delaney had grown up. The plush office suite at One Post Office Square was alien territory that the big man had assimilated, but the streets were where he belonged. The gutter if Grant had his way.

Grant left Cornejo on the train, with a promise to contact him tomorrow. The combat vet had seemed more upbeat than Grant had seen him before. Perhaps being part of a police operation, even off the books, made him feel useful again. But he was still only a well-meaning amateur. Grant was a cop.

Miller was finishing his shift, doing what all cops did at the end of the day: trying to catch up on paperwork that the bosses insisted be completed before going off-duty. There was no clocking on and off time in the police. Hours were flexible. Overtime unlikely. The night detective was out on a burglary call at Arborway and Custer, just below Centre Street.

“Not been stealing pizzas again, have they?”

“That would be robbery. He's at a domestic burglary.”

“I don't want to keep you. Could you let me at the CCTV stuff?”

“You know how to work it?”

“I'm a quick learner. Your kit's just better than ours, is all.”

Miller let him into the viewing room and quickly explained the controls for the Multiplex console. He signed out the recording, then left Grant to play. Grant thanked him and waited for the door to close. He didn't know what he was looking for, but whenever he was stuck on a case, it relaxed him to simply go over old ground. Check for anything he might have missed.

He found the point on the recording just before the bombing, then rewound it to half an hour earlier and pressed Play. The front office played its time-lapse jerky day. Grant zoomed in to remove the main office and only show the front desk and glass doors. He saw himself go into the interview room with Freddy Sullivan. He watched the front doors, looking for any sign of the man mountain who'd slapped his hand against the window. There was only a brief glimpse of him passing the front doors. Grant paused the picture. The frame was grainy and indistinct at three times zoom. Just a big guy, almost as tall as the doors, maybe six feet six or more.

The smaller guy in the baseball cap and hooded sweatshirt came in. Grant froze the picture again. Sat with his chin on clenched fists and focused on the man who'd tried to kill him, according to Frank Delaney.

The guy's own mother wouldn't have recognized him. The bill of the cap hid the face. You couldn't tell if he was black, white, or sky-green purple, let alone if he was one of the Dominguez cartel. They didn't advertise themselves like in the movies, wearing flowered shirts and
Miami Vice
sandals. This was just some guy wearing a grey sweatshirt with a logo on the left breast.

Grant focused on the logo. He tried zooming two more notches, but it only became more indistinct. He squinted and deliberately blurred his focus. That worked sometimes if you were looking at faces, taking away the fine detail and concentrating on shape and color. It didn't work for sweatshirt logos. He thought it might have been the Triple Zero logo, but that might have been wishful thinking. If you take the inkblot test, you can see all sorts of things, mostly how fucked in the head you were as a kid.

Half an hour later he gave up. He hadn't expected to find anything, but the act of sitting in a police station helped make him feel like part of the investigation. Part of the team. Being part of the team was what Cornejo was missing. Mustering out of the corps was like having one arm cut off for an ex-marine. Losing your family and the brotherhood of combat. It was something you couldn't explain to anyone who had never served. It was something Grant never thought about. Part of the process of convincing himself he hadn't done some of the things he knew he had done.

He put the tape back in the drawer and signed it back in. Noted the time for continuity of evidence. Locked the room and handed the key in downstairs. The front office was quiet. At night all police stations were the same. They were only populated by cops, not administrators and typists. Typists did shit-all except type. That was something else he kept telling himself.
All I did was type.

He thanked the desk officer and went out the front door.

Washington Street was dark.

The streetlights were sparse and dull. This wasn't downtown with all its glitzy lighting and reflective skyscrapers. This was a dirty back street on the outskirts of town, even if that back street was the longest road Grant had ever seen. Washington Street ran from downtown to the back of beyond. God only knew how the postman ever found an address.

There were several cars parked outside the police station. The parking lot of Ruggiero's Market was full, the restaurant apparently doing a roaring trade this evening. In contrast, Yessenia's Market looked sad and empty. The lights were on, but nobody was shopping. Grant began to cross the road, intending to buy a Coke just to give the Greek at least one customer.

He was halfway across when an engine started farther down the street, six car lengths below the intersection. Headlights came on and flicked to high beam. Grant smiled and turned to face the oncoming car. Terri Avellone. He was wrong.

The squeal of tires
alerted him that things weren't right. That and the roar of the engine. Low gear. High speed. Somebody setting off in a hurry or somebody building to ramming speed. A big American car pulled out from the sidewalk and settled on its rear axle as it surged forward.

There was no time for deep-breathing exercises.

There was no time to think himself relaxed.

Grant assessed the situation in a flash. Limbs loose. Mind sharp.

The sidewalks on both sides of Washington Street south of the intersection were choked with parked cars. Small foreign jobs. Large American gas guzzlers. Three SUVs the size of small tanks. There was no escape from the road. El Ambajador Restaurant was the reason for so many parked cars. Four illuminated signs jutted from the wall advertising the restaurant, the beer it sold, and the credit cards it accepted. The car headlights tried to blind him as it pulled into the road just beyond the vacant lot.

The engine gunned.

Tires screeched.

Grant moved fast.

Towards the onrushing car.

Logical thinking said run away from the threat. If someone was trying to charge you down in a stolen car, go in the opposite direction. False assumption. Like all those guys in cartoons trying to outrun a falling tree. Can't be done. The tree will always win. The car is faster than the feet. In cartoons they never thought to just step aside. They always tried to outdistance the tree. They always lost. Grant couldn't simply step aside. The sidewalks were full. By the time he got around the corner into Green Street, he'd be just so much roadkill on the tarmac. Plan A was a washout. It was time for Plan B. Use the adversities. Don't try to outrun what you couldn't outdistance.

He darted towards the car, diagonally across the street. Use the adversities. The parked cars blocking his escape. He was up on the hood of a small Japanese model before the big American car could change direction. Closing the gap gave the driver less time to think. At speed, the car swerved towards Grant, but he was already up on the roof of a black SUV before it collided with the parked cars. Glass shattered. Sparks flew. Metal crumpled as the big car tried to crush Grant between the SUV and the El Ambajador's front wall. It hit the first car with a glancing blow. Then the second. Slammed the parked cars into the wall amid noise and mayhem.

The front fender came off and got caught under its wheels, but it charged on. Three cars. Four. Leaving a trail of destruction and smoke. Grant felt the SUV shift under his feet, but he was already aiming for what he'd seen in that flash assessment. The four illuminated signs jutting from the wall, separated by six-inch gaps. Like a ladder. He climbed in three easy movements and vaulted onto the flat roof. The car trailed sparks up Washington, hindered by the trapped fender.

Decision time. Grant saw the car and knew where it would go next. Not straight up Washington past the police station. Not right into Glen Road with its ribbon of narrow back streets. Left into Green Street and a free run towards Armory or Centre. Grant was up and running before the car even made the intersection. Over the roof onto the next building. The corner premises were flat roofed with one peaked roof at the end but not too steep to negotiate. He cut the corner, coming down onto the single-story extension of Peak Performance on Green Street. A delivery truck provided a quick way down, like giant steps from the roof to the truck to the Chevrolet parked next to the sidewalk.

He was fast but not fast enough.

The fender crumpled and twisted beneath the big American car, coming out from under the back wheels in a shower of sparks and dust. Freed from its anchor, the car sped off. Burning oil from a cracked seal created a smokescreen that James Bond's Aston Martin would have been proud of. Grant didn't even try to read the plates. It would be stolen. It would be found abandoned somewhere in JP or Roxbury or in any of the side roads in between.

Grant stood in the middle of the road with his hands on his hips, catching his breath. He turned back towards the intersection and began the slow walk back. He'd have to report this but knew it would only go down as dangerous driving. Arguing that it was a drug cartel's hit team wouldn't cut it. Or that it seemed a bit of a coincidence, fronting Delaney in his office that afternoon and someone trying to run him down tonight. Best keep it simple. Report a hit-and-run driver and give a description of the car. Another hitch in the drunk-driving statistics.

Making the report took less time than Grant had expected. At the front counter with the desk officer he'd spoken to earlier, he gave a written statement, and the officer called for a unit to come and check the damage to the parked vehicles. Grant dropped the twisted fender on the counter. It wouldn't be difficult to match once they found the car. He doubted they'd do a full forensic examination on it. Not for drunk driving. Just a lot of insurance claims in the morning.

It was after ten when he entered the Seaverns lobby and climbed the stairs to his room. He was ready for a shower and an early night. His body ached. The bruises were sore. It seemed like a day didn't go by when he could simply relax and recover. He took the room key out of his pocket and grabbed the door handle. It turned easily in his hand. It wasn't locked.