Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

  The front door opened and hushed voices drifted into the street. Grant recognized the condescending tone of one voice and the deferential nature of the second. Hunt was dismissing the BPD. DeLuca was backing down the steps and nodding his head. He was practically touching his forelock. Grant didn’t know any cop who wouldn’t find Hunt’s treatment offensive. DeLuca must be boiling inside. That was Grant’s leverage.

  The front door slammed shut. DeLuca drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very high, and blew out a disgusted snort of breath. Good. He wasn’t happy. Grant gave the detective a few seconds to compose himself, then crossed the street.

  “He said what?”

  DeLuca couldn’t hide the indignation. Grant repeated himself. “Hunt wasn’t the target. It was his passenger.”

  “What fucking passenger?”

  Grant pressed his advantage. “The one that Hunt didn’t tell us about.”

  They were standing next to DeLuca’s Crown Vic, the flashing lights turned off and the driver’s door open. Far enough from Hunt’s front door that the fourth richest man in Boston couldn’t overhear. Close enough that the detective could storm back in there and demand to know who the passenger was. DeLuca drummed his fingers on the roof of the car.

  “And this guy opposite saw that?”

  “The builder. Yes.”

  DeLuca glanced across the street, then back at Grant. “This is Beacon Hill. Guy ain’t no builder.”

  “He owns a firm of builders.”

  “Not the same thing.”

  “But he did see the shooting.”

  That shut DeLuca up. He was avoiding the subject, drumming his fingers and making pointless observations. The fact was he now had a witness to the crime that wasn’t being recorded as a crime. Unless the complainant was prepared to make an official report. That didn’t look like it was happening, and it was obviously sticking in DeLuca’s throat. He stopped drumming on the roof.

  “He get the licence plate?”

  “No.”

  “Make and color?”

  “Dark blue saloon. That’s all.”

  “Descriptions?”

  “No.”

  “Male or female?”

  Grant shrugged and shook his head.

  DeLuca drummed twice more, then leaned on the open door. “That’s not gonna help solve this thing.”

  “You admit there’s a thing to solve then.”

  DeLuca drew his brows together and glared at Grant. “We’re cops. There’s always something to solve. Secret is not to open a case you can’t solve, unless you have to.”

  Grant was beginning to feel like a pebble on the beach, worn smooth by the relentless pressure of the tides. He wasn’t ready to give up yet though.

  “Surely you have to now. You’ve got a witness. This thing happened.”

  “Not denying it happened. Morning happens. Every day. Just doesn’t get recorded as a crime that’s all.”

  “Morning isn’t a crime.”

  “Depends what time you get to bed.”

  “Still isn’t a crime.”

  DeLuca jerked a thumb towards Hunt’s front door.

  “Neither is this if Daniel Hunt won’t report it. Witness or no witness.”

  “Then Hunt’s a prick.”

  “That’s not a crime either.”

  Grant was losing patience. “So you’re not going to do anything.”

  It wasn’t a question. DeLuca didn’t like the accusatory tone. “Like what? Check every male or female driving a dark sedan?”

  “This could come back to bite you in the ass.”

  “Do the English say ass?”

  “I’m assimilating.”

  DeLuca stepped back from the car and swung the door wide open.

  “Well, assimilate this.”

  He took the car keys out of his pocket and prepared to get in.

  “We live in the real world. From the top down, bosses work with statistics. Volume crime. Violent crime. Property crime. They set targets and they don’t like it when shit-valley cops don’t meet them. Keep the numbers down and the detections up.”

  He threw one last nod of the head at Hunt’s house. “This one ain’t gonna bring the detections up. But I can keep the numbers down. No complaint. No Crime. End of story.”

  He lowered himself into the driver’s seat and looked up at Grant.

  “So I suggest you get back to JP and finish your paperwork. House search, wasn’t it?” He tapped his wristwatch. “You’re off duty soon. Go home.”

  DeLuca shut the door and started the engine. He drove down Mount Vernon onto Charles Street, then headed back towards downtown. Grant looked at the night sky. It was still dark but nearer dawn than midnight. The ruins were behind him. His stand-in shift for Kincaid was almost over. DeLuca was right; it was nearly time to go home. Grant reckoned he’d caused enough trouble for one night. The rest of the trouble he was planning to cause could wait.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Home meant Terri Avellone’s apartment but it didn’t mean bed. Not straight away. Since he’d started pulling regular shifts in Boston, he’d spent more time at Terri’s than his own address near Jamaica Pond. He had a spare key and a change of clothes. The additional benefits were obvious. So obvious they were waiting for him when he closed the door.

  “Honey, I’m home.”

  The voice replying from upstairs was low and sexy. “Honey, I heard you.”

  Terri came to the top of the stairs and looked down at the Yorkshire cop she’d fallen in love with. A surprise to both of them since their initial attraction had been purely physical. Grant wasn’t sure if he was ready to fall in love yet but he was getting close. Attraction wasn’t the only thing that was mutual. Grant was now officially a Boston PD detective. He had the badge and gun to prove it, even if his gun was always in the locker at the station. Terri Avellone had made Boston the base of operations for her pharmaceutical rep business. She would fly across the country plying her trade but always return to the brownstone she rented in South End. If home is where the heart is, then the two-storey duplex qualified for both of them.

  Grant let out a sigh and hung his coat over the banister rail.

  Terri came down two steps, her bathrobe swishing around her knees.

  “Rough night?”

  “I’ve had rougher.”

  She came down two more.

  “Want a shower?”

  The bathrobe opened slightly to reveal legs that were tanned and firm and smooth as silk. Grant knew they were smooth. He doubted he’d ever forget. He also knew he wouldn’t be washing his own back. He took the stairs two at a time and met Terri halfway.

  “You think I need one?”

  Terri was one step up from Grant. It made them the same height. She reached down and tugged the shirt out of his trousers.

  “I think you need something.”

  Grant rested one hand on the banister rail and the other on the wall. Terri slid gentle fingers around the waistband, then unfastened Grant’s belt. The button and zipper were next. She leaned forward to reach behind his back and grabbed a handful of buttocks. Squeezed hard and smiled at him.

  “And I want what you need.”

  The hand slid round the front and squeezed something else. The belt on her bathrobe loosened and the robe fell open. She was naked underneath. Still warm from getting out of bed. Her breasts swayed gently as she caressed and kneaded him. Then she stopped and turned around.

  She took the steps one at a time. She wasn’t trying to get away. She only made three steps before Grant caught up with her. His hands slipped into the open bathrobe and stroked her stomach. Then one hand went up and took the weight of one breast. The other went down the flat plain of her stomach and stroked her thighs.

  Terri let out a sigh and shrugged the bathrobe off. It slid to the floor. The bedroom wasn’t an option. Waiting wasn’t an option. She knelt on the next step and reached behin
d her. Grant’s trousers were round his ankles. He was hobbled and she pushed backwards. Taking his erection in hand, she nudged it forward and guided him home.

  Afterwards they had a shower and went to bed. Terri had plenty of time, there were no appointments today. Grant rested against three pillows with Terri curled up in his arms. He stroked her back and the gentle movement relaxed them both. Terri spoke without raising her head.

  “So, tell me about your night.”

  Grant stopped stroking and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You really want to know?”

  “That’s what couples do, isn’t it?”

  “You never tell me about your day.”

  She snuggled against his chest. “Trawling around hospitals selling drugs? I’d put you to sleep.”

  Grant kissed the top of her head. “You could never put me to sleep.”

  He squeezed her again.

  “And drug dealers I usually arrest.”

  Terri looked up, then wrapped her body tightly around him.

  “So arrest me.”

  Grant slapped her backside.

  “What about my night?”

  Terri tilted her head upwards and smiled.

  “Go on then. What did the Resurrection Man do?”

  Grant lowered his voice. “Got resurrected.”

  He explained about the missing child and the house search. Not in detail but enough to paint a picture. The empty house. The lights left on. The lack of books and the bad smell. Terri listened with rapt attention. The life Grant lived was a million miles away from hers. What Grant saw in the line of duty was the underbelly of the life that the rest of the world lived. Most cop's wives put that aside to avoid worrying about their husbands. When Grant reached the part where the Zippo flared, Terri took a sharp breath. She reached up and stroked his slightly singed eyebrows.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  Grant underplayed the rest of the story. Dashing into the cellar to find the boy. Throwing him onto the kitchen floor while Nedeller soaked them both in water. The fire department. The arrest. The I’ll leave it with you, kid. All part of the daily routine for a frontline cop. Surviving a blazing cellar was just more proof that Jim Grant truly was the Resurrection Man. He ran his fingers through his hair and smelled them to see if the smoke had gone.

  “Then I got a shooting call. At Beacon Hill.”

  That jerked Terri upright.

  “You alright?”

  “They weren’t shooting at me.”

  When Grant finished explaining about Daniel Hunt’s high and mighty attitude, Terri gave a short laugh that was all nose and no mouth. She shook her head and let out a sigh.

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me.”

  Grant squeezed her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “You know him?”

  “I know Beacon Hill.”

  “They always ignore shootings up there?”

  “They always look down on the rest of us down here.”

  “How come?”

  Terri rolled onto her back and her breasts swung free. They jiggled slightly as she settled into position. Grant pulled the bed sheet up to cover them. Distractions he didn’t need. He wanted to hear this. Terri smiled up at him, then got serious.

  “Beacon Hill is the oldest part of the oldest city in America.”

  “Boston, yeah. First police force in the US. They like telling me that.”

  “First for a lot of things. First paved roads. First transport system. First rung up the ladder for the lace curtain Irish.”

  Grant raised an eyebrow. “Lace curtain Irish?”

  “The wealthy. Back in the day, fresh off the boat from Ireland, the shanty Irish settled wherever they could. Barely had enough for shoes on their feet. The ones that moved up in the world, they put lace curtains in their windows to show they had means. Lace curtains progressed to bigger houses. Houses turned into an enclave: Beacon Hill. The most prestigious address in America.”

  “Really?”

  Terri lowered her voice. “We don’t have royalty over here. But if we did, it would have to be the Kennedys.”

  “JFK and company?”

  “The very same. The most powerful family in the United States. Lived in Louisburg Square. Beacon Hill.”

  “That makes it prestigious.”

  “And you just had a shooting there.”

  Grant pushed back against his pillows. “A shooting the police aren’t going to investigate.”

  Terri did the same. “If the Kennedys said don’t investigate, then you wouldn’t investigate.”

  “I would.”

  “The Boston Police Department wouldn’t.”

  “Daniel Hunt isn’t a Kennedy.”

  “At Beacon Hill he’s the next best thing. If there’s a pecking order up there, then he’s pretty close to the top.”

  Grant rubbed his eyes. “And he reckons the police should do as they’re told.”

  Terri kissed his shoulder to soften the words. “According to Beacon Hill, you’re lower order.”

  Grant looked at her and smiled. “I’m a cop and I’m from England. I’m lower order to everyone.”

  Terri smiled back. “Not to me.”

  She slid one hand down his stomach and stroked him hard again.

  “Now get on top and show me why.”

  Grant showed her why twice. The second time he was almost too tired to perform. Terri recognized his fatigue and held him in her arms until he fell asleep. The last thing he remembered was the lace curtains struggling to hold back the daylight. The curtains reminded him of the first time they’d met at Logan International and the curtains of her hotel room. Lace curtain Irish. It appeared that curtains had more to say about the world than Grant ever imagined.

  He slept deep and hard. A dark sleep that always helped him when he worked the night shift. He should have slept longer but the telephone woke him up. The sun had barely moved across the sky. It was still morning. The ring tone was loud and alien. Not like an English telephone. He climbed up from the depths. Terri answered the bedside phone, then held it out for Grant.

  The captain didn’t mince his words.

  “My office. Now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sam Kincaid headed Grant off at the front desk. The District E13 police station at Jamaica Plain had become as familiar to Grant as working Ecclesfield Division back in Yorkshire. He’d been a thorn in Inspector Speedhoff’s side his entire time at Ecclesfield Police Station, so being called into the office for a bollocking had been more common in Yorkshire than Boston. Up until now.

  Kincaid pushed off from the public counter and collared Grant as soon as he came through the front door. The senior detective gestured Grant into the interview room and closed the door.

  “What the fuck did you do?”

  “Nothing you wouldn’t have done.”

  Kincaid leaned his back against the door. “I wouldn’t have pissed off half the top brass.”

  Grant sat on the edge of the table and tilted his head to one side. He didn’t say anything, letting the silence speak for itself. Good interview technique when you wanted the prisoner to incriminate himself. The silence worked on Kincaid as well.

  “Okay, so maybe I would. But I’d have been a damn sight more diplomatic than you seem to have been.”

  Grant folded his arms across his chest.

  “We talking about the boy with the singed hair, the dipstick father, or the jumped-up prick at Beacon Hill?”

  Grant would have put money on the jumped-up prick.

  Kincaid rolled his eyes. “What the fuck’s a dipstick?”

  Grant smiled.

  “I take it that means you know what a jumped-up prick is.”

  “I do. And this jumped-up prick’s lit a fire under City Hall that’s gonna do more than singe your hair.”

  Grant brushed his eyebrows. “You noticed.”

  There was a knock on the door. Kincaid stepped aside a
nd opened it.

  The desk sergeant stuck his head through the gap. “When you two lover boys have finished, Captain’s waiting.”

  Kincaid nodded at Sergeant O’Rourke. “Be right up.”

  O’Rourke retreated back to his desk. Kincaid held the door open and Grant took the hint. He left the interview room and crossed the lobby. O’Rourke pressed a button under the counter and the lock release buzzed on the door into the main station. Grant and Kincaid went through side by side. The best way for frontline cops to face the music.

  Captain Bill Hoyt was sitting behind his desk when the knock came on the door. He was the youngest district commander in the Boston Police Department at thirty-five. He was quiet spoken and polite. His age couldn’t hide the inner steel that got him promoted and his calm tone couldn’t hide the anger seething just beneath the surface.

  “Come in, gentlemen.”

  The captain’s office was on the first floor—second floor in America, Grant corrected himself—at the far end of the main corridor overlooking the rear parking lot, the opposite end of the station from the detectives’ squad room. Opposite end of the spectrum from frontline police work. Pretty much the same as every police force in the world. The higher up the ladder you climbed, the more removed from real police work you became. Hoyt was going to be a flyer. He’d be on accelerated promotion if he could just keep out of trouble. Keeping out of trouble meant making sure his loose cannons were securely fastened on deck. Hoyt’s loose cannon came from Yorkshire. He spoke to both detectives but focussed on Grant.

  “Take a seat.”

  Grant couldn’t resist. “Take it where?”

  Hoyt’s tone became harsher, but he still didn’t raise his voice. “Take it to the butt of your pants and sit down.”