Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (30 page)

forty-three

Doyle's Café was full
when Grant arrived. Irish music came out into the street. Dusk was settling over JP, befitting the occasion. Even more fitting was the fact that Doyle's was on Washington Street, at 3484, only two blocks down from the E-13 police station. It seemed to Grant that he'd spent his entire visit crossing Washington Street at some point or other.

The patrol car dropped Grant at the intersection of Washington and Williams, opposite an athletics track, an American football field, and the ever-present baseball diamond. The low-slung, flat- roofed building was right on the junction, its green-painted window frames and redbrick structure aping the traditional pub without the need for an upper floor or gabled roof. Calling it a café was inaccurate. It served food, yes, but it was predominantly a place for drinking. An imitation gas lamp stood outside the door like a throwback to the old country.

Grant walked with the aid of a stick; he had refused to come out on crutches. He only had one good arm anyway. The music was loud and Irish and full of joy and laughter. A typical Irish American wake.

Kincaid greeted him when he came through the door. A roar of applause and whistles that bordered on jeers overpowered the music. Briefly. Any residue of the Anglo-Irish friction had disappeared. Even Sergeant O'Rourke was getting into the spirit of things with the aid of plenty of spirits, by the looks of him.

The coffin was on a table in the middle of the room. An open casket.

Grant avoided going near it, not wanting to look inside at the face he'd first seen only a week ago but now felt like he'd known all his life. Kincaid took him to the bar and ordered Grant's drink. A pint of Tetley's bitter, bottled, imported especially for the English copper who had somehow become accepted in the Irish neighborhood. He held his glass up for a silent cheers, and everyone else did the same. A salute to the fallen.

Kincaid had to shout over the noise. “You been offered a new job, then?”

“Got choices, it seems like.”

“TV front man or get-down-and-dirty cop? That's no choice.”

“You got that right. Somebody pick him up?”

“He's around here somewhere.”

Grant nodded and took another drink. He was avoiding what he knew he'd have to do eventually, going to the casket to pay his last respects. He scanned the crowd. The bar was standing-room only. Mainly cops. Some women. Cops' wives and female officers. Some women who cops wouldn't want their wives to meet. This was a celebration. Always was in cop circles. Not the life that was lost but the life that had been lived.

The song changed, but the tone remained the same. Loud and friendly. Irish American.

Grant looked at the framed photos around the walls to distract himself. Senator Ted Kennedy. Bill Clinton when he was a presidential candidate. Former governor Michael Dukakis. The place went back to prohibition and beyond. Now it was the chosen place for seeing off a colleague, either by retirement, resignation, or death. Each celebration the same. Noisy and happy, with plenty of drink.

Grant pushed off from the bar and made his way slowly for the viewing. His eyes circled the room. There were some faces he recognized. Most had given him a hard time. All had accepted him now. But not the face he was looking for. The open casket loomed ahead of him. With each step, more of the silk lining became visible. A shoulder in full dress uniform.

He paused before moving closer.

The silk lining shone bright in the overhead lights.

The uniform looked clean and pressed, as Grant had expected.

The crowd continued to talk loudly.

The music continued to play.

There was laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Grant took a deep breath, then moved forward. The angle of his view into the coffin deepened. The shoulder grew broader. He was two paces from the edge when the crowd parted and a pair of khaki uniform trousers stepped forward. Grant looked up. John Cornejo smiled with difficulty, the bandages around his wounds making movement awkward. The tattoo he'd spent so much time hiding was no longer hidden, showing beneath the short sleeve of his T-shirt. There was no need to hide from his past anymore. The ex-marine had acquitted himself with honor. Because there was no such thing as an ex-marine. They shook hands and approached the casket together.

Tyson Miller was lying amid a drift of flowers.

Grant raised his glass, and the room fell silent apart from the music. No words were necessary. He simply nodded, took a deep swig of Tetley's, then put an arm around Cornejo's shoulder. A smattering of applause and more whistles. No jeers. If Grant had decisions to make, there'd be no pressure here.

For the second time in as many minutes, the crowd parted. A pair of shapelier legs stepped forward, and Grant looked up. Terri Avellone grinned at the Yorkshire policeman who was now regarded as a cop. Grant smiled back. He hated goodbyes but maybe this goodbye would be an exception, a fond and energetic farewell. Handing his pint to Cornejo, Grant put his arm around Terri and kissed her. This time the whistles were crude and there was more than a smattering of jeers.

Grant laughed, retrieved his beer, and turned away from the coffin. His eye caught a shapely blond smiling at him from across the room. The smile he threw back was mischievous, with a dark hint of promise. He was a man. What could he say? It was in his blood. His body focused on tonight. His mind began to speculate about the future. The music played on.

Acknowledgments

As many authors will
tell you, writing a book is not a solitary process. Getting the words on paper might be done alone, but after that there's a whole list of people who make it possible for that book to reach the shelves.
Jamaica Plain
is no exception. It has been a long road, and I owe thanks to many people for their assistance. Here are just a few of them: Rebecca Zins for doing such a sterling job editing the book and making me look good. Terri Bischoff for bringing me to Midnight Ink and remembering the strange Englishman she met in Los Angeles. And my agent, Donna Bagdasarian, for having faith in the man from Yorkshire despite all the setbacks and pitfalls, of which there have been many. Without any one of you, and more besides, this book would still be one of the great unread. Thank you.

About the Author

Ex army, retired cop,
and former scenes-of-crime officer, Colin Campbell is the author of British crime novels
Blue Knight, White Cross
and
Northern eX
. His Jim Grant thrillers bring a rogue Yorkshire cop to America, where culture clash and violence ensue. For more information, visit www.campbellfiction.com.

The following excerpt is from

Montecito Heights

The forthcoming book from Colin Campbell.
Available April 2014 from Midnight Ink.

The sun was hot
as Grant cut right off West Seventh up Alvarado. MacArthur Park was baked dry on his left, the grass practically scorched out of existence except for around the lake where residual moisture and spray from the fountains gave the grass at least a semblance of life. Most of the businesses he passed were Hispanic or Asian. The park was busy despite the time on a working day. Half past eleven. Maybe the locals took lunch early. The smell of hotdogs and onions mingled with candyfloss and diesel fumes.

Grant crossed Wilshire and continued up the hill. The bank was at the intersection with Alvarado and West Sixth, the next junction up. Traffic was light on the roads. The sidewalks were busy. Grant reckoned the pedestrian population increased in direct proportion to the wealth of the area. He hadn't seen a single walker on his way down through Beverly Hills.

The bright red decal of the Bank of America stood out on the single-story building across the intersection. Grant waited for the walking man sign to show, then crossed the road. The cash machines were to the left of the main doors, covered with a clear plastic shelter for privacy. There wasn't a queue. If there had been, things might have turned out different.

He inserted his card
and typed the password. It felt strange getting paid this way. When he'd been in the army, for the first couple of years anyway, soldiers had to attend pay parade once a week. The officer of the day sat at his desk at one end of the room while the squaddies stood in line at the other. Parade rest. At ease. A grizzled sergeant called the roll. Once your name was called, you had to stand to attention, shout “Yes, sir,” and march to the desk. Halt. Salute. Repeat your name and service number. The officer ticked you off the list and handed over your salary in a square brown envelope.

That soon changed when the Armed Forces moved to monthly payments, each soldier's wage being deposited in a bank account with Lloyds, the army's preferred bank. West Yorkshire Police used the same system but a bank of your own choice. You'd get a pay slip every month detailing the amount, your hourly rate, overtime worked, and total deductions. Tax, national insurance, pension, etc.

This new position was better paid but a lot more slapdash. He'd had a brief discussion about the salary and career prospects with the man who'd recruited him when he'd been released from Massachusetts General in Boston. Bottom line was Grant was still in law enforcement. His deployment and the nature of that law enforcement was more flexible than in Bradford. Grant reckoned it was the fact that he was off the books that made employing him desirable. He could be attached to various departments or police forces or asked to work alone, but if the shit hit the fan, then Uncle Sam could deny he worked for them. That and the fact that Grant didn't always work strictly between the lines seemed to be the attraction for the man with the dark suit and quiet voice. Grant had no problems putting bad guys away with scant regard for the rules of evidence.

He waited for the machine to verify his account and glanced over his shoulder at the passing traffic. Not many cars. A single-decker bus like the one out of
Speed
but without the bomb and the fifty-miles-an-hour minimum speed. A blue and yellow taxi, the ugliest color scheme Grant had ever seen. There was no sign of the big black car or the two heavies who'd been watching him yesterday. If they weren't following him today, he wondered why he felt the itch up the back of his neck—Grant's early warning system for trouble.

He looked around again, scrutinizing passing pedestrians, any cars that appeared to be going too slow, and tourists sitting in the park opposite. Nothing seemed out of place. He looked to his left along West Sixth, checking out the front of the Moxa Medical Group building and the mini market next door. Then he looked to his right across the intersection towards downtown. Glass and chrome towers fringed the skyline. There was constant movement but nothing that appeared threatening.

He rubbed his neck, but the itch wouldn't go away. It was one of the instincts that had helped him survive desert skirmishes and criminal confrontations. Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. The ATM beeped impatiently. He selected Cash With Receipt from the display menu, then typed in the amount he wanted. The machine whirred as it counted $500.

He looked around again. Still nothing.

The machine pushed his card out of the slot and beeped again. He took it. Crisp new fifty-dollar bills came out of a different slot, followed by a printed receipt. He took them all and put them in his wallet but didn't step out from the ATM shelter. When he got this feeling, it was best not to move until he'd identified the source.

Two and a half minutes later, he did.

The bank alarm went off.

“Aw, shit.” He looked at the door and waited.

The alarm was harsh
and annoying. That was the idea—make them hard to ignore. Grant didn't ignore it, but he didn't make any rash decisions either. He was unarmed and unprotected. No body armor. No gun. He hated guns but knew how to handle one. There were times when you had to embrace the thing you hated. Having a gun right now would have been helpful.

The ATM shelter was next to the front doors. Grant stayed inside it but shifted to the end nearest the door. Smoked glass made it difficult to see inside the bank, but he could just about make out violent movement. Two men. Fast and jerky. Not the smooth moves of veteran bank robbers. That was good and bad. Veterans were more ruthless. Amateurs were more difficult to predict. Grant didn't plan on giving them much choice.

The alarm was loud, but there had been no gunshots. Nothing bad about that. It suggested a modicum of self-control. Nobody wanted to go down for murder if they could help it. Armed robbery was practically an entry-level crime in LA nowadays. Killing people still took a lot of effort.

Grant judged speed and distance. The smoky figures through the glass door were coming this way but not fast. Not together either. They were separating. One holding back to cover the customers and staff, the other coming towards the door. Grant quickly scanned the curb. No getaway vehicle. Being right on the intersection, it would be hard to park for any length of time without drawing attention. A car would be coming, though. You could count on that. Even amateurs knew you needed a getaway car.

Traffic noises faded into the background.

Pedestrian chatter disappeared into silence.

The constant movement of the busy street slowed to a snail's pace.

Grant breathed easy, his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Somewhere up above, the soft
thwup, thwup, thwup
of a distant helicopter droned across the sky. This was LA. He doubted if he'd seen the clear blue sky at any point without at least one chopper darting about like a dragonfly.

The smoked glass door began to open.

Six inches.

Grant stepped out from the shelter. Arms raised slightly but relaxed. Waist level. Hands open. Knees flexed ready to move quickly.

The door opened outwards.

Good. It formed a barrier between Grant and the gunman.

Twelve inches and moving.

Half open.

The sawn-off barrel of a pump-action shotgun poked through the gap as the smoky figure came forward. Grant kept his eyes on the dangerous end. The end that could kill you. As more of the barrel became visible, it seemed less rigid, not pointing at anything now but lowering as if the shooter felt safe now he was out of the bank.

Big mistake.

The door was wide open.

A car skidded to a stop at the curb.

The first armed robber came out of the bank. Medium height. Scruffy clothing. Dirty blond hair and three days' growth of beard. His hands were grubby, fingernails caked in black, and his teeth needed brushing. This wasn't a top of the range bank robber; this was a knobhead with a gun. Grant waited until he'd cleared the door. It began to close behind the gunman. Then Grant made his move.

He stepped forward and slapped the shotgun barrel down towards the ground with his right hand. His left came up swiftly under the trigger guard, grabbed the smooth black metal and jerked it upwards out of the guy's hands. He continued the sweeping movement until the shotgun did a complete circle, ending up the right way round in Grant's hands. His momentum carried him forward and he jabbed his left knee into the guy's leading leg behind the joint. The leg collapsed and the robber went down like a felled tree. Grant stamped on his balls.

One robber down. One to go.

The door opened again. All in one movement. The second gunman came out backwards. He held an ugly black handgun in one hand and a holdall leaking money in the other. He looked as dirty as the first robber, but at least he'd had a shave this morning. Grant heard a car door open behind him but couldn't worry about that now. First rule of engagement: face the most dangerous threat. The most dangerous threat here was the man with the semiautomatic.

The robber backed out of the door and it began to close. His shoulders braced and he puffed his chest out. He gave a short little fist pump with his gun hand and blurted a victorious expletive: “Fuckin'
yes
.”

The door closed. The guy stood facing the bank as the reflections in the smoked glass stopped moving. What he saw was a big guy in an orange windcheater pointing a shotgun at the back of his head. Grant kept his voice hard.

“Fuckin'
no
.”