Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (24 page)

thirty-four

Miller's youthful enthusiasm
evaporated
in a split second.

“So we've got a missing hooker nobody reported. Suspected of being held against her will on the info of another bunch of hookers, with a third hooker who hangs with a United States senator possibly being coerced into a criminal act by the biggest crook in Boston. We've got no witnesses that saw anyone being abducted. We've also got no evidence to link said abduction to either Frank Delaney or Senator Clayton. And we've no idea what criminal act hooker number three is being coerced into committing. Have I missed anything?”

That was fifteen minutes after Grant got in the Crown Vic opposite the playground on Tremont Street. Ten minutes after Grant began to explain what Melissa Quintana had to say. Thirty seconds after Grant stopped talking. Miller sat and stared at his passenger. “That about right?”

The engine purred. Grant put added friendliness into his voice. “You ever have one of those robberies where they kidnap the bank manager's family, then make him go to the bank and open the vault?”

“That's a rhetorical question. Isn't it?”

“The bank manager does it because he's in fear for his family. Wife. Kids. Whoever. Somebody goes with him. Steals the money. Accomplice back at the house threatens to kill 'em all if he doesn't do it. You ever have one of them?”

“Can't say as I have.”

“But you've heard of it happening, haven't you? Must happen in Los Angeles all the time.”

“In LA they just rob banks the traditional way.”

“Somewhere, though, in the great big US of A. Broadcast on CNN or Fox News or WCVB. You've heard of it. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's what we've got here.”

“A bank robbery?”

“A criminal act being forced on an innocent by having her sister threatened.”

“Except we don't know about the criminal act or the threats.”

“We don't, but we have reasonable grounds to suspect all of the above.”

“That won't wash for a search warrant or an arrest warrant or a fully fledged SWAT and helicopter assault. You imagine running that by a judge?”

“I thought this was the land of the free and home of the brave. Where's all that go-getter spirit?”

“You were a real cop once, weren't you?”

“Still am.”

“In the real world, where you needed evidence and stuff?”

“In the real world, not the pen pushers' world.”

“Legality is still important on either side of the pond. You can't go kicking in doors, even in Yorkshire, without some kind of evidence.”

“Actually, I often kicked in doors without evidence. I damn well found plenty by the time it went to court, though.”

“That won't wash either. Kincaid said to do anything that won't end with me in jail. Go charging in on a United States senator to rescue his girlfriend and I'll be shot for treason.”

“I'm not talking about charging in on Clayton. I want to charge in on Delaney.”

“D'you know how long I've had my detective's shield?”

“Not long.”

“D'you know how long I'll keep it if you talk me into this shit?”

“Not much longer.”

“That's right. That's why I'm not doing a damn thing until we've looked at it all angles up. Now fasten your seatbelt. I don't want a citation on the way back to the station.”

Grant fastened his seatbelt. “You're a moody little bastard, aren't you?”

“I wasn't until today.”

Miller checked that the road was clear, then did a U-turn back towards Columbus Avenue. Serious tactical discussions needed coffee. That meant the detectives' office at E-13. Grant was already beginning to feel like part of the furniture there.

Grant stood with his
coffee
in front of the E-13 District wall map. The district boundaries were marked in blue. A black shield with a white P in it showed their location: 3345 Washington Street, Boston, Massachusetts. A white circle with a black T inside it showed the MBTA stations. Green Street station was just round the corner. Centre Street junction with Seaverns Avenue was a bit farther away. Grant's hotel, his mode of transport, and his police station all in front of him in cartographer's ink.

It was after eleven o'clock. The final domino had fallen, and dusk had become night. The Yorkshire detective was trying to work out how to tumble a bigger domino, because when it came to criminals, domino theory ruled. You just had to know which domino to push. Grant reckoned he knew which one but had to persuade the BPD to help push it.

That was Grant's dilemma as he sipped his milky coffee, two sugars. “No search warrant request, then?”

Miller swiveled his chair to face the map, office phone to his ear. “We'd never get one. I've seen your typing.”

“What about exigent circumstances? Protect life. Girl in danger.”

“If somebody'd seen her snatched off the street, that might fly. She's been missing a week and nobody's bothered to report it. How urgent do you think we can make that sound?”

“She's tight with a US senator.”

“Monica Lewinsky was sucking cock with the president. You didn't see them storming her house, did you?”

“Her sister wasn't abducted to coerce her.”

“From what I remember, she didn't need coercing. And we can't prove Kristina Simonovich has been abducted anyway.”

Grant turned away from the map. “Hey, give me a break here. Abductions you prove later. If you suspect someone's been abducted, you'd better be damn sure she hasn't before you call off the dogs. Find her body in a ditch tomorrow, you'll be in more shit than disturbing some bigwig scumbag.”

Miller hung up the phone. “No reply. Kincaid must be on early detail tomorrow.”

“What about the night detective?”

“Dealing with a double shooting. Couple of kids over on Parker Street.”

“Kids?”

“Teenagers.”

“That age. They're not kids anymore.”

“Still, he's got one critical and one stable. Forget the night detective. Uniforms are doing crowd control and traffic. Forget them too.”

Grant sipped his coffee, looking at the map again. Farther west than his hotel. Farther north than E-13. He looked at the sweeping curve of the road and the network of back streets. “We only need blue lights for effect. A bit of weight behind the threat.”

“What threat? There isn't going to be any threat. Aren't you receiving this transmission? We have no probable cause.”

“Oh, yes, we have. We just haven't formulated it yet.”

“You want to go kicking in doors on Frank Delaney based on something we haven't formulated yet?”

“One thing you'll learn as you go on—it's not what you do as a cop, it's how you write it up. Hindsight is always 20/20. Cover your ass. Dot the i's and cross the t's.”

“That's not very comforting.”

“You get sat in a room with some DA flunky about any case, what's the first rule of evidence?”

Miller looked like he felt he should know this one but didn't want to sound like the rookie he was. It was another rhetorical question anyway. Grant was going to answer, no matter what Miller said. He did.

“First rule is, it's not what you know, it's what you can prove. Same applies to us. Whatever happens, we'll fix it in the edit.”

“Go charging in without a warrant and there'll be no fixing that.”

“We won't need to charge in.”

“You think the doorman at One Post Office Square is just going to let us in?”

“Not Post Office Square.”

“That hotel next door, then.”

“Le Meridien's in the middle of the business district. He's not going to keep her prisoner down there.”

Miller threw up his hands in an “I give up” gesture. Grant was staring at the map again, but his mind was replaying past conversations.
Got a liking for guns and explosives. Was always disturbing the neighbors around the back of Delaney's place on Jamaica Pond.
Gerry O'Neill hadn't realized how important that little snippet of information was proving to be. Then there was Frank Delaney himself.
Ah, JP. My old stomping ground.
If he was holding the girl against her will, he'd want to keep her close to his base of power. Not the glass and concrete tower that was only a high-class façade. Where his roots were. His old stomping ground.

“The Gentlemen's Club at Jamaica Pond.”

“You think his bruisers are going to let us in without a warrant?”

“You don't need a warrant if you get invited in.”

“What's this? A vampire movie now? Tap on the window and they let you in? Just make sure it's before dawn.”

“It'll be dawn soon enough if we don't get a move on.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Grant finished his coffee and put the mug on the nearest desk. He filtered all the confrontation out of his voice and smiled. It was amazing what you could achieve with a smile. If that didn't work, there was always brute force and ignorance. “Wasn't it one of your presidents who said, ‘Talk quietly but carry a big stick'?”

Miller nodded but didn't say which president. Grant didn't think he knew. It didn't matter. He'd have put his money on Teddy Roosevelt. Maybe not word-for-word correct. Grant could sense the young detective's resolve crumbling.

“Get me some blue lights and a couple of uniforms, I know where to get hold of a big stick.”

Miller didn't look convinced. “The marine?”

“He's very imposing.”

“No trouble?”

Grant's smile turned icy. “I'm just going to talk quietly. Honest.”

thirty-five

Miller called in some
favors
to get them a uniform backup. Two officers on the four to midnight shift who were late off because of the shooting. One of the kids had died at the hospital, so it was now a homicide investigation. There was nobody coming on duty to take over their patrol car, so Miller had his blue lights and the big stick. Cornejo they picked up on the way to the Gentlemen's Club.

It was quarter to one when they finally pulled into the parking lot. Red and blue lights washed the front of the building. The marked unit parked across the entrance. The unmarked Crown Vic blocked the exit at Arborway and Pond Street. Miller deployed the portable blue light on the dash. Disco fever had come to visit.

Grant got out of the car and adjusted his orange windcheater. Cornejo got out of the back and flexed his shoulders. Miller simply got out and closed the door. The stars and stripes hung limp from the flagpole on the porch. The night was still and airless. A chill threatened frost but not yet. For now it was just cold. The night sky twinkled with stardust.

A club like this at this time of night, you'd normally hear music thumping into the night. But this was JP. Delaney might have swung planning permission with help from his pet politician, but polluting the night silence would have caused too many waves. The place was soundproofed and tasteful. Grant made a mental note to tell Delaney that when he met him again. He crossed the gravel lot that he'd mistaken for rundown tarmac the last time. He remembered how he'd learned it was not. Floored by a sucker punch and a knee in the face.

That wasn't going to happen twice. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Twice. His muscles relaxed. His mind cleared. He nodded for Cornejo to come with him and walked towards the front steps. Miller checked his sidearm and flicked his jacket over the holster on his belt. He hung back. This was Grant's show. About as far off being legal as it could get without landing them all in jail. Miller hoped.

Grant paused for a moment. A thought was stillborn and wouldn't take shape. Something he'd seen as he got out of the car. It wouldn't come. He brushed the unease aside and climbed the steps onto the porch. Cornejo followed. Miller next. With barely a pause for thought, Grant pushed the doors open and entered the foyer.

He hadn't realized before
just how prevalent the theme was in Delaney's business. Grant noticed the movie posters around the lobby that he'd not seen on his first visit. There had been the posters surrounding the stage inside and the dancers cavorting to the themes from
Dirty Harry
and
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,
but he hadn't paid attention to the foyer. Then there was Delaney's office at One Post Office Square. More posters. Delaney was obviously a movie fan. Grant would bet money Delaney's favorites were
Goodfellas
and
The Godfather
. Maybe
The Departed
because of the Boston connection. Grant's would have to be
Dirty Harry
and
Bullitt
. Vengeful cop dramas or men on a mission films like
The Dirty Dozen
. Except they were the dirty three. Dirty five if you included the two uniforms outside.

The girl behind the ticket desk was stirring popcorn in the display cabinet when they came in. She stopped and glanced up at the clock above the door. Her face was blank, no expression. She was chewing gum. Grant expected her to blow a bubble and fuss with her hair. She did neither.

“Sorry, gentlemen. We close at one. Can't let anybody else in. It's the law.”

Grant couldn't resist. “We are the law.”

The girl showed more salt than Grant gave her credit for. “Not around here, you're not.”

“Tell Mr. Delaney the Resurrection Man's here to see him.”

“Mr. Delaney isn't in tonight.”

Grant stood in front of the counter. “Are you a local recruit? Or you one of his overseas imports?”

The girl looked flustered, not knowing what to say.

“Because if you were imported, you'd really want to tell me where he is. Because the girl he's got with him has one chance of going home again. And I'm that chance.”

A door opened in the far corner. Grant sensed it more than heard it. His battle instincts had kicked in the minute he walked across the porch. The man that came out of the door had no neck and shoulders like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“You returning condoms again?”

Grant remembered him from Delaney's office. Oddjob. That was a good sign, Delaney's personal heavy being at the club. His disquiet in the parking lot dissolved into a feeling of confidence. This was going to work out. There'd be no gunfight at the OK Corral. He turned to Oddjob.

“Funny thing about condoms. Johnnies, we call 'em in England. Or rubbers.”

Oddjob remained impassive. Like a rock. Grant kept his tone light.

“Well, funny thing about them is this. As a kid I never dared trust 'em. 'Cause adults used to say the fellas working the condom factory—you know, on the conveyer belt or whatever they used—they said these fellas would prick one in ten with a pin. So having sex was like Russian roulette. One chance in ten of getting some girl pregnant.”

Oddjob sighed. Grant wasn't deterred. “One small prick for ten big pricks. Not that I'm bragging.”

Cornejo moved away from Grant to widen the gap. Miller stayed back.

Grant smiled.

“Point I'm making is, if one small prick can fuck over ten big pricks, then one big prick like you's got no chance.”

Oddjob proved he was listening by smiling back. “According to what you just said, one little prick only fucks up one big prick. The other nine're okay.”

“True. But that stacks the odds even more. And you're that one big prick.”

The foyer fell silent. The girl behind the popcorn display stopped chewing. The second hand on the clock above the front doors swept silently around the face. Miller kept his gun hand loose. Cornejo braced himself for the onslaught. Grant waited. Ready.

Then Oddjob threw a spanner in the works. “If you want to have a look around, why didn't you just say so?” He stepped aside and waved them forward. “Anywhere you like. I'd check the stage first, though. The girls are doing their finale. Not quite Busby Berkeley, but close as you can get without water.”

Grant could just make out the faint strains of
Once Upon a Time in the West
through the double doors in the auditorium. A single popcorn popped in the display like a knot of wood on a fire. It made the girl jump. If Oddjob had the bowler hat from the movie, he'd have taken it off and bowed. “I'll be sure to let Mr. Delaney know you was here.”

Grant nodded. “Depends which one of us sees him first.”

“True. But you won't be seeing him here. He isn't in tonight.”

The girl blew a bubble and it burst over her lips. “I told him that.”

The unease returned, but Grant didn't show it. Instead he waved Cornejo and Miller forward. It was time to search the premises. Without a warrant. Like vampires in a Hammer Horror film, they'd been invited in.

A thorough house search
takes hours, using a three-bedroom house as the base standard. Once that house becomes a business premises—with storerooms, wine cellars, public areas, and changing rooms—then the hours multiply. Admin facilities and offices take even longer. That's with dozens of police securing the perimeter and doing several rooms at a time.

Grant had three cops and two outside.

Here's how he did it. Grant did the searching while Cornejo and Miller waited in the corridor, one either side of the door, in case somebody sneaked out. As they cleared each room, it became sanitized. The trailing watchman, Miller, always kept one room behind Grant just in case.

Grant knew he wasn't going to find anyone.

He just needed time to think.

They did the stage and bar area first. Watched the dancers perform their erotic finale, as much to give Miller a glimpse at what he'd been missing as anything else. A cursory search of the dressing room, cellar, and security room. Then it was upstairs to check the storage rooms and offices. Admin and managerial. Ninety minutes later Grant was in the last office, and he still hadn't come up with a suitable plan B. He was running out of time before they'd have to admit defeat and leave with their tails between their legs.

Grant didn't do tail between the legs.

The final office was the largest. It wasn't as grand as the office at One Post Office Square, but it was obviously Delaney's. There was a selection of classic movie posters on the walls. A couple of framed photos on the desk. Delaney with a group of topless beauties that made him look like Hugh Hefner at the Playboy mansion. Delaney at a political rally with a smiling Senator Clayton. There was no desktop diary. Grant doubted the invitation would cover searching the drawers.

Oddjob took two paces into the room and stood in the middle of the floor. Optimal positioning, like Andre Agassi controlling the middle of the tennis court. A couple more minutes and Grant's time would be up. He glanced around the office. There was a narrow door behind the desk. There was a broad window with a door onto the balcony on the far wall. He glanced through the window and the thing that troubled him when they'd arrived came back full force.
He liked setting it off by shooting at it in the woods over by the pond.
Quickly followed by:
Was always disturbing the neighbors around the back of Delaney's place on Jamaica Pond.
This was Delaney's place on Jamaica Pond, but there were no woods behind it, just the waterfront.

The answer came with equal force. He ignored the view and turned to the small door behind the desk. Opened the door and went inside. It was an individual restroom. Toilet and washbasin. No bath or shower. Oddjob crowded the door just inside, as Grant expected. Good.

Grant didn't need to relax. He'd been relaxed ever since he stepped into Delaney's office. The view across the lake had relaxed him even more. The twinkle of lights from the house in the woods on the northern shore. Now it was time for some Q&A.

There was no room to maneuver in the tiny room. Nowhere for Oddjob to go. Grant turned to face him and brought his knee up in one swift movement. Oddjob's balls squashed like popped grapes, and he doubled over. Grant used the forward motion, grabbed the back of Oddjob's head, and slammed his face down on the edge of the washbasin. His nose spread across his face. Teeth fell into the washbasin. A squirt of blood splashed the mirror on the wall. Oddjob collapsed on the floor in an ugly heap.

Grant dropped to one knee, pressing all his weight on Oddjob's chest. “I'm going to ask you a couple of questions.”

Oddjob gurgled blood down his shirtfront.

“And before you ask for your lawyer, think of this: I'm not legal in the state of Massachusetts. This isn't going to court. I'm just a guy who's been blown up, beaten up, stabbed, and run over. I'm under a lot of stress. I am unhinged. That'll be my defense if you ever complain about this interview. If you survive this interview. You understand all that?”

Oddjob gurgled more blood down his shirt front. It might have been an answer.

“Nod if you understand.”

Oddjob nodded.

Grant eased the pressure of his knee and reached up with one hand. He turned the cold faucet on, took a glass from the washbasin, and filled it. Stood it on the edge while he turned the faucet off. Then lifted Oddjob's head gently with his other hand while he tipped the glass to his lips. “Sorry about the teeth. I hear Triple Zero has excellent medical.”

Oddjob looked pale. His eyes were glazed. He swilled his mouth out and spat it down his shirt. Next mouthful he drank. His eyes came into focus again. Grant leaned back against the wall, taking his knee off the big guy's chest. It was such a small room that he was still inside Oddjob's fighting arc, but the no-necked bruiser had no fight left in him. Grant kept his tone friendly.

“After you've answered my questions, you're going to make a phone call for me. That all right with you?”

Oddjob nodded.

“Good.”

Grant smiled and patted the big guy's shoulder.

Then he asked the first question.