Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (29 page)

Her eyes flew open.

Another phone began to ring.

Then another. And another.

No time left.

Grant stared an apology into the girl's eyes. The girl returned it with a pleading glare. She let out a sigh that deflated her like a pricked balloon. Grant remembered blowing condoms into balloons as a kid, but the entire one-small-prick-fucking-one-big-prick scenario seemed foolish, macho nonsense now. Their eyes locked. Neither of them blinked. This was the end. When she spoke, her voice was calm and polite. “I do not want to die like this. Pliss.”

She made a gun shape out of her fingers and thumb and held it to her head. “Pliss.”

Grant stared into her eyes and saw someone else's. A swinging stethoscope. Dusty streets in a hot country. Another plea. Another gunshot. The reason why he hated guns.
I'm a typist
, he told himself, but that lie wouldn't wash today.

Cell phones were going off all over the place outside. Police radios squawked static. Grant dropped the knife and drew the .45 in one movement. In life-or-death situations, indecision kills. Grant's decision was no decision at all. Either way, the girl dies. He nodded once, placed one hand over her face to cover her eyes, and placed the barrel of the gun against her temple. He didn't say sorry, but he thought it. The dashing rescue had turned into a murderous debacle.

He pulled the trigger and shot her in the head.

With all motor functions
gone, she flopped to the ground, but that wasn't the end of it. Frank Delaney was dragged to the floor by the handcuff shackling him to the corpse. The JP gangster shouted to be released, but Grant ignored him. He stepped quickly around the end of the table. Cornejo was lying in a pool of blood behind him. The ex-marine was actually smiling.

Grant grasped the edge of the table and yanked it upwards. The table was heavier than the one in the interview room. It was bigger too. Jugs of water and flower displays tipped off the tablecloth as the surface upended. It flipped over, and Grant dropped to his knees behind it.

One last cell phone rang outside the door.

There was a hiss and a strange electronic wail beyond the table.

Then the ballroom was concussed with a deafening blast, and a ball of flame leveled the stage. The fake skylights in the vaulted ceiling shattered and rained shards of glass. The lectern disintegrated. The upended table blasted forwards, pushing Grant and Cornejo like snow before a plough traveling sixty miles an hour. They were swept from the stage like confetti.

Grant was slammed against the sidewall. Cornejo disappeared altogether. The ballroom was one huge echo chamber, the thumping explosion replaying in roles of diminishing thunder. It would replay in Grant's mind for days. He was lying on his back, arm broken and one leg twisted the wrong way, staring at the ceiling. There was no severed ear or squashed eyeball staring back at him this time. If Sullivan was looking down from above, Grant's message to him would be unprintable.

All he could think of to say was sorry, but his mouth wouldn't work. He wasn't sure if the message was for the girl, the woman from his past, or for himself. In the end it didn't matter. Cops live in a valley. Shit rolls downhill. Then you die. With that jolly thought, Grant faded into unconsciousness, unaware of the hands lifting the battered table off him or the sirens coming from all across the city.

forty-two

The private room
in
Massachusetts General Hospital was quiet. There was no steady beep of the heart rate monitor and no constant rustle of nurse's uniforms as they fussed around the recovering hero. That's because Grant wasn't hooked up to a heart rate monitor, and the room was empty except for the man in the bed and the bigger man standing near the window.

“Nice view they've given you.”

Kincaid was looking out across Charlesbank Park to the Charles River Basin. Grant had already noted that when Americans called something a park, what they really meant was sports fields. Charlesbank was basically a grassy area protruding into the river with three baseball diamonds and a swimming pool. There were a few park benches and picnic tables, so he supposed you could just about get away with calling it a park.

Grant was sitting up on top of the bed sheets, one arm in a sling across his chest and one leg in plaster from ankle to thigh. It was the only thing giving the room a hospital feel. This was first class. It didn't even smell like a hospital room. Flowers and perfume fragranced the private ward so much he thought he'd gag. Kincaid was craning his neck to look left. Grant knew he wasn't looking at the Longfellow Bridge, as spectacular as that was, but beyond it. Farther south. The Hynes was just visible past the bend in the river. It was still there. The smoke that had been hanging over it the last few days was not.

Grant jerked the thumb of his good hand towards the door. “They do know I don't need protection anymore, right?”

He was referring to the big guy in a black suit standing outside the private room. He had the sunglasses, earpiece, and square jaw of the archetypal G-man. Grant smiled at the protective overkill. You'd think he'd saved the president or something. Kincaid followed Grant's gaze. “The Dominguez cartel?”

“Yeah—that was just smoke and mirrors. Delaney trying to deflect suspicion away from Triple Zero. Guy must have a real God complex.”

“Had a real God complex.”

“Exactly. He can take it up with the man himself now, can't he?”

“It's the other fella he'll be visiting. Hot and sticky down south.”

“They can call off the Men in Black, then.”

“Who said they were here to protect you? Don't want you signing yourself out again before the big guy comes for a chat.”

“The president?”

“Now who's got the God complex? No. But close. The head of something way above my pay grade.”

“I'm quaking in my boots.”

“Well, quake no more. You coming tonight?”

“If they'll let me out.”

“They'll let you out. Squad car'll pick you up at six.”

Neither of them had spoken about their losses. In a different theatre of war, the media might have reported them as “Heavy casualties—the relatives have been informed.” In frontline policing, the survivors never talked about it. Gallows humor was put on hold for that kind of thing. Kincaid pointed to the TV fastened to a wall bracket above the foot of the bed. “I see WCVB has a new media star.”

Grant glanced at the blank screen. He hated daytime TV. America was even worse than the UK. Daytime soaps and quiz shows that would insult the intelligence of a germ. “You saw that, huh?”

“Hard to miss. I hear she's offered you a job.”

“Seriously. Can you see me on
Live at Five
on Channel 5?”

“You were on
Live at Five
.”

“Yeah. And what phoney bastards they were too.”

“That's the news for you.”

“Not for me, it's not.”

“Kimberly Clark must be some compensation.”

Grant held his hand out flat and quivered the palm. “The jury's out on that one. You know they cut my clothes off?”

“Normal procedure with blast injuries.”

“Bet it was that short-arsed little minx from day one. She was pissed off I didn't let her the first time.”

“Angels of mercy. And fashion police. Ruined your jeans, did she?”

“And more.”

“Not the famous orange jacket?”

“In pieces. Can't even stitch it up.”

“How will the bad guys see who to shoot now?”

Kincaid fell silent. He looked as if he were mulling something over before mentioning it. He made a decision and leaned his back against the window facing the bed. He lowered his voice so the guy outside the door couldn't hear. “Something I do know.”

Grant sensed a change in mood. He kept quiet.

“I finally got some answers about your record.”

“Criminal? Don't have one.”

“Military.”

Grant waited. Kincaid tried to be tactful. “She was American, wasn't she?”

Grant said nothing.

“The stethoscope. Army Medical Corps.”

Grant didn't ask how Kincaid found out about the stethoscope. He already knew. The night Terri Avellone and Melissa Quintana waited in his room, Grant had thought somebody had searched it. When he discovered the women in the bathroom, he'd pushed that thought aside, but somebody
had
searched the drawers. It was an understandable precaution before working with the loose cannon from Snake Pass.

“The Ministry of Defence records've got you as a typist. US Joint Operations records have you as something else.”

Grant shrugged. “Best way to keep a secret is to convince yourself it never happened.”

“The governor knows it happened. State Department too. You've been put up for a Medal of Honor.”

“We both know it's those who don't come back who deserve the medals.”

“We do. But the media loves a hero, and governments love the media.”

The door opened without anybody knocking. The G-man stepped aside and Senator Clayton came in, flanked by two men who looked even more imposing. Kincaid went to the door. “Time to go. Don't sign anything.”

He winked, then left. The door closed behind him with a pneumatic hiss.

Senator Clayton smiled
his
million-dollar smile and shook Grant's hand. The smile was tarnished by a hint of sadness. Grant's hand was grazed and cut, but at least it was the right hand for shaking. His left arm was the one plastered and supported by the sling. Clayton's face morphed from that of a smiling politician into a grateful citizen.

“I cannot thank you enough. Never be able to. I am so sorry.”

Grant saw the honesty in the senator's eyes and thought once again that Clayton might not be such a jerk after all. “Wasn't your fault. Guy like Delaney”—Grant shrugged—“wasn't your fault. I'm sorry for your loss. Wasn't her fault either.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

The other two men seemed anxious for the mutual backslapping to be over. The older one, with greying temples and an air of natural authority, was obviously the governor. Clayton introduced him, and there was another round of handshaking and congratulations.

“I'm sure your colleague has told you, even though he was not supposed to, that you have been cited for the highest award this country can give.”

Grant nodded. One thing he'd learned in his combined police and army career was never to interrupt a politician when he was speechifying. The governor went on to explain how grateful the state of Massachusetts and the US of A were for the service Grant had performed, above and beyond the call of duty. Thanks to his actions, the ties between the Gulf and America had been strengthened and a terrible financial disaster averted. A terrible financial disaster. Oil and money. Grant wasn't surprised it all came down to that. Saving a few lives helped make it more palatable, but the bottom line was hard cash and the continued flow of crude into the gas guzzlers of America.

Grant thanked him but kept a wary eye on the third man. Despite keeping quiet and standing behind the politicians, the slim man in the dark suit exuded more power than the other two put together. He didn't step forward or shake Grant's hand. He simply waited for a pause in proceedings, then spoke in a quiet voice. “What are your plans, Mr. Grant?”

“Right now? Get some clothes on and go for a pint.”

Hard eyes stared at Grant, but the voice remained calm. “For the future. What plans?”

Grant smiled. This man was so powerful he didn't need to be forceful. He decided to tread carefully. But he was still a cop. Cops are more grounded than the usual minions of government. And this man was the government, even more than the public faces standing with him.

“Extra leg room on the flight home. Then face the D and C tribunal.”

“Discipline and Complaints?”

“Yes.”

“About Snake Pass?”

“Yes. My inspector told me to keep a low profile.”

A heavy thudding beat in the distance began to vibrate the windows. A helicopter coming in for the helipad on the hospital roof. More casualties from some other disaster, just a smaller one than avoiding the terrible financial disaster to the United States. Grant doubted the governor of Massachusetts would be greeting that flight.

“I've checked your records.”

Grant bristled. “Seems like nothing's private anymore.”

The man didn't bite. “I don't think the West Yorkshire Police would be sorry to see you go.”

“Go where?”

“Go here.”

“I'm already here.”

“Stay here.”

Grant leaned back against his pillows. The thudding of the helicopter grew louder, but the double glazing kept the noise to a minimum. The windows vibrated. The glass of water on the bedside cabinet trembled, forming concentric circles like a pebble thrown in a pond. The flowers and the perfume assaulted his nostrils. Normal hospital noises waited outside the door. “Immigration might have something to say about that.”

“Immigration will have nothing to say about that.”

“Joining the police in America. Application states it can only be positions you can't fill locally. By Americans.”

“You have talents that can't be found locally.”

“I do?”

The helicopter throbbed overhead. The pad must have only been a few floors above them. Grant thought he felt the thud as it touched down, but that could have been his imagination. He picked up the glass of water and took a drink. He suddenly felt very dry. The third man glanced at the ceiling, then back at Grant. “My lift has arrived. We will talk again.”

He still didn't offer to shake hands.

“Enjoy yourself this evening. He was a good man.”

Then all three swept out of the room, and Grant was alone. Where was Terri Avellone when he needed her? Even the big guy at the door had left. Grant swung his bad leg off the bed and struggled to the window. The view was indeed a beauty, but the park and the river weren't what he was looking at. He craned his neck to the left and focused on the distance. Somewhere beyond the Charles River Basin and the John B. Hynes Veterans Memorial Convention Center was a cop bar in Jamaica Plain, no doubt painted green.

It would soon be time to pay his respects. He doubted he'd enjoy himself.