Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (21 page)

twenty-eight

Grant let go
of
the handle and stepped back from the door, exploring his options. He'd locked the door, so it hadn't been left open by mistake. That was option one. The other options assumed that whoever was in there wished him harm. Possibly the same guy who'd tried to run him down.

He considered that and dismissed it. Running him down was supposed to look like an accident. What were they going to do in his room? Drown him in the bath and say he slipped? If they thought that, they were even dumber than the driver, because nobody was going to drown Grant in the bath. Room 305 didn't even have a bath, just a shower.

So? What else? Shoot him as he came through the door? That wouldn't look like an accident. Even the knife attack on the T had been set up as a gang-related thing. No way this would look like anything other than an officer-involved shooting. Do that and the shit would really hit the fan. Kill a cop and every agency would draw together, throwing their combined weight against the killers. Delaney wouldn't want that. The Dominguez cartel wouldn't either.

He glanced at the foot of the door. There was no telltale strip of light from inside. The lights were off. Either the killer was waiting in the dark or whoever had entered his room had left already. That presented another option. Someone had tossed his room to see what he knew. That one made sense. Burglars in Bradford didn't usually turn the lights off afterwards, though. Maybe Boston crooks were more environmentally friendly, saving electricity and therefore the planet.

Grant closed his eyes and examined the virtual room in his head. Bed opposite the door and to the right. Chair next to the bed. Dressing cabinet on the left. Windows with a view of Centre Street on the far wall. Door opened inwards, hinged on the right. Light switch on the left. Anybody lying in wait would be in the chair facing the door, slightly to the right. Grant would be partially blocked by the door until he stepped into the room.

He listened. No movement inside.

He moved half a step to his left and opened the door six inches. Reached through the gap and turned the lights on. As soon as the room lit up, he opened the door fully and walked in. Instead of Grant having to adjust to the dark, whoever was in there would be momentarily blinded by the light. Grant sidestepped to his left without closing the door. Any snap shot would be high and wide to his right, following the only movement the assassin could detect, the door swinging open.

There was no assassin sitting in the chair. The room was empty. That changed the scenario. Not an attack, a burglary. His first concern was for the T-shirt drawer. He went straight there and opened it. The T-shirts were still neatly folded and squared off like they'd taught him in the army. He remembered the CSM doing weekly room checks. Not the regimental sergeant major, just the company version, making sure the clothes in the open wardrobes were exactly the same width.

Grant slid his hand beneath the T-shirts and took out the scratched velvet box. He felt a weight lift from his heart. The blue velvet was soft to the touch. He hefted it in his hand and nodded. Good. He glanced around the room. There was no sign of disturbance. Either they were the neatest burglars he'd ever encountered or ransacking wasn't the reason the door was unlocked. He considered tripwires and IEDs, but that wouldn't look like an accident either. Improvised explosive devices. Roadside bombs didn't have to be at the roadside, but one thing they most definitely couldn't masquerade as was an accident. See options two and three above.

He opened the box just for comfort. He knew it was still inside but sometimes just liked to touch it. His fingers ran along the sleek black tubes and dallied over the silver disc at one end. He touched the earpieces that had been the last things to touch her flesh. He folded the stethoscope back into the box and closed it. Slid it back under the T-shirts and closed the drawer.

Then he saw the strip of light beneath the bathroom door.

Back to square one. Only with a different room. The master switch didn't control the bathroom light and he knew he'd turned it off before leaving. He didn't go through the various options this time. He doubted anyone lying in wait would do it in the bathroom. He went straight to the door and looked inside, then froze in the doorway.

The only scenario he
hadn't considered was the frame-up. He should have. It happened in so many of those PI movies, almost right up there with the address inside the matchbook flap as a staple of private detective fiction. He looked into the eyes staring back at him and held his breath.

The eyes blinked. Terri Avellone sitting on the toilet with the lid down as a seat. The second pair of eyes belonged to an attractive dark-eyed beauty from south of the border, or looked like it. About Avellone's age and standing beside the shower cubicle as if she could hide behind the frosted glass and the opaque curtain. Grant was going to make a joke about all his birthdays coming at once but saw the fear in the woman's eyes. He wondered if she looked like Avellone's sister but knew it wasn't something he could ask. Instead, he held his arms wide to include both women. “Don't forget to wash your hands. Like a coffee?”

Avellone stood up with such force Grant thought she'd take off. For a second it looked like she was going to slap him. “Jeepers creepers. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Then you're in the right place, aren't you?” He pulled a disgusted face and sucked in air. “Sorry. That wouldn't even be funny with a bloke.”

He offered the visitor his hand. “Jim Grant.”

She shook it. “The Resurrection Man.”

“You too? Small world. I took you for more of a Mary Magdalene.”

She smiled and the fear receded. Grant nodded towards the main room. “Tea or coffee?”

“They have hot chocolate?”

“Let's have a look.”

He went over to Avellone, held her face in both hands, and kissed her gently on the forehead. She was shaking. He gave her a comforting hug before stepping back. “Then you can tell me why you're hiding in my bathroom.”

There was no hot chocolate, so they all had to make do with coffee. Milky with two sugars for Grant. Black with Equal for the others. Grant sat in the bedside chair facing the door. The girls sat on the bed facing him. Their fear of the door had evaporated with Grant sitting there. Terri Avellone's anger had not. “What on earth were you thinking, sneaking in like that?”

“I wasn't thinking there were two beautiful women waiting inside.”

“Flattery will not work. I heard the handle turn, door opened a crack—almost had a heart attack. Fastest I've ever moved. Into the bathroom. The two of us.”

“Why the lights off?”

“So nobody'd know we were here.”

“Well, it worked. I didn't know you were here.”

“Not you. The other nobodies.”

Grant was going to ask who, but after the black guys on the T, the grenade at E-13, and the hit-and-run driver, he knew there were nobodies out there who didn't like him. It stood to reason they might not like his friends either. He leaned back in the chair and crossed one ankle over his knee. Relaxed. Aimed at relaxing his visitors. “Now you've got that out of your system, how about introductions?”

Avellone took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was learning. The frown lines eased and her eyes softened. She put a protective arm around the woman next to her. “This is the friend you were asking about—the one who gives me her spare matchbooks. The condom queen.”

Grant smiled into the dark eyes. “You got any of those ribbed ones with that sticking-out thing at the bottom like a finger puppet?”

The woman stared back. “What flavor?”

“Hardly affects me, does it? Not being double-jointed.”

“You're not? I am.”

She held a hand out, then realized they'd already shaken in the bathroom. There was just a slight accent. “Melissa Quintana.”

“Not Mary, then?”

“Not Resurrection either.”

“And you're an escort?”

Without even a hint of a blush. Confident. “Yes.”

“That your stage name?”

“I don't work on the stage. It's my real name.”

“Okay, Melissa. Thanks for coming.” He shifted in his seat but kept his legs crossed. “What can you tell me about Triple Zero?”

“They're good employers.”

“I know. I read their recruitment page. I should be so lucky. Pay like that.”

“You're not double-jointed.”

“That count against me?”

“That and the whiskers.”

Grant rubbed his chin. It was dark with growth, the bristles harsh against his hand. Between that and the ugly plaster down the side of his face, it would probably rule him out under the “immaculate and well-cared-for skin” clause.

She shook her head. “That's the top end of the wage structure. I'm more like lower middle. The girls at the club are towards the bottom but still earning good money.”

She didn't appear shy. He supposed that was a job requirement too.

“Go on.”

Melissa explained how Triple Zero Gentlemen's Services worked. Pretty much how Grant understood the escort business to work after checking the Internet. Girls were listed on the website with a photo portfolio to rival any top models' glamour shots. They could be booked for incalls at specific locations, with on-site security in case of trouble, or for outcall visits to any hotel in the Boston area. Exclusive apartments. Stuff like that. Very expensive. Not the kind of clients who were going to cause trouble. They were mainly businessmen or politicians or corporations giving incentives to valued customers. Melissa's accent was soft and enticing. “Triple Zero has a range of ethnicities.”

“The girls?”

“Yes. I'm on the South American list.”

“I'd never have guessed.” He said it with a smile. She was getting over her initial shock, but there was still something lurking behind her eyes. He suspected that Triple Zero wasn't all she was painting it to be. She hesitated before speaking.

“Some clients have … exotic tastes.”

“Like snakes and whips exotic?”

“Like overseas exotic.”

“Foreigners?”

“This is America. We're all foreigners.”

“More foreign than you?”

“Yes. There's one client—a businessman who deals in South African diamonds. He likes proper deep-black South Africans.”

“African American?”

“No, from South Africa. Non-English speaking. Traditional but perfect.”

“Immaculate and well-cared-for skin. Yes, I read that.”

“There's another. He likes Iranians, Armenians, Iraqis. He'd sleep with the Taliban if they didn't blow up whenever you got close to them.”

“That's very funny. I'll have to remember that one.”

“Then there's this politician. He likes Eastern Europeans. Triple Zero bends over backwards to get what he wants. A Bostonian. I even voted for him at the last election.”

Grant felt a whisper of disquiet tickle his spine. Posters in Frank Delaney's office sprang to mind.
Goldfinger
.
For a Few Dollars More.
The campaign poster.

“Oh yeah? Did he win?”

“Yes. Senator Clayton's been in office for three terms now.”

twenty-nine

Grant uncrossed his legs
but didn't stand up. He was suddenly more focused than he had been the last three days. Invisible threads were beginning to connect, but Grant couldn't untangle the web they were forming. Freddy Sullivan accounted for several of the threads. He connected to Frank Delaney, who in turn was connected to half of Jamaica Plain. He owned Flanagan's. He owned Parkway Auto Repair and the gas station where Sean Sullivan had worked. Both Sullivans were obviously connected. Delaney ran Triple Zero and its related clubs for which Freddy supplied imported girls. Some of the girls were diverted to Senator Clayton, a politician that Delaney had supported on his reelection campaign.

“His wife must have something to say about that.”

“He's a widower. Doesn't hide the fact he's got a pretty girl on his arm.”

“Fairly open about it, then.”

“Not where the girls are from. This is Boston—very conservative. It's not Happy Hooker territory. But it gives him a certain glamour. He doesn't advertise Triple Zero, though. Not like sponsoring Nike or anything.”

“Charismatic? Leadership qualities?”

“Extremely charismatic. Ex-army. War veteran—don't know which war—got a few medals, wounded, all that stuff.”

“And he likes the ladies.”

“Lady. He doesn't play the field. Got a favorite.”

“East European?”

“Yes. Her sister's with Triple Zero too. A friend of mine.”

Avellone became very still, her face pale and expressionless. Grant couldn't worry about that now. “He's doing sisters?”

“One sister. My friend works in JP at the Gentlemen's Club.”

“Pole dancer?”

“Yes.”

“I might have seen her. I was there the other night.”

Terri Avellone spoke up. “That the night you got the shit kicked out of you in the parking lot?”

“Not all the shit. I kicked some back.”

Melissa's eyes widened. The fear was back. “See? They're very bad people.”

“First you've mentioned of it.”

“Triple Zero pays well. But there are … consequences.”

“I thought you had on-site security?”

Avellone interrupted again. “So does the Gentlemen's Club. You've met some of them, haven't you?”

“Point taken. So that's why you were waiting in the dark.”

It wasn't a question. He leaned back in his chair. No wonder Melissa had been reluctant to come see him. Grant had already proved to be a target. It must be true; it had been on TV. Associating with him could be bad for her health. “You want to stay here for a while?”

Melissa gave the room a disdainful look and shook her head. “Hell, no. I've seen the bathroom.”

So much for helping the damsel in distress. The bathroom was a step up from what he was used to. Overseas, and even back home, when he'd been serving his country, he'd used bathrooms that were just holes in the ground. He didn't think telling her that would improve his stock. “I'll give it a spray next time the bad guys are after you.”

“They're not after me.”

Not yet,
he thought but didn't say. He changed the subject. “How'd they bring the girls in?”

Melissa leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Did you see
The Wire
?”

“The TV series?”

“Just like that. For the lower-level girls.”

“Container ships at the docks.”

“Yes. I don't know which docks.”

“Must play havoc with the immaculate and well-cared-for skin.”

“Oh, no. The expensive girls, the ones that apply via the website, they're homegrown, very exclusive. That's why the perks are so good. The exotic varieties from overseas are brought in through normal channels. Having a senator on your side helps cut a lot of red tape.”

“Seems a bit out of Sullivan's league.”

Melissa tilted her head. “The Irish guy from the police station?”

“Freddy. Yes.”

“He was always hanging around—maybe was a gopher. But he didn't have anything to do with bringing the girls into the country.”

Grant dropped his hands onto the chair arms and drummed his fingers. “You sure about that?”

“Would you trust him with a million dollars' worth of merchandise?”

“Merchandise? That's a bit callous.”

“It's realistic. It's good business. I've got it. I sell it. I've still got it.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“I'm double-jointed. Wouldn't you?”

Grant smiled. It was good he'd met Terri Avellone first. Melissa might have put his back out. He supposed there was little difference doing what you loved and getting paid for it, but he was glad Terri Avellone had another line of work. For her, sex was purely recreational. She didn't need to lie about it or dodge the IRS.

The only lies seemed to have been coming from someone else, and that someone wasn't around to answer any more questions. He should have known the lying little turd wasn't telling the truth. The Sullivan family was so bent they couldn't lay straight in bed. “What
did
he do, then?”

“I don't know. It made him sweat, though, whatever it was. He was one nervous motherfucker.”

Terri sat upright. “Melissa.”

“Sorry.”

Avellone laughed. Melissa giggled like a schoolgirl caught smoking by the teacher. Grant got up to make a fresh round of coffees. He filled the kettle in the bathroom and sprayed the shower cubicle with air freshener, just in case. It was all a diversionary tactic to give him time to think. He would let the girls out the back door after they finished their drinks, then hope Miller wasn't busy tomorrow. Grant had a few more questions for Freddy Sullivan, and the only place with the answers was locked and sealed by the BPD.