by Brian Shea
“Yeah. I know what that is.”
“There’s a lot of stuff television gets wrong, but they’re right about a couple of them. DNA is irrefutable. Jury members eat that stuff up. The other is fingerprints. We don’t even need a whole print to identify someone. Even easier if that someone has been arrested before. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
Ainsley said nothing. The tough girl was scared, and Kelly pushed harder. Pops had taught him once an opponent’s legs buckled, you never let up. Swing until they’re down.
“Here’s what I know. You didn’t wear gloves that night. Those blisters you don’t want to talk about are a clear proof of that. What that also means is all the torque you used to dig rubbed billions of skin cells off on the handle and shaft of the shovel. And do you know what’s in each of those tiny imperceptible skin cells?” Kelly waited a fraction of a second because he could see the girl was frozen. “DNA.”
“That shovel is down in the lab and just before we came in to talk to you, one of the city’s best forensic investigators told me that he lifted two prints off the shovel. Two usable prints, and while we’ve been in here talking, he’s been doing a comparison from your print card in AFIS.”
Ainsley looked as though she was going to be sick.
“That red-handled shovel that you tossed away is sitting downstairs in our evidence locker, coated in your DNA and fingerprints. You might want to think really hard about what comes out of your mouth next. Because if it’s another lie, then my partner and I are walking out that door.”
“You’re putting her body on me? Are you outta your mind? I didn’t kill that girl. Her uncoordinated ass killed herself.”
“You buried her though.”
“I’m not saying nothing about that.” She folded her arms.
“It’s probably in your best interest to talk. Otherwise we’re going to be forced to draw conclusions and I don’t think any jury is going to want to hear our version.” Kelly didn’t give her a chance to speak and continued. “My partner and I understand that you are but a piece of a much bigger problem. We are working closely with the prosecution, and as long as you cooperate, we may be able to assist in the amount of time you spend in prison.”
“Prison? For what?” Ainsley looked thoroughly confused.
“Murder.”
“You are some crazy ass cops. Murder?” The twenty-two-year-old girl from the streets tossed the paper back in the direction of Kelly. She threw her hands up. “Fine. I buried her, but that’s it. She was already dead. And like I said, that girl was a clumsy fool.”
“It’s obvious you don’t have all the facts.”
“What facts?”
“Faith Wilson, that was the girl’s name if you ever cared to ask, fell on the T tracks heading into JFK/UMass station. We actually found the spot where her head struck the first rail.”
“Like I told you. It was an accident.”
“No, actually you said she was a klutz. Sounds like there’s a little more to the story. What was an accident?”
Ainsley pushed her chair back, distancing herself from the table and the question. Kelly didn’t press. He waited. Overt physical reactions were an indicator of a person’s subconscious release.
“I was just trying to get her to come back with me.”
“Come back where? The Bayside?”
The girl gave a barely noticeable bob of her head.
“Then what?”
“She shoved me and fell back. Tripped on the damn train tracks.” Veronica eyed Kelly and Barnes with a bit more confidence now. “So, tell me, how is that murder?”
“Because she wasn’t killed by the fall. Unconscious and paralyzed, but not dead.”
Veronica Ainsley’s face was the definition of disbelief. “What?”
“Faith Wilson died from asphyxiation. In layman’s terms, she was buried alive.” Kelly paused to let the words sink in. “Buried alive by you.”
“I never—I mean it was an acc—” The rigid toughness dissipated as her shoulders went slack.
“I can see from your reaction this is news to you. As horrible as her death was, there were other things in play. Help us go after the people running the girls, and we’ll work with you on your case.”
“If I talk, I’m as good as dead.”
“You’re willing to take a murder rap for somebody who wouldn’t do the same? I haven’t seen a lawyer show up to defend you. The hired muscle already had an attorney come through and set bond.”
“You know you aren’t going to stay the Bottom Bitch forever. You’re twenty-two. That’s an old hag by their standards, judging by the girls in the other room. They’re probably looking to replace you, if they haven’t already.” Barnes weighed in with her knowledge of the trade. “What’s a retirement plan look like in your line of work? I’ll tell you. You’ll be working a corner, fighting for scraps. And let me tell you, the end result is not pretty.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Everything.”
31
The interview with Veronica Ainsley had gone late into the night. Kelly pulled into the driveway and got out of his busted car. The floorboard of the porch creaked its familiar greeting. Exhausted, he entered through the unlocked door. Kelly went straight upstairs and to the guest bedroom. The glow of the nightlight ebbed out from under the door and danced on the hardwood.
Embry was in a deep sleep. For a kid who didn’t like to go to bed, once down, she was impossible to wake. Kelly sat on the bed next to his daughter. He moved an opened book off her covers and placed it on a doily on her nightstand. He leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss on her cheek.
He watched as his eight-year-old took deep, contented breaths. Kelly couldn’t imagine his world without her. He thought of Faith and how she disappeared from a good neighborhood. He shuddered at her demise and wondered how Faith’s father had survived. He had left a message for Mr. Wilson and planned to pay him a visit on Monday after he tied up a few loose ends.
It was late and he needed to be up early. The parade goers took to the streets early, and Kelly needed to get Embry to her mother before he went on his annual pilgrimage to visit Rourke’s grave.
Kelly absorbed one more round of his daughter’s angelic face before heading off to his bed.
It felt as though he’d just closed his eyes when he felt the pounce of his daughter as she climbed into his bed.
“Daddy, get up! It’s parade day!”
She was already dressed and ready. Embry climbed onto his chest and began shaking him at the shoulders. Kelly double-checked the clock on the wall, still a couple of minutes behind. He sat up and his daughter flopped over onto the bed. Kelly tickled her ribs and she giggled wildly.
Downstairs his mother was already cleaning up the dishes. The peanut butter and jelly toast breakfast routine was complete.
“Good morning. There’s some fresh coffee in the pot.”
Kelly poured himself a cup and took a sip.
“I didn’t hear you come in last night. Must’ve been a late one?”
“It was.”
“Would you like me to make you something to eat?”
“I’ll grab something later. We are running late. I’ve got to get Embry to her mother. Parade day.”
His mother stopped washing the dishes and limped over to where Kelly was standing. She swallowed him in a silent hug and kissed his cheek.
Kelly downed the hot, black, liquid energizer and scooped up Embry as if she were a sack of potatoes, hoisting her high onto his shoulder. Her head bobbed near his ear, filling it with her infectious giggle.
Kelly took the back streets, navigating his way to the closest spot before parking. He’d made one quick pit stop at the family liquor store. He always shared Danny’s drink of choice on this most somber of days. He tucked away his pain and forced a smile. No need to burden his daughter with such things. It was her brightness that pulled him from his darkest times, and he didn’t want his pain to dampen her glow
.
She bounced along the crowded sidewalk as if the concrete were the inflated rubber of a bounce house. Embry’s small hand tugged at his, pulling him forward.
Ahead he saw Samantha wearing the green Red Sox cap he’d given her two years earlier. She looked good in it. Seeing her standing shoulder to shoulder with Marty lessened its charm. Ten years ago, before Embry was born, he and Sam had found this spot along the parade route, the perfect vantage from which to see the throngs of bands and dancers round the bend on Telegraph Hill before making the half loop through Thomas Park. It soured his mouth seeing the spot shared with another man.
Kelly sucked it up and approached, focusing his energy on Embry.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it.” Sam bent and kissed their daughter, but Kelly knew the comment was directed at him.
“Mike.” Martin Cappelli held up a plastic cup of beer in a symbolic cheers.
“Marty.”
Kelly crouched to his daughter’s level and scooped her in close. “I love you, my squiggles. Enjoy the parade, and I’ll see you in a couple days.”
“Stay.” Her voice tickled his ear.
He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ve got to go see Danny.”
She knew what that meant and put up no further protest. Kelly turned and walked back in the direction he’d just come, separating before his daughter’s charms derailed him.
Kelly no longer wore a smile as he moved against the pedestrian flow like a trout swimming upstream.
The drive to Saint Mary’s Cemetery was relatively quick compared to his trip into the heart of the city. Not too many people spent Saint Patty’s Day at a graveyard, but if Michael Kelly was anything, he was unique.
He navigated the familiar path. The cemetery had been founded in 1851. Over one hundred and fifty years of personal loss covered the grounds. Danny’s marker was in a newer section. In the eight years since his body had been interred, the granite still looked brand new in comparison to neighboring plots.
Kelly took a seat next to the headstone. He took a moment to wipe away the winter’s grime with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, making the lettering more visible. He read the inscription at the bottom. Loving son. Devoted husband. Guardian angel of the city. One of its finest.
He pulled the small bottle of Tullamore Dew whiskey from his back pocket and wrenched open the cap. Kelly poured out a small amount on the browned grass at the base of the stone. He then raised it up to his lips and took a swig. The smooth heat worked down his throat, into his empty stomach.
The conversation that would take place between Kelly and his former partner and best friend would last the next hour or so. No words would be spoken aloud. It was an internal dialogue. Kelly would catch his friend up on the events of the past year. This year’s tumultuous passing left much to be discussed.
The warmth provided from the whiskey negated the cold of the ground and the gusty March winds. Kelly settled in.
32
Kelly woke with a splitting headache matched only by the knot in his stomach. Most residents of the city were waking to a similar malaise. His day of remembrance always started at the hallowed grounds of Saint Mary’s but ended at Shep’s. The pub was a favorite of the duo when they worked the streets of the Eleven together.
Out of tradition, Kelly always ordered the shepherd’s pie. Ironically, for a place named Shep’s, the menu item was the worst food the kitchen offered. But it was a miracle cure for absorbing alcohol and reducing the next day’s fallout. He’d be in a much worse state had his stomach not been lined with the layers of beef, corn, and mashed potatoes.
The doorbell rang. He looked at the clock, vowing to fix it, and saw it was already close to nine. Late start. He checked his phone and saw he’d missed a call from Barnes. Downstairs, he heard his mother’s voice. It was more pitchy than normal, and she sounded excited in speaking with whoever had come to the door this morning.
After taking a minute to get himself ready for the day, Kelly went downstairs. He heard his mother laugh from the kitchen as he made his entrance.
Seated next to his mom was Kristen Barnes. The two were sharing a cup of coffee and catching up like old friends.
“Well, look at this sleepyhead finally deciding to join the land of the living.” His mother laughed.
Kelly rubbed his head. “I just saw I missed your call. As you can see, I’m running a bit behind this morning.”
“I can see that.” Barnes winked. “I was just calling to tell you I was going to stop by and pick you up. No riding in your death trap of a car today.”
Kelly poured himself the dregs of what was left in the pot. He drank it black, needing to get the caffeine in his system as quick as possible.
“I did a little digging this morning.” Barnes was almost giddy with excitement.
“Early start?”
“You know me. The kid from the car crash lawyered up the minute he woke up in the hospital. So, I made some calls and finally got hold of the Audi’s leasing company. After faxing over an official request, they gave me the registered owner’s information. Aleksander Rakowski. Does the name ring a bell?”
“The last name does. Not sure why.”
“It didn’t for me, but I sent an email out to the other units and Jim Sharp in OC got back to me. Apparently the Rakowski family have been on their radar for a while.”
“I assume you’ve got a plan?”
“I did, but it fell apart on my way here. I had hoped to pay Mr. Rakowski a visit, but shortly after my email went out, I received a call from an attorney telling me he’d been retained as counsel.”
“That’s not good. Means whoever this guy is, he’s got ties to the department.”
“I know.” Barnes had a disconsolate look. “There is a silver lining.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“His attorney said Mr. Rakowski is willing to make a statement.”
Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a first.”
“It gets better. You’re not going to believe who the attorney is.”
“Who?”
“Lawrence Shapiro.”
Kelly and Barnes consulted with ADA Chris Watson while they waited for Shapiro to arrive with his client. Watson was generally willing to take things to trial rather than bowing to a weaker plea deal, but he was taking a wait-and-see approach with Rakowski. An officer escorted the attorney and Rakowski up to the second floor. Both were dressed in expensive suits, and they walked purposefully behind the officer. Rakowski had a scowl on his face and appeared to be peeved about this meeting.
Kelly guided them into the same room where Lawrence Shapiro had represented Clive Branson. This time no games. There were four chairs, two on each side of the table.
“Before we get started, can I get either of you something to drink?” Kelly knew the offering would be rejected but wanted to keep things cordial and non-confrontational until he knew the savvy defense attorney’s goal.
“No thank you. We’d like to get right down to it. My client is a very busy man and needs to get back to running his business.”
Kelly refrained from taking a jab at the man’s definition of business. “Okay. What is it you’d like to discuss? Because we’ve got a few questions for Mr. Rakowski.”
“My client isn’t here to answer questions. He is here to make a statement and then leave.”
“A statement.”
“The other day his car was stolen. It’s our understanding you located the vehicle.”
“Whoa. You’re seriously not here trying to convince me that your client is here to file a stolen vehicle report?”
“It’s exactly that. He didn’t realize his vehicle was missing until this morning. Rest assured, he wants to ensure the person responsible for the theft of his motor vehicle is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
“You’re trying to tell me that the Balicki kid has no affiliation to the Rakowski crime family?”
“Detective Kelly, if you�
�re insinuating my client’s family-run deli is in some way related to a criminal enterprise then you’ve been poorly informed. Or, if you’re implying simply that because the car thief happened to be Polish that in some way links Mr. Rakowski to the crime, that is absurd. Every time an Irish kid commits a crime is he somehow related to you?”
Kelly fumed.
“When you write down whatever load of crap you’ve concocted, make sure your client signs it so I can go after him later for lying on an official police report, and you can be disbarred for the shady practice you run!”
Kelly stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. He rarely lost his cool in an interview, but the events leading up to this moment left him without the faculties to control himself.
Barnes stood too, not as dramatically. She leaned across the table and met Rakowski’s arrogant stare. “Your biggest mistake was not killing me. I’m still here, you snide son of a bitch. By the time we’re done, you’re going to wish you had.”
“Is that a threat, Detective?” Shapiro asked.
“It’s a promise. Big difference in my world.”
Kelly and Barnes stormed out of the interview room. Sutherland was standing nearby with a quizzical expression.
“Have somebody else take that piece of crap’s statement.” Kelly walked away without waiting for an acknowledgement from his supervisor.
“That appears to have gone well,” Sutherland said, more to himself, as the duo were already making a beeline for the exit.
Kelly walked out of Homicide and into the hallway with Barnes close behind.
“Wait.” Barnes jogged up.
“Sorry, I lost it in there. Seeing that smug bastard sitting there with his shady attorney mocking us sent me over the edge.”
“Trust me, I know.” Barnes put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve still got Veronica Ainsley’s statement. Watson’s going to try to make it stick.”
“We’ve got the statement of a murderer looking to shed some of the blame onto a man with no direct ties to the case, except for the car that he’s now claiming was stolen.”