Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (17 page)

twenty-four

Grant didn't even make
it
across the police station reception the following morning before being accosted. At least the attractive blond with the stitched-on grin wasn't pointing a camera in his face. Not unless she was filming from a helicopter with a zoom lens like last time. It put him in mind of that scene in
Die Hard 2
where the news reporter stuck a camera in Bruce Willis's face and he told her to fuck off or something. Bruce Willis was always telling somebody to fuck off, or to shut the fuck up, or calling them a motherfucker.

Grant didn't tell the reporter to fuck off. She was being too polite.

“Excuse me. Mr. Grant. Can I speak to you for a minute?”

“So long as you don't expect me to speak back.”

The cameraman stood up from the waiting-room chair where he'd been nursing the shoulder-rigged camera in his lap. Grant gave him his pissed-off-Yorkshire-copper glare, and the cameraman sat down again. Grant turned his attention to the reporter. She was even more attractive up close, with a remarkably pretty face and immaculate, well-cared-for skin.

Items five and six on the Triple Zero qualifications page.

She turned off the stitched-on smile and began to resemble a normal human being, albeit an incredibly attractive and well- dressed one. She waved the cameraman to stay where he was and moved closer to Grant. Her perfume was subtle but addictive. One smell of it and he wanted to take a deep breath. It smelled clean and fruity and erotic all at the same time, like she'd bathed in apples with a hint of mint. He wondered if her skin felt as silky as it looked. He'd bet it did. Her voice, now that she'd toned down her newsreader twang, was low and sexy. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Compared to what?”

“Compared to before you got beaten up and stabbed last night.”

“About the same. I'm not a morning person.”

“You seem to be having a hectic visit to Boston.”

Grant lowered his head and tilted it to one side. He looked her in the eyes. “Do I need to search you for a wire?”

She didn't blush, just stared right back. “No. I always ask permission before recording someone.”

“Good to know.”

He glanced at the cameraman. The camera on his lap was pointing in Grant's general direction. There didn't appear to be any lights blinking or parts moving, but Grant wasn't sure how these things worked nowadays. They didn't use film any more, he knew that, so maybe there were no moving parts to indicate it was recording. He did know about directional microphones. If the camera had one, it was aimed at the couple talking off the record. When it came to reporters, Grant didn't believe anything was off the record.

“Step into my office.”

He opened the interview-room door and ushered the reporter in. He followed and closed the door behind him. The room had been cleared but not repaired. The table had gone. The glass and debris had been removed. The walls had been cleaned of blood and grime but not repainted. The reporter's perfume overpowered the last vestiges of cordite, that bonfire night smell that always lingered for days after. That was good. The other smell you got when someone was blown inside out was soggy shit and burned flesh. The cleaners had sprayed enough air freshener to get rid of most of that too. Almost.

There were two chairs against the wall. Slightly torn and scarred but clean.

“Have a seat, Miss—?”

“Kimberley Clark. Call me Kim, Mr. Grant.”

“Jim.”

“Like Captain Kirk?”

“Nothing like Captain Kirk. What can I do for you?”

They both sat, Grant pulling his chair to face Clark's.

“I want to tell your story.”

“I don't have a story.”

“That's not how it looks on TV.”

That familiar phrase again. Grant was beginning to find it irritating. “Nothing's like it looks on TV.”

“Maybe not. But you've hit the triple so far. The explosion. The shooting. The stabbing. You're getting more reruns than
Friends
.”

“They should can
Friends
.”

“They won't can you. You're good coverage.”

“D'you cover crime scenes much, Kim?”

“Some.”

“D'you know that bit where they say, ‘A police spokesman said'?”

Clark looked resigned. She knew where this was going. Grant continued.

“Well, a police spokesman said we are conducting a vigorous investigation. All avenues are being explored, but there is no further information at this time.”

“About the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, there is? Or yes, the investigation?”

“Yes, I'm not going to say anything about the investigation.”

Her look of resignation vanished. Grant reckoned she was a woman who didn't like to take no for an answer. A woman who brushed off disappointment and focused on the positives. An admirable trait to have. She looked him in the eye, and he saw what it must be like for people who talked to him. The eye contact was very important. She smiled. “What about Snake Pass? You got anything to say about that?”

Grant smiled back. “It's a winding road in Yorkshire between Manchester and Sheffield.”

He had to admit she was good. The curve ball was supposed to unsettle him, but he'd been interrogated by the best. The same technique he employed for everything applied. Relax. Breathe easy. Don't panic.

Keep out of trouble. Don't get involved. You're off-duty.

His shift inspector's parting words. Snake Pass was history. Another story for another day. The fallout from it was Grant being sent to Boston. The fallout from that was two men dead and a police station being bombed. Just like old times, in older countries. No matter how many times he told himself he was only a typist.

She didn't give up. “The incident at Snake Pass.”

His smile didn't waver. “A police spokesman said.”

“Same answer, eh?”

“Open investigation. What did you expect?”

“I don't want the investigation. I told you. I want your story. An Englishman in a strange land.”

“You got that bit right.”

“Like Crocodile Dundee in New York.”

“This is Boston.”

“But you're Crocodile Dundee.”

“No, I'm not. I know what a bidet is, and I don't sleep on the floor.”

“Figuratively speaking. You're the Resurrection Man.”

“You come up with that?”

“No. That was Fox News. But once you've got a name, it sticks.”

He knew that was true. He'd been called plenty of names back in Yorkshire. Quite a few of them stuck. None of them were printable. There would be no getting away from the Resurrection Man as long as he was in Boston. Getting away from Boston depended on what he found out about Triple Zero Gentlemen's Services. He thought about that for a moment. “What's your view on oral sex?”

That caught Clark by surprise, but she recovered quickly. “Depends if you mean talking dirty or the act itself.”

He waved the thought aside. “Doesn't matter. Forget it.”

She stared at him, clearly not forgetting it. Grant stood up. This interview was over. The answers he needed were upstairs, not on WCVB News. All they'd have would be hearsay and misinformation. That's what the news was all about. And don't forget the Lassie moment at the end to leave your viewers with hope and a smile.

“A police spokesman said.”

“‘A source close to the investigation said'—that's another tagline.”

“Well, this source said goodbye. Nice meeting you.”

She slipped a business card in his hand before he even realized she had a bag. He was impressed. This girl should be working the con. Working for WCVB News, maybe she already was.

“If you change your mind, give me a call. You're going to be on the news if you like it or not. Might as well get your side of the story out there.”

“That's what I usually say. Just before dropping a vital clue in an interview.”

“Drop away.”

“Not today. Take care.”

He opened the door and crossed reception, waving at the desk sergeant to let him in. Clark called after him from the doorway of the bombed-out interview room. “It's you who needs to take care. The triple can easily become the quad.”

“You'll have your story then, won't you?”

Sergeant O'Rourke pressed the button, and the internal door lock buzzed. Grant pushed the door into the stairwell, then watched the news crew going out the front. The tight trousers of Kimberley Clark's business suit hugged her backside, each buttock moving separately in a tight little cycle. He thought of Terri Avellone and what she'd told him last night.

It was time to put some meat on the bones. He closed the door and went up the clock tower stairs, his feet echoing all the way up.

The detectives' office was
empty. Grant walked straight in without knocking. He felt like part of the furniture now. It was funny how that always happened. When you started at a new station, you felt like an outsider, not knowing anybody and having to find your way around. Some old-timer would show you the ropes, point out the stationary cupboard and where the coffee machine was. A couple of days later you knew where the basics were. Not long after that, once the sarcasm and van culture kicked in, you felt right at home. He felt right at home here.

Except there was nobody to be sarcastic with. The detectives' office was empty.

Grant stood in the doorway for a moment while he absorbed a sight so strange it didn't immediately compute. They say that Times Square in New York is never empty, apart from when they found that car bomb recently. That may well be true, but Jim Grant had never been in a CID office that didn't have at least have one detective scrutinizing a file or making coffee or bollocking somebody over the phone. The E-13 detectives' office was empty, and there wasn't even a car bomb to explain why.

He took a step into the room and glanced around the desks. The desktops were in various stages of disarray, the sign of a hardworking cop. A neat and tidy desk indicated somebody more concerned with keeping a neat and tidy desk than a detective deep into someone else's shit. There should be notes about possible suspects, crime scene photos or forensic reports, and messages to call informants back as soon as possible. All of that was the case here. Every desk had its own selection of work-related debris. There just wasn't anybody to action the many tasks required. It was a ghost town.

Then the door pushed open behind him, and Miller came in rubbing his hands dry. If he'd come in pulling the zip on his fly up, he couldn't have signaled a return from the restroom any clearer. He stopped when he saw Grant. “Christ. You scared me to death.”

“I could say the same. Thought I'd wandered onto the
Mary Celeste
.”

Miller resumed drying his hands. “Bermuda Triangle is what it is around here at the moment.”

“Glad to see you wash your hands after pointing Percy at the porcelain.”

“Pardon me?”

Grant pointed at Miller's crotch. “Don't forget. More than three shakes is a wank.”

Miller blushed. It seemed out of place in the world of hardened detectives, but along with Miller's boundless enthusiasm it was one of the things Grant liked about him. He was still in touch with his former self, before he entered the real world of police work. Miller went to his desk and held up a cup for Grant. The true sign of acceptance in a new station. “You're a funny guy, Jim. If I knew what you were talking about.”

He wiggled the cup. “Coffee?”

“No thanks. Had my caffeine fix out of a can.”

“Okay. How you feeling this morning?”

Grant felt a touch of déjà vu but didn't use the same retort. Miller was on the side of the angels. He worked the streets, didn't report about them.

“Stiff and sore. Like most mornings.”

“Saw you on the news again. You're a regular media star.”

“Maybe next time I can make it without ending up in hospital.”

Miller waved at Grant's orange windcheater. “Change jackets and they wouldn't recognize you.”

“Undercover isn't my thing. I want people to recognize me so they know I'm not armed and dangerous. Diffuse the situation.”

“Hasn't worked so far.”

“They haven't got to know me yet.” He indicated the empty office. “I take it you've not got any staff for a bit of door knocking?”

Miller held his arms out. “What you see is what you get.”

“The oil conference?”

“Everybody. In uniform. Kincaid looks kinda strange. Only ever see him in uniform at funerals, and we haven't had one of those since I transferred.”

Grant leaned over and laid his fingers on a wooden cabinet. “Touch wood it stays that way.”

Miller did the same. “Yeah. Be glad when this oil bunch go home.”

“So you can go back to dealing with regular shitbags and lying scummers?”

“Regular liars instead of corporate liars. Yeah. All this foreign rights and politics makes my skin crawl.”

Grant walked to Miller's desk and leaned against it, crossing his legs. He laid both hands on the desktop behind him for balance. He looked right at home, as if he'd been working at the BPD all his service. “Well, here's some regular shitbag stuff. What do you know about the Gentlemen's Club?”

“Junction of Pond and Arborway? From last night?”

“Yes. And Triple Zero Gentlemen's Services?”

“Ah, yeah. Both the same but different. Prostitution.”

“Escorting.”

“Same thing.”

“So, what do you know?”

Miller wheeled his chair out and sat down. It meant he was looking up at Grant instead of down at him, but that didn't seem to bother him. Miller was keen and eager no matter where he sat. Pecking order wasn't a problem. One-upmanship wasn't in his nature. He leaned back in his chair.