Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (3 page)

“You little fucker.”

The bullies lunged forward in unison—just what Grant had hoped for. Their feet slipped from under them, and they went down heavy. Number Two cracked his skull on the tiled floor, blood leaking from his ears, and didn't move again. Number One slithered like a beached whale. Grant stung him with three more whip cracks that brought red wheals across his face and neck. He tried to control the anger, but it was off the leash. He wrapped the towel around the fallen bully's neck and grabbed the other end. Tightening the noose, he pulled backwards, and the bully was forced to get up. Before the big lug could regain his balance, Grant jerked his knee up into the unprotected groin, doubling him over. The forward momentum was all he required. Grant grabbed the sixth-former's head and smashed it against the porcelain sink, breaking his nose.

The boy in the corner screamed for Grant to stop, but Grant was out of control. Any restraint or calming techniques he might learn later were nowhere in evidence in the toilets of Moor Grange School for Boys. He slammed the head against the sink again and again. Blood and teeth splashed the tiled floor. Grant was still pulping the fat bully's face when his own feet slipped and he fell backwards, out of the dream.

He jerked awake three
hours later. It was mid-afternoon. Lace curtains diffused the January sunshine, but it was still bright enough to hurt his eyes. The rectangle of light had crawled across the floor and confirmed the passage of time. He rolled onto his back and stretched. Bones in his back and neck cracked. He flexed his muscles until the travel aches diminished, then turned to his left.

Terri Avellone had gone.

The used condom and its matchbook packaging were in the bin.

So be it. He hated goodbyes and false promises. A clean break was a good break. He swung his legs out of bed and went into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he was fresh and clean and ready for action. Faded jeans and a crumpled T-shirt. Black K-Swiss tennis shoes. He shrugged into the faded orange windcheater and took out the map. Time to get back to work. Time to find out where he was going. Grant squinted at the topography in a shaft of sunlight, unaware that his latest “road to Damascus” moment would come in a much darker place: Jamaica Plain.

three

“Yeah?”

The desk sergeant was chiseled out of stone. The one-word response came after three minutes of silence as he ignored the man standing with a battered leather holdall in one hand.

The Jamaica Plain police station was at 3345 Washington Street. Intersection of Green and Washington. The District E-13 station house was a modern red brick building and, like most police stations, it was plain and functional. Nothing fancy. All business. Apart from the clock tower that housed the staircase to the second floor. Grant had taken the T from the airport, and the subway journey on top of the long flight made the desk sergeant's attitude even more annoying.

Keep out of trouble.

Grant waited patiently, not one of his strengths, and took his inspector's words to heart. Over the years he'd arrived at new posts many times, both in the army and in the police. There was always a macho pissing contest that went on during the opening salvos. He was prepared to weather the storm.
This is a holiday assignment.
He kept telling himself that. It almost worked.

“DC Grant.”

“He doesn't work here.”

So it was going to be like that. He pointed a finger at his own chest. “DC Grant. From England.”

The sergeant stopped writing in the ledger on the counter and looked over the glasses on his nose. Grant detected a hint of the old country in the tilt of his head—a touch of Irish brogue in the voice. “You expect that's going to open any doors?”

There was no winning this guy over. So be it. “I've got a piece of shamrock up my arse if that'll help.”

“It won't. And that kind of attitude will get your pretty little ass kicked all sides up—shamrock or not.”

Radio traffic crackled in the background. A door slammed upstairs. Muted voices and the scrape of chairs came from offices beyond the reception desk. There was a smell of coffee and cracked leather that was at odds with the newness of the building. This was a frontline police station. Real cops needed to create an atmosphere of mutual support. They also needed to protect themselves from outsiders until they proved they weren't out to hang the police or free the criminals. Grant respected that, but he wasn't going to roll over and beg. “At least you've got one less face than the clocks outside.”

“Your meaning?”

“I mean one clock says half four. The other says quarter past five. All you say is ‘fuck you,' whichever face you show.”

“That'd be ‘fuck you, Englishman.'”

“Fuck you, English copper.”

“Cop.”

“Don't like the English, huh?”

“Not a bit.”

“Me neither. I'm a Yorkshireman, born and bred. Fuck the English.”

The sergeant put his pen down and stood back from the desk. He considered the visitor for a few seconds, and then the chiseled features softened. Didn't exactly break into a smile, but Grant would take whatever he could get. The pissing contest was over. A leathery thumb jerked towards a door beside the counter. “You here for Sullivan?”

“Yes.”

“Second floor, rear. Detectives. You want Kincaid.”

The thumb disappeared under the counter, and an electronic buzz unlocked the door. Grant picked up his bag and yanked the door open. “Much obliged.”

“Have a nice day.”

There was only a hint of sarcasm in the voice.

The staircase
circled the
clock tower and came out on a split corridor with signs on the wall. A short corridor went straight ahead with only one door at the end. A longer corridor to the right had several doors on either side and two at the end. The sign said the detectives' office was straight ahead—at the rear of the station.

The corridor was carpeted but not deep-piled. Back in Bradford the police stations had linoleum floors until a few years ago. Some interior designer had decided it was better for morale to have soft furnishings and carpets. All that meant was the mess cops made was harder to clean up. It looked like the Boston Police Department had gone down the carpet route.

He didn't knock, but he didn't barge in either. He simply opened the door and stood on the threshold for a moment while he got his bearings. The office was big and square, with two windows facing Green Street and two overlooking the parking lane behind the station. There were no blast curtains, just vertical blinds drawn back to let the light in.

Detective bureaus were the same the world over. The CID office at Ecclesfield Police Station back home was the same as the MP Investigation Unit in the army and the BPD detectives' office at E-13. Open-plan office. Desks grouped into blocks of three or four facing each other, depending on the size of the office. Grey metal filing cabinets (green in the army) and a stationary cupboard. Some had their own radio storage and battery chargers, unlike West Yorkshire where the radios were signed out from the help desk downstairs.

Most detective squads had an excess of takeaway food cartons and disposable coffee cups, but Grant had never seen one with this many pizza boxes. There must have been seven or eight on the middle set of desks, some open and empty, some with partly eaten pizza, some closed. None of the three detectives working at separate desks was eating. Grant looked at the pizzas and, since he didn't know which detective was Kincaid, he addressed the room. “If I'd known there was a party, I'd have brought some beers.”

The detectives stopped working. Three heads turned towards the intruder. Nobody spoke. A heavyset detective with dark hair dusted with grey pushed his chair back from the desk. That was the only sound. Grant half expected a tumbleweed to come rolling across the office on a breath of wind. “Diet sodas then?”

The heavyset detective stood up, leaving his jacket hanging over the back of the chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the sign of paperwork getting on his nerves. The forearms were solid, indicating that the spreading waistline didn't mean a lack of strength. He was tall, just a couple of inches shorter than Grant but broader. His face was set in a frown of interrupted concentration. “With that accent, you must be the guy from England.”

“You don't like the English either?”

“I don't give a fuck. Criminals is what I don't like.” He focused on Grant. “Idiots just take up time.”

Grant let the words sink in, then looked at the pizza boxes again. The pizzas were cold. No steam or wavering heat lines. The cheese toppings looked congealed. Each box had an evidence label beside it waiting to be attached once the box was packaged or bagged. Grant smiled. This was just like being back in Bradford. “Pizza robbery?”

The big guy came around his desk and stood in front of Grant. He jerked a thumb at the evidence labels.

“Last night. Two kids over in Roxbury ordered eight pizzas on the phone for apartment thirty-five. Delivery guy turns up and is robbed at knifepoint. Pizzas. Money. Wallet. Cops arrive at the apartment block; no apartment thirty-five. Find the insulated delivery boxes on the top floor. K-9 unit tracks the smell of pizza to an apartment on the second floor. Pizza sauce smeared on the door. Whaddaya know? Buncha kids eating pizza.”

Grant consulted the district map in his head. “Thought Roxbury was B-2.”

“Across the border. Pizza was from E-13. Just my luck.”

“Want my shamrock?”

“That's four-leafed clover, not shamrock.” He waved a finger at Grant. “And don't let O'Rourke hear you say anything like that.”

“The desk sergeant?”

The big guy nodded.

“What's all this ‘Fuck the English, I'm a Yorkshireman' shit?”

“He mentioned that, huh?”

“In a rare moment of cooperation.”

“God's own county, Yorkshire. A breed apart.”

“Just like Texas, then?”

Grant smiled. “Only without the Alamo.”

“O'Rourke give you a hard time?”

“Moderate to hard.”

“He's the station's shit deflector.”

Kincaid indicated a battered cash register on a separate desk. “Us? We're a fast-food deflector squad. Last night again—McDonald's just up the road from here. Local guy tries to steal the cash register through the take-out window while the staff are watching. Drops it outside and gets chased off. Runs the wrong way. Straight towards the station house.”

Grant put his bag on a spare seat. “Local boys rule. Thought you had serious criminals in Boston.”

The big guy fixed Grant with a serious glare. “Oh, we got a few. Most of our low-rent crooks are imported. Even got one from Yorkshire.”

Grant smiled. “Freddy Sullivan?”

“Dickweed of the lowest order.”

Grant nodded. “That he is. Got a dick like a weedy shallot, I heard.” He held out a hand. “Jim Grant.”

The big guy shook it in a firm, dry fist. “Sam Kincaid.”

The room was suddenly a friendlier place. Grant thought this holiday task should be quick and easy, and then he could enjoy the sights. He was about to ask about interview facilities when Kincaid threw a spanner in the works.

“You won't be talking to Sullivan today, though.”

Grant felt a shadow enter the room despite the sunshine through the windows. “How come?”

“He's with the doctor. Started foaming at the mouth half an hour ago.”

four

Grant shifted his bag
to the floor and sat down. A siren started up outside as a patrol car sped off to some unseen emergency. A young detective at the far desk stood up and waggled an empty mug towards the others.
“Coffee, anybody?”

Kincaid glanced at Tyson Miller and then back at Grant. “One good thing about mentoring: endless coffee. You?”

A brief thought flashed through Grant's mind. Being training officer to Jamie Hope and covering the probationary constable's back at Snake Pass. The right decision but not Grant's finest hour. There had been the coffee-making benefits, though.

“Thanks. Milk and sugar?”

Miller nodded. “You betcha.”

Enthusiasm oozed out of Miller's pores like sweat. Grant remembered being like that. He remembered Jamie Hope. Eager to please. Fast to learn. A good combination. He liked Miller already. He wasn't sure about Kincaid yet. Grant spoke firmly. “Sullivan's pulling a flanker. You know that, right?”

Kincaid threw Grant a quizzical look. “Don't know about a flanker, but he's shining us on, sure.”

“What's he after?”

“My guess: release or hospital. He's only here for you. Got picked up on a routine traffic stop. System showed him wanted in the UK. Probably figures if he's sick, we'll bail him rather than pay the medical.”

“Things that tight?”

“Modern policing—budgets always tight. Cut back on overtime, can't get vehicles back from the shop in less than two weeks, detectives dealing with pizza thieves to free up uniforms. Yeah, things are tight.”

“I'll save you some money, then. Let me talk to him.”

“No can do. Doc gets to see him first. Hospital or detention. Then he has to rule if Sullivan's fit for interview. By then he'll be on rest period. Rules we live and die by.”

Grant huffed a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. Some things didn't change no matter where you served—army, police, or Boston. They were all slaves to the rulebook. Miller came over from the coffee machine that every CID office had in the corner. Back at Ecclesfield Police Station, it had been a kettle and a refrigerator. At E-13 it was a percolator and filter jug. Miller set a mug on the desk.

“There you go, Officer Grant.”

“Jim. I was never an officer.”

Miller seemed pleased to be on first-name terms. Grant wondered what the young detective had been told about him. Kincaid sat on the edge of the desk, avoiding the mug of coffee. “You made sergeant, though, didn't you? Army, wasn't it?”

Grant looked at the detective but didn't answer.

Kincaid gave him a you-know-how-it-is shrug. “I checked you out.”

Grant studied Kincaid but already knew what to say. He'd said it many times before. Sooner or later it was a subject that always cropped up.

“Not for long.”

“Eight years. Long enough.”

“No. Sergeant. Not for long.”

Kincaid shrugged again as if that wasn't important. “Eight years. What was your field?”

“If you checked me out, then you know already.”

“Restricted access. They wouldn't say.”

“There you go, then.”

Kincaid leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knee. He lowered his voice but kept the tone friendly. “Look. If I'm stuck with you, it helps to know what I'm stuck with. Fair enough?”

Grant could understand that. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. “Fair enough. I was a typist.”

“And that's restricted?”

“Important stuff I typed.”

It was what he always said. Tension in the office turned up a notch, but Grant relaxed. He stayed loose. The best way to keep a secret was to convince yourself that it never happened. Grant had told this story so many times he almost believed it himself. The secret was safe with him.

Miller took a swig of his coffee. The young detective was obviously growing comfortable with the visitor from across the pond because he smiled when he spoke. “Snake Pass isn't restricted, though. That was some serious ass you kicked.”

Grant considered him. “You can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs.”

Kincaid slid off the desk and stood but didn't move away. “Yeah, well. We're walking on eggs in JP. Don't want any breaking.”

Grant shifted in his chair and sat up straight. He laced his fingers together, turned his hands palm outwards, and flexed. The knuckles cracked. He flexed his neck. Bones cracked there too. He rubbed his chin, then smiled up at Kincaid. “When you're up to your neck in shit, don't make waves.”

“Exactly.”

Grant shrugged his shoulders and held his hands out palms upwards. “This is a holiday assignment.”

“Vacation.”

“
Vacation assignment
doesn't roll off the tongue.”

Kincaid didn't look amused. Grant poured oil on troubled water. “They sent me to interview Sullivan, then bin him off. The crime's a nonstarter. Insufficient evidence. They just want his explanation for the report before they file it.”

Kincaid lowered his voice again, but this time the tone wasn't friendly. “They sent you here because of the shit you pulled at Snake Pass. Wouldn't spend that kind of money on a no-mark shit heel like Sullivan. You're trouble they wanted out of the way. We don't need any more trouble here than we've got already. Do your job and go home.”

“So let me see him.”

“Tomorrow. See the sights. He'll be ready in the morning.”

Grant got to his feet. “You a doctor now as well? What about the foaming at the mouth?”

Kincaid stood his ground. “I know more than the doctor. He'll be ready in the morning.”

The two big guys glared at each other like bulls preparing to charge. The pissing contest was suddenly back full force. Kincaid was staking out his territory. Grant was the intruder. He could understand that. He respected Kincaid's position but wasn't going down without letting the detective know he knew what was going on too.

“Prison soap. Happens a lot, does it?”

“Not a lot. But when they get desperate, anything goes.”

“Why's he so desperate?”

“Ask him tomorrow. Miller will drop you at your hotel.”

Miller grabbed the car keys from the desk and shrugged into his jacket. The smile was ear to ear. He came around the desk and held out a hand. “Tyson Miller.”

Grant shook it. “I know.”

Miller looked confused.

Grant pointed at the name badge pinned to Miller's jacket. Enthusiasm became embarrassment, but the young detective smiled through it. He waved towards the door and took the lead. Grant picked up his bag and followed, part of his mind wondering what Freddy Sullivan was afraid of that made him so desperate to get out of jail. Another part of his mind was thinking something else.

Snake Pass isn't restricted,
though. That was some serious ass you kicked.

Snake Pass might not have been restricted, but the official report only covered the numbers. One building demolished. Three vehicles burnt out. Eight dead, including six bad guys and two innocent bystanders, one of them an off-duty cop. All because Grant wanted a quiet drink after being dismissed from duty early. That and the fact that his words always came back to haunt him. The words this time were his warning to probationary constable Jamie Hope about not getting involved when you were off-duty.

“Case in point: young copper I knew goes for a Chinese down at Mean Wood junction. Pubs are shutting. Lot of drunks ordering a takeaway. Trouble brews. A fight ensues. Young copper whips out his warrant card and orders them all to cease and desist. What do you think happened?”

Hope tried to keep the hero worship off his face. Having a legend of the West Yorkshire Police as your training officer was like manna from heaven for a young probationary constable. He answered with a question. “They didn't cease and desist?”

“They did not. He got the shit kicked out of him and spent three days in hospital. The riot he provoked wrecked the Chinese and two shops either side of it and put everybody on double shifts for a week. Point is: drunks fighting each other are par for the course. Serves 'em right if they've got sore heads and a few bruises the following morning. It's no big deal.”

Three hours later his words proved to be almost prophetic. Only it wasn't a few drunks fighting each other, it was a bunch of Ukrainian drug manufacturers and the Dominguez cartel fighting a turf war in the Yorkshire hills. Blood, snot, and the last big snowfall of winter made it a long, dark night.

You can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs.

That might well be true, but Grant hadn't started the omelette. He couldn't deny breaking a few eggs, but it was the Ukrainians that broke the first one when they slapped the waitress across the face. Grant had been pulling out of the car park at Woodlands Truck Stop and Diner when that had happened. The slap had triggered one of Grant's reflex actions—protecting the weak. Only now he had developed a calm-in-the-face-of-danger technique that had served him well in the army and was a godsend in the police. He turned the engine off and got out of the car. Crossing the car park, he stepped out of the cold night air and into hot water, because this turned out to be more than a boarding-school bully picking on an easy target.

The snow got heavier. Snake Pass was closed to traffic. And the opposition grew in numbers as the true nature of the house behind the truck stop emerged. But the body count didn't begin until a wet-behind-the-ears probationer decided to join Grant for an after-shift drink. That had triggered one of Grant's other character traits—always back your colleagues, no matter what the cost. The cost that night had been very high.