“Shitty fuckin’ death.”
There was no need to swear. Nobody was listening. It didn’t make him run faster or help him dive to one side. It was just a kneejerk reaction to an end-of-life situation. He supposed when his time finally came, he’d go out kicking and screaming and swearing like a sailor. He swore again now.
“Shit.”
He ignored the traffic whizzing past on Quincy Shore Drive. It was the safest place to dive. The car couldn’t follow, lest it be front-ended in a head-on collision. McNulty dived and rolled and curled up in a ball. The car continued its swerve. But not toward McNulty. It had never been about McNulty.
The car that had aimed for McNulty but almost run over the dog took the second AC off at the knees, smashing into Semenoff and snapping both legs backward against the joints. He flew up and over the roof in a tangle of arms and legs, none of them working anymore. He hit the road tumbling and was immediately hit by a car that had swerved to avoid McNulty. Semenoff rolled under the car, his skin peeled off by the suspension and exhaust.
The getaway car cut twin grooves across the lawn and demolished the motel sign then skidded across Quincy Shore Drive before regaining control. It shimmied left and right then sped south toward Quincy Center. Three more cars skidded to avoid collisions and McNulty scrambled clear. He lay on his back in a cloud of dust that felt like it would never clear. When it finally did, he could hear sirens ringing in his ears. He wasn’t sure they were sirens until red and blue lights came flashing through the cloud.
He rolled onto his side and realized he was lying on top of Brad Semenoff. The second AC’s body was a torn sack of broken twigs. The suitcase was open, and its contents were strewn across the lawn. Doors slammed. Radios squawked. McNulty acted fast before the police could get organized. He snatched Semenoff’s phone and put it in his pocket. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“You’re not having much luck, are you?”
Detective Neil Armstrong came into the interview room and closed the door. McNulty was back at Quincy Police Headquarters on Sea Street. No dog with him this time. Not arrested yet, either. Judging by the way he was unceremoniously bundled into the interview room he reckoned that wasn’t far off. He looked up at the detective who wasn’t the first man to walk on the moon.
“I didn’t get run over. That was lucky.”
Armstrong sat in the bolted-down chair opposite McNulty.
“I was referring to your being involved in another tragedy.”
McNulty shifted in his seat.
“The photo-lab fire was a tragedy?”
“It was for anyone waiting for their holiday photos.”
McNulty glanced at the narrow window in the door. A uniform cop stood with his back to the window, blocking the view. Securing the interview room.
“I wasn’t arrested this time.”
“Not yet.”
“I didn’t run him down.”
“You didn’t start the fire, either.”
Armstrong put the manila folder onto the table but didn’t open it. It looked thicker than before. Crime scene photos always take up more space. McNulty had seen them being taken while he was being treated in the back of the ambulance. Cuts and bruises and a scrape down one side of his face. Brad Semenoff had suffered a lot more than that before he died. McNulty let out a sigh. It was never good seeing someone get killed. As a cop you saw lots of dead people, but you were rarely present when they died. It put a different complexion on things. He stopped being flippant.
“He was just a kid.”
Armstrong opened the folder and leafed through his notes.
“Bradley Semenoff. Twenty-five. Worked for Titanic Productions.”
McNulty nodded. Hearing just how young the second AC had been brought it home even stronger. Whatever he’d been into, that was no way to die. McNulty didn’t mention the stolen film stock or his suspicions. That would lead back to the photo lab, and he couldn’t afford to be tied to that. What he had to mention was the car. There was no getting around that.
“I’ve seen the car before.”
Armstrong looked up from the file.
“You didn’t mention that when they brought you in.”
McNulty shrugged.
“I was in shock. Everything was a bit muddled.”
“But it’s not muddled now?”
McNulty rubbed his temples.
“It’s clearing up.”
Armstrong took out a pen and scribbled on his notes.
“Go on.”
McNulty got his mind straight, then leaned forward.
“I don’t know American cars. Make and model. And I didn’t get the license plate. But I know where I’ve seen it before.”
Armstrong stopped writing. McNulty tried to phrase it so it wouldn’t sound suspicious. Even as he was speaking, he knew that suspicious was exactly how it sounded.
“It was parked outside Bridgewater Photo Lab the other day.”
Armstrong scribbled that down.
“When it caught fire?”
“The day after. When I tried to give the dog back.”
That wasn’t strictly true, but he could hardly tell the detective he’d seen the driver with Hooknose from the lab outside South Shore Hardcore. This was the best he could come up with.
“The driver was talking to one of the lab technicians.”
McNulty rubbed his eyes as if he were struggling to picture it.
“The lab tech had a hooked nose. The driver was tall and thin. Angular face and stoop-shouldered.”
He looked at the detective’s notes to see if he was writing this down.
“They left in separate cars.”
He took the napkin out of his pocket. From Dunkin’ Donuts.
“I got the lab tech’s license number.”
Armstrong looked up from his notes.
“Not the hit-and-run driver’s?”
McNulty held his hands out and shrugged. He looked embarrassed.
“I didn’t get time.”
“Why did you take the number?”
McNulty sighed.
“Habit. Instinct. I don’t know. There was something off about the guy.”
“The lab tech?”
“Both of them. They looked—scuzzy.”
Armstrong made a final note, then put his pen down. He drew invisible connections in the air with one finger.
“Then the driver runs down the film stock guy from Titanic Productions. After meeting a guy who processes film negatives at the photo lab that burned down. Have I got that right?”
McNulty nodded. Armstrong could follow up on that now without McNulty voicing his suspicions. Without his mentioning that the same car tried to run him down as well. Good detective work should lead to South Shore Hardcore, and Larry Unger wouldn’t have to be involved. Titanic Productions was safe. Job done.
“When you say it like that. Does sound suspicious, doesn’t it?”
Armstrong leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“You know what sounds suspicious?”
He watched McNulty for his reaction.
“Your just happening to be at the photo lab when it burned down, and your just happening to see the car that killed your film guy, and your just happening to be there when that happened, as well. That’s a fair list of coincidences, wouldn’t you say?”
McNulty looked at the detective.
“I know. And you don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Damn right I don’t.”
Armstrong shuffled his papers into a neat pile and closed the folder. He put the pen back into his pocket then rested both hands on the table. He did all that to give McNulty time to consider his position. The detective waited a few moments longer then lowered his voice.
“Do you know what culpable homicide is?”
McNulty leaned back in the chair as best he could. It had a strai
ght back and was bolted to the floor. It wasn’t a chair you leaned back in. He didn’t know all the ins and outs of the criminal justice system, but he knew about culpable homicide. It was like a step down from manslaughter but a step up from accidental death. Like causing death by dangerous driving; you didn’t do it on purpose, but your negligence killed the guy. There was no intent, but you were culpable.
“The guy got hit by a car.”
Armstrong kept his hands on the table.
“He did.”
McNulty couldn’t get comfortable in the chair.
“I wasn’t driving it.”
Armstrong brought his hands together and linked his fingers.
“You ever have the situation in England? Where somebody being chased in a stolen car gets killed in a crash? And there’s a public outcry because he wouldn’t have been killed if the cops hadn’t been chasing him?”
McNulty raised his eyebrows.
“Wouldn’t have got killed if he hadn’t stolen the car, either.”
Armstrong straightened his fingers so his hands looked like a porcupine.
“Still an outcry. Still an investigation.”
“The kid wasn’t in a stolen car.”
Armstrong separated his hands.
“He was being chased out into traffic. Three witnesses saw it. You were right behind him. Then, blam.” He slapped the table. “Culpable homicide.”
McNulty turned sideways in his chair and stretched out his legs. He rested one arm across the back of his chair and leaned back slightly. It was the best he could do to appear more relaxed. He didn’t feel relaxed.
McNulty looked at the detective.
“There was this photo in the papers one time. Big headlines. A cop at a football match was kicking a fan in the head. The fan’s curled up on the ground. The copper’s boot is frozen right in front of his face. Huge scandal. Police brutality. All that shit.”
He rested his other arm on the table.
“Lasted for days. They wanted the cop’s job. But eventually they found TV footage of the pitch invasion, and it turns out the fan had collapsed in front of the running cop. The cop was in mid-stride and had to change direction. He threw himself to one side to avoid the fan and the photo was taken just at the point where he brought his leg up and overbalanced backward. Freeze frame. Looks like he’s kicking the kid in the face.”
Armstrong knew where McNulty was going with this.
“Your point being?”
McNulty drew his legs in and sat upright.
“Brad Semenoff didn’t run into traffic. The car ran into him.”
He stuck his chin out to emphasize the point.
“And I wasn’t chasing him. I was trying to give his phone back.”
He took the second AC’s phone out of his pocket.
“Not culpable homicide—murder. By the driver, not me.”
That pretty much decided that. McNulty went from being a suspect to a witness in one short sentence. The cell phone was scratched and dented in keeping with its having been dropped on the floor. A quick check of the registration details proved it was Brad Semenoff’s phone. Any prospect of McNulty being arrested evaporated, and he spent the next forty-five minutes composing a witness statement.
Ninety minutes after he’d been brought to the police station he was released without charge. Again. Armstrong walked him to the front door but didn’t open it for him. McNulty went out and turned on the front steps.
Armstrong closed the door and went back inside. McNulty waited on the steps. The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky. It baked off the concrete and reflected off the patrol cars in the rear parking lot. He glanced through the smoked-glass windows then took out his own phone. He turned off the Bluetooth connection and clicked on a couple of screens, then scrolled down to what he wanted.
Semenoff’s phone data had been safely backed up onto McNulty’s phone. He went back to the home screen and clicked it off. He was still smiling to himself when a plain Crown Vic pulled up at the bottom of the steps. The window slid down and a lazy arm rested on the window frame.
“You need a lift?”
McNulty looked into the unfamiliar face.
“Who’s asking?”
TWENTY-NINE
The Crown Vic took a circuitous route along back streets from the Quincy PD parking lot until it pulled into the Stop & Shop gas station next door to police headquarters. Sam Kincaid went inside to pay after filling the police car. McNulty watched the Jamaica Plain detective and wondered how much he could trust him. In the end he didn’t have much choice. He decided that if he’d come recommended by Flip Livingstone, that was good enough for him.
The gas pump pinged when the car was full. Kincaid filled in a requisition slip and showed his Boston PD badge. The transaction went through and he came out folding the receipt into his wallet. He glanced at McNulty as he got into the car and started the engine.
“What is it with you Yorkshire cops? Can’t you keep out of trouble?”
McNulty was going to ask what he meant, then he remembered why he’d seen Kincaid on the news. Explosions and casualties and a man in an orange windcheater.
“Ah. The other fella. Did you bail him out as well?”
Kincaid pulled out of the gas station and turned right.
“I didn’t bail you out. You got released. No charges.”
McNulty settled into his seat.
“That’s because I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Kincaid kept his eyes on the road.
“Yeah. I remember stories about another rogue Yorkshire cop named Jim Grant. He used to say that as well. Just before the shit hit the fan.”
McNulty watched Mt. Wollaston Cemetery slide past on the right.
“There’s no shit for the fan to hit.”
Kincaid headed north toward Merrymount Parkway.
“The photo lab burned down and your cameraman got run over.”
“He was second assistant.”
“He’s still dead. You were at both places. That’s shit-fan-hitting in my book.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Grant said that as well.”
The parkway curled left and McNulty recognized the movie location from day one of filming. Alfonse Bayard walking like a duck and the slap and scream in the makeup trailer. Furnace Brook Diner was just ahead on the left next to the Veterans Stadium.
“Fancy a bite to eat? My treat.”
Sam Kincaid could eat, that’s the first thing McNulty learned. The second was that he could trust him with anything borderline illegal so long as it was in a good cause. Missing girls was a very good cause. Kincaid skewered a forkful of fries and dunked them into the mound of ketchup on the edge of his plate.
“And you think there’s a connection?”
McNulty had tea and toast. They didn’t serve toasted teacakes.
“I think there’s enough that it needs looking into.”
Kincaid ate the fries then took a drink to swill them down.
“So why didn’t you tell the Quincy P-D?”
McNulty toyed with his toast.
“You know why.”
McNulty had decided to trust Kincaid after the detective said he’d got my message from the Jamaica Plain Detectives’ office. First thing Kincaid had done was call Flip Livingstone to confirm that Flip had recommended him. Working off the books was frowned upon but not illegal. That gave McNulty confidence to talk about his own brushes with legality versus doing the right thing. Like breaking into Bridgewater Photo Lab and clambering over South Shore Hardcore. Kincaid didn’t pass judgment.
“So this guy who got butt-fucked at the gay club. He was the driver?”
McNulty finally took a bite of his toast and spoke between chews.
“It was the same car. Didn’t see the driver.”
“But we can assume it was him?”
“But not prove it.”
“We’re n
ot talking proof here.”
McNulty nodded. “Yes, then.”
Kincaid paused with the burger halfway to his mouth.
“And he met with the guy from the photo lab.”
It wasn’t a question. He was just getting his facts straight. He took a bite and didn’t speak again until he’d finished chewing.
“And we reckon he’s the one who ran over your film stock guy.”
McNulty nodded again. “Yes.”
Kincaid took a drink of coffee.
“But we don’t know any of this is linked to the missing girls.”
“We don’t even know how many are missing. Just how many they’ve printed posters for. That’s why I came to you.”
Kincaid sat back in the booth.
“I don’t work Quincy.”
McNulty leaned forward.
“You can find out.”
He waved a hand at the window.
“It might not just be Quincy.”
Kincaid let out a sigh.
“It might not just be girls.”
McNulty shivered.
“The gay club? No. I haven’t seen any missing-boy posters.”
Kincaid shrugged.
“Just girls and dogs. Maybe you’re right. But if these guys are slapping girls around and filming it, best not rule it out. Pervy fuckers do pervy things.”
McNulty looked at the detective.
“Okay. Check for missing boys as well.”
Kincaid finished his burger but McNulty pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite. He drank his tea. Kincaid emptied his coffee.
“You think they’re recruiting for sex films?”
McNulty thought about the blood on the floor.
“Worse.”
Kincaid laid his hands on the table.
“Worse? Like Northern X worse?”
McNulty wasn’t surprised that Kincaid knew about Northern X. After all, Larry Unger had checked him out, so why not the cop? He was about to answer but had to wait for the waitress to clear the table. He ordered another tea and a coffee to hold the booth. He waited for the girl to bring them over before looking across the table.
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