Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (12 page)

“Freddy.”

“Yeah. Him. Whatever he was importing, it wasn't guns. This is America, man. Place is full of guns. Don't need to import any more.”

Before Grant could say anything, the doors closed, and Cornejo was gone.

How long you been
out?

Grant didn't spend a lot of time dwelling on the past, but the past was always there, buried deep in his subconscious. Talking about the army with Cornejo simply brought it to the surface. Grant went back into his room and considered making a fresh cup of tea but opened his T-shirt drawer instead. His fingers reached under the clothes and brought out the long velvet case. The velvet was soft to the touch. It was dark blue. There were scars and creases that betrayed its age. It had a spring-mounted hinge like the flip- open jewelry boxes for necklaces, but it was much longer than that. He felt the satisfying weight in his hands, then put it on top of the dresser.

How long you been out?

That wasn't the most important question.
How long were you in
is what Cornejo should have been asking, a question with hidden subtext.
What did you do while you were in?
That's what always dredged up the memories.

Memories and dreams
have
one thing in common: they are no respecters of timing or sequence. This memory always began with the helicopter. Heavy thudding blades thumping through the night. A big military chopper with an expansive cargo bay and pneumatic ramp. Grant sat with his snatch squad on hard bench seats along one side of the cabin.

The army medic sat alone on the opposite bench, her short-cropped hair hidden beneath the camouflaged helmet. Her shapely figure was all but unrecognizable in the desert fatigues and combat jacket, but Grant remembered it as clearly as if she were sitting naked in front of him. Cruz was checking the supplies and repacking them into her canvas rucksack. The last thing she examined was a long blue velvet case. She flicked it open and took the stethoscope out, ensured that all the parts were connected, then put it away again.

The helicopter shuddered.

Next thing, there was no helicopter. No cargo bay ramp. Half the snatch squad were dead or missing. A few hours later? The following day? Grant and his team and the female medic were hiding in a dusty ruin that was no more than three walls and a section of bombed-out roof. Dusty and hot and dangerous. Because the natives were restless, and they'd already carved Mack up with their machetes. Cruz leaned against the wall that shaded her from the baking sun, blood soaking through the dressing she'd applied to her own injured leg. “Rescue team. They aren't coming for us, are they?”

Grant looked into her eyes and couldn't lie, even to make the end less painful. “They don't know we're here.”

“It was so secret?”

Grant nodded, fatigue showing in the creases of his face. “Fella we were supposed to snatch. Very nasty man. His supporters out there.”

He waved towards the sound of chanting and bloodlust in the plaza down the street, where the machete-wielding mob was still cutting pieces off Mack's corpse.

“They know that's who we came to get. Our command team. Need-to-know basis. Diverted the supply chopper to use as cover. The ones who know where we were heading can't admit it. Everybody else? We don't exist.”

Cooper passed a canteen of water to Grant, who shook his head and waved it towards Cruz. She glanced at the life-giving liquid with thirsty eyes before shaking her own head. She was a medic. She knew more than most how important that water would become. Cooper screwed the lid back on without drinking.

“Well, that's just fine and dandy.”

Fast rewind. Another bombed-out building the day before. Cruz examined Mack's broken leg and said there wasn't anything else she could do with it. She'd splinted and dressed the wound, but they all knew Mack wasn't going to walk out of there. In order to get close enough to make a run for the safe zone, they'd have to dart from cover to cover and hope they didn't draw attention to themselves. That was when Mack volunteered to be the decoy.

Fast forward. The final night. Only two of them left. Grant and Cruz. Out of water. Low on ammunition. One rifle between them, which was just as well because Cruz couldn't shoot for shit. She smiled when Grant told her that. He leaned forward and kissed her dry lips. She had already made her decision. Grant wanted to argue against it but knew it was the only choice. Her leg had gotten worse. She was less able to make the dash for freedom than Mack had been. She took the blue velvet case out of her haversack and held it in both hands. They sat in silence as the sky paled in the west. Dawn began to remove the cover that had been hiding the final stretch of road to the safe zone. Grant should have gone while it was still dark, but darkness would have also hidden the decoy.

She handed Grant the velvet case. “My father gave me this. Make sure he gets it back.”

At first Grant couldn't take it because that would be accepting what was to come next. She held it out to him. After a few short moments he reached out and took it. His hand brushed her fingers. Her eyes became serious.

“Can you take the shot?”

“Before they lay a finger on you.”

“It's not their fingers I'm worried about.”

Joking to the end. Cruz sidled up against the half-demolished wall and peered towards the fires that signaled the final battlefield. She took the flare out of her pocket and didn't look back. Dragging her ruined leg behind her, she clambered over the debris and yanked the fuse. When the flare went up, Grant was already halfway across open ground towards the last piece of cover. Easy range to take the shot before the machetes did their work.

Grant took one more
look
at the faded American flag stitched inside the silk lining, then shut the past away. He didn't read her name scrawled beneath the stars and stripes. He didn't need to. One of these days he'd have to fulfill his promise, but he still couldn't face the grieving father. Still couldn't forgive himself for taking that shot. Being in the military was like being in the police. You always back your comrades. You always trust who's covering your back. Grant needed to know who to trust now. He could only think of one way to find out, and that would entail another visit to the police station. He put the velvet case back in the drawer. Maybe he would have another cup of tea after all.

eighteen

Grant was back at
E-13
by half past nine the following morning. He got stopped for his autograph twice and was stared at most of the way. If this was what celebrity did for you, then he'd give it a miss. The media frenzy had died down at the police station, and the exterior was quiet. The damaged patrol cars had been taken away. The window cavity had been boarded up. The fingerprint powder had been cleaned off the front doors, and the reception was empty.

His orange windcheater got more stares from the front office as he was buzzed through the inner door. The metal stairs echoed as he climbed to the second floor, but the corridor to the detectives' office was muffled and quiet. He could hear raised voices coming through the closed door.

He paused with his fingers touching the handle. Following the debriefing yesterday it had been made clear he was no longer welcome, and the reason for him being here wasn't applicable. That meant he had no excuse for asking what he was about to ask. Also, the man he needed to speak to was the man who'd steered him to the insecure interview room. He wasn't expecting any cooperation.

He grabbed the handle, opened the door, and walked straight in. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't what he got. Miller was backing off in shock. The other detectives sat at their desks open- mouthed, and Kincaid was standing on his desk with a cardboard folder in one hand. His face was red with anger.

Kincaid saw Grant
come
through the door and paused for a second. That was all. Then he screamed his rage at the ceiling and dumped the folder in the waste bin at his feet.
“Goddamn limp-dicked motherfuckers.”

He jumped down from the desk, and the floor shook. He kicked the waste bin across the room. Grant watched with a mixture of surprise and amusement. The bin ended up against the wall near the door, its contents scattered across the floor. One pace and Grant was standing next to the bin. He nudged it upright with one foot, then picked up the battered folder. He left the rest of the rubbish on the carpet. “Strictly speaking, anyone with a limp dick can't be a motherfucker.”

Kincaid growled a response. “Strictly speaking, pencil pushers don't make good cops.”

“I was a typist. Didn't push pencils.”

“I wasn't talking about you. It's them pencil-pushing bastards downtown.”

Grant tapped the folder in his hands. He glanced at the creased flap. A name was printed neatly across the top in black.

FREDERICK SULLIVAN

Below that was Sullivan's date of birth and home address. In the bottom left was the date of arrest and a note stating “hold for foreign force inquiry.” He tapped the folder some more while he weighed his options. They'd told him at headquarters that the foreign force inquiry case was closed. The homicide and bombing of the police station would be a BPD investigation—nothing to do with the foreign force inquiry officer, which was Grant. Basically, go home and don't come back. The detective in charge was Sam Kincaid. It looked as if Sam Kincaid wasn't happy about something. Grant wondered what it was. “Jobsworths rise to the top. That's why they run the po-lice.”

Kincaid sat heavily at his desk. “Cream rises to the top. Not assholes who don't know their asses from their elbows.”

Grant dropped the file on Kincaid's desk. “Cream rises, but shit floats. Shits usually know how to play the system, so they end up running the system. Secret is, when it's raining shit, get a shit umbrella. Deflect the shit so you can get the job done.”

“You volunteering?”

“Depends what kind of shit you've got.”

“The kind of shit is, I've been pulled off the case for three days.”

“Not more pizza robberies?”

“Oil robbery.”

Grant looked blank and leaned against Kincaid's desk. “Oil?”

Kincaid swiveled in his chair and looked up at the man in the orange jacket. “Oil. Petrol. Gas. Whatever you want to call it. Bunch of Ay-rabs coming over to steal the franchises.”

Grant remembered the news story. Arabs at the airport. A smiling politician. Police erecting trestle barriers outside an expensive- looking building. “The delegation.”

It wasn't a question. Grant knew how this worked. It had been the same in the army whenever a royal visit demanded extra security at the barracks. It was the same in the West Yorkshire Police whenever politicians decided to hold an important meeting with world leaders. “Let me guess. All police leave cancelled. Emergency personnel only to work the streets; everyone else drafted in for security and crowd control.”

“Everyone except the pencil-pushing bastards that run this department.”

“They pulling all the detectives?”

“All but two. Emergency cover only. One working nights and one working days. Investigations suspended—for three days.”

“Don't they know the forty-eight-hour rule?”

“They don't know there's more than one twelve o'clock in a day.”

“Yeah, but. Evidence gathered in the first forty-eight hours nearly always has the answer. Forensics. Witnesses. House searches.”

“I know what we're missing. We'll just have to play catch-up is all.”

Grant folded his arms across his chest. “So who've you got left?”

A gentle voice spoke from behind him. “Me.”

Miller was grinning from ear to ear. This was his chance to shine. Taking primary on anything that came in during the day for seventy-two hours. Youthful enthusiasm went a long way, but Grant knew it couldn't replace experience. At least the young detective did have enthusiasm on his side. Grant glanced at Miller, then back at Kincaid. “Emergency cover?”

“Yep.”

“But not the Sullivan investigation?”

“Nope. Not until I get back.”

The doubt returned. If Kincaid had indeed steered Grant to the insecure interview room, what better way to stall the investigation then by taking the lead detective off the case for a while? Grant just didn't see this going right to the top, though. That sort of thing only happened in the movies. Corruption only lived at the grassroots. Conspiracies didn't exist, especially in the police service. For a conspiracy to work, dozens of people had to keep the secret. The police force couldn't hide toilet paper.

That put a different slant on things. Whoever had been paid to ensure Grant interviewed Sullivan out front had also arranged the riot that filled the cells. That was grassroots level. Surely the best way to shit-can the investigation was to keep your inside man on the case. Kincaid. Then again, maybe that was why Kincaid was so upset about being removed. Because the bosses weren't involved.

There were too many possibilities. There was insufficient evidence. One thing Kincaid wouldn't want, if he was the inside man, would be having Grant snooping around. So here was an opportunity to sound the big guy out.

“You still got Sullivan's property?”

“Freddy's? Yes. Down in custody.”

“Can I have a look at it?”

“Sergeant Rooney won't be happy about that.”

“That's why I need you to organize it.”

Kincaid laid a hand on the Sullivan file and drummed his fingers on the flap. He flicked it open, then smoothed it shut. Open and shut. Open and shut. He closed his eyes for a moment. Drummed some more. Then stopped. “Okay. I've got half an hour before they ship me downtown.”

Grant felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He was beginning to like the big man all over again. Kincaid pushed away from the desk and stretched his back. Bones cracked like gunshots. He stood up.

“You need anything else, see Miller.” He gave Miller a nod. “Give him a hand with anything that doesn't involve going to jail.”

“You bet.”

Miller looked even happier than usual, and Miller's usual was pretty happy. Kincaid held a hand out for Grant to lead the way. “Let's go take a look.”

Kincaid was right:
Sergeant
Rooney wasn't happy. In marked contrast to Miller's youthful enthusiasm, Rooney was the epitome of old-timer obstructiveness. The custody sergeant stood ramrod straight behind the counter.
“His property is sealed until the inquiry concludes otherwise.”

Grant kept quiet. Kincaid knew how to play the game. “The inquiry can't conclude anything until we check his property.”

“You got written authority from the investigating officer?”

“I am the investigating officer.”

“Got to have it in writing. For the custody record.”

“He's not in custody. He's in the morgue.”

“His custody record isn't. His property neither.”

Grant kept quiet. Kincaid gritted his teeth. “So let's see it.”

“Can't see it without written authority.”

Grant couldn't keep quiet any longer. Jobsworths were the bane of a working cop's life. Jobsworths in uniform were even worse. “Is that like, ‘Prisoners can't go out to an insecure interview room'?”

Rooney stared at Grant and lowered his voice. “And we all know how that worked out, don't we?”

Grant felt a shiver run down his spine. “You get in trouble? Allowing that?”

“Not yet, but I will. Once the inquiry is complete. There are procedures for a reason.”

Kincaid took the lead again. Grant was even quieter than before. “I am the inquiry. And I need to see Sullivan's personal property.”

“Not without written—”

“I'll give you written authorization. Get me some paper.”

Rooney looked at Kincaid, then at Grant, and back to Kincaid. “He's not the investigating officer.”

“He was the interviewing officer. Fresh eyes. Now get me the fucking paper before your stripes are the last part of your career you see.”

Rooney slapped a sheet of paper on the counter. “Snuggling up with the English, now, are you? Your mother must be proud.”

Kincaid wrote in silence, his knuckles going white around the pen. He scrawled a signature, reversed the paper, then slid it across the counter. He slammed the pen down so hard Grant thought ink would shoot out like blood from a squashed bug.

“Bag.”

“Coming right up.”

Rooney turned his back and went to the property lockers. Each locker had a number that corresponded to a cell number. There were two unmarked lockers at the bottom. Sullivan wasn't in a cell anymore. The sergeant unlocked the right-hand locker and took out a ziplocked plastic bag with a numbered seal protecting the zip. He placed it on the counter, then busied himself attaching the authorization letter to Sullivan's custody record.

They opened the bag
in a secure vacant interview room in the custody area. It had the same layout as the one out front except the table and chairs were bolted to the floor and the tape deck was fastened to the wall. It was one of the rooms that Grant should have interviewed Freddy Sullivan in if events hadn't conspired against him—events that had been orchestrated by someone with incredible power over the locals and a modicum of control over the custody sergeant. There was insufficient evidence to prove anything just yet, but Grant felt relieved that he could at least strike Kincaid off his list of suspects.

The big fella broke the plastic seal and unzipped the bag. He sat back in his chair and held his hands out. “It's all yours.”

Grant interlocked the fingers of both hands, reversed them palms outwards, and flexed. The knuckles cracked. He released the fingers and wiggled them like a safecracker preparing to work the combination dial. He looked at the bag on the table for a few moments, then leaned forward and tipped the contents out onto the black vinyl surface.

There wasn't much.

He wished he'd brought the official record of the contents. It was sometimes helpful to know where each item was found—left-hand trouser pocket, back pocket, jacket pocket, etc. More importantly if any had been hidden down the back of Sullivan's trousers or down his socks. That would give added weight to certain items. Having said that, his experience of custody searches was that the property location wasn't noted. It was simply a record of items taken into protective possession and a search for weapons or other methods of self-harm, hence the belt and shoelaces in the bag. A street search was different. In a street search every detail was recorded, as much for relevance as to rebut any claims about civil liberties being violated. Strip searches had to be authorized and carried out in a controlled environment. Find a bag of drugs up his arse and you'd better have followed procedures. And washed your hands.

First things first. List the property. Grant took a notebook and pen out of his inside pocket. The orange windcheater held many secrets. Then he sifted through the items on the table and arranged them in a short line. Working from left to right, he noted each item in the book.

• •
  $25.75 cash
  
• •
  brown leather wallet, containing …
  
• •
  Walmart store card in the name of F. Sullivan
  
• •
  Blockbuster video card in same name
  
• •
  photo of a naked woman dancing
  

Grant looked at the dog-eared photograph. The woman was slim and athletic and appeared to be dancing around a silver pole in the middle of a stage. Pole-dancing clubs were known in England but not widespread. There was an illuminated Budweiser sign in the background. He turned the photo over, but there was nothing written on the back. He put it down and continued.

• •
  brown leather belt
  
• •
  1 pair of black shoelaces
  
• •
  1 yellow metal ring
  
• •
  1 yellow metal heavy linked chain
  

He fingered the chain, shifting the links into different shapes. It was obviously gold, probably 24 karat. Standard procedure was to describe chains and jewelry as yellow metal or white metal simply because cops weren't metallurgists. Saved being sued later when the property was returned. This property wasn't getting returned. The ring was gold too. A wedding band. Too small for a man, so probably handed down from Sullivan's mother. Grant couldn't remember if the Sullivan matriarch was still alive, and he felt a little guilty at not knowing. The ring had no doubt been worn on the chain and only removed during the cataloguing process. He moved on.