by Brian Shea
“Get on the ground!” Barnes yelled. Her voice was loud, but in total control. She was a pro and could handle situations like these, a proven point of fact from her early years working these same streets.
“What you got?” Kelly called up as he heard the familiar ratcheted click of her cuffs locking into place.
“One male. Sending him down.”
Kelly heard the mumbled commands given to the man upstairs. He descended the rickety stairwell with hands behind his back. The man wobbled; restraints disrupt equilibrium. Once at the bottom, Kelly directed him to sit on the floor next to the man in the jumpsuit.
The businessman listened, but as he passed by muttered, “You’re making a big mistake. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
“I’m sure we’ll get to know each other soon enough. For now, why don’t you sit down and shut your mouth.”
Barnes appeared at the top of the stairwell with three girls in tow. One, a younger looking girl, was more disheveled than the rest, and worked at straightening her shirt as she crept down the stairs.
“I cleared the remaining rooms. These were the only ones I found.” Barnes shrugged. “Lunch wave wasn’t as busy as I thought it would be. Maybe we should’ve waited for tonight.”
“Let’s see what these two have to say first.”
Kelly called in for patrol assistance using his portable. In the fifteen minutes it took for two cruisers to arrive, they’d had an opportunity to identify the three girls. None were minors. The youngest looking girl was eighteen.
The businessman was identified as George Puzzo, an aide to the mayor. The man began to weep openly when he realized Kelly didn’t care to whom he held political connections. The brief machismo displayed early on was now completely washed away. Kelly couldn’t tell if the man was more worried about losing his job or his wife if the arrest came to light.
The velour bodyguard, Aleksander Kowalski, didn’t speak at all. He showed no trace of emotion, fear or otherwise, as he was led away by the patrol officer assigned to his transport.
A small crowd had gathered on neighboring porches to watch the free episode of Cops play out live on their street.
Puzzo continued his steady sobbing as he was escorted to the rear of the awaiting cruiser. He looked back over his shoulder at Kelly and Barnes. “Can’t we work something out?”
“Depends what you feel like telling us.”
“Anything you want to know. Just don’t tell my wife.” An officer guided Puzzo’s head low, ducking him into the backseat.
“Bring him up to Homicide after he’s been booked,” Kelly said to the young patrolman.
The patrol officer nodded. “What charges you want me to put on this one?”
“Let’s start with solicitation of prostitution. We’ll see where we go from there.”
“Should be done booking him within the next hour or so.”
“Thanks.” Kelly banged on the roof of the car and gave a mock salute to the man in the backseat.
“Maybe he knows more than he looks like,” Barnes said.
“Worth a shot.”
“We’ve got a little bit of time. I want to look at another angle on this.”
16
“How much?” The man looked around, then over his shoulder nervously as he asked. His hands shook. Even in the cool temperature, sweat poured from his body.
Art Devers knew all the signs. It was part of the job description. Know your client, know your price. The sweaty man was dopesick. That fact alone jacked his cost up a few bucks per bag. The other factor weighing into the onsite monetary adjustment was frequent flyer status. Just like the airline industry, the world of drugs worked in a similar fashion. The more often you bought, the better the price. But this guy was an out-of-towner. Never seen before around Dot Center. Not a cop either. His sickness was way too real. Plus, Devers did his homework. He knew all of the narcs and most of the patrol faces in Boston’s C-11.
Devers did his mental calculation, quickly adding in all of the life taxes imposed on a junkie. “Seven a bag.”
“Man! Are you outta your damn mind? I could get it for half that somewhere else!”
“Then go there.” Devers called the doper’s bluff.
The man bent down and pulled up his frayed jeans. He dug into his socks, which at one point were white but now were a disgusting yellowish brown. Devers shuddered to think what fluids had contributed to their condition. The dopesick man stood awkwardly and stuck out his closed fist.
Devers took the crumpled money, moist from the man’s bodily excretions, and thumbed through it to verify the count was correct. Two twenties and three tens. It was always best when they had exact change. It made everything faster and less obvious to those around.
He turned away from the man and retrieved a tightly wrapped bundle from inside the lining of his sweatshirt. Many a pat down had missed Art Devers’s creative hiding places. He handed the product over. The man scurried away around the corner.
Devers stuffed the man’s money into his right front pocket. He pulled out some sanitizer from his back pocket and doused his hand in the clear liquid. He hated the filth associated with his job, but loved the money. He’d never once used his own product and was hoping he’d soon prove himself worthy to move from the corner to an office. That’s where the real money got made.
He sat down on the stoop and pulled out a cigarette. It was a fresh pack, so he banged it against his thigh, tightening up the loose tobacco. He cupped his hand around the end to protect from wind as he lit it. A car pulled up, coming to a stop in front of where he sat. He recognized the man inside. It was a face he hadn’t seen in quite some time, but Art Devers never forgot a face. Especially a cop’s.
“Art freakin’ Devers! It’s been a long minute since I’ve seen your ugly mug.”
“You’re bad for business, Kelly.” Devers blew out the smoke from his first drag.
“You know those things will kill ya?”
“What won’t?”
Kelly walked up on the step and towered over the man. He looked around for eavesdroppers. “I need your help on something.”
“If you’re going to do it, make it look real. Lot of eyes on me. Lot of eyes whose mouths will whisper in ears of people I can’t afford to cross,” Devers whispered.
Kelly gave a barely perceptible nod. Devers reacted, flicking his cigarette to the side and jumping up as if to run. Kelly snatched the small dealer by the collar, yanking him into the air. He brought him to the ground, doing his best to control the impact with the concrete. “Try to run from me?” Kelly yelled. “Cuff this prick!”
Barnes dropped down beside the two men and clicked a set of handcuffs into place. Kelly righted Devers and brought him to his feet. Once standing, Kelly shoved him toward the awaiting Caprice. Kelly pressed Devers against the rear quarter panel of the passenger side of the car and kicked his legs wide. He ran the outside of the dealer’s clothing starting at the top right shoulder and working his way down to the ankles. He repeated the same motion on the left. Once complete, he opened the rear door and shoved Devers inside.
Kelly entered the front passenger seat. Barnes took the wheel, and the car pulled away in dramatic fashion.
“When I said make it look good, I didn’t expect you to go all Terry Tate Office Linebacker on my ass.”
“C’mon, Brush. I’ve hit you harder than that before.” Kelly turned and smiled. “Remember the first time we met?”
“How could I forget. I’ve still got the scar to prove it.” Devers canted his head, exposing a large scar in his hairline.
“Hey Barnes, what do we say about running from the police in the Eleven?”
“If you’re gonna run, we better not catch you,” Barnes recited.
“Cause catch you comes with a price,” both detectives said in unison, a mantra indoctrinated into them early in their careers working District C-11.
“Enough whining from you. Don’t forget, you still owe me,” Kelly said.
“I know. Can you at least take these off? Wonder Woman cranked these things on tight.”
Devers bent forward, exposing his wrists. Kelly released the restraints, and the man sat up, rubbing his wrists and inspecting the damage.
“So, what can I do for Boston’s finest?”
Kelly pulled out a picture from his file and handed it over to Devers. “Ever seen this girl before?”
Devers shook his head. “Nah.”
“Take a good hard look and think,” Kelly said. “We could just hang a u-ey and drop you off where we found you. I’ll make a real big show of how cooperative you’ve been. I’m sure the neighborhood appreciates a snitch.”
“Yo, that’s messed up. Do me dirty like that?” Devers looked genuinely hurt by the comment. “I ain’t never did you wrong before.”
“You’re saying you’ve never seen her?”
“On my mother’s grave.”
“Your mother’s not dead. She’s locked up.”
Devers sucked his teeth. “She’s dead to me.”
“Fair enough. So that’s a no?”
“I’d tell you if I did. You know I got a good eye for people.” Devers handed the picture back. “What’d she do anyway? Run away from her rich daddy?”
“She’s dead.” Kelly handed Devers another picture. “What about this girl?”
“Damn. She dead too?”
“Just take a look and tell me if you’ve seen her.”
“No dice, bro. Sorry.”
“She’s still alive. If you see her while you’re out doing your thing, call me. If for some reason you can’t reach me, call my partner, Detective Barnes. She’s a Dot Rat like us. You can trust her.” Kelly handed him a slip of paper with Barnes’s work cell.
“A’ight bet.” Devers studied the neighborhood they were passing through. “Hey, let me out behind KFC.”
Barnes came in off of Park Street and pulled between two cars parked in the rear lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Devers looked around for a minute and then, using his drug-dealing- Spidey senses, determined it was safe to exit. Without saying a word, Art Devers hopped out of the car and disappeared inside the fast food joint. Barnes pulled out and back onto Park, leaving the spry dealer to navigate his way back to his home turf.
“You keep an interesting assortment of friends,” Barnes jested.
“Narcotics crosses into shades of gray and connects you to the likes of people you’d never normally associate with. Devers was a good informant. He’ll keep an eye out for Tabitha Porter now that he knows we’re looking.”
“You said he owes you?”
Kelly sighed. “Yeah, I helped his cousin out of a bad spot a while back. Good kid, just got caught up with the wrong people. Devers asked me to set him straight, and I did. Last I heard, he was applying to college.”
Barnes looked over at him as she drove. “You’re a good man, Michael Kelly.”
His phone vibrated. It was Sutherland. “Hey Sarge, what’s up?”
Kelly had to hold his ear away from the phone, but he could still clearly hear his sergeant’s angry voice venting on the other end. “Are you trying to get in a personal sparring match with the mayor? Are you out of your mind? First, you bash some rich kid whose dad is golfing buddies with our elected leader. Then, you go and arrest one of his aides in some local brothel.”
“I’m just going where this case is taking me. I don’t really care who the mayor knows or what he thinks he can do to me.”
“Did you forget you’ve still got the Baxter Green deposition tomorrow? If you keep pissing in the wind, you’re bound to come out smelling like urine.”
“Thanks for the fortune cookie advice.”
“I’ll see you when you get in.”
17
The normal energetic buzz of the Homicide unit at work was subdued. It wasn’t complete silence when Kelly and Barnes entered, but there was a distinct hush. Kelly walked to his desk.
Sitting in his chair was a man he’d never seen before.
“You mind telling me why you’re sitting in my seat?”
“I’m Roy Clark. I am a liaison for the mayor.”
“You’re sitting at the desk of a Homicide detective working an active murder case.” Kelly’s face reddened and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Not sure who let you in.”
“Let me cut you off before you say something we both regret,” Sergeant Sutherland said. For a big man with a gimp leg, he could sneak up on his own shadow.
“Seriously, Sarge, what’s the deal here?”
“I think you should let Mr. Clark speak.”
“Let’s hear it then.” Kelly folded his arms and leaned back against his cubicle’s divider wall.
“I heard you picked up one of the mayor’s personal advisors. He’s apparently made some bad choices recently.”
Kelly shot a glance over at Barnes. She too stood in a guarded stance with arms crossed.
“We want you to know that the mayor is in total support of the fine work being done here by this unit, and in particular your handling of the Faith Wilson case.”
“But?”
The outer corners of Clark’s eyes creased, and his face brightened slightly. “I can see you’re a perceptive one, Detective Kelly. Yes, there is a but to this conversation. The mayor would like to ensure no record of his aide’s arrest is mentioned anywhere. Ever.”
“I guess the mayor must be in quite a tizzy this week. First, his friend’s son is involved in recruiting young girls into the sex trade, and now one of his own is out tasting the merchandise. Not a good week of PR for the mayor’s re-election campaign.”
“It’s a delicate matter, and we would like you to see that. The mayor did not know of Branson’s son’s escapades. Nor did he know his advisor was frequenting a whorehouse during his lunch hour.” Clark, still sitting in the detective’s chair, leaned in toward Kelly. “But, even though he didn’t know, or have any part in either incident, the release of such information would be terribly damaging. As you noted, this is an election year.”
“So, you want me to just let Puzzo go? No questions asked?”
“We do want you to let him go. Your sergeant has already arranged to have his charges vacated from the arrest log and the report expunged.”
Kelly stared at his supervisor and shook his head in disgust. Sutherland just shrugged.
“But, to show you that the mayor is in full support of your investigation into the tragic death of the young girl, I’ve made Puzzo available for you to interview him. Trust me, he will fully cooperate with any and all questions asked of him.”
“I’m guessing everything is off the record. Nothing admissible at a later date?”
“Come, Detective. You seem like a resourceful fella. I’m sure you’ll find a way to use anything you discover.”
Kelly realized Clark must’ve heard about the entrance made into the brothel. Smart man. No wonder he was the mayor’s clean-up guy. Made him wonder what other messes he’d mopped up for the city’s highest official.
“Where is he now?”
“Interview 2,” Sutherland said. “Told you to hear him out.”
Clark stood up and extended his hand. Kelly hesitated in shaking it, but felt he’d made his point, and didn’t want to push whatever luck he had left with the mayor.
“Keep up the great work, Detectives.” Clark moved past the two. Sutherland followed, escorting the mayor’s handyman out.
“Ready for another round in the interview box?” Kelly asked.
“Of course.” Barnes smiled.
The two grabbed their pads.
“Mr. Puzzo, I don’t know if you remember me and my partner?” Kelly paused to evaluate the man. “You were in a pretty emotional state when we met.”
Puzzo maintained his focus on the table in front of him. His eyelids were a deep shade of irritated red, connecting to his blotchy cheeks. In the simplest of terms, he was a hot mess. “Of course, I remember.”
“Good. Then
we can skip the pleasantries and get down to brass tacks.” Kelly slid his chair out and took a seat across from Puzzo. Barnes did likewise.
“Not sure what I’m supposed to tell you. It was my first time ever doing something like this.”
Kelly smirked. “Let’s get something straight. My boss made the deal to cut you loose, not me. If you waste my time, I’ll drag you back down to booking and start the process all over again.”
“You can’t do that. A deal’s a deal.”
“You’re not the one calling the shots. Understand that.” Kelly softened his tone slightly. “And, you’re right. A deal is a deal. So, you best hold up your end, which means telling us everything you know about the operation.”
Puzzo’s head sank lower. “I don’t really know much. They’ve been running that house you found me at for a while. I’m actually surprised the cops haven’t busted it before.”
“What about the girls?”
“What do you mean?”
Kelly slid the photo of Faith Wilson across the table, the one from her missing person flyer, the innocent twelve-year-old immortalized by the school photographer two months before she disappeared. Puzzo leaned forward, hovering over the glossy finish of the picture.
The mayor’s aide slowly shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”
“You think or you know. In our world those are two very different things.”
“She looks a bit young,” Puzzo added.
“That’s because she is. Or was.” Kelly slid the next picture, the one depicting the girl at thirteen and face down in a ditch.
“My God!” Puzzo’s body began to quake. “Why would you show me this?”
“Look at the dress. Ever seen a girl wearing it before?”
“No!” Puzzo pushed the pictures back toward the detectives. “I don’t touch young girls. I’ve got a daughter around her age.”
“You don’t touch the young girls, but you’ve seen them?” Barnes asked.
Puzzo made eye contact for the first time since they’d entered the room. He didn’t verbalize his answer, only gave a single nod of his head.