Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (25 page)

thirty-six

Pre-dawn light
lifted the
g
loom of Jamaica Pond's northern shore and painted the dusty turnaround outside the lodge an unearthly grey. Lights from the windows threw yellow squares across the porch, but they began to fade as dawn brightened the early morning sky.

Jim Grant stood in the middle of the parking lot and waited.

He sensed movement to his left but didn't take his eyes off the front door of the frontier cabin structure that felt completely out of place so close to the thriving community of Jamaica Plain. Like somebody playing cowboys and Indians in a built-up area. The woodland promontory jutted out from the northern edge of the lake. The trees were sparse around the front of the lodge, giving a view of the water and the Jamaica Pond boathouse halfway down the eastern shore. The jetty had a smattering of boats and small yachts moored on either side. There was also a clear line of sight to the rear of the Gentlemen's Club on the south shore. Trees around the back and sides of the lodge were thicker, providing cover and privacy. An ideal place for blowing shit up and playing with guns.

Grant sensed movement to his right. Good. They were almost ready. Dawn grew brighter. It muted the yellow squares from the windows and the red and blue flashing lights behind him. Somebody racked a shell into the chamber. A heavy sound. A shotgun. Several sharper noises followed as automatic side arms were deployed.

Grant waited, his orange windcheater hanging loose and open.

He glanced at the three cars parked at the side of the lodge. Big American cars. One bigger than the rest. Big and black. He remembered it spitting gravel as it sped out of the parking lot at the Gentlemen's Club. The cars were caked in dust. Grant reckoned Delaney should invest in having the parking lots tarmacked.

Still he waited for a sound coming from the west. For the cavalry. While he waited, he smiled at the memory of Miller's reaction half an hour ago when he'd opened the trunk of the Crown Vic and prepared for action.

“You think they'll give
me
a job in Yorkshire when I get out of jail?”

The trunk lid sprang open like a steel trap in reverse. The lock box was the full width of the trunk and fastened against the back of the seats. Warning stencils were painted across the grey metal lid. Miller unlocked the box and flipped the lid. The shotgun rested loosely in its cradle. There was enough firearms and sundry assault team equipment to start a war. Miller held up a blue nylon overjacket with
police
written on the back. Grant shook his head and tugged at the orange windcheater that was his calling card. Cornejo accepted the coat, and Miller took another out.

Grant looked at the array of equipment and clothing in the trunk. “When you get out of jail, you could start a hunting store.”

The marked unit from the Gentlemen's Club was parked behind the Crown Vic at the beginning of the drive opposite Jamaicaway and Moraine. Grant realized he'd slipped into the American way of dropping words from street addresses. Moraine was Moraine Street. It used to annoy him that Americans could never complete a sentence without missing words out. In England you'd say “three hundred and sixteen,” but in the US it became “three hundred sixteen.” Or “he went out of the door” became “he went out the door.” Now he was doing it himself, even in his thoughts.

Miller had called in more favors and got them an extra marked unit. They were now deploying like that scene from
Terminator 2
, outside Cyberdine, just with fewer cops. Oddjob's answers had provided enough probable cause, but without going through higher channels Miller couldn't get SWAT. Time was of the essence. They needed to go in now.

Grant reviewed the information in his head. Three men plus Delaney. Armed and dangerous. Kristina Simonovich held against her will but not chained up or anything. Not locked away. The trio of heavies would be watching TV and eating sandwiches. Coffee to keep them awake. Delaney would be doing whatever he wanted. He was the king of Jamaica Plain.

Grant bristled at the thought. “You know why bullies bully?”

Miller paused as he slipped the
police
jacket on. “Rhetorical, right?”

“Because they can. They get away with it because nobody dares stand up to them. Happens at school all the time. Same thing here. JP is too scared to put this ugly mug in his place.”

Miller finished putting the jacket on but didn't zip it up. He needed free access to the holster on his belt. This was still rhetorical. He let Grant continue.

“And you know when bullies stop bullying?” Grant leaned into the lock box and selected a dull black .45 automatic. “When somebody bullies 'em back.”

Cornejo slipped a
police
jacket over his T-shirt. “He gets all philosophical like this just before going into action.”

Miller looked from the ex-marine to the Yorkshire cop and back again. He held a hand out for Cornejo to take his pick from the lock box. If he was going to jail, might as well be in for a pound as in for a penny. That was an English thought. Grant was beginning to rub off on the young detective. Cornejo nodded his thanks and picked up the shotgun. He cradled it across his stomach, barrel towards the ground. His body language told the story. It was good to be back on the side of the angels.

Miller glanced at Oddjob sitting in the back of the Crown Vic, then at Grant. “You think she'll come?”

Grant fingered the business card in his pocket. As if prompted by the contact, a caravan of mobile news vans pulled up across the street. Kimberley Clark got out of the WCVB camera van and came over to Grant. She was smiling but serious. Grant wondered how she did that. She raised an eyebrow. “Remind me again why all the other news crews are here?”

“Same as I told you. While I'm sure everyone in Boston watches WCVB, how can I be certain them buggers in there aren't watching Fox News?”

“Buggers?”

“Buggers. Bastards. Fuckwits. Whichever you want.”

“I like fuckwits.”

“Well, I need them fuckwits in there to see this on TV. Same as before.”

“Yeah. And look how that worked out.”

“This time? Works out like that? Fine by me.”

“So where's my exclusive out of this? Every channel's here.”

“Kim. I've only got eyes for you. My story's yours alone. After.”

Vans were unloading. Equipment was being set up. Cameras, microphones, satellite links. Some of the vans even had extendable platforms coming out of their roofs. Grant looked at the sky. It was brightening from dark blue to lighter blue. Soon it would be dawn proper.

“Helicopter coming?”

Kimberley Clark followed his gaze. “Scrambled ten minutes ago.”

“Good.”

Grant went to the side of the Crown Vic and spoke through the open window. “How's the nose?”

Oddjob shrugged and nodded.

“Sorry about that. It goes with the rest of you.”

Oddjob found his voice. “It's been broke before.”

Grant nodded, glad the bruiser could talk. He needed him to be able to talk.

“When everyone's set—when I walk into the open—make the call.”

Oddjob nodded.

“What you gonna say?”

“Turn the news on. Now.”

“That's right. I don't want 'em watching the funnies.”

Grant went back to the trunk and held the .45 over a clear space. His hands moved with practiced ease. Fast and smooth. He stripped the gun down to its component parts, checked them, and reassembled it in record time. Worked the slide action twice before inserting the magazine and working it once more. One round in the chamber. He reset the safety and jammed it down the back of his belt. The orange windcheater hid the bulge.

Miller's jaw dropped open. “I thought you hated guns.”

“I do. Didn't say I couldn't use 'em, though.”

“Typist, huh?”

“QWERTY.”

“You lying motherfucker.”

“But not limp-dicked.”

The cameras were in place. News reporters began doing their intros. It was time to get started. They got back in the Crown Vic and the marked units started up. The three cars drove along the driveway at speed and skidded to a halt, the plain car in the middle, the marked ones either side. Red and blue lights flashing for effect. This wasn't a silent approach. Grant wanted the people in the lodge to know they were here. The uniforms deployed across the hoods of their units, guns raised. Miller and Cornejo separated, one right and one left.

Grant waited a couple of seconds, then walked out into the dusty turnaround, his orange windcheater hanging loose and open. Tiny puffs of dust exploded with each footstep. When he reached the middle, he stopped. He stood still and raised his arms out straight at shoulder height. Nonverbal communication. He hoped the verbal communication was happening in the Crown Vic behind him.

Still he waited for a sound coming from the west. For the cavalry. Then he heard it. The dull, heavy thunder of approaching helicopter blades.

The Resurrection Man.
Arms
held out like Jesus on the cross. Orange jacket hanging open, revealing an unarmed man in a baggy T-shirt and faded jeans. Black K-Swiss tennis shoes that were grey with dust. Grant heard the telephone ring inside the lodge. The helicopter was approaching fast but was still distant enough that he could hear the annoying ringtone. Even back in England the traditional ring of the phone had been replaced by dozens of electronic variations. They didn't sound like telephones anymore. He reckoned they'd got that idea from the Americans too. Some of them even played songs from
Jungle Book,
for crissakes.

Grant held his arms out straight and scoured the front of the lodge. There were three dormer windows set into the sloping roof facing him. None were open. No curtains twitched. There was no Sean Sullivan clone pointing a thirty-odd-six rifle at his chest. Despite the seriousness of the situation, this felt more controlled than his walk across the parking lot at Parkway Auto Repair. The downstairs windows were the threat. He saw urgent movement through the glazed yellow squares. The blue light of a TV flickered below the left-hand window. A slim female shape was hustled away to the back of the room. Nobody came to the window to look out. Everybody had apparently seen what happened to Sean Sullivan.

Good. Grant wanted them to know how that had ended. He also wanted them to remember he'd been unarmed when he'd approached the window above the gas station. There was still hope for a peaceful outcome this time. Keeping his arms held out, he began to walk towards the porch steps.

The curtain moved in the window beside the TV.

The same in the window to the right of the front door.

Grant kept walking, slow and easy. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Twice.

He was ready.

The helicopter grew louder but held its position over the lake beyond the trees and shoreline. The sparse trees that allowed a perfect view of the Jamaica Pond boathouse and the Gentlemen's Club. The ideal place for a telephoto lens to pick up the man in the orange jacket with his arms held out. TV pictures that would be fed live to the breaking news story. No back holster dangling below the windcheater. Nothing hidden behind his neck like in
Die Hard
, the first one. He wanted the heavies inside to know he came in peace.

He stopped at the foot of the porch steps. He suddenly noticed that it was the only building he'd been to without a stars and stripes hanging outside. He checked the windows—no Support Our Troops stickers on the glass. It wasn't as bad as having swastikas or KKK badges outside, but he thought it was a bad move politically. Could be Delaney's first misstep in his grasp for power. If he was up for office, that would definitely lose him votes.

Votes? Ever since Senator Clayton entered the equation, with his beautiful East European escort provided by Triple Zero, Grant had struggled to understand just what Delaney hoped to gain by kidnapping the girl's sister. What pressure could Anna Simonovich exert on Clayton and to what purpose? Then it came to him. Votes. Whatever this oil delegation was all about, he'd bet there'd be voting required for it to go through. Anything to do with oil affected everyone with interests in the industry. Especially gas station chains and their investors. Having a senator in your pocket must help. Having that senator coerced by his blue-eyed girl was insurance that the senator voted the right way.

Grant looked at the downstairs windows. They were closed.

He raised his voice. “Mornin', Frank. Sorry to come around so early, but we need to talk.”

A gust of wind swirled dust around his feet. The trees on either side of the lodge swayed, their leaves whispering lazily. Wind chimes jingled at the end of the porch. A stray crisp packet somebody had dropped on the jogging path around the lake blew across the open space like a tumbleweed. Grant corrected himself. Not crisps over here, potato chips. Chips were French fries. Even though they weren't in France.

“Been meaning to tell you, though. These car parks—they really need tarmac. Keeps your shoes clean. The cars over there, they're a mess. Think what it would save on cleaning bills.”

There was no reply.

“I'm just coming up the steps. Take it easy in there. All right?”

He put a foot on the first step.

Nothing happened.

He climbed to the second.

Nothing happened.

The third step and then he was on the porch. The front door opened a couple of inches.

Grant stopped. He could hear the feigned serious tones of a news reporter coming from the TV in the lounge and wondered if it was Kimberley Clark. He tried to picture the images being broadcast across Boston over breakfast. News channels liked to use strategic planning. Every news story they showed had a script as surely as any Hollywood production. They had the wide shot to set the scene. The shaky camera to denote urgency. Shots of the massed forces of the cops and the very atmospheric red and blue flashing lights. That always looked good.