Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (6 page)

Frank left the office shortly thereafter and spent the rest of the day at a bar in the North End. When he woke up the next day at noon, alone in his bed at home, he had no recollection of when or how he had gotten there. When he finally stumbled downstairs, he found his furious wife with one hand on her hip and pointing out the window with her other hand at his car, which was parked in the middle of the front yard.

Frank had always drunk his fair share of alcohol, but what agent didn’t? The job is highly stressful and involves frequent life-and-death decisions. Surely the agents were entitled to a few drinks. While Frank had had a few rough patches over the years when he fell into binge drinking, he had always been able to snap out of it before jeopardizing his job and family life. But that delicate balance collapsed under the emotional pressure of Brown’s directorship. Special Agent Frank Tagala had climbed into a bottle, and several years later he had still not come out.

Now, almost twenty years into his career and just a few months from retirement, Frank was on his way to Boston to negotiate an illegal purchase of automatic weapons from a Russian arms dealer. He reached down and touched the rosary wrapped around the stick shift and recalled his mother’s words.

Trust in God, Francis. Always trust in God.

The arms deal was to be Frank’s last hurrah, after which he would ride out his final months at the bureau and quietly retire. But God had other plans.

Twelve

Mark was crashed on the sofa in the family room when he heard two chirps from his encrypted smart phone, indicating a secure text message. He opened his eyes, cursed himself for leaving the phone on the kitchen counter, and considered blowing it off, but then forced himself to get up and check the message.

All his bags were still stacked in the kitchen. He unzipped his backpack, removed his laptop, and set it down on the table in the corner before retrieving his phone from the counter. He scanned his thumb and entered the twelve-digit security code that opened up the phone for general use. The secure text message appeared immediately.

SENDER: Doc

MESSAGE: Hope you made it home safely. Condolences again. Take your time. No rush to get back to work.

Mark exhaled and started tapping away at the screen with his thumbs.

REPLY: Sure you’re not trying to get rid of me? All good here. Talk soon.

He opened the doors and spent several minutes staring into the empty refrigerator. He breathed deeply and looked around the kitchen and into the sparsely furnished family room. Agnes had never made much money and had a set routine for every payday. First, she would pay the bills and put a little something in her rainy day fund. Whatever was left she would share with people who needed it. The result was a perfectly adequate, but somewhat austere existence.

The house was completely quiet, without a single sound beyond his own breathing. This was the only home he had ever lived in, and now that it was his, he wasn’t sure if he even wanted it. Homes are like relationships; they require stable partners, people to nurture and care for them. Mark’s life thus far had not been conducive to homes or relationships. He had had a few girlfriends over the years but never allowed himself to get too serious, because he always knew that he would eventually have to leave—and that he would be unable to explain where he was going, what he was doing, or when or if he would ever return.

Maybe it’s time to settle down and start a new chapter.

Mark’s partner Billy had been married for fifteen years, ten of which he had spent working with Dunbar and the Family. He seemed happy and always eager to get home and hug his wife and daughter, whereas Mark merely treaded water until the next assignment. Mark was happy in a way too, but he usually kept himself busy so he wouldn’t have to reflect much on his own personal life. Now, in the silence of Agnes’s house—his house—he was starting to realize just how alone he was.

Maybe it is time
.

Thirteen

Luci stared at the split monitors atop her desk in the back of the police station. She had already uploaded the new graffiti photos and wanted to compare them to the previous photos she had taken from different locations. Eleven separate graffiti incidents had occurred by now. As she looked over the pictures from the other incidents, one thing was obvious: the graffiti was getting bigger, as if someone was raising his or her voice to be heard.

The first piece of graffiti, painted on the side of the high school gymnasium, was only about three feet by three feet. Since then, the size had grown steadily. The drawing painted on the wall of the Witch Hunt the night before was a bright gold, five-pointed crown approximately six feet high and eight feet wide. The crown was outlined in black with the letters ALKQN painted in bright red underneath.

Luci typed “Latin Kings graffiti” into Google and scrolled through the images. The first examples that popped up were very similar to the graffiti that had been appearing around town—a golden crown with ALKQN below it. She clicked on websites and skimmed the information, most of which she had already known for years.

The Almighty Latin King and Queen Nation, known as the Latin Kings for short, was founded in Chicago during the 1940s. Originally a primarily Puerto Rican organization, the contemporary Latin Kings now represent a wide range of Latino ethnicities. With chapters in dozens of countries, the highly organized Latin Kings rank as one of the largest Hispanic street gangs in the world.

Luci knew the rest of the story by heart. The ALKQN started as a Latino pride organization and mutual support network but had morphed over the years into a street gang with connections to illicit drug trafficking, racketeering, illegal guns, and inter-gang violence. The story wasn’t quite that simple, but Luci rarely wasted her time trying to explain the nuances to non-Hispanics. Contrary to popular belief, the ALKQN did not speak with one voice. Some groups of Kings and Queens denounced all forms of crime and violence but remained members out of ethnic loyalty and a sense of belonging. Many current and former members reported anti-Hispanic racism as the driving force behind their decisions to join. The group was not perfect, they argued, but it offered protection from other gangs and unconditional support in a country where anti-Hispanic rhetoric had been rising steadily for decades.

For six months now, Luci had been the department’s community policing liaison to the only low-income housing project in town as well as the high school crisis officer. She had yet to identify any Latin King members or spot their notorious black and gold colors anywhere, and flying under the radar was not their style. But there were thousands of Kings and Queens in Massachusetts, including nearby Lawrence. Maybe they saw an opportunity in the growing rift between white and Latino residents and were trying to exploit it in order to gain a foothold in town. At this point, all Luci had was pictures of graffiti; everything else was speculation.

She thought back to her sociology and group dynamics coursework at Boston University. “Nationalism is a deeply psychological and complicated thing,” she said out loud.

“What’s that, Luci? What’s complicated?” asked a gravelly voice coming from behind her.

Luci spun her chair around to face the shift commander on duty, a muscular forty-five-year-old sergeant named Doug Cromwell. “Nothing, Sarge. Just thinking out loud.”

Cromwell held a cup of coffee in one hand and rubbed the back of his clean-shaven head with the other. The muscles in his forearm and bicep bulged as he moved his hand back and forth. “More of the same graffiti, eh? What do you make of it?”

“Honestly, nothing yet. All we have is graffiti and it doesn’t tell us much,” she answered.

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything from me. Graffiti by itself is easy. You just paint over it and move on. It’s the other stuff that concerns me, but so far we haven’t had any of it. If that changes, you let me know immediately, all right?”

“You’ll be the first to know, Sarge.”

Luci returned to her screens and took one last look at the photos before closing the files and shutting down her workstation. She looked at her watch and smiled. It was 8:15 p.m. She had time to go home and shower before visiting Mark.

Fourteen

Mark was on his second beer and his third episode of
Magnum P.I.
when he heard a car pull into the driveway and pieces of light spilled through the blinds.

Luci? Probably. Hopefully.

He got up from the couch and walked to the side window. There was no need to verify that the 9mm was on his body. It was there. It was always there.

Luci emerged from her car wearing a Boston Red Sox t-shirt, jeans, and four-inch heels. Her hair was down. Bright red lipstick.

How the hell does she walk in those things?

Mark twisted the doorknob, pulled the side door open a few inches, and drained the rest of his beer as he walked back into the kitchen to grab another one. Luci gave the door two quick knocks as she pushed it open and entered the house.

“
Policía
,” she joked.

About to toss his bottle cap into the narrow trash can across the kitchen, Mark paused and turned his attention to Luci.

“In that case, you’re gonna need a warrant and perhaps some backup.”

Without looking, he tossed the bottle cap and missed the can by a good three feet.

“Beer?”

“One and done. I’m driving and I have an important meeting in the morning.”

“Glass?”

“Please.”

Mark grabbed a chilled glass from the freezer, filled it with beer, and placed it on the counter in front of her.

“Thanks.”

“Cheers,” he said while holding his bottle out in front of him.

She lifted the glass and looked into Mark’s eyes as they toasted. “Cheers.” Then she put the lipstick-stained glass back on the counter.

Mark took a seat in the corner booth and stretched his legs out on the bench. Luci stood leaning against the kitchen counter.

“What’s new? You look fantastic.”

“You sound surprised.”

“A little. I figured fighting crime all these years would take its toll,” he said.

No response. She took another small sip of her beer, looking at the glass first to ensure that she put her lips in the same place as before.

“You okay?” she asked after a few seconds of silence.

“Yeah, I’m okay. About as good as can be expected. I wish I could have been here, but that’s the price you pay sometimes. I always knew that. Agnes always knew that. Now I just need to figure some things out.”

She wasn’t listening. As he was talking, he followed her eyes across the family room to the staircase. After a few seconds he understood why she was distracted.

“You were here, weren’t you?”

Luci bowed her head and nodded slightly.

“Yeah. I was standing by dispatch when one of her friends called. She hadn’t shown up for something and they couldn’t get in touch with her. They were worried. I came out to check on her.”

Mark looked away, rested his beer bottle on his bottom lip, and let gravity fill his mouth with a healthy sip before returning his attention to Luci.

“I’m glad it was you, and I know it must not have been easy. Thank you.”

She pointed at his bags, still strewn about the kitchen floor.

“I’m not going to ask if you have a license for whatever’s in the rifle case.”

“Good, because I’m pretty sure I don’t. Never ask questions you don't want the answers to, Officer Alvarez,” he said with a smile. “It’s a safe town anyway thanks to crime fighters like you. If history is any indication—”

She cut him off with a raised hand and grabbed her glass with the other before slowly and gracefully making her way toward the booth. Mark recognized the subtle expression on her face, shut his mouth, and braced for what he knew was coming. Her heels made a soft clicking sound as she glided across the hardwood floor. She didn’t speak until she was seated across the table from Mark.

“Every time you say something stupid or sarcastic about cops, I like you a little bit less,” she began. Mark knew better than to interrupt when she was annoyed.

“I’m proud of what I do and I’m proud to work with just about everyone in my department. We do good things. So you can drop the snarky ‘crime fighting’ comments. Got it?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, raising both hands, palms out.

“What exactly are you sorry for?” she asked with squinted eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you were sorry. For what?”

Mark was momentarily confused with the question before it registered.

Ah, I get it. She wants me to say it out loud. A confession. It’s a cop thing. Ask the right questions and the suspect will hang himself with his own words.

He took a deep breath and looked directly into her eyes.

“Luci, I’m sorry for being a dick.”

Eyes locked on his, she slowly took a tiny sip of her beer before replying.

“Very good, Mark. You appear to be trainable. There may be hope for you yet. By the way, when you mentioned history, that reminded me that I bumped into Andy today. I told him you were in town. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Andy? That’s fine. He’s probably the only other person I’d like to see while I’m here.”

“And how long will that be?”

“No idea. At least a month. Maybe forever.”

This was a first. Mark had never mentioned or entertained the possibility of coming home and staying home. She made a mental note of his comment but gave no reaction.

“What’s Andy up to?” Mark asked.

“Still teaching social studies at the high school, and I think he’s department chair now. Assistant football coach and local history expert. Every Thursday he gives a quick spiel on town history to a packed house at the Witch Hunt. I’ve never attended, but I hear it’s a hoot.”

“I imagine so. He always could tell a story.”

They filled the next half hour with small talk about the town and Luci’s relatively new position as community policing liaison to the growing Latino population. Whenever the topic turned to Mark’s career, she knew to keep her questions vague and not to expect much from his answers. They listened closely to each other and tried to ignore the eight-hundred-pound gorilla that was always in the room—their on-and-off relationship over the years. Luci finally looked at her watch and stood up.

“It’s late for me. I need to get some sleep.”

Mark rose and followed her out the side door to her car. She paused for a moment before opening the door, getting in, and rolling down the window. No hug, no kiss.

“Listen, I did a full inventory of the house after Agnes died. In the top drawer of the desk in her office is a small box with your name on it. There’s a note inside. I have no idea what it says, and I made sure nobody else does either.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“And if you want to see Andy, he’ll be at the Witch Hunt tomorrow night doing his thing.”

“Want to go with me?”

“Sure, why not? As long as you promise to behave,” she said after a pause that lasted a second too long for Mark’s liking.

“Good. Pick me up at eight sharp then,” he said before turning and heading back into the house.

“Why the hell do I have to pick you up? Why can’t you pick me up?” she asked, clearly annoyed.

He stopped walking and turned back to face the car with a wide grin.

“It’s just better that way. I’m pretty sure I don’t have a driver’s license either.”

Luci smiled and shook her head as she backed out of the driveway. The smile was gone by the time she reached the top of the hill.

Mark Landry. Back in town, but for how long? Don’t do it, Luci. Don’t fall for him all over again. You’ll only get hurt when he leaves. And make no mistake—Mark Landry always leaves.