Brighton (18 page)

Kevin recalled a blazingly hot July afternoon—Tommy Doucette getting beat like a bitch by some kid from Rogers Park. The other kid was bigger, sure, but Tommy didn’t even try to fight. Just covered up on the melting blacktop and let the kid put it on blast until he’d punched himself out. Doucette was thirteen at the time and there was nothing he could have done, short of killing someone, to get back what he’d given away that day. So he became what he’d become—fresh meat in someone else’s food chain.

“How much does he owe you?” Kevin said.

Bobby shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Tommy ain’t going nowhere.”

Kevin felt the sleeping dogs of childhood, awake again and growling in his gut. “I saw Billy Sweeney tonight.”

“Oh, yeah. You say hello?”

“He probably wouldn’t even know who I was.”

Bobby didn’t respond.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Used to work for the T. Now he collects disability and drinks down the Stockyard. Gets pissed on drafties and starts telling everyone how fucking great he could have been. Why?”

“No reason. Who else is around?”

“Most of ’em are gone. Your first baseman . . .”

“Brian Tarpey?”

“Polished off the better part of a quart of vodka driving home from New York. Killed himself and a couple of high school kids on the Pike.” Bobby began to count off the dead on his fingers. “Joey Nagle, found in his car behind the Corrib. Blew his heart out with a speedball. Sully died of fucking hepatitis, if you can believe that.”

“Jimmy Fitz?”

“Liver went three years ago. They waked him in the Grill. Laid the body out on the bar and everything. Cops said it violated the health laws or something, but they wound up letting it go.”

“How about the Coreys?”

“Paulie’s a punk. David ate a bullet in the bathroom of a YMCA in Mattapan. You met Finn at the park.”

“Yeah, I met Finn. Told me he sells T-shirts for a living.”

“His best seller last year had
STEINBRENNER SUCKS
on the front and
JETER SWALLOWS
on the back.”

“I saw that one outside the Cask.”

“Probably Finn. You ever get down to Champney?”

“Bridget scares me.”

“She should. Your sister likes to collect information. Then she collects people. Keeps them on a little string in her pocket. It’s all petty stuff, but she’s mean as hell about it.”

“Have you seen Colleen?”

“Not lately, why?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey, look at me.” Bobby’s presence muscled its way into the conversation, his voice low and punishing. “It’s that fucking husband, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“Shitbag drinks in here every now and then. Tries to bang anything that moves. I wanted to tell Coll, but you know . . .” Bobby shrugged off the thought of getting involved. Someone shoved quarters into the bumper pool table. The balls rolled smoothly under the table along wooden rails and clicked against each other as they came to a halt. Bobby ordered a couple shots of Jack. Strains of Van Morrison’s “Wonderful Remark” lifted and floated in from the other room.

“Great fucking song,” Bobby said.

“Yeah.”

“Any idea what it means?”

Kevin shook his head.

“I bet Van just made it up as he went along. Said ‘fuck it,’ let everyone figure it out for themselves.”

The bartender came down with the bottle of Jack and poured their shots. Kevin swallowed the whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The girlfriend I was telling you about . . .” He was trying hard, and failing mightily, to keep the edge out of his voice.

“The prosecutor?”

“She’s working the Sandra Patterson case. Asked if I’d poke around here for a day or two. See what I could turn up.”

Bobby took his time, peeling the label off his beer bottle with his thumb. “So she thinks her cop killer’s from Brighton?”

“She had the Jordan file in her bag like I told you . . .”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that. Doesn’t it seem a little convenient?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe she wanted you to find the file. Figured you’d take one look and come running to me.”

An image popped into Kevin’s head—Lisa shedding water as she leaned out of the shower, smiling in the steam and heat, asking Kevin to dig through her bag. “That’s not Lisa.”

“I’m supposed to take your word on that?”

“I came here to tell you what was going on, Bobby. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“And I can trust your girlfriend?”

“You can trust me.”

The label came off in one curled piece. Bobby laid it flat on the bar. “I knew Sandra Patterson. She had a different name at Habitat, but I knew her.”

“How well?”

“Talked to her once or twice on the job. Sure as shit didn’t know she was a cop.”

Doucette and his Irish buddies had cleared out. The kids shooting bumper pool were in their own world, laughing and preening, studying their shots and looking at themselves in the whiskey mirrors every chance they got. Kevin pulled out the ballistics report.

“More presents from your girl?” Bobby said.

“It’s a ballistics report dated the day before yesterday. Links the gun that killed Curtis Jordan to Patterson’s murder. Also links it to Rosie Tallent.”

Kevin watched Bobby’s eyes as he read. When he was done, Bobby shoved the paperwork back across the bar. “This gonna fuck you over for the Pulitzer?”

“What? No. If anything it helps prove James Harper was innocent. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“If they think you did Jordan, they’re gonna come after you for the others.”

“Know what I think?”

“What?”

“Someone’s playing games with you.”

“Everyone knows you were a suspect in the Jordan thing. With this connection . . .”

Bobby held up a finger. “Stop talking.”

Kevin went quiet.

“Wait here a second.” Bobby walked behind the bar, whispered something to the bartender, then disappeared through a door. He was back in a moment. “Let’s go.”

The temperature had dropped and small bits of moisture blew off the rooftops, sparkling in the cut of the streetlights before being swept into the night. Bobby’s coat billowed with the wind as they crossed Market and Kevin thought he caught a hint of metal underneath as Bobby levered himself into the car. Then Kevin slipped behind the wheel and they drove off.

THE CHESTNUT
Hill Reservoir sits on the eastern edge of Boston College’s main campus, a stone’s throw from the football stadium and Kelley Rink. During the day, it’s filled with joggers circling the mile-and-a-half loop. At night, it’s pretty lonesome. Kevin pulled into a small parking lot beside the Resie and killed the engine.

“What are we doing out here?” he said.

Bobby just sat, listening.

“Bobby . . .”

“How often you think about dead people?”

“Cut the shit.”

“I’m serious. How often?”

Shuks’s face dropped down onto the hood in front of Kevin, pulling at a Lucky and streaming smoke across the windshield before dissolving back into the night. “No idea.”

“You don’t think about ’em hardly at all. Nobody does. Why the fuck would we? Truth is once you’re under the ground, you’re gone. I loved your grandmother, but who’s gonna know she even existed in fifty years? Hell, who’s gonna know we existed?”

“We’ll know.”

“We’ll both be dead.”

“Yeah, but we’ll know. And that’s gotta count for something.”

“Everything from this world goes into the dirt with you, Kev. Just how it is.”

“You are one cheerful motherfucker.”

“You still got your soul. Wanna hear about that?”

“Not really.”

Bobby chuckled, banging his wrapped hand lightly against the window. “It’s the whiskey. Gets me talking ragtime.”

“What happened there?”

He held up the bandage and unzipped a seamless grin. “You worried?”

Kevin kept his face still. “Didn’t say that.”

“I cut it with a Skilsaw at work. No big deal.” Bobby dropped the hand into his lap. “The report you showed me on the ballistics. It said the bullets they took out of Sandra Patterson and Rosie Tallent matched the thirty-eight that killed Jordan. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re wondering where that gun is?”

“Something like that.”

“Come on.” Bobby climbed out of the car, long coat pulled tight around his body. They slipped through a hole in the fence and wound their way down a black path skirted on either side by twisted stands of trees and overgrown bushes. Bobby took out a silver flashlight and clicked it on. A crust of frost ran along the edge of the bank; a thickening mist swirled and scurried across the water. It smelled like rain.

“Just follow the waterline.” Bobby pointed with his flash and
began to walk. Kevin followed, moonlight dodging his footsteps between cracks in the trees.

“I tell you I’m gonna be heading out of town for a bit?” Bobby’s voice was rough with the cold.

“You didn’t.”

“Got some business to take care of. Be leaving tomorrow. This way.”

They walked the curve of the bank for another hundred yards, then moved up into the tree line. Bobby stopped at a small clearing and propped the flashlight against a rock. His face was soaked in yellow, and his shadow sprang to life on the screen of foliage behind him.

“Right here.” He toed the ground with his boot.

“Right where? What are you talking about?”

Bobby pulled a small shovel from under his coat, unfolded it, and began to dig. “I marked this place out years ago. I knew the land was protected because of the Resie. No one was gonna build condos here or any of that shit. As for this particular spot, you didn’t see the signs but it’s loaded with poison ivy.”

Kevin jumped back. “Fuck.”

“Small price to pay.” It was awkward to shovel with the bandage, but Bobby managed. Kevin didn’t offer to help. After about ten minutes, Bobby dropped to his knees. He’d broken through the hard cover and the soil underneath was soft and yielding. When he spoke again, his breath came in small bursts of cold. “Know what I’ve got down here?”

“Why don’t you tell us, Mr. Scales?” A second light clicked on, harsh and white in their faces. “Get up on your feet, slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them and stand by Kevin.”

Bobby did as he was told. Lisa Mignot stepped forward. She was wearing jeans and a short leather jacket with a silk scarf that bled red wound around her neck. She wore black leather gloves and had a gun in her right hand.

“Now, who wants to tell me the story?”

Neither Kevin nor Bobby said a word. Lisa dug a toe into the hole Bobby had started and nodded at him. “Finish.”

He threw the shovel at her feet. “Do it yourself.”

“Bobby, this is my girlfriend, Lisa Mignot. She’s a prosecutor for the Suffolk County D.A. and, apparently, licensed to carry a gun.”

“Looks like I was right,” Bobby said. “She’s been using you, Kev. Planted those files where you’d find them, then followed us out here.”

The truth of Bobby’s words flashed across Lisa’s face, all the worse because of her beauty. Then, it was back to business.

“I could have come out with a car full of cops,” she said, “but I didn’t. I’m alone and no one knows I’m here. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t want to help you. Both of you. And, believe me, you need it.”

“Dig the hole, Bobby.”

“Fuck her.”

“Dig the hole. Whatever it is, she’s gonna find it anyway.”

Bobby picked up the shovel and began to dig. Four shovelfuls later, the edge of his spade hit something metal. Bobby wedged a cream-colored box out of the black earth.

“Leave it, Mr. Scales.” Lisa hadn’t holstered her gun. She pointed with it toward the base of a tree. Bobby did as she asked.

“What’s in here?” Lisa said.

Bobby didn’t respond. Lisa looked at Kevin.

“No idea.”

She crouched down, fumbled with the catch for a moment, then pried the box open. “It’s empty.”

“Guess you can put the gun away,” Bobby said.

“You want to tell me why you buried an empty box in the middle of nowhere?”

“I’m fucked in the head. Ask Kevin.”

Lisa holstered her weapon. “Come here.” She crooked her finger and walked down the bank to the water. Kevin followed.

“What’s supposed to be in there?”

“I told you. I have no idea.”

“We’ve got a wire in his apartment.”

“So he’s a suspect?”

“He’s up to his eyeballs in this, Kevin. And if you’re not careful, you will be, too.”

“Was he right about the file on Jordan? Did you leave that out for me?”

“I didn’t think it would turn out like this.”

“Fuck, Lisa. Fuck.”

She wet her lips and peeled her eyes back toward Bobby, who was sitting with his spine up against a tree and his bandaged hand resting on a knee. “I was telling you the truth. I’m the only one who heard the wire tonight. And no one else knows I’m here.”

“You offering a deal?”

“I keep this quiet. He tells me what was supposed to be in the box.”

“Curtis Jordan killed my grandmother.”

“I read the file and I’m sorry. But Bobby Scales was the investigation’s number one suspect.”

“He was never arrested.”

“It was 1975, Kevin. The cops in Brighton probably threw a fucking party when they heard another project nigger bought it. Thing is, the gun’s back in circulation. And two days ago it was used to shoot an undercover cop.”

“If someone killed Jordan and kept the gun, why pull it out and use it years later? Makes no sense.”

“You’re right, but these things don’t always make sense. And you know that as well. Either way, your friend’s involved.” She shifted her weight, gun creaking in the leather holster clipped to her belt. “You know it’s possible he’s playing you.”

“How?”

“He takes you out to where the gun is supposed to be buried and, surprise, surprise, it’s gone.”

“You’re telling me this was a show?”

“He lets you see the empty hole, gets you to believe someone else dug up the thirty-eight and is killing the women. I was a complication he didn’t count on, but so what? It’s still just an empty hole.”

“You believe that?”

“I met the guy five minutes ago.”

“Maybe I killed Jordan.”

“I
don’t
believe that.”

“Part of you does. Part of you is thinking that might be exactly what happened.”

“To be honest, I had you pegged for the twenty-two. Postmortem contact wound to Curtis Jordan’s head. At fifteen, that’s plenty of weight to carry around.”

Kevin started to turn away. She touched his shoulder. “No one’s interested in who pulled the string on Jordan. Least of all, me. We just want the gun.”

“Postmortem wounds were part of the M.O. on Tallent and Patterson.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with killing those women, Kevin. I know that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Easy. I love you. I understand you. And I fucking live with you.”

“Not anymore.”

“Really?”

“Pack up your shit and leave the key.”

She stared at him like someone she might have known once, then blinked her eyes frozen and didn’t seem to see him at all. On her way up the bank, she kicked at a root before crouching so she was level with Bobby. “I’m gonna sit on this for another day or two. Talk it over with Kevin, then call me. Otherwise, we come get you. And if I were you, both of you, I’d think about getting a lawyer.” Lisa tucked a card into Bobby’s hand and left. She never looked back at Kevin. And she took the box with her.