by David DeLee
He disconnected the call and pocketed the phone. “That was Bonucci. We’re in.”
The heavy oak door opened and Chief Singleton made his way into the bar.
Tara nodded in his direction as she filled a beer pitcher from the tap. “He’s gonna kill you.”
“If I tell him,” Bannon said under his breath.
“What happened to we’ll give him what we find out?”
“That was before the whole getaway car thing.” As Singleton drew closer, Bannon told her, “Shush.”
“You do like to live dangerously.” She said, getting the last word in before taking the beer to the two couples at the window booth. She gave Singleton a smile. “Chief.”
He never wore a uniform, just the Hampton PD jacket and baseball cap over jeans and a navy-blue work shirt like he wore now. He shook hands with McMurphy then settled onto the barstool next to him. Bannon place a frosted mug of beer in front of him.
“Man, do I need this.” Singleton drained half the mug in a single gulp.
Singleton dug into his back pocket for his wallet, but Bannon stopped him. “It’s on the house.”
“I shouldn’t accept it,” he said, returning his wallet to his pocket. He took a smaller sip of beer. Then he put the mug down on the bar.
“What’s the good word, Chief?” McMurphy said.
“Spent the better part of the afternoon combing through Billy Palmer and Alex Riggi’s apartments,” the cop said.
Tara returned to the bar and picked up her glass but didn’t drink.
“Find anything interesting?” Bannon asked.
“Other than they lived like slobs and someone had already ransacked their places? Not really.”
“As if a bullet ridden boat and corpse weren’t enough to indicate foul play,” McMurphy offered.
“Tell me about it. Forensics hauled out a ton of stuff to examine, but at the end of the day, I didn’t see anything that might tell us what happened or where Palmer might be.”
“Not to be the Debbie Downer in the group,” McMurphy said, “But just because we didn’t find him doesn’t mean he’s not on the ocean floor, dragged away by the tide or as fish food. His remains picked cleaned by any manner of sea beastie.”
“As colorful a thought as that is,” Singleton said, “I’ve still got at least one murder to solve and while we didn’t find any clues to Palmer’s possible whereabouts or ultimate demise, we did find more than enough to raise great concern for his well-being. Assuming our grim friend here,” he indicated McMurphy, “isn’t right and the young man is still alive.”
“What’d you find?” Bannon asked.
Singleton shrugged.
“That’s how you’re gonna play it?” McMurphy asked. “Freeze us out all of a sudden?”
Singleton looked at each of them, holding their gaze for a moment before he nodded, sipped his beer. “You’re right. Twenty years on the job in New York you get jaded, learn the hard way to play your cards close to your vest. You all don’t deserve that.”
Tara gave Bannon one of her patented raised eyebrow stares.
He ignored her but couldn’t ignore the guilty feeling his lie of omission unleashed in his gut. I’ve nothing to tell him yet, Bannon thought, justifying his silence to himself and not wholly succeeding.
“Any of you ever hear of Vincent LaSala?” Singleton asked.
“Vinnie Knuckles,” McMurphy said. “Boston’s mob boss. Sure. Head of all organized crime in the Northeast.”
“What’s a crime boss got to do with Palmer?” Bannon asked.
“Hard to say for sure,” Singleton said. “But it looks like the kid might’ve worked for him.”
“According to his mom, Billy’s an accountant,” Bannon said.
Singleton nodded. “That jives with what we found, too.”
McMurphy said, “An accountant for the mob, you know what that means.”
Tara spoke up. “I don’t.”
Tara grew up in her native Egypt. She’d never even been to America before being convinced to come stateside after the DOG unit disbanded and Bannon and McMurphy resigned from the Coast Guard. Though she’d assimilated well over the last five years, there were still some things—culturally—were new to her.
“It’s not unusual,” Bannon said, “for the money men in these sorts of operations to cook the books even more than the boss knows.”
Tara still looked confused. “Cook books?”
McMurphy explained. “Skim money off the top. But when the bosses find out…” He made a cutting motion across his throat. “…you find yourself swimming with the fishes.”
“I’m assuming that’s another colorful Skyjack metaphor meaning they’re killed,” Tara said.
“Not mine,” McMurphy admitted, “But, yeah.”
“Sounds like a stupid thing for those people to do.”
“If they were smart, they wouldn’t be criminals,” Singleton offered.
“These mobster types,” McMurphy added. “They ain’t rocket scientists. Trust me.”
Bannon handed Singleton another beer.
“You know this for sure?” Bannon asked the cop.
“For sure? No. but there’s more than enough to make the connection. Content we found on his computers. Online calendars, appointment books, emails, the guy’s financials. Boston PD’s Organized Crime guys and the State police have everything. They’ve got the resources to figure out what’s what.”
“Even if Palmer worked for LaSala,” Bannon reasoned, “that doesn’t make him responsible for what happened to Riggi, or explain Palmer’s disappearance.”
“How do you figure?” Singleton asked.
“All the stuff you found. A guy like LaSala kills his accountant for stealing from him, but leaves all that incriminating evidence in his apartment linking him the Palmer. Doesn’t make sense.”
“You miss the part where I said the places were ransacked?” the cop asked.
Bannon shrugged. “But evidence was left behind. Wouldn’t you take everything?”
“You and me, maybe,” Singleton said. “But Skyjack’s not wrong. These mutts ain’t brain trusts. Believe me.”
Bannon remained unconvinced. “LaSala’s been running the New England syndicate for a long, long time. I’m betting you’ve gotta be smarter than the average gangster to stay ahead of the game for all these years.”
“Or still be breathing,” McMurphy added.
“Fair point,” Singleton conceded.
“What do you do now, Chief?” Tara asked.
“Case like this, we’ll try and reconstruct Riggi and Palmer’s last twenty-four, forty-eight hours. See where they went, who they saw, who they had contact with. Palmer’s address book alone has hundreds of contacts in it. We’ll run all that down. Then there’s the Fish and Game divers. They’ll be here first light to pick up where you two left off with the Bottom Line. Continue the search for a body. They’re even talking about bringing the boat up.”
“Shouldn’t be a difficult operation,” McMurphy said. “Replace the drain plugs and she should be seaworthy.”
“That was their thinking, too. We located Billy’s car at the marina. It’s been towed to the impound lot where the forensic teams are going over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
Bannon arched an eyebrow. “Teams?”
Singleton frowned. “As soon as it became clear LaSala was involved, the Boston cops and the State Police started arguing over jurisdiction. A chance to grab an organized crime leader like Vinnie Knuckles for murder, it’s too much for either of them to pass up.”
“Surprised the feds aren’t poking their nose into it, too,” McMurphy said.
Singleton harrumphed. “Oh, they are. I’ve got a meeting with them first thing tomorrow morning. Meanwhile they’ll all trying to sideline me. So, yeah, welcome to my world. Yay.”
Singleton finished his beer and shook off the offer of a third. “Early morning. But thanks.”
Bannon said, “Keep us posted, will you?�
�
Singleton gave him an inquisitive look. Why?
“It’s like you start a movie,” Bannon said. “You don’t walk out in the middle of it. You’ve got to know how it ends.”
Singleton continued to look suspiciously at Bannon. “Sure. You remember what I said earlier?”
“Absolutely. No monkeying around. No mucking things up.”
“Good.” They shook hands and Singleton left.
When he was gone, Tara said, “He is so going to kill you when he finds out about Bonucci and tomorrow.”
Bannon sipped his beer. “You heard what Singleton said. The local cops, the State police, and the FBI are all sniffing around. You think any of them are going to let us do what we’re doing?”
“Which is what exactly?” McMurphy asked.
Bannon and Tara filled him in on their time spent at the Exeter Lounge that afternoon, ending with the fact that Dominick Bonucci was looking for a getaway driver.
“To drive away from where?” McMurphy asked.
“He wouldn’t spill,” Bannon said. “But he wants Tara and me at the Exeter Lounge tomorrow morning at eight. Guess we’ll find out then.”
McMurphy hoisted his beer. “Guess that means Singleton’s not the only one getting up early in the morning.”
CHAPTER TEN
At eight twenty-five the next morning, Bannon knocked on the door of the locked Exeter Lounge. Beside him, Tara stood a step back. The morning was cool and crisp, sunny, bright and pleasant for late October in Boston. That early, the city street was quiet.
A minute passed before Bannon raised his hand to pound on the door louder a second time. He stopped mid-knock, hearing a heavy deadbolt being thrown back from inside, followed by another click. The door swung outward.
Bennie, the clean-shaven thug whose nose Tara broke the night before stared hard at her in the open doorway. White tape crisscrossed his nose. Both eyes were black and blue, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot.
Tara pointed at his eyes. “Some concealer could cover that bruising right up.”
He sneered and stepped to one side. As Tara passed him, he grumbled something under his breath.
When Bannon went by, he leaned over. “Forget it, boy. She’ll tear you up. Again.”
Inside, Dom and Enrico stood around the pool table. Along with unwrapped bacon and egg sandwiches and coffees, a map of Boston covered the felt green top. A section in South Boston was highlighted in yellow marker on the map.
Walking over, Bannon reached inside his jacket pocket and put his cell phone on speaker. McMurphy was on the other end, listening.
Bennie locked the door and joined them.
“What’s the job?” Bannon asked, getting right to it.
Around a bite of sandwich, Dom said, “We’re going to knock over a check cashing joint on Dorchester Street in Southie.”
“Huh,” Bannon said, seemingly unimpressed. “Sounds small time.”
“Shows what you know, smart guy,” Bennie said. His voice pinched and nasally. “They get half a million dollars delivered to ’em every day.”
“One hundred percent cash operation,” Dom said. “They need that kind of dough on hand to cover the checks they pay out on throughout the day.”
“That’s more cash than banks usually keep on hand,” Tara said. “Bigger score and no FBI.” She nodded. “Not bad.”
Dom smiled. “See? She gets it. No federal crime. No feds to investigate. The local cops, they’re stretched so thin—the money’s insured—so long as nobody gets hurt they don’t knock themselves out investigating.”
“Never gave it much thought,” Bannon said. “But makes sense.” He wondered if Dominick Bonucci came up with it all on his own. He doubted it. “When are we doing this? Tonight?”
“No, dummy,” Enrico said. “The money’ll be gone by then.”
Bannon noted the level of self-satisfaction in the man’s voice. He envisioned Enrico asking the same question at some point. Now he had a chance to show how smart he was. It didn’t work.
“Rico’s right,” Dom said. “The storefront gets replenished by an armored car service each morning. They deliver the cash between eight-thirty and nine and pick up the cashed checks from the previous day’s business for deposit to the bank. Once the money’s delivered, we go in and take it before the clerks have a chance to get it into the safes.”
“Why not hit the armored car? In transit is always the most vulnerable point of any operation.”
“Two problems with that,” Dom said. “First, the guards are armed. We don’t want to risk getting into a shootout with them. Secondly, attack an armored car and the words out immediately. Cops are chasing us down before we’ve even left the scene. We hit the storefront, no guns. We take the clerks by surprised, tie ’em up, and split. No one’s the wiser until like ten o’clock when the joint’s not open for business when it’s supposed to be.”
“Giving us at least an hour to disappear,” Bannon said. “Sounds like you’ve really thought this through.”
“It’s not our first time,” Bennie said.
Bannon glanced at him then deliberately addressed Dom, “How’s it work?”
Twenty minutes later, at Dom’s direction, Bannon pulled a stolen green minivan to the curb two blocks down the street from a storefront called CCB, Check Cashing Bureau on Dorchester Avenue in Southie. Squeezed between a local pharmacy and a hair salon, the store had a yellow awning over it.
Bannon put the van in park. Dom sat upfront with him. Tara sat in the back in a captain’s chair. The other seats had been folded down to make room for the cash.
At five minutes to nine a gray armored car rumbled past them. It turned at the corner.
Bannon watched from the corner as the heavy, fortified vehicle pulled into the alley behind the row of stores along Dorchester Avenue. He watched the dashboard clock as the minutes passed.
Dom’s phone rang.
He answered, listened, then ended the call.
It was Enrico, reporting he and Bennie were in position at the coffee shop up on the next block. From there they had a clear view of the other end of the alley. The plan was for them to call Dom when the armored car pulled out of the alley, indicating the delivery had been made.
“You’re up, sweetheart,” Dom said, glancing back at Tara.
She leaned forward and put a hand on Dom’s shoulder. “Call me sweetheart one more time and I’ll cut your tongue out.”
Tara got out and slammed the van door closed. As she walked around the front of the vehicle, she could feel Bannon and Dom watching her. Dom had flinched when she grabbed his shoulder. He feared her, as well he should.
At the hair salon—the store before the check cashing place—she paused and cupped her hand as she looked through the window. The shop wasn’t open yet. Still early, the downtown street had yet to come alive. As had been prearranged, Enrico strolled toward their target from the other direction. Tara looked back at Bannon. He nodded to her, indicating they’d received word the armored van had exited the far end of the alley.
The delivery of cash had been made. It was time to put the operation in motion.
The minivan started up and Bannon pulled to the corner then made the right turn, following the path the armored car had traveled fifteen minutes earlier. By the time they were out of sight, Enrico was in position on the opposite side of CCB’s door.
Tara took a deep breath and ran for the business’ front door. She grabbed at the handle and pulled, knowing it would be locked. A blue and white sign hung in the window. It read closed. She banged on the glass, frantic, and then glanced through the window.
The layout inside was simple and exactly as Dom had explained it. The front section of the store was a waiting area with chairs placed around the room’s perimeter. There was a small round table to the left. Chairs encircled it. Scattered on the tabletop were brochures: pamphlets advertising CCB’s services and fee structures. Beyond that was a service counter with two glass-covered�
��presumably bulletproof—service windows, like a bank. Next to the service windows was a formidable looking steel door. Electronic lock. Buzzer control. It had wire-embedded glass, shatter-proof and probably bullet resistant as well.
The service windows were covered with blinds. The door window was not.
Tara could see two figures moving around inside.
Enrico stood with his back to the brick wall next to the door, his hand clutching a small automatic pistol. She pounded her fist on the glass. “Open up! Please!
It took several tries before she caught someone’s attention inside. A young man with sandy colored hair and freckles. He stared through the inside door at her.
Tara became more frantic, shouted, “Open up! Please! He’s gonna kill me!”
She looked in the direction away from Enrico, her expression fearful and panicked.
More banging. “Please! He’s coming this way. He’s crazy. Please help me.”
The young man looked indecisive. He glanced at someone Tara couldn’t see. It looked like he was arguing with the other person.
“Please. Please!” She slapped the glass.
The young man made his decision and came through the interior door. He approached the door with a set of keys in his hands. Tara guessed him to be in his early twenties. Probably a collage student working his way through school.
“I’m coming. I’m coming.” He used the keys to unlock the door.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Tara looked anxiously off to the side, like she was afraid for her life.
She heard the deadbolt snap back with a metallic thump. She pushed the door in. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. You’re a life saver.”
As she rushed in, she pushed the young man away from the door. Enrico burst through the door behind her. He grabbed the clerk by the neck and pressed the gun into his forehead.
“Don’t mess with me, kid,” Enrico shouted. “Don’t mess with me!”
Tara quickly closed the door behind them, snapping the deadbolt back into place. She dropped the blinds over the door’s window and grabbed the keyring from the clerk’s trembling fingers. “Which one opens that door?”
She pointed to the steel door to the back room.