by Ace Atkins
It was one of the same men I’d met with Poppy Palmer in Boca. He’d ditched the pastel colors for a summer-weight blue jacket, presumably to hide his gun. He was a young and fit Latin man with a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, wearing sunglasses even though it was past nine o’clock.
I purchased a copy of Sports Illustrated and continued down the steps and into the T station, bustling with passengers headed back south and into Boston. I took my time at the foot of the stairs, looking down into the river of people flowing to the trains. I waited a beat, making sure I was spotted, and then strolled into the bathroom.
As I walked, I rolled up my copy of SI into a nice tidy tube.
Inside the small bathroom, a young white kid was combing his hair in the mirror. He had on a crimson Harvard T-shirt just in case anyone might mistake him for the great unwashed.
“I know this sounds strange,” I said. “Perhaps even off-putting. But I’ll pay you ten bucks to tell a guy outside that you saw me leave through the back door.”
“We’re down in the station,” he said, smirking. “There is no back door.”
“Ah, you are a Harvard student,” I said. “But he isn’t. He’s from Miami.”
“Miami?”
I might as well have said Timbuktu. I reached into my wallet and pulled out two fives.
“Is this some kind of kinky game?” the kid said.
“What if I told you I was a private investigator and this man was part of a multinational security company with ties to some really bad people?”
The kid shook his head and took my money. I walked into a stall and unrolled the Sports Illustrated. There was a cover story on the Women’s World Cup. I read about the USA’s victory over the Netherlands until I heard the door open and shoes upon the dirty tile floor. I closed the issue and again rolled it back up tightly.
I heard the man kick in the first stall and then walk in front of mine. I snatched open the door fast and smacked him three times across the face with the magazine.
“Bad doggie.”
He wasn’t expecting it.
“Sit.”
The man fought back.
I dropped the magazine and punched him twice in the gut, reaching for the lapels on his crisp summer jacket and launching him at the sinks. He landed hard against his back, all the wind going out of him, and stuck his hand into his jacket for his gun.
The bathroom was very small, and I stopped him before he found it. I tossed the gun onto the floor, grabbed up a good bit of his hair, and dragged him into one of the stalls. I dunked his head over and over into the toilet until the fight was gone in him.
I left him there, hands on each side of the rim, trying to get to his feet.
I reached down and pocketed his little automatic, washed my hands in the sink, and reached for a paper towel.
I didn’t look back until I was aboveground again. I didn’t see the second man anywhere.
I crossed the street and headed upstairs at the Coop. Susan was seated by the elevators, perusing a copy of Raising Boys to Be Good Men by Aaron Gouveia. Two coffees in the center of the table.
“Should I ask?” Susan said.
“Nope.”
“Has it started raining?”
I looked at the water across the front of my shirt and then reached for the coffee. I removed the lid. “Just a sprinkle.”
“Sugar?” I said.
“Of course.”
“How’s the book?”
“The author says young boys are seeing too much anger, dysfunction, and violence and are being suffocated by their social codes.”
“Do tell.”
“The author says showing your emotions and being physically demonstrative is a good thing.”
“Would you be okay with me saying I stuck a man’s head in a toilet but feel bad about it?”
“Was he working for Steiner?”
I blew across the coffee even though I knew it had grown cold. Habits were hard to break.
I nodded.
“Then yes,” Susan said, putting the book onto the table and reaching for the coffee. “I’d be fine with that.”
“We won’t be bothered any more tonight.”
Susan lifted her coffee cup, and we touched the rims.
“I wish I could reward you,” Susan said. “But we have a full house.”
“Plus two cops watching the street.”
“Maybe the pup can sleep with us tonight.”
I looked up from my coffee and raised my eyebrows, as this was a new development.
“But don’t get any ideas,” she said. “I think she’s been lonely and confused. I’m just trying to be responsible and ethical.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Why are you smiling?”
“No reason at all.”
46
I met Lee Farrell and Rita Fiore at the Bostonian for breakfast. I would’ve preferred getting a bagel sandwich across the street at the Quincy Market, but Rita didn’t like to eat with her hands or standing up. She looked at home in a booth by the window, sipping from a ceramic cup while Farrell ran down what he’d learned about Carly Ly.
“She was on a flight log two weeks ago,” Farrell said. “On a private plane to Boca.”
“And then?” I said.
“And then nothing,” Farrell said. “That plane returned three days later, and she wasn’t on it.”
“Have you contacted Steiner?” Rita said.
“We’re trying,” Farrell said. “We’ve heard from his attorney, guy named Greebel.”
“I know Greebel,” Rita said. “A creep that specializes in creeps.”
“We’ve met,” I said. “I was dazzled by his dentistry.”
“He can’t jam us up forever,” Farrell said. “Carly Ly is a missing person right now. Since her flight originated in Boston, that’ll give us room to work.”
My plate had been cleaned of the ham and eggs with rye toast. Rita had picked at her lox and bagel, and Farrell was still working on an egg-white veggie omelet. He told me his much younger partner had gotten him training for the marathon next year.
“When can I speak to the girls?” Farrell said.
“I’d insist on being present,” Rita said.
“Of course,” Farrell said. “And we’ll keep everything between me, the captain, and Quirk. When we’re ready for the grand jury, that will all change. But you know how that works better than anyone.”
Rita agreed while the waitress returned to refill our coffee. I watched her pour a little cream in her coffee and add two lumps of sugar.
“Are you staring at my lumps?” Rita said.
“Yikes,” I said. “Are you harassing me?”
“You bet, sweet cheeks,” Rita said.
“I would never stare at your lumps,” Farrell said.
Rita wore a very low-cut summer dress with her assets on full display. She looked down at her chest and then back at Farrell. “Really?”
“Sorry,” Farrell said. “Boobs aren’t my thing.”
I tapped at my water glass with a spoon and cleared my throat. “So glad we’ve been able to establish our personal parameters.”
Rita smiled and cut off one more piece of bagel and lox. She chewed thoughtfully and then leaned in, resting her chin on the tips of her fingers. “Well,” she said. “We may be fucked. Chloe Turner’s mother says they’re dropping out of the suit. Someone got to her.”
“They know Chloe Turner because of what happened at the Blackstone,” Farrell said. “But how’d they know you’d spoken to Grace Bennett?”
“I must’ve been followed.”
“You?” Rita said.
“I know,” I said. “Even the pros make an error. From time to time.”
“Whatever happens, I don’t want the DA involved yet,
” Rita said. “The Bennett sisters went through hell with my previous employer. What a creep. I like our new DA but don’t trust him any farther than I can toss him. Not with this much money and power involved.”
Farrell nodded. My phone buzzed, and I saw Mattie’s name. I turned off the ringer and set it aside. If it were an emergency, she’d call back.
“Is it true about the good senator?” Rita said. “And possibly our president one day?”
“Family values,” I said. “Law and order.”
“That’s probably what he shouts when he climaxes.”
“Thanks for that mental image.”
“Cerberus is the absolute best at discrediting witnesses,” Rita said. “They’ll be scouring every social media post, interviewing friends of these girls, talking with teachers. Any missteps, however tiny, will be amplified. Same for you, Spenser, and you, Lee.”
“But my heart is pure,” I said.
“Your heart may be pure, but your record looks like shit,” she said. “Do I need to remind you that you’ve made a goddamn encyclopedia of enemies over the years?”
I clutched my imaginary pearls and offered a surprised expression.
“I’ve worked with these guys before,” she said. “I don’t want to shock you, but sometimes I work for some really awful people.”
“Everyone deserves a good defense,” Farrell said.
“Even Peter Steiner?” I said.
“Most everyone,” Rita said.
“Looks like our best bet is going to be the Feds,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” Farrell said. “I had to reach out to them about the flights.”
“Anything new?” I said.
“Seems your man in Miami is on to something,” he said. “But you know the Feds work in strange and mysterious ways.”
“Mainly strange,” I said.
“Billionaires, athletes, and politicians,” Rita said.
“Oh, my,” Farrell said.
Rita rolled her eyes and leaned in to the table. She looked back behind her and over to two men seated at the bar drinking Bloody Marys. “Those two?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Farrell lifted his chin to the door, at a guy in a navy suit scrolling through his phone. “Or him?”
I shrugged.
“How’s the kid?” Rita said.
“Staying with Susan,” I said.
“And we’re watching Susan,” Farrell said.
“If Susan is watching the kid and the police are watching Susan, who is watching Spenser?”
“Spenser,” I said.
“And Hawk?” she said.
“Thinking of taking another little trip,” I said.
“An exotic port of call?” Farrell said.
I placed a finger to my lips and winked.
47
Mattie had taken the Red Line back down to Southie.
Or so she said in her voicemail. I tried her back several times without luck.
After leaving Rita and Farrell, I picked up Hawk at the Harbor Health Club. Hawk was still dressed for exercise in black silk pants, a gray sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves, and black Nikes that appeared fresh from the box. I detected the heavy item in his black gym bag wasn’t a kettlebell.
“Moakley Park,” I said. “It’s where we first met Chloe Turner.”
“Mattie’s trying to get Chloe to change her mind about saying what she saw?”
“Precisely, Watson.”
“Only Watson I know played for the Astros.”
“Bob Watson,” I said. “Also played for the Yankees.”
“Every man has his faults,” Hawk said.
We parked by the stadium and walked around to the bleachers. One man jogged around the rubberized track as we looked around for Mattie. Hawk saw her first, up in the top row of the aluminum bleachers, talking with Chloe. They were alone.
“I’m gonna get in a few laps,” Hawk said. “Whistle if you need me.”
“Can you run with a .44 strapped under your shoulder?”
“Easier than strapped between my legs.”
I continued across the AstroTurf to the bleachers. The field was littered with crushed Gatorade cups and forgotten chin straps. It reminded me of being back at practice when I played strong safety at Holy Cross. Back then we still had leather helmets and kept up with the exploits of Red Grange. Simpler times.
Mattie noticed me but continued talking with Chloe. They sat close together, Chloe bent at the waist, elbows on her knees and hands over her face. It appeared she was crying.
Leave it to ole Spenser to break up a heart-to-heart between two women and offer my manly advice.
I hotfooted it up the bleachers and crossed over the rows to where they sat in a far corner. Chloe wiped her face. Mattie squinted up at me, the sun behind my back.
“Something’s a matter.”
“You might have told Susan you were leaving,” I said.
“Wasn’t time,” Mattie said. “Those people from Miami have been following Chloe the last few days. They won’t leave her alone. They’ve been asking around the neighborhood, wanting to know if she was some kind of slut. And then they gave her mom some money. Chloe doesn’t know how much. But now her mom wants her to stay away from us and Rita Fiore.”
“Could they have followed you here?”
Chloe didn’t answer. She wiped her face with her shoulder. Mattie was right. Something was a matter. Chloe was shaking as though we were in the midst of a Boston winter.
“How many of them?” I said.
Chloe didn’t answer. Mattie stared at me.
“Did they want you to bring Mattie here?” I said.
Chloe nodded. “My mom said I had to listen to them,” she said. “She told me this was all my fault and I was a whore for taking that five hundred bucks.”
I looked around the field, noting the same jogger but not seeing Hawk. The field was empty, and the bleachers empty except for us.
I had on my ball cap and sunglasses, watching for the different paths into the stadium. Behind the chain-link fence and by a trailer field house I spotted two of them. I couldn’t tell if they were the same men from Cambridge, but whoever they were, they weren’t dressed for a midday workout. They wore light-colored suits and sunglasses and appeared to be splitting up and walking into the stadium in two different directions.
I nodded to Mattie. She saw them, too.
“Shit,” she said.
“Maybe not,” I said.
A man I hadn’t seen yet entered the stadium from behind the bleachers and began to mount the steps. Soon another one followed. I didn’t see the third but hoped Hawk had.
“Shit,” Mattie said again.
I stood up. I had my .357 worn on my right hip under my T-shirt. My .38 on my ankle.
“Good morning,” I said. “Came to take in some exercise?”
One of the men was the guy whose head I had left in the T station toilet. He appeared to still hold a grudge. The other man was roughly the same age, a younger black man in a light blue linen suit. The Latin man from the other night had on a khaki suit so light it appeared white in the noonday sun.
“Crockett and Tubbs,” I said.
“Who the fuck are Crockett and Tubbs?” Mattie said, whispering.
“I’ll explain it later,” I said.
“Okay, asshole,” the black man said. “No tricks today. These girls are coming with us.”
“A fellow of infinite jest,” I said.
“Hands up, dickhead.”
“And of most excellent fancy.”
“I said ‘hands up,’” the Latin man said. “Now.”
He fell first, very hard and very fast, his legs seeming to go out from under him. He landed with a mighty clang on his back. The black man with him jerked his head
back and then looked down at his feet. He fell hard and fast, too. His gun clattered down into the bleachers.
I was on both before they even looked up, holding them with my gun.
“Cerberus?” I said. “More like Pinky the poodle.”
“Got ’em?” Hawk said, down below the bleachers.
“Yep.”
The first shot came close, pinging off the aluminum. I yelled for the girls to get down. Mattie and Chloe scrambled down into the bleachers. I got onto my stomach, seeking cover, and tried to see up under the seats. The two men ran off, down the bleachers and onto the track.
It was quiet and still. The jogger scattered, running away from the track. He hopped the chain-link fence and ran into the park.
“You okay?” I said.
“Fine,” Mattie said.
I peered over the seats, and the Latin man fired two shots at me from the base of the bleachers. I ducked down and returned fire. My .357 was a newer model and held eight shots. I was lucky to have an extra two, although I also had the .38 on my ankle. My gun was heavy chrome and felt substantial as I fired off another shot.
From below the bleachers, I heard a quick double shot that sounded like small cannon fire.
The third man fell by the chain-link fence.
Two more fast shots.
I looked over the aluminum seats, my ears ringing hard.
The man from Miami couldn’t help himself and popped up again. I took the shot. The bullet ripped into his shoulder, and he fell backward, dropping from view. I heard the squeal of a car, the white Charger that had taken a run at me and Pearl, now heading over to the man lying by the fence. The car swerved onto the grass. The black man who I’d just met jumped out from behind the wheel and pulled the wounded man into the backseat.
The car sped away.
I stood up, watching the base of the bleachers. The sun high and hot over us. Heat and light radiating off the aluminum. It was quiet now, a low ringing in my ears. I told Mattie and Chloe to stay put.