The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3)

by Brian Shea

  "Pretty much immediately. I got word a couple of weeks ago it was in the final approval process, and I got the official notification this morning. I'm going to be taking my leave of absence. I've got some paid time coming up."

  Kelly was conflicted. Although he'd only been in Homicide for just shy of a year, Sutherland had been his supervisor, for better or worse, since he walked in the door. And he had come to understand and read the man, which was critical when dealing with any leadership. Transition always created some level of disruption.

  Kelly asked the obvious. "If you're out, then who's in?"

  Sutherland reached over and gave Halstead's shoulder a hardy slap. Halstead didn't seem to appreciate the whack, although he took it in stride. He leveled a serious gaze at them, something he'd become known for during his tenure in Internal Affairs. They called him Iceman because of his unreadable facial expressions and the cold, steely cobalt eyes. A man in his mid-fifties, Halstead barely had a wrinkle, a testament to the fact that he rarely, if ever, betrayed his emotions on his face.

  "Most of you know me. For those of you who don’t, I'm Paul Halstead. I've been working in IA for the past eight years. I've had my hands or eyes on every controversial case that’s come through this department. I may not have been Homicide, but I know my way around an investigation.” He paused for effect and scanned the room. “The first order of business is case review. I'm going to be going through all of your active cases. If you have any cases that have hit a stalemate or need to be shifted over to Cold Case, let me know. I'm a numbers man and I want the cases to match what we're actively working on as an investigative unit."

  Kelly blew out a long, slow exhale. He knew what case would be up on the chopping block first.

  "Well, welcome to the show," Mainelli said. "You're in for a real treat with this crew." He laughed at his own joke.

  Sutherland laughed too. It was the first time the man had broken into laughter in a long time, his mood obviously lightened at the news he'd been waiting for years to hear.

  Halstead, on the other hand, did not smile. "I look forward to working with each and every one of you, and I also look forward to seeing the kind of case investigations you've put together under Sergeant Sutherland's supervision. I'm not here to change the way things work, I'm just here to make sure they continue to run smoothly."

  With that, the group was dismissed. The trio went back to their cubicle stations.

  Kelly pulled out Tomlin's file and set it on his desk on top of Lumpkin’s arrest paperwork. He wanted to go through it one more time, hoping he could find some piece he missed that was capable of keeping it alive.

  17

  The bar was abuzz. Conversations increased in volume and intensity with the purchase of each subsequent round. Finnegan's Folly overlooked the harbor and was within easy walking distance of where Jason Palmer’s body had been found.

  The city now held different sentimental value for Kelly and the other members of his Homicide unit. For the commoner, the civilian, each bar or restaurant or landmark was just that, but not for Kelly. Much of his native Boston was now marred with the invisible scars of the crimes he had worked. The blood and grime that had been long since washed away left only memories, ones Kelly kept stored in his continually growing mental filing cabinet.

  People were waiting in line for the tape to be cut and the scene to be cleared so that the bank's ATM could be used again. The death of an unknown person was nothing more than an inconvenience to the average person. Kelly had resigned himself long ago to the fact that everywhere he went, he walked among the dead. The thought of it didn't bother him. It was just the way things were.

  Kelly watched the crowd of fellow cops with their mugs of beer or shots of whiskey. Their paycheck came from investigating tragedy, and those investigations paid for these drinks, a symbiotic relationship of sorts. One could not exist without the other. The job never stopped and neither did the drinks, an emotional salve for the trauma observed.

  He'd heard more than one cop say, I wish a day would come when crime was ended and police were no longer needed. Looking around the bar at his cohorts, Kelly knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. The job was like a rare drug; its euphoric effect became its own driving force. Much like the junkies Kelly dealt with during his time in Narcotics, cops became addicted to the job, attaching their identity to the badge without regard for the world around them.

  Maybe Kelly was overthinking it. He'd had more than his share of drinks tonight. Though normally a moderate drinker at best, Kelly lost count a couple rounds ago. That's the way it was at a retirement party. Somebody bought a round, somebody else followed. Beers and shots were shoved into hands and it was difficult, if not impossible, to push back against the rising tide of inebriation. And if Kelly were truly honest with himself, he needed this night. Needed to distance himself from the cases and unshackle the burden they bore on him. Needed to ignore the constant sense of responsibility he felt.

  He was jostled from his thoughts as Jimmy Mainelli’s burly body shoved up alongside him at the bar. He was double fisting. Both mugs sloshed, overflowing and spilling onto the lacquered surface of the counter. Mainelli barely noticed as his sleeve soaked up the dark beer.

  "Saint Michael," Mainelli slurred. "Down here from among high to mingle with the commoners."

  If Kelly was feeling the buzz, then Mainelli was two sheets to the wind. His bloodshot eyes and slurred speech bore testament to that, but more so did the jadedness of his words.

  Mainelli and Kelly got along fine enough, but there was definitely a difference in approaches when it came to handling the caseloads. It didn’t take long for Kelly to figure that out. As a new face in Homicide, he’d been given wiggle room by Mainelli. The senior detective, veteran of the force—in particular Homicide—had let Kelly run free pushing the paces of his cases, assuming, undoubtedly, that he would soon tire. Mainelli warned him the grind was endless, and to survive in a unit where the bodies continued to drop no matter how hard you worked or how many cases you closed, Kelly would need to find a more reserved approach. Mainelli hit his investigative stride years back and, in Kelly's opinion, was operating in neutral, coasting along, and dragging cases out that should be closed.

  The friction came when Kelly's pace never changed. If anything, it increased. Nearing a year in the unit and still pushing as hard as he did when he first came in. It had always been that way for Kelly. And always would be.

  Kelly was of the firm belief that if someone didn't like the way he worked, they could find someone else to partner with. He never openly pushed people away. He just did things his way.

  That was the problem with cops, he thought; everyone was an alpha. Everyone thought they knew best. Everyone was smarter than the next guy. The difference was, Kelly didn’t think…he knew. And time and again he proved it. Yet he never spoke it aloud; only in the work did the truth come out. His work ethic was polarizing.

  Kelly’s investigative efforts were solely for the dead. His job was to speak for them, and he took it seriously.

  Kelly didn't engage the heavyset Italian. He knew whatever he said to Mainelli in response would either end in an unnecessary brawl or be forgotten the moment it came out of his mouth. Either way, Kelly saw it as a waste of effort.

  "Let me get you a drink," he said, turning the other cheek.

  Mainelli tossed back one of the beers. Several loud gulps later, punctuated by an obnoxiously loud burp, he slammed down the empty glass and smiled.

  "Well, absolutely," he said. "I've got a free hand."

  Kelly flagged the overworked bartender, slid a twenty-dollar bill across the wet counter, and ordered Mainelli another drink. The bartender made quick work of the refill before attending to another of the horde.

  Taking his prize, the double-fisting detective disappeared into the crowd. The conversation ended, comment forgotten.

  Kelly slammed back the shot of whiskey in front of him and then picked up the Miller Lite bottle
in his hand, pushed back from the bar stool, and began looking for Kristin. They hadn't come together. Too obvious. But he'd hoped to spend a little bit of time with her tonight. With the tightly packed crowd, he was hoping no one would notice, and maybe his conversation or proximity to her would go unchecked.

  He saw her in the cramped space against the brick wall adorned with framed sienna images of Ireland. Whether they were the bar owner’s actual photographs or just purchased for show, Kelly didn't know, nor did he care. He shoved his way through the group, bumping and sliding in and out of the crowd, trying not to dislodge anybody's beer from their grip.

  Kelly reached his destination, getting close enough to Barnes to catch her light perfume. Even amongst the sweat and body odor of the others crammed into the tight space, he could pick her scent out of the crowd. He rested his arm on the table and intentionally jostled her, bumping her with his hip. She looked over and smiled, her emerald green eyes by far the brightest thing in the dimly lit bar room. Barnes then turned her attention back to Sutherland.

  "I still can’t believe you're really leaving us," she said.

  "I think you guys are going to be in good hands." Sutherland bobbled slightly. His ability to maintain any falsehood of sobriety was gone completely. Whatever he'd been consuming during the course of the evening had finally caught up to him. Sutherland wobbled and grabbed the back of a chair for stability.

  "I'm good," he said as Kelly tried offering assistance. "I'm fine." He straightened himself and then stared bleary-eyed at the two. "You guys are a hell of a team." Then he leaned in and said, not as quietly as intended, "I hope the relationship works out, too."

  He reached his meaty paws across the table, using it as a balance point for his protruding midriff as he gripped both by their shoulders and shoved them together slightly. An awkward gesture received with awkward smiles.

  Neither Kelly nor Barnes confirmed the sergeant's suspicion. Even here at the retirement party there was no need to open that can of worms in a room full of drunk cops. The fallout could be disastrous.

  A blast of icy wind blew through the bar as the door opened. Kelly saw a face he hadn't expected as the door closed, and Paul Halstead entered the bar room.

  Halstead had an easier time than Kelly in navigating his way through the crowd. It was as if he had some invisible force field pushing people away. He slipped his narrow frame through as the crowd parted, walked directly over to Sutherland, and shook his hand with an awkward formality.

  "Dale, it's been an honor serving with you," he said rigidly. "Let me get you a drink."

  Sutherland shook the man's hand and staggered slightly. "I think I'll let you do that," he slurred.

  Halstead disappeared for a moment and came back with two beers, set them on the table, and then tapped the rim of his mug to Sutherland's. "To new beginnings."

  Kelly and Barnes raised their glasses, and all four took a drink.

  Halstead drank his beer rather quickly. Then, looking around awkwardly, he said, "I just wanted to come in and wish you well. You were a good cop, Dale, and I hope you have a good life after this job. I want you to know your team is in good hands with me."

  "I didn't doubt it for a second," Sutherland slurred.

  Halstead stood rigid. "I'm going to call it a night."

  Sutherland bobbed his head and stared absently at the amber liquid in his mug.

  "See you two in the morning," Halstead said, directing his attention to Kelly and Barnes.

  And then, just as quickly as he’d arrived, Halstead slipped back out the way he had come. One and done, Kelly thought. Impressive. He'd come into a bar full of cops, made his peace with the man he'd be relieving, and then left. Smart move.

  Halstead made something else very clear in his brief visit. He didn't want to be at their level. He didn't want to be their friend. He was assigned to their unit for one purpose and one purpose alone, and that was to be their supervisor, their leader, and to do that, he had to maintain his distance.

  Kelly looked at Barnes. "It's going to be an interesting day tomorrow."

  Her eyes seemed greener. The carbonation from the beer had watered them just enough to make them shine bright like mossy rocks at the bottom of a stream.

  "It's Homicide. Every day is interesting."

  "Kelly, you mind if I talk to you for a minute," Sutherland said. His cheeks were ruddy and blotched from the booze, but he wore a serious expression.

  "Sure, Sarge. What's up?"

  "Not here. Let's step outside for a minute."

  “Probably a good time for me to check on Mainelli,” Barnes said, taking her leave.

  The two walked outside. A few other detectives were out smoking cigarettes and engaging in idle chitchat. The volume died down as the door closed behind them. It took a second for Kelly's ears to adjust to the quiet street, and soon the wind began to cut through his heavy coat.

  "What's up, Sarge?"

  "Listen, Mike," Sutherland said, squaring himself to Kelly. "I know you and I didn’t see eye to eye on everything. Well, one thing at least."

  Kelly knew exactly what he was talking about. Sutherland hadn't backed Kelly the way he thought he should have when he'd exposed an undercover who’d gone rogue. But this did not seem the appropriate venue for the conversation. Kelly, in fact, didn't think the conversation needed to take place at all.

  "Listen, I know you've only been in Homicide a minute. A year is a drop in the bucket when it comes to working body cases. But I'll tell you this—in that time you've proven to be one of the best rookie Homicide investigators I've ever had the pleasure of serving with."

  Kelly took the words in stride, not sure if this conversation was a drunken rant or had a purpose.

  "I'm out of here. I'm cutting tail and starting anew. I just want you to know it still haunts me what happened. I should have been stronger and stood up for you. But I wasn't."

  Sutherland looked down. In that moment, Kelly had a profound respect for the sergeant. He'd liked Sutherland. He was upset at the way he had handled things on the O’Malley case, but the sergeant had proven, before and after that, to be a decent boss compared to the many Kelly had worked with in his career. Humbling himself before Kelly was a rare trait amongst cops. Maybe it was the booze or the nostalgic flood of memories, but either way, Kelly respected him for trying to close this gap.

  "Listen, Sarge, there were much bigger things in play on that one."

  "I know." His gruff voice was thick. "I just wish I had played it better for you. You worked your ass off on that case. You put everything on the line, and when it came time to make the final push, I wasn't there. I hope you'll forgive me."

  Sutherland looked up now. Kelly, a few inches taller than the man, met his gaze.

  "We're good, Sarge. Now get in there and enjoy your damn retirement party. You only get one."

  Sutherland stuck out his hand to give a hearty shake and a quick back slap. The ceremonious man-hug completed, the water under the bridge flowed again as he limped away.

  Kelly took a moment to clear his head in the cool, crisp air.

  Before reentering the bar, Sutherland called back, "You take care of yourself, Michael Kelly. No one else will."

  18

  Kelly's alarm was a jackhammer in his head. With each pulsating burst of its combination vibration and chirp sound, his migraine reverberated the cacophony within his skull.

  He yawned, his mouth dry and cottony. He reached out to the nightstand and blindly crept his fingers along until they found the glass. Kelly swigged the last bit of water left in the cup. It was tepid but refreshing.

  Kelly had allowed himself to sleep in yesterday. He wouldn't do the same today. Looking at the alarm, he realized it had been snoozed twice since first going off at 5:30 a.m. When he collapsed into his bed after navigating his way home from Finnegan's, he knew the three hours of sleep would do little to help him reset from the night’s festivities.

  As he sat up on the edge of the bed, the thr
obbing behind his eyes only worsened. He could still taste the sour remnants of the last shot. He couldn't remember who ordered it or what it was and doubted he ever would. The last hour of Sutherland’s retirement celebration was hazy at best. All he could pull from memory was that he'd spent most of the time hanging out with Barnes, being close but not too close.

  His conversation with Sutherland outside the bar was the last cogent memory before the rest of the night faded into a wispy fog. He rubbed his feet into the shag carpet underneath his bed. At least I managed to get my shoes off before passing out. A bleed-over from his married life. Nobody got into a clean bed with a dirty body. And definitely no shoes…ever.

  Kelly staggered into the hallway, using the doorframe to steady himself. He wasn’t wholly convinced a last bit of alcohol wasn’t still floating in his system. His stomach sloshed with each step. The creak of the cold wood floor beneath his foot seemed to echo, or maybe the amplification was internal, caused by the migraine. Regardless, Kelly made his best effort to offset it, walking heel to toe, slowly rolling his feet along the outside edge of his foot to cut down on the wood’s noisy reaction to his weight.

  He passed by Embry’s room. She was at her mother’s. Habitually, he was drawn to open her door and peek in. There was something absurdly satisfying about seeing his daughter soundly asleep. He’d get no such gift this morning and continued his journey to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

  Kelly ran the shower, letting steam fill the room before he stepped in. As the warm water rained down the back of his neck, he remained unmoved. Then he turned his head and opened his mouth. He filled, swished, and spat, then repeated several more times in an effort to clear the remnants of the taste left in his mouth.

  After washing up, he felt a bit more alert but still sluggish. His only hope now was to get enough coffee to counteract the fatigue.

  Today would be Halstead’s first day on the job. Kelly wasn't about kissing ass, but he definitely wanted to make a good first impression on his new supervisor. He figured the better he did in that regard, the more likely it was he’d be able to carry forward with the Tomlin case. He was a realist and knew that arriving early would do little to change Halstead’s decision about a case that had stalled out nearly three months ago, but it couldn’t hurt.