Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (8 page)

twelve

The CCTV recording
was
a problem. Kincaid wasn't trained in using the Multiplex system, but Miller was. That meant all three of them sitting in the small back room while they scanned and dissected the view from several cameras around the station until they narrowed it down to one. The problem was that the camera in reception was blank at the time of the bombing.

Grant was standing behind Miller, pressed against the back wall. “Shit. What button did you press?”

Grant was no more technical than Kincaid. Both were hands-on cops, in-the-trenches and get-your-hands-dirty kind of police. Miller was happy to be mixing with such legends of law enforcement. Kincaid had years of service and local history in his favor. Grant was rapidly becoming a media star. Snake Pass had made the national news in America because of the drug baron connection, and the JP explosion had seen his orange jacket front and center on the WCVB news.

Miller tapped a couple of buttons, then pressed Rewind. “It's not the recording.”

The blank screen broke up with static. It was the only indication that the image was going backwards. A timer counted down in minutes and seconds. Past the time of the explosion. Still blank.

Then the reception sprang into focus, and Miller pressed Play.

The image was in black and white. The reception desk across the back of the frame and the crowd milling around in the foreground. The interview room door was barely visible on the extreme right of the screen. The front doors weren't shown—they were somewhere behind the camera.

A hand came up fast, and the camera went black.

Grant was about to speak, but Miller was in his element. He was glad of the opportunity to shine. His fingers danced across the controls. Feathering rewind, then play, then slow motion. The reception desk came back on, then slowed down. Sergeant O'Rourke shouted in silence. The other cop spoke patiently to a dark-haired woman. The hand came up slowly. Miller froze the picture.

“There you go.” He couldn't keep the pride out of this voice.

Kincaid leaned in for a closer look. “Bastard.”

Grant squinted at the screen. “Sly fucking bastard.”

The hand was formed into a fist and the fist held a can of spray paint. One burst of the spray and the camera went dead. There was no sign of the artist entering the reception. He was invisible until the single hand came into view.

Grant leaned against the wall. “Camera's pointing the wrong way.”

Miller hit Rewind, then paused the image showing the reception desk. “Not really. In-house cameras are for staff protection—assaults and threats at the counter. They aren't for security like burglary CCTV. Cameras point outwards for that, covering points of entry. So, really, they're pointing the right way for what they're supposed to record.”

Kincaid patted Miller on the back. It was as much praise as he'd ever received from the veteran detective. He almost blushed. He hoped that Grant was similarly impressed. He was disappointed when the Englishman simply turned and left the room. Kincaid followed. Miller stood up and shouted after them. “What's up? Where you going?”

Grant shouted back. “Where cameras fail, you can't beat the real thing.”

Miller tumbled out of the room and raced to catch up.

Kincaid called over his shoulder to his protégé. “Basic rule of crime scenes. Photograph everything, but get down and dirty.”

Miller fell in step with the older men. He understood. CCTV might capture the suspect in the act but, failing that, physical evidence was at the scene, not on film. He felt like he was learning every day. He was smiling as he followed the two big men down the stairs.

Grant checked
the waste
bin in the corner. Sometimes the simplest thing was the obvious mistake. Not this time. He hadn't expected the spray can to be dumped at the scene of the crime, but it was worth a shot. He glanced at Kincaid, but the senior detective was already ahead of him. Kincaid nodded at Miller.
“Get uniforms to check every bin for half a mile. All directions.”

Miller looked like he wanted to stay where the action was. Grant liked him even more. The young detective did as he was told and went to see the patrol sergeant for manpower. Grant concentrated on the camera. It was high up on the front wall above and to the left of the doors. It was angled down so that its wide-angle lens covered most of the reception.

The lens was black. Paint covered the entire front face of the camera and speckled the wall on either side of it. One quick burst. A direct hit. Some collateral damage—the speckled wall—no reason to touch the camera. No point having it fingerprinted. He glanced at the interview-room door. Kincaid was already looking at it.

The door was half off its hinges because of Kincaid's shoulder charge when he'd been trying to get in. The fire department had barged it open even further. Even so, the door and frame near the lock mechanism was shrouded in fingerprint powder. Nothing but smudges and partials. Grant would be surprised if anybody got identified off them, and even then there were plenty of reasons their prints might be there.

The front door was the same. Grant was pleased to see the BPD were taking care of the fine details. It was the least he expected from the oldest police force in America. The outside and inside surfaces had been powdered; even more smudges and partials. Trouble with fingerprinting a front door was how many people used it during a day, let alone a week. Fingerprints would stay on a surface until they were cleaned off. Someone else using the door would overlay the original print. Multiply that by a hundred, and you didn't have a snowflake in hell's chance of getting an identity. But you had to try. A snowflake in hell's chance was better than no chance. For certain, if you didn't try, you'd lose. Trying gave you options.

Kincaid joined Grant at the front doors. They both looked outside through the dirty glass. Grant focused on Yessenia's Market across the intersection. He was searching for cameras but could only see one. It was on the front wall angled down towards the shop door, facing away from the police station. Kincaid saw where he was looking.

“We checked it. Ruggiero's as well. Nothing obvious. Seized the tapes just in case. Whoever it was came from somewhere. If he passed the market—who knows?”

Grant cocked his head to look round the corner. “The guy with the big hand slapped the window hard.”

Kincaid shook his head. “Nothing to print. Blast took it out in pieces.”

“No doubt everyone in here's been interviewed?”

“Everyone that stayed. Twice. Nobody saw anything.”

“O'Rourke?”

“Same. And the desk cop helping him. They were so busy, Bin Laden could have come in, shit on their heads, and they wouldn't have noticed.”

“Or Whitey Bulger?”

“No. Him they'd recognize.”

Grant looked towards the front desk. The counter was high and wide and ran the width of the reception. There was a hinged flap and a door to one side. Staff working the desk would be facing the right way, but, like Kincaid said, they'd be heads-down and working hard.

Something glinted in the light from the fluorescents, high up on the far wall. Grant squinted to see what it was, then felt his pulse begin to race. Excitement at discovering fresh evidence had the opposite effect on him than approaching battle. The calmness that descended on him in action worked differently when his mind was the prime mover.

He smiled and tapped Kincaid on the shoulder.

Kincaid smiled too. He raised his voice to a sonic boom. “Miller.”

The young detective popped his head out of the patrol sergeant's office. Kincaid pointed at the internal office camera, and Miller blushed to the roots of his hair. Separate camera. Different system. It had only been added three weeks ago, and it pointed towards the front of the office, with the main doors in the background.

The Multiplex room
was
crowded again. Three men and a sophisticated box of tricks for splitting the images from all the station's cameras, including the one that had recently been added but was not linked to the system yet. Miller had to input it manually. He was still blushing at not having noticed the camera earlier. Grant laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Don't worry. I've got your back. Won't tell a soul.”

The wide-angle view filled the screen. Office staff worked at their desks. The desk sergeant and his assistant had their backs to the camera. They were busy dealing with the crowded reception beyond the front counter. Miller found the correct time and slowed the tape down. Everyone began to move like they were wading through treacle.

A big guy walked along the sidewalk past the front doors, in the direction of the interview room. At the same time, the front door opened and a shorter figure came into the reception. He wore a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes and a hood pulled up over the cap. In one movement he turned around, sprayed the camera, then walked to the interview-room door.

Grant felt a chill crawl up his spine. He remembered what had been happening inside the room.

Officer Grant. Promise you'll protect my brother. He's nowt to do with this.

Grant leaned back in his chair to give Sullivan some space. He didn't want to crowd him. Keeping his voice conversational, almost friendly, he tried to take the sting out of the situation while still getting an important piece of information.

What you been smuggling, Freddy? Dope again?

Then there had been the slap against the window. He watched the monitor. The hooded figure put the spray can in one pocket and took a round black object out of the other. He listened at the
interview
-room door. He appeared to hear something inside. His hand came up. He pulled the pin and released the trigger mechanism. The trigger arm flew off. He opened the door immediately and tossed the grenade inside.

Grant gritted his teeth at the memory.

A loud bang on the window snapped his head round. The wired glass splintered. A large hand, fingers splayed, was silhouetted black against the daylight. The door opened. Neither of them noticed until it slammed shut. The nasty black object bounced across the carpet and under the table. Sullivan screamed and stood up so fast he flipped the table forward. Grant recognized the grenade a split second before it exploded, then the world was full of light and pain.

“Replay that bit.”

Miller paused the tape, rewound it, then pressed Play. The hooded figure listened at the door. Pulled the pin. Released the trigger, then threw the grenade into the room. He dashed out of the front door just before the explosion shook the camera. Panic and shock flashed on everyone's face. Grant leaned closer to the monitor. “Can you zoom in?”

“Sure.” Miller did the finger dance on the controls, and a segment of the image was centered and enlarged. The section with the front doors and the interview room. With the enlarged image came enlarged grain. The picture was fuzzy, blurred.

“Replay.”

Miller pressed Play.

Grant was focusing on the figure's hands. Pull the pin. Release the trigger arm. Toss the grenade. One, two, three. Almost simultaneously. Grant nodded and let out a sigh. “Amateur. Not ex-military or mercenary.”

Kincaid agreed. “Too quick. No pause to let the fuse count down. Probably saved your life.”

Miller looked confused. Grant explained. “Ten-second fuse. You drop a grenade in a gun emplacement, you don't want them having time to toss it back out. Count to five, then throw it. Boom. No time to react.”

Kincaid elaborated. “No time for Sullivan to flip the table in panic.”

“Boom.”

They fell silent. It was easy to be flippant with the cushion of time. It was more difficult so soon after the event. Freddy Sullivan had been blown to pieces. Even if they didn't like him, he was still flesh and blood. Miller broke the silence. “We'd better search the reception again. He didn't pick up the trigger arm.”

Another pat on the back from Kincaid. A smile from Grant. He was liking this kid more every time he met him. Miller continued. “And he wasn't wearing gloves.”

Kincaid stepped back to clear the door. “Go to it.”

Miller stepped into the corridor and headed for the stairs. Kincaid leaned against the Multiplex console and examined Grant's face. “Drop a grenade in a gun emplacement? Thought you were a typist.”

“I was. You read my statement, didn't you?”

“I did.”

“There you go, then.”

A crackle of radio static filled the small room. Kincaid took the radio out of his inside pocket. The jacket resumed its normal shape. The static became words. Grant heard a call sign he didn't recognize. Kincaid did. Ignoring radio protocol, he spoke in plain English. Grant was beginning to like the big detective too. Kincaid pressed the Transmit button. “Go ahead. What you got?”

“Better get over to West Roxbury. They found your boy.”

“Who?”

“Sullivan's brother.”

“Give me the address. I'll be right over.”

The dispatcher gave him the address but didn't stop with that. “Better bring the artillery. Boy's dug in deeper than a tick in a dog's ass.”

Kincaid acknowledged. He glanced at the English cop but didn't speak. They both knew that Grant would be riding along. Grant wasn't sure he liked the idea of that. He hated guns.

thirteen

The address in West
Roxbury
was an apartment above Parkway Auto Repair on VFW Parkway, just across the tracks from Home Depot. It wasn't Sean Sullivan's registered address, but his boss let him stay there as a favor to the boy whose brother was connected to people the boss didn't want to mess with. The number plate–
pressing
plant was out back behind the Mobil gas station. It had proved to be a handy arrangement until the world descended on the apartment like Armageddon.

The world included BPD uniform and detectives, an army of SWAT officers, the police helicopter, and a squadron of news choppers providing eye-in-the-sky views for twenty-four-hour news channels. The media circus was only just deploying by the time Kincaid and Grant pulled into the dusty triangular turn-in for the road opposite. The single-lane blacktop led to the sports fields beside the railroad tracks. The road was now choked with squad cars, a mobile forward command center, and the SWAT truck. Grant thought it looked like they were about to assault Iwo Jima. “Jesus. What'd he do, shoot the president?”

“Don't even joke about that.”

Kincaid looked deadly serious. Grant lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “What—they got feds behind every tree now?”

“Not the feds. And not the trees. Every blade of grass. Anyone even farts a threat at the president, and they'll be in your life like straw through horse shit.”

“And horse shit rolls downhill. I get it.”

“No, you don't. Since 9/11, you check out a bomb-making book or stray into the wrong website, and they'll flop you lower than whale shit.”

“Okay. I get the picture. What I'm saying is, Sean Sullivan ain't no terrorist. He's a scared kid whose brother just got splattered on the ceiling of an official building. Maybe he's not too sure which side the BPD is on.”

“That's stupid.”

“I know the Sullivans. Stupid's a family tradition.”

A helicopter swooped low overhead, the thumping blades drowning out any conversation. Higher up, two more choppers circled, trying to beat each other to the money shot, the best angle on the ramshackle auto shop and its dusty parking lot. A uniform cop ran across the road beneath the railroad bridge on the right to string yellow crime-scene tape and stop any civilian traffic. A hundred yards to the left, another cop did the same.

Grant felt a shiver run down his spine, but it wasn't anticipation of forthcoming action. It was the street sign on the meridian between the twin lanes of the VFW. The full name was Veterans of Foreign Wars Parkway. He had to remind himself that he'd only been a typist. Some days he was harder to convince.

The helicopter drifted west along the unmade road to the sports fields. There were two baseball diamonds and a football pitch with secondary markings for soccer and three tennis courts. The hedgerow was neatly shaped into a WRHS sign from the sky. The camera crew no doubt wanted an angled shot of the armed siege with the more innocent pastime of American sports in the foreground, not to mention the army of cops camped across the twin-lane VFW from the target premises.

Grant concentrated on the target premises.

The Mobil gas station was set back from the road, its gravel and tarmac forecourt dusty and unkempt. The auto repair building was part of the same facility and took up the bulk of the single-story structure—single-story apart from the slope-roofed addition somebody had plonked on top like a bowler hat on a cowboy. The living accommodation looked small and square and functional, with an angled roof and gable ends facing the sides of the garage. There was a dormer window in the front slope of the roof.

Grant quartered the building in his mind, a traditional approach back in West Yorkshire. He wasn't sure what approach the weapon- heavy police presence would adopt in Boston, but he wasn't hopeful. He allocated the separate faces of the building four different colors. Red for the front. Black for the rear. Yellow, left, and green, right. He couldn't see the rear, but he could map out the yellow and green faces by walking ten paces either side of the triangular turn- in. Nothing extraordinary. Couple of windows on the right. A window and wide double doors on the left. The main entrance to the workshops. The front had the payment window and a small grocery tagged on for passing trade. Three fuel pumps under a wide, flat awning with
mobil
in big letters.

It was a nightmare of open ground, with explosive consequences for the frontal assault that the SWAT guys were planning. Grant shook his head. He truly did hate guns. This was going to end badly unless somebody showed a modicum of common sense. “Has he shot anybody yet?”

Kincaid shook his head. “Two warning shots in the air. One hit the stoplight for the pedestrian crossing. Caused a bit of a stir.”

“You think he hit it on purpose?”

“Better shot than I give him credit for if he did.”

Grant craned his neck as if looking over the top of the building. “What's that around the back?”

A tree-lined embankment ran at an angle across the back of the parking lot. Several big, square metal arms stood out above the trees like robot siblings. More than several. Lots of arms with terra-cotta pots and heavy cables. Kincaid followed Grant's gaze. “Electricity substation, then the railroad track beyond that. Behind the trees on the left are half a dozen civilian homes. Traditional—wooden porches, big gardens.”

“You got everybody out?”

Kincaid threw Grant a dirty look. “Yeah. BPD knows about stray rounds and crossfire. Cleared the other business premises too.”

The other business premises shared the same parking lot. There was a low structure on the right near the entrance from VFW. Grant couldn't make out what it was. A longer two-story building nestled in the trees to the left. It stretched along the parkway and had an employee parking lot with a separate entrance. Behind the gas station was another building that looked like some kind of small factory. There were cars parked outside all three buildings. The side of the auto repair shop was scattered with rusting vehicles they hadn't been able to repair.

Kincaid nudged Grant and pointed at the workshop doors.

“Disgruntled customer wrote a review in the local paper. Said his girlfriend's car wouldn't start after the pump jockey filled it up. Mechanic tried to charge twenty-five dollars to fix the starter. Boyfriend turns up, hits the starter motor with a hammer. Two minutes. Girlfriend's in tears. Said they bullied her into paying.”

“He get her money back?”

“Oh yeah. With a hammer.”

“Nice place.”

“Edge of town before you get into the country. Different rules.”

“Keep expecting 'em to start playing ‘Dueling Banjos.' Better watch out for the K-Y Jelly and the butt plug.”

Grant didn't think his No Entry tattoo would stop the locals fucking him over a fallen tree. He looked over at the black-clad military types loading their weapons behind the mobile command center and the SWAT truck. The hairs prickled up the back of his neck. “These boys look eager.”

Kincaid didn't look happy about it. “They do have a certain edge to them, don't they?”

Grant looked at the dormer window of the living quarters. “Sullivan got any hostages?”

“Didn't say.”

“But these guys are gonna charge in anyway.” It wasn't a question.

Kincaid shrugged. “I'm sure they'll do some tactical assessment first.”

“Then they'll charge in.” Again, not a question.

“Yes.”

The helicopters hovered in the background, but the
thwup, thwup, thwup
of their blades made dramatic music. Cameras angled down on the scene. Waiting.

Grant looked up at them and then at the Parkway Auto Repair. “Have SWAT cut the TV feed and power yet?”

“No. I believe they want him to see what's ranged against him.”

“On the news?”

“Twenty-four-hour coverage. They got to fill the airwaves with something.”

Grant glanced up at the choppers one more time, then across the dusty parking lot with its automobile graveyard. Open ground. An unprotected killing field. Dust swirled in the gentle breeze. He wouldn't have been surprised if a tumbleweed came rolling across. “We're both police. You know I'll cover for you if needed, right? What I need to know is will you back me?”

“It's the code. Course I will. So long as you don't shoot the president.”

“Then can I make a suggestion?”

Grant wasn't sure
it
was the best idea he'd ever had. The breeze was getting stronger. Dust swirled around his ankles. The trees behind the auto repair center whipped and danced as if warning him off. He was halfway across the parking lot before he saw the deadly Cyclops eye of the rifle through a gap in the curtains. Not the dormer window. Sullivan Junior had obviously moved down into the main living quarters.

Grant stopped in mid-stride. He held his arms out from his sides.

The faded orange windcheater was unzipped. It flapped open in the breeze. A sudden gust blew grit into his eyes, and he had to bring one hand over to protect his face. He coughed the dust out of his mouth and flapped the hand to waft the cloud away. The breeze died down for a moment. The air became still. Grant lowered his arms and stared into the muzzle of a thirty-odd-six rifle.

No, this wasn't the best idea he'd ever had.

The orange jacket made him an easy target. Nobody could miss seeing him coming a mile away wearing that jacket. There could be no sneaking up or trickery while he wore the orange signpost. That was the idea. Grant contended that crooks shot at cops because cops would shoot at them. The best way to avoid getting shot was to pose no threat. The orange windcheater posed no threat. It was so obvious he was coming, even the most trigger-happy gunman should take encouragement from Grant's open and nonthreatening approach.

He started walking again. Past the trio of petrol pumps with their delivery arms holstered like three wise men with one hand on hips. Past a rusty John Deere tractor with one wheel missing, propped up on a pile of bricks. It felt like walking down Ravenscliffe Avenue in Bradford. The only thing missing was a pair of sneakers dangling from the telephone wire by its laces. Judging by the rundown gas station, that was only because there weren't any telephone wires nearby.

As he approached the canopy, he moved to one side so that Sullivan could keep him in view. Grant didn't want to spark a stray shot because he looked like he was trying to sneak under cover. The orange jacket. Bright and in plain sight. He stopped ten feet from the front of the building. The single black eye pointed down at him. The window was partly open. The breeze picked up again, and the curtains twitched. The movement might have unnerved a lesser man, but Grant had slid down into that vortex of calm that prefaced enemy action.

He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. One breath. Two.

He looked up at the window. The rifle looked down at him. Nobody moved.

Somewhere among the houses, beyond the trees, a dog barked. Across the embankment and on the other side of the electricity substation, a train rattled along the track. No engine noise, just the gentle rhythm of wheels on iron. The helicopters sounded like they were miles away. Grant could feel their cameras on his back. He could hear the familiar cadence of a newsreader building the story up from a TV through the open window. The wind whipped at Grant's coat. More grit stung his eyes. The pain reminded him of why he was here.

“We stand here like this much longer, Sean, I'm gonna get sandblasted.”

The curtain twitched, not with the wind this time. The rifle barrel didn't. It remained steady, pointing right at Grant's chest.

“I know you don't want me climbing through the window. Stray bullet might bust your TV.”

Mention of bullets twitched the rifle barrel up towards the massed police vehicles across the road. Then it dipped back down to Grant. He kept his voice calm as he stared at the window. “I'm guessing you've got a personal entrance. For when the place is closed.”

Still no words from behind the curtain. Just TV noise and the newsreader commentating on the deadly standoff. Grant played his trump card. “Freddy asked me to look out for you. Don't think this is what he had in mind.”

There was a moment's silence at the mention of Sean's big brother. They'd been inseparable as kids and stuck together as adults. Wherever Freddy went, Sean was bound to follow. Even to America. The rifle barrel flicked towards the corner of the workshop. A familiar Yorkshire accent drifted down from the apartment. “Stairs 'round the back. Come alone.”

As if Grant had anyone else with him. “Sean. You've been watching too many films. I
am
alone.” Then he put his arms down and disappeared around the corner.

Calling the room
above
the garage an apartment was like calling a Pekinese a dog. Strictly speaking it might be true, but in the end size was the difference. It was like all those women who couldn't judge distance because their husbands told them two inches was six. No man ever admitted to having less than a six-inch dick. The apartment was nowhere near six inches.

It wasn't carpeted either. The floorboards creaked as Grant came in through the back door. The room was small and square, but the lack of furniture made it look bigger. There was a two-seater settee and a portable TV on the floor in front of it. That was all. The far wall had a washbasin, an electric cooker, and a refrigerator, all of them small, like the ones sold for mobile homes or caravans. Grant couldn't see any sign of a bed. He reckoned that was upstairs in the dormer attic room. If this room was six inches, the bedroom must be two. Nothing to brag about.

Greasy food and oil smells hung like fog. They were almost a physical barrier holding Grant at the door. He glanced around the apartment and then at the skinny young man pointing a rifle at him loose from the hip.