Green Monster (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

Sam sat in one of the armchairs in his hotel suite, staring into the ashes of the cherrywood fire from two nights earlier. He went over the facts of the case so far, and found as many holes as there were in the side of the
Katy K
.

Someone was shaking down the Red Sox for $50,000,000. Someone was supposedly willing to admit he threw the World Series. Lou Kenwood didn't want to pay the extortionist, but he didn't want the story to become public, either. Lou was worried that a gambling scandal would shatter his reputation as a savior and gravely wound both the Red Sox and Major League Baseball. On top of all that, someone had twice shot at Sam, once when he was with Marcus, the other time when he was with Katherine Kenwood and Paul O'Brien.

Who had not been around when the bullets began to fly? Lou Kenwood. Heather Canby.

But Sam came back to Paul O'Brien. Paul was from South Boston, home of the Boston mob. He'd been a truck driver—probably involved with the Teamsters. His father was dying of Alzheimer's disease. Beyond the financial motivation, a son with peripheral ties to the major leagues might just be willing to participate in a fix if it meant his father could celebrate a World Championship before he died. If it were to turn out that the Series really had been fixed, the senior O'Brien wouldn't even know; according to Paul, his disease was so far advanced that he didn't know what year it was.

Paul had been on the boat when the gunman opened fire, and unlike Katherine, he had emerged unscathed. He'd seemed unusually calm for a man who'd almost been murdered by a hitman—a hitman who'd been tipped off that they'd be on the boat.

Sam called Heather.

“It's your private eye,” he said. “What do you know about Paul O'Brien?”

“Why?” Heather said, sounding surprised by the question.

“We were shot at today on the Kenwoods' yacht. Katherine thinks somebody's trying to kill her. I think somebody's trying to kill me. It all makes me want to know more about O'Brien.”

“Let me close my door,” Heather said.

She put the phone down. When she returned, she spoke in a quieter voice:

“First, Lou trusts Paul with his life.”

“What about you?”

“What I think doesn't matter.”

“Sure it does. I'm asking.”

“I've wondered about him. He's from a rough background.”

“Did you run a criminal background check on him when you hired him?”

“I don't know. That was before I got here.”

“Look it up,” Sam said. “See if you can get me his full name, age, address, and Social Security number.”

“All right. Why?”

“I want to run him through the national crime computer.”

He heard her fingers clicking on a keyboard. After a minute or so, she read Sam the information.

“I don't like this,” Heather said. “Lou would really be angry if he knew you were looking into Paul for any reason.”

“Yeah, well, he'll be angrier if he loses his team. Somebody knows I'm working for Lou, and they don't like it. That guy on the boat today sprayed us pretty good, but Paul wasn't hit.”

“Were you?”

“No. But Katherine took one in the arm.”

“Is she all right?”

“I don't think she's any worse off than she already was. Look, I know a guy in town who grew up in South Boston about the same time Paul did. I'd like to go see him. Have you got a car?”

“I'll be at your hotel in forty-five minutes,” Heather said.

Sam had received a nice note from Terry Donaghy after the Masters back in April, but they'd last talked more than three years ago. After Sam left Boston, they'd kept in sporadic touch as Sam got deeper into his police career and Terry played in a series of bands while holding down bartending jobs. According to his note in April, he was still working at Sweeney's Tavern in South Boston, not far from where he'd grown up. Sam looked up the number in the phone book and was told by a woman who answered the phone that Terry was expected in around four p.m. Sam hoped to talk to Terry before the place got crowded.

He was waiting outside the Taj on Arlington Street when he heard the roar of a motorcycle coming down the one-way street from Beacon. The loud pipes echoed off the façade of the hotel, and Sam was irritated that the owner of the bike was disturbing the quiet calm of the early-autumn afternoon. Then the Harley-Davidson pulled up in front of the hotel, and when the rider's red-and-blue Red Sox-themed helmet came off, Sam realized it was Heather. She was dressed in a black leather jacket with tight blue jeans and black mid-heel boots.

“Is that yours?” Sam asked her, pointing to the Harley.

“Yes. It's easier to get around the city with one of these.”

She shook out her honey-blond hair, tilting her head back and raking her fingers from her forehead to the back of her neck.

“I hate helmet hair.”

“Then why wear one?”

“Mandatory helmet law in Massachusetts.”

“What's the fine?”

“Thirty-five bucks.”

“Big deal.”

“Lou makes me wear it.” She looked embarrassed. “It's in my contract. If I want to ride the bike, I have to wear the helmet.”

“Where's mine?”

Sam looked at the back of the bike, where most riders kept spare helmets, if they had one. Nothing there.

“We're only going to Southie, you wuss,” Heather said. “Get on.”

Sam shrugged and put his leg over the seat, grabbing Heather around the waist. She was about as big around as a rolled-up throw rug. Sam was afraid that he'd pull her off the bike if she accelerated too quickly, but as she gunned the accelerator, put the bike into gear, checked over her shoulder, and then pulled out into traffic, she had no trouble resisting his backward pull.

“Watch your hands,” she yelled over her shoulder. “I can only do one thing at a time here. What's the address?”

Sam yelled into her ear that Sweeney's was located near the corner of West Broadway and Dorchester. Heather nodded and kept the bike on Arlington until it turned into Herald, and then took a right at Albany, which ran parallel to I-93. Sam kept glancing sideways, and noticed that they were getting a lot of interested stares from people in cars and on the sidewalks. They turned left at West Broadway and went about a half-mile up the street until they reached Sweeney's. When Heather pulled the bike over to the curb in front of the bar and took her helmet off, Sam again noticed that they were getting looks from the people nearby.

“Another first for Boston,” Sam said. “I should be in the history books with Sam Adams and Paul Revere.”

“What do you mean?” Heather said as she smoothed out her hair with her hand.

“Think about it. Have you ever seen a guy on the back of a motorcycle driven by a woman? I never have.”

“No, I guess I haven't either.”

“Neither have these people,” Sam said. He gestured toward a few curious onlookers. “Until now.”

The block was undergoing a facelift. The sidewalks were being replaced, and the businesses around the tavern had obviously diversified in recent years: a Chinese restaurant, a Payless Shoes, a coffee shop with free wi-fi, and a small international grocery that sold fresh tortillas and falafel. They walked into the saloon, a narrow storefront with raised pub-style lettering spelling Sweeney's over the door. There was a small window on either side of the open door, and a neon Budweiser sign hung in one of the windows, with the words “Boston Red Sox World Champions 2004” underneath the beer logo. Maybe the newer one hadn't arrived yet.

It was much darker inside; while Sam's eyes were trying to adjust to the light, he heard his name called out.

“Sam Skarda! You old piece of shit! What are you doin' here?”

Sam recognized Terry's voice, though it was harder to recognize Terry himself as he came walking around the end of the bar and grabbed Sam's hand. Terry had shorter hair and more bulk than he'd had a decade ago. He'd been the bassist and lead singer in their short-lived band, a gifted entertainer with a strong rock voice—his dad had been an Irish tenor who sang every year in Southie's St. Patrick's Day parade—and the kind of soulful eyes that made women want to come back and see the band night after night. His eyes still looked full of life, even in the dim light of the tavern.

“Who's your knock-out friend?” Terry asked. His instincts for applying the charm to attractive women had not diminished.

“Heather Canby, this is Terry Donaghy.”

“At your service,” he said. He kissed Heather's hand. She looked him over and smiled, but did not seem impressed. She'd been schmoozed by men who were just as charming, and much farther up the food chain.

There were two older men sitting at the bar, both smoking and wearing jackets that seemed a little heavy for the fall weather. One of the half-dozen booths on the opposite side of the room was occupied by a balding guy who was engaged in a hushed conversation with a chubby woman who had dyed-black hair and hoop earrings. The bar smelled like the tap hoses needed a good cleaning.

“This guy,” Terry said, putting an arm around Sam's shoulder, “was a fuckin' hero at the Masters this year.”

“So I've heard,” Heather said. She forced a polite smile. “Sam, you wanted to ask some questions.”

“Let's get a booth,” Sam said.

Terry checked with the guys at the bar to see if they needed a refill, then followed Sam and Heather to the farthest booth from the door, next to a small corner bandstand where Sam recognized Terry's old sunburst-finish Fender Precision leaning up against a covered amp. Terry asked Sam and Heather if they wanted anything, but they declined.

“I see you're still playing, Terry,” Sam said. He gestured toward the tiny bandstand.

“The owner lets us play once a week, for tips,” Terry said. “I'm trying to put a CD together—you know, original stuff. But studio time is expensive, and I gotta work most nights.”

“I hear you,” Sam said.

He thought about what it might have been like if he'd stayed in Boston after college. Would this be his life, too? He saw Heather looking around the bar as though she were observing a zoo exhibit.

“So, you said you wanted to know about a guy,” Terry said.

“Yeah. Paul O'Brien. He would have been in school around the same time you were.”

“Lotta O'Briens in Southie.”

“He was a truck driver. Now he's a chauffeur. Kind of big, red curly hair.”

“Oh, yeah, I knew that guy. Paulie. His younger brother Johnny was in my class. What'd he do?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. Where's Johnny now?”

“Walpole,” Terry said, lowering his voice. “He, uh, kind of got mixed up with Donnie Sullivan and that bunch.”

“Gambling?”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe some drugs, too.”

“Ever hear that Paul was into any of that stuff?”

Terry shot a glance over his shoulder at the two guys sitting at the bar.

“It's not such a good idea to talk about, you know…Sullivan…around here.”

“I thought Sullivan had disappeared.”

“He did.” Terry was now talking almost in a whisper. “But he's still got guys around…”

He moved his eyeballs sideways toward the bar, without moving his head. Sam glanced up at the two guys at the bar, and saw that one of them was staring back at their booth. Maybe he was checking out Heather. Maybe not.

“So you don't know anything about Paul O'Brien?” Sam asked.

“You're like, what? A private investigator now?”

“Yeah. Not a cop.”

“Look, Sam, I'd help you if I could. I just don't know anything. I remember the guy—kind of tall, red hair, right?”

Sam nodded.

“But that's all. His brother got in trouble, but as far as I know, Paulie is clean. Or, he was.”

“Well, it was a long shot,” Sam said.

“Maybe not,” Terry said quietly. His eyes darted toward the bar again. “I'm just saying, it's not a good idea coming down here and asking about guys like him.”

“I don't want to get you in any trouble, Terry. You know that.”

“I know. Geez, it was good to see you again. You still playing?”

“I'm in an oldies band with some of the cops I used to work with. We play maybe twice a month.”

“You gotta keep your hand in, right?”

“That's right.”

“How long you gonna be in town? We should go out and see some bands, or jam.”

“I'd love to, but we're leaving for L.A. tomorrow.”

“The two of you?” Terry said. He looked back and forth between Sam and Heather. “That should be fun.”

“It's business,” Heather said. She stood up. “Nice to meet you Terry.”

She extended her hand to him, and Sam got up, too. He handed Terry his card.

“If you can think of anything else,” Sam said quietly.

“Yeah, definitely. You comin' back to town?”

“Don't know yet. I'll call you.”

Terry gave Sam a hug and watched him walk out to the street with Heather. Then he went back behind the bar and got the two men refills, without being asked.

Chapter Thirteen

Caracas, Venezuela—

Elena felt herself being lifted roughly from the ground by a man with strong arms. It was too dark to see anything but the dim outline of the shanties on either side of the narrow walkway where she'd stumbled. A baby was crying somewhere up the hillside, and a dog began barking when the man who held her by her wrists asked her where she was going.

“Nowhere,” Elena stammered. She was afraid to look at the face of the man in the police uniform who held her. She was sure it was Jefe, and that he would now drag her back to that filthy room and beat her. She would never escape her prison.

“It is very late, and very dangerous for a woman like you to be in this place,” the man said.

He did not sound like Jefe. Elena cautiously looked up at the face in the darkness, and was able to make out a round-headed man wearing a cloth paramilitary cap and a blue-and gray camo uniform. He was a police officer, but not the one who had held her captive for weeks.

“Can I trust you?” Elena asked him.

“Of course.
Policia
.”

“I do not trust the police anymore,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Sgt. Arturo Cordoba. You may trust me,
Señora
.”

“Please, take me from here. Anywhere.”

“But why…”

“There is no time to talk. I've been kidnapped. Take me to your headquarters—
por favor!”

The officer nodded. These kidnappings were becoming commonplace. Elena obviously was not from here. You could tell by how she spoke. She might have money. If he could get her back to the central part of town, to his precinct headquarters, he could reunite her with her family. There might be a reward. But the kidnappers were likely nearby. They must move quickly and quietly.

Arturo put his hand around Elena's shoulders to steady her as they walked. She appeared malnourished and weak; she wobbled like a drunk as they descended the narrow walkway between the ramshackle structures of tin and cinderblock. Rats scurried across their path, but Elena was beyond concern about them. She was going to be free, if she could just stay on her feet until they got out of the maze of shanties.

“Hola!”
she heard Arturo greet a man walking up the path toward them.

“No, no!” she hissed into his ear. “
Silencio!”

“Do not worry,
Señora
,” Arturo replied. “I know this man. He is
policia,
too.”

A cold wave of dread washed over Elena. She buried her face into Arturo's uniform and clung to him with both arms. Arturo stopped when the other man reached them.

“
Hola
, Arturo,” Elena heard the man say. “Who have you there?”

Elena nearly collapsed, sick with fear. She knew the voice.

It was Jefe.

“
No se, amigo
. She says she's been kidnapped. I'm taking her to headquarters. We'll straighten this out.”

Elena felt a strong hand reach for her chin and twist it forward, so she was now facing the copper-skinned, muscular man in the tight blue police uniform. He smiled in recognition—a deadly smile containing no humor.

“
Buenos noches
, Elena,” Jefe said. “Out for a walk?”

“No, no,” she said, trying to turn her face away from him—but his powerful grip held her jaw where he wanted it.

“You know her,
Jefe?”
Arturo said.

“Yes, he knows me!” Elena began to shout. “He is the one who has kidnapped me!”

Jefe clamped his hand across Elena's mouth. Arturo looked at Jefe with surprise, then began to reach for his service pistol. He was not fast enough; Jefe roughly threw Elena to the ground and slammed his riot stick across Arturo's hand, causing it to recoil from his holster in pain. Jefe then spun Arturo around and pulled the riot stick against his throat with both hands, lifting the policeman off the ground. Arturo kicked furiously, but Jefe's riot stick was crushing his windpipe. He soon lost consciousness and went limp, yet Jefe continued to choke him until, even in the dimness of the alley, the horrified Elena could see the man's face begin to darken. When Jefe was sure the officer was dead, he let him crumple to the ground.

Elena began to scream as Arturo's limp arm landed in her lap. Jefe bent down to her, sweat glistening off his face, and put the riot stick under her chin.

“
Silencio!
Or you will be lying dead here, next to your friend!”

Elena stopped screaming, but could not stop crying. Could a police officer really be murdered here in the middle of Caracas, with no one to come or care? She felt herself being lifted around the waist by Jefe, who began walking back up the path between the shanties. No lights had come on, despite Elena's wails; the baby she'd heard earlier continued to cry, and now several dogs barked, but there were no faces peering out of windows, no voices calling to see what the trouble was, no figures appearing outside the shanties to offer assistance. Even the rats seemed to be cowering in the shadows.

Farther up the hill, one person dared peer out of a doorway as Jefe led the sobbing Elena through the narrow alley. It was an old man, holding a threadbare blanket around his shoulders. He walked out into the alley and stared quizzically at the muscular man in the police uniform and the distraught woman whom he seemed to be dragging along with him.

“
Boracha
,” Jefe said. “She's had too much to drink tonight.”

The man nodded and returned to his shanty.

Within minutes, Jefe had dragged Elena back to the doorway of the shanty she'd escaped from. The radio was still on, playing the county music Paquito liked. Holding Elena around the waist with his left arm, Jefe opened the door to the shanty with his right hand, still holding his gun. He walked in, pushed Elena onto her mattress and kicked the chair legs out from under Paquito, who woke with a start when he landed on the floor.

Paquito rubbed his eyes and looked up at the figure of Jefe standing over him, riot stick poised above Paquito's head.

“Jefe, no,
por favor
…” Paquito begged, when he realized what had happened.

Those were the last words Paquito ever said. Jefe's club smashed into Paquito's face, shattering his nose and sending a spurt of blood onto Elena's skirt. Jefe followed with what seemed like an endless series of blows to Paquito's skull, beating the young man to death while Elena sobbed on the mattress.