Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (19 page)

twenty-six

Grant and Cornejo stood
outside One Post Office Square in the late afternoon sunshine, most of Post Office Square Park in shade but the eastern corner still painted gold by the sun's dying embers. Grant marveled not at the size of the glass and concrete tower but at its sheer opulence. The lobby windows were high and wide and gold trimmed. The interior looked like a palace from their position out on the street. Even the sidewalk seemed more expensive than the rest of the square. Pretentious six-feet-tall polished steel nameplates were fastened to the pillars on either side of the main doors, acid etched with the address.

One
Post
Office
Square

Even the sign looked expensive. The building reeked of money. The doorman wore a uniform that probably cost more than the BPD clothing budget for a year. Grant disliked the place immediately. He pushed the door and crossed the lobby.

“Triple Zero, please.”

“I'm sorry, sir. There is no business listed by that name.”

Grant's first judgement from the sidewalk had been right. The lobby was like a palace. Royalty could live here and not feel out of place. Everything metal was gold plated. Everything wood was highly polished or hand carved. The floor was marble tiled and shiny as an ice rink. The concierge was as rigid as the Coldstream Guardsmen outside Buckingham Palace. If he didn't bend, a strong wind would snap him like a twig. He didn't look in a ledger or check the building index; he simply stood erect and answered in the negative.

Grant wasn't surprised.

The building looked too exclusive to be the headquarters of a sex trafficker. Whatever name Delaney's business was registered under, it would have nothing to do with condoms, lap dancers, or prostitutes. There would be no free matchbooks with a nude silhouette against the flames. Grant glanced up at the back wall for a business listings plaque. The acid-etched steel nameplate fastened to the wall was the same as outside.

One
Post
Office
Square

There was no list of businesses. There was no index of residents. This wasn't
The Towering Inferno's
glass tower or the Nakatomi Plaza building from
Die Hard
, where John McLane could tap a name into the search screen and come up with the correct floor. This was far more exclusive. Far more secretive.

Back in Yorkshire, Grant would have simply flashed his warrant card and asked to see Frank Delaney. Being out of his jurisdiction, the warrant card wouldn't help. Not officially anyway. He flicked his wallet open and shut, allowing just enough time for the West Yorkshire Police badge to register and the checkered band to suggest police authority. “Police. Here to see Frank Delaney.”

Cornejo had changed out of his desert fatigues into cleaner combat trousers and a khaki T-shirt, but he still exuded military presence. He stood behind and slightly to one side of Grant, with his arms folded across his chest. The concierge looked from Grant to the soldier and back again. He didn't unbend in the slightest. “That ID card is for the West Yorkshire Police. This is not West Yorkshire.”

“Tell that to Delaney when I tell him you turned the police away.”

“Mr. Delaney is perfectly entitled to turn you away. You have no jurisdiction in Boston.”

Grant was beginning to think jobsworths were trained to be obstructive. This was as bad as talking to Sergeant Rooney in the JP custody suite.

“But Mr. Delaney would need to know I'm here to turn me away.”

“If you do not have an appointment, Mr. Delaney does not need to know anything about you.”

“No, but he wants to. Trust me.”

The concierge was about to formulate another argument when the desk phone rang with a polite little buzz. Twice. He picked up the receiver, identified himself as front desk, and listened for a few seconds. Grant noticed the CCTV camera on the wall behind the desk and smiled at it. He resisted waving. The receiver clicked back into its holder. The concierge didn't even blink when he spoke.

“Delaney Enterprises is on the twenty-fifth floor. Elevators are over there.”

Over there was half a mile away at the rear of the lobby. Felt like it anyway. In
Die Hard
, McLane's shoes echoed on the marble floor. In One Post Office Square, Grant's K-Swiss rubber soles squeaked with every step. The sound mocked the stiff guardsman demeanor of the man behind the desk.

The bank of elevators was four wide and gold trimmed, just in case you forgot you were entering one of the most exclusive premises in Boston. Grant pressed the call button, and the right-hand doors opened immediately. The interior throbbed with golden promise. Auric Goldfinger wouldn't have felt out of place here.

They stepped inside, and Grant pressed floor twenty-five.

The doors sighed closed, and the elevator took them up.

The deep pile carpet
of the twenty-fifth floor made the Airport Hilton feel like the Seaverns Hotel. Grant was impressed with just how much difference expensive carpet and wallpaper could make. Growing up, it had been woodchip and vinyl silk emulsion. The floor had been linoleum and throw rugs. This was like stepping into the lair of a Bond villain, and it was only the hallway and elevator station.

Whereas the lobby gave no indication of what businesses had offices in the building, the twenty-fifth floor landing had fingerposts on the wall opposite the elevators. Delaney Enterprises was on the right. Grant and Cornejo fell into step as they passed inset lighting and small wooden tables with displays of dried grasses. The displays were scented like potpourri and were no doubt attended daily by a servicing contractor. They came to a tall, wide door of pale wood with gold fittings. The door was taller than necessary and wide enough for two adults to fit through side by side. American excess at its most discreet. A pissing contest in all but name. Designed to make visitors feel small before they even entered. The polished brass plaque next to the door gleamed.

Delaney Enterprises

Even the nameplate reminded Grant of Enterprises Auric. He didn't knock. The door opened easily considering its size, probably using assisted hinges. If he was expecting some kind of overweight Goldfinger clone or a typical Boston gangster, he was mistaken. There was no reception lobby and there was no receptionist. The office was a corner suite on the southeast corner, and the man who stood to greet them was tall, well dressed, and polite. In the darkness of the Gentlemen's Club he'd looked older and rougher. He didn't bother hiding the CCTV screen he'd been watching.

“You're that guy off TV. From England. Thought I recognized you.”

“Still on TV by the looks of it.”

“Yes. I like to keep my eye on things. Welcome to my world.”

Frank Delaney didn't hold his arms wide for them to examine the office, but the invitation was implicit in the greeting. Cornejo kept a pace behind Grant. Grant accepted the invitation at face value and took a moment to acclimatize. The first thing he did when entering any room.

Exits. The main door behind them. A normal-sized door behind the leather-topped desk. Another door in the far left corner. No doubt where the muscle waited. The furnishings were in
keeping
with the rest of the building: heavy, minimalist, and expensive. Deep-cushioned leather chairs. A solid hand-carved wooden desk. A low, wide, smoked-glass coffee table in the angle of the windows with a three-seat settee and two easy chairs. Plush cream leather. Matching beige carpet and floor-to-ceiling vertical blinds.

It was the windows that provided the wow factor.

The entire outer walls weren't glass like the conference room at BPD Headquarters, but the view east through the large rectangular windows was breathtaking. There were several equally impressive skyscrapers, but they didn't block the view across Boston Harbor. In the foreground, just across I-93 and Atlantic Avenue, the northern finger of Rowe Wharf stuck out into the harbor. Beyond that it was boats and water. In the distance Logan International twinkled in the sunlight. The place where Grant's Boston adventure had begun.

Grant turned his attention to the interior walls. They were neutral beige but expensively papered. Large framed posters from classic movies were evenly spaced around the room, indicating why Delaney had chosen that theme for the Gentlemen's Club. There was Steve McQueen in
Bullitt
. Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry. There were a couple of early Leone westerns,
A Fistful of Dollars
and
For a Few Dollars More
but not
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
. Jack Nicholson was part of the ensemble on
The Departed
poster. There was a Re-Elect Senator Clayton campaign poster and an original UK quad for
Goldfinger
. Grant wondered if Delaney modeled himself on the Jack Nicholson character, who was in turn modeled on Whitey Bulger? Or maybe the golden-themed office building gave him delusions of
Goldfinger
-style grandeur. Whichever it was, the lack of personnel in the office was surprising.

Grant decided to massage Delaney's ego. “You could live in an office like this.”

“You could, but regulations don't allow it. I keep rooms at Le Meridien.”

“The hotel downstairs. Linked by a secret passage?”

“Hardly secret. But a private corridor for tenants, yes.”

Grant filed the information away but didn't stand on ceremony. “We almost met the other night.”

“Oh, really? Where?”

“At the Gentlemen's Club. In Jamaica Plain.”

“Ah, JP. My old stomping ground.”

“I wouldn't put you down as the titty-bar type.”

“Depends on the titties. I think you'll agree they were top quality.”

“They were. But not local titties.”

“Indeed not. I don't remember you there, though.”

“I got distracted before I could talk to you.”

“I saw that on TV too. Sorry about that. I won't tolerate violence at my establishments. That's why we employ security staff.”

“It was your security staff.”

“Not anymore.” Delaney turned to Cornejo. “And who is your friend?”

Delaney looked cool, calm, and collected. This was his domain. Visiting cops didn't appear to worry him. Visiting cops with no jurisdiction shouldn't be a problem anyway. The man in army combat pants was a different matter. Delaney clearly used the “identify the threat” module of personal security. Grant stepped aside.

“John Cornejo. One of your customers. Or do you prefer clients?”

“One of our brave boys, by the looks of it.” He extended his hand. “Glad to meet you.”

Cornejo shook it. Grant wasn't offered a handshake. He was glad. At least he wouldn't have to count his fingers. Delaney continued. “Beneficiary of our Returning Veterans Program, I trust.”

Cornejo nodded but didn't speak. That was what they'd decided before getting out of the elevator. Let Grant do the talking. Delaney had the floor at the moment, though. “We don't have a returns policy. Faulty goods aren't an issue, I hope.”

Cornejo stood mute. Grant took something out of his pocket. “You remember that scene in
Bowling for Columbine
where Michael Moore takes a bullet used in the shooting back to the shop where they'd bought it—only the bullet was still inside one of the victims?”

Delaney waited with hooded eyes, then looked at Cornejo. “You haven't been shot, have you?”

Cornejo remained mute. Grant answered for him. “Not lately. But here's the return.”

Grant tossed a condom matchbook across the room. Delaney didn't attempt to catch it, letting it bounce off his chest and drop to the floor. He looked down at the familiar flame and silhouette logo. “That's not a used one, is it?”

The answer was smooth, but Grant detected a flicker behind the eyes, more than a corporate condom pack warranted. He didn't know what it meant but filed the reaction away for future use. “Guy who owned that one won't be using it. His dick got plastered over the police station ceiling a couple of days ago.”

“I saw that on TV too. Your point is?”

Grant lied. “That belonged to Freddy Sullivan. Worked for you.”

“A lot of people work for me.”

“Not doing what Freddy did.”

“And what was that?”

“All those pretty foreign girls you've got at the club—the Eastern European ones? Freddy imported them for you.”

“Immigration is not one of my businesses.”

“People trafficking for the purposes of sexual activity is.”

“That's illegal.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I don't do illegal. I make enough money with legitimate businesses.”

“Gas stations and campaign contributions, is it?”

“Many things. Like you're a cop, a soldier, and a media star.”

“You saw that, huh?”

“Of course. Very dramatic footage. Two hospital visits and a shootout at high noon. The dusty street. The lone gunfighter.”

“I hate guns.”

“Can't have been easy in the army, then.”

“I was a typist.”

“And I was a paperboy. But we both grew up, didn't we? Now I've become a respected businessman, and you're the Resurrection Man. You have made me a lot of money.”

“I have?”

“On the news. I own 15 percent of WCVB.”

“And you employ a lot of people.”

“I do.”

“But you never met Freddy Sullivan?”

“No.”

“That's not what Freddy said. Just before he died.”

Bluffs are designed
to
do two things. Give the impression you know more than you do and/or flush out an adversary by tricking them into revealing something you don't know. Sometimes both. Always at least one. The next few seconds would reveal which one applied today.

The room fell silent. There was no sound from outside. No traffic noise. No airplanes landing across the harbor. The windows must have been triple-glazed to keep so much noise out. The plush carpet and heavy door did the same for the corridor. The three of them stood in a cocoon of silence. By the same token, Grant reckoned nobody outside could hear what was happening inside Delaney Enterprises' office.