Scar Tissue

by Samantha Simard

  Sebastian was at Constantin’s side, kneeling on the floor, a hand clutching at the older man’s jacket sleeve. “What the hell was that supposed to be, a goddamn execution?”

  “I don’t know,” Constantin replied, hesitating only a moment before holstering his gun. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Sebastian said, “but others are not.”

  “Constantin!” Despite their differing opinions on several subjects as of late, Constantin was relieved to hear Anton’s voice. His boss was half-shouting due to temporary deafness and crouched next to Christopher Sullivan, who was lying prone on the floor. “Call for assistance—he’s been shot!”

  ~***~

  Detective Jeff Kamienski sighed as he unfolded his lanky frame from behind the wheel of his blue-and-white Boston Police cruiser. He was in his early thirties but felt his knees creak with the movement, making an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in his brown business suit as he stood before leaving it to the humidity to sort out. Curly black hair hung down behind his ears and was greasy with sweat, the shitty air conditioning in the city-maintained cruiser doing nothing to fight the late summer swelter.

  “Parked as close as I could get and we’re still gonna have to walk a block,” he grumbled to his partner, Detective “Silent Mark” Hale.

  Silent Mark—an imposing black man who favored trench coats, fedoras, and moving like an apparition—predictably said nothing.

  They were across and down the street from the crime scene at Stela, which was a mess of fire trucks and BPD cruisers. Up and down the block were metal barricades with Property of Charles Playhouse stamped along their top rails. They’d been dragged up the street for crowd control, in deference to the group of onlookers clustered at the front of the Revere Hotel. Several trucks from the local news channels were parked in a row down to the next street, and Kamienski could see an equal number of BPD uniforms and Anton Codreanu’s black suit-clad bodyguards grouped together nearby.

  Kamienski and Silent Mark had tangled with Codreanu—albeit indirectly—four months prior during the Mass Art Murderer case, during which they got suspended from the force because their captain was being blackmailed—again, indirectly—by Codreanu. They couldn’t prove it, but Codreanu had paid the Mass Art Murderer to kill four college students and mutilate Jake Wolfe, all to forward his personal agenda.

  Maneuvering around the gathering swarm of crime scene techs, Kamienski was relieved to see an officer he knew by name. “Sullivan! What’s the situation?”

  The youngest of the four Sullivan siblings, Frankie was the son of Chief Patrick Sullivan of the Somerville Police Department and in the fifth month of his tenure as a solo officer. He’d narrowly missed getting his ass handed to him for passing information along to Kamienski and Silent Mark while they were suspended. He stood near the entrance to Stela in his patrol uniform, hat clutched in a white-knuckled hand. The wild dark curls trademark to the Sullivan family were cut short and neat, but hazel eyes and strong eyebrows reminded Kamienski of Frankie’s older sister, Caitlin, whom he’d had the pleasure of working with (unofficially) last April.

  “Hey kid,” Kamienski greeted as he and Silent Mark reached him, taking in the set of his jaw and his pallor. “You okay?”

  Frankie swallowed hard and shook his head. “I just got here, but we’ve got seven gunshot wounds and dozens of others with minor injuries from glass and debris. One of the people that got shot was Dumbass for Governor, otherwise known as my fucking brother.” He paused to mop the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve. “Sorry, sir. That was inappropriate.”

  “Christopher got hit?” Kamienski said. He glanced around at the throng of guests from Stela; some were being interviewed by officers while others were getting patched up by EMTs. “Did they take him in an ambulance?”

  “They went to Tufts,” Frankie replied. Meaning Tufts Medical Center, the closest hospital to the Theatre District and probably where most of the injured would be taken. “It’s a shoulder hit, through-and-through—he lost some blood, but they said he’d be all right.”

  Silent Mark touched Frankie’s shoulder, a quiet gesture of support, and moved off toward a gap in the crowd. Kamienski knew his partner front to back, which meant he knew Silent Mark had spotted someone of interest and went to catch them so Kamienski could speak with them when he was done talking to Frankie.

  Turning his attention back to the junior officer, Kamienski said, “I want you to get over to Tufts right now, you understand? Your brother might be a dumbass, but you should still be with him. Get outta here.”

  Frankie left, and Kamienski followed the trail of Silent Mark’s fedora to where he stood with Sebastian Codreanu. He was next to the Steinway grand piano near what was once Stela’s front window, its black lacquer finish pockmarked by bullet holes. His head was bowed, and crooked yet elegant fingers brushed the faux-ivory keys, leaving idle smears of blood in their wake. He wore a white dress shirt stained red at the edges and pants that belonged to a blue twill suit; a tie or matching jacket were nowhere in sight.

  “Hey, Sebastian?” When Kamienski got no response he stooped down, trying to see behind Sebastian’s curtain of dark hair. “Kid, you okay?”

  Bottle-blue eyes rose to meet Kamienski’s, their gaze distant but still less glazed than half of the people in the restaurant. This wasn’t Sebastian’s first traumatic event. “I’m fine, detectiv. The blood isn’t mine.” He looked around, shadows from the broken chandeliers bouncing off the high planes of his cheekbones. “I tried to help Christopher… they took him away not long ago.” Copper-coated fingers ran across the keys one last time. “I’m glad the pianist wasn’t out here when this happened. She’d be dead.”

  Helping Christopher explained the blood, but Kamienski didn’t like the sallow tinge to Sebastian’s golden skin. “What about you? You’re not hurt, right?”

  Behind Kamienski, Constantin Ionesco cleared his throat. “I am fine, thank you so much for asking.”

  The bench that matched the piano was miraculously intact, and Kamienski gestured for Sebastian to take a seat, ignoring Constantin’s smartass remark. “How about you take a load off and walk us through what happened? Mark and I just got here, and we could use all the help we can get. How was Christopher when you saw him last?”

  “Christopher will be fine,” Constantin said. The barrel-chested bodyguard, Kamienski noticed, wore his fair share of bloodstains and was picking pieces of glass out of his hands. He brushed past Kamienski and plunked his ass down on the piano bench next to his charge. “Sebastian’s jacket staunched most of the blood flow. Luckily whoever is behind this was terrible at aiming their minigun.”

  Silent Mark raised an eyebrow at the word minigun. Not an easy weapon to acquire or to wield, so it was a potential clue.

  “Your boss piss anyone off lately?” Kamienski asked. “I realize that’s a pointless question, considering he pisses numerous people off on a daily basis, but I have to ask. Also, where the hell is he?”

  “Addressing the media circus I am sure you saw on your way in here,” Sebastian replied. He accepted the package of Wet Wipes that a passing crime scene technician offered and began cleaning the blood from his hands. “Appearances are everything, you know.”

  “We’ll have to see if he can take some time out of his busy schedule to talk to us,” Kamienski said with a touch of sarcasm. The same crime scene technician that gave Sebastian the Wet Wipes handed Kamienski a bagged and tagged cartridge from the gun that decimated Stela. He glanced at it briefly: a 7.62x52 NATO round. “You said minigun, Constantin? Any idea what kind?”

  “Easiest one to get in the United States would probably be an M134.” Constantin stroked at his beard thoughtfully. “The weapon with that designation is popular with the Army.”

  “Interesting,” Kamienski said. “Problem is, a designation doesn’t get you a manufacturer, which is what could eventually get us a buyer. Dillon Aero, Garwood Industries—a bunch of companies make variants on t
he basic design.”

  “You might have better luck tracking the bullets,” a voice said, hard consonants and the click-click of hand-tooled loafers against the floor welcoming Anton Codreanu into the conversation. “But I suppose I do not need to tell two of Boston’s finest how to do their jobs, do I?”

  Deciding it would probably be better for everyone if Anton didn’t know that he and Silent Mark already knew Constantin and Sebastian, Kamienski played it like they didn’t. “I would hope not, Mr. Codreanu. I’m—”

  Codreanu held up a hand. “I know who you are, Detective Kamienski, and obviously—” he gestured at the mess around them “—I know why you’re here, so how about we get down to business? We’ll all get back to work a lot faster that way.”

  Gee, never would’ve guessed this guy’s a Communist, Kamienski thought. A glance at Silent Mark revealed he didn’t look impressed, but then again, Silent Mark rarely did. “Okay, no problem. Are there cameras on the front of your building?”

  “Yes, but I would imagine they were damaged or destroyed during the shooting,” Codreanu said. “However, the Revere is directly across the street, and there are several high-end stores on this block. I would imagine you might be able to pull something useful from their cameras.”

  “Did anybody get a decent look at the vehicle?”

  “It was definitely a van,” Constantin said. “On the newer side. Not sure on make or model.”

  Sebastian cleared his throat. “Christopher saw it, too.” When his father’s icy gaze snapped toward him Sebastian didn’t shrink away, which Kamienski imagined was due to years of practice. “He was in the middle of a speech, and I saw his eyes move toward the windows right before the shooting started.”

  “Thanks for the info,” Kamienski said. “I’ll get somebody asking for security camera footage, but we should get over to Tufts. I’d imagine they’re seeing a lot of action tonight, but Christopher’s probably in surgery by now.”

  Silent Mark nodded his agreement, and wordlessly handed Codreanu a business card printed with Kamienski’s information.

  “Call us if you think of anything else.” Or, you know, don’t do that, Kamienski added mentally, and they left.

  ~***~

  Chapter Three

  The next morning found Jim Wolfe—former Army Ranger turned one half of a private investigatory duo—struggling to hang a new sign on the door to his office and wondering how many people had accidentally driven a nail through some part of their body since the invention of the hammer.

  The office of Wolfe & Vaughn Investigations was a one-room affair in an old brick building on Boston’s famed Boylston Street, across the hall from an accountant and one floor up from a hairstylist who claimed that banana peel hair masks were rejuvenating. Wolfe cut his own hair with a pair of clippers, but even if he didn’t, he was fairly certain he didn’t want the discarded parts of somebody’s snack pressed to his head for two hours.

  From behind Wolfe and to his left—leaning against the accountant’s doorjamb, no doubt—came the scratchy voice of his partner, Scarlett Vaughn: “A little to the left.”

  “That’s not what you said when I had it more to the left,” Wolfe said, the words slightly jumbled due to the nail clamped between his teeth. He glanced back at Scarlett, caught a glimpse of wavy honey-blonde hair and a smirking heart-shaped face. “Remind me why we didn’t buy the fancy door with the fogged glass? You know, the one they could’ve just etched our names into?”

  “Because you’re a cheap bastard?” Scarlett suggested. She pushed off the doorjamb and came to stand at Wolfe’s side, the top of her head a few inches short of Wolfe’s shoulder; she was one of few people Wolfe had met who had never been intimidated by his six-foot-four frame, scars and all. “Either that or Trevor the Landlord didn’t bring the form around because we’re perpetually late with the rent.”

  “We’re not perpetually late—I mailed the check early this month—and I’m not cheap!” Wolfe exclaimed, making a noise of triumph as he finally got the sign centered and took the nail out of his mouth to pound it into the door. “We even have an intern now, for Christ’s sake. How can you call me cheap?”

  Scarlett snorted. “Our intern is Sebastian, and we’re not paying him—and he’s not even here.”

  Wolfe stepped back to admire his work. “I texted him earlier but he hasn’t answered. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything—his old man thinks Sebastian’s spying on us for him, and he needs to keep it that way.”

  After the events of the previous April, Sebastian and Constantin had both expressed the desire to see Anton pay for his crimes. Wolfe had a bone to pick with the elder Codreanu due to his role in the mutilation of Wolfe’s younger brother, Jake, and Scarlett always backed Wolfe’s plays, no matter how ill-advised they might be. They needed proof of wrongdoing, however, which was hard to come by—finding concrete evidence that Anton orchestrated the Mass Art Murders was like looking for a particular needle in a disease-laced haystack of heinous but less important needles. Constantin and Sebastian were inside men, but they had limits on what they could do without being suspected by Anton’s other employees or the man himself.

  Beside Wolfe, Scarlett sniffed the air and nudged his arm. “Hey, do you smell coffee?”

  “We really need to talk about your caffeine problem,” Wolfe said. “I’m beginning to think you and Frogger should start a support group.”

  From the stairwell at the end of the hall, Caitlin Sullivan—Wolfe’s ex-girlfriend from high school turned close friend—spoke up, a tray of cups from Dunkin’ in one hand and a blue and white box from Kane’s in the other. “I guess I’m an enabler now. I’m pretty sure that’s like the opposite of what a nurse is supposed to be.” She was shorter than Scarlett but curvy at her bust and hips, with a rounded chin and a smattering of freckles across her nose. The Sullivans’ signature curly dark hair was cut just below Caitlin’s shoulders, and she had her contacts in, blue-green eyes free to roam without her glasses.

  “Hey, Caity,” Wolfe said, surprised to see Caitlin there—especially when she was supposed to be at work at Massachusetts General Hospital. “What’s wrong?”

  Caitlin quirked an eyebrow, ducking into the office when Wolfe held the door for her and Scarlett. “I take it you haven’t seen the news this morning? Or looked at Facebook?”

  Scarlett and Wolfe exchanged a look, and then Scarlett said, “No, I picked Jimmy up from his apartment and we came straight here to hang the sign before we open. What did we miss?”

  The office was a twelve-by-twelve box with gray walls and flooring, a set of double windows providing most of the light. Mounted on the walls were the duo’s private investigator certifications and a watercolor painting of birds on a wire, along with some ceramic butterflies that Wolfe’s mom made in an art class at the YMCA. The guest chair was falling apart but Caitlin sat in it anyway, setting down the coffees and donuts on the scratched-up top of the single desk Wolfe and Scarlett shared.

  Caitlin waited for them to settle in their rolling chairs on the other side of the desk before she opened the Kane’s box and fished out a Boston Cream. “Christopher had a fundraising dinner last night for his campaign,” she began, taking a sip of her coffee. “At a fancy five-star restaurant in the Theatre District. You wanna guess which one?”

  Wolfe had his own coffee cup halfway to his mouth and groaned. “Seriously? Why the hell did he have a fundraiser at Stela?”

  “Because Anton Codreanu donated an insane amount of money to your idiot brother’s campaign and now he’s got him wrapped around his little finger?” Scarlett guessed, condescension dripping off the words.

  Caitlin snapped her fingers and pointed at Scarlett. “You got it. I tried to tell him what he was getting into, but you know Christopher.”

  “Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” Wolfe muttered, eliciting a snort from Scarlett. “So what happened at the fundraiser?”

  “A drive-by shooting,” Caitlin said, face contorting grimly even as she lic
ked custard off the back of her hand. “Bunch of people got hurt, but thankfully nobody died.”

  Scarlett looked at Wolfe and raised her eyebrows. “You think that’s why we haven’t heard from Sebastian?”

  Wolfe’s hand tensed around his coffee cup, worry tingling its way down from the back of his skull and crowding around his spine. “I don’t know. Hopefully he and Constantin are just lying low until Anton’s distracted.”

  “I don’t think he was hurt—pretty sure that would’ve made the news,” Caitlin said, snorting derisively. “My idiot brother getting shot sure did.”

  “With the amount of people Christopher’s pissed off at your family reunions I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” Wolfe reached for a Key Lime Pie donut, which Kane’s only made during August. He had a stockpile of them at home in his freezer, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a fresh one. “He gonna be okay?”

  “He’s talking to the cops right now, so I think that’s a yes,” Caitlin said. “But I came here to see if you two could talk to him about hiring some security for the rest of his campaign.”

  Scarlett coughed up some donut crumbs in surprise. “He doesn’t have any security? Is he nuts?”

  Caitlin made a see-sawing motion with her hand. “Debatable, but would you believe me if I said up until last night he hasn’t needed security besides what’s provided at venues?” She twiddled her thumbs and looked at the wall beyond their heads. “I was hoping… you guys could be his security?”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding, Caity,” Wolfe said, slugging down the last of his coffee. “Christopher and I don’t get along… at all. I’ll probably be next in line to shoot him if I have to work for him.”

  “He’s not my favorite person either, but I want you to consider something.” Scarlett spread her arms to indicate how empty the office was. “Clients aren’t exactly banging down our door, Jimmy—and besides, he’s probably too damn stubborn to hire us anyway. What could a consultation hurt?”