Lamentation

by Joe Clifford

  “Should we turn the disc over to the police?” Charlie asked.

  Fisher groaned.

  “What?” Charlie said. “I thought you agreed it was him?”

  “It is him. I took gym with that dirty old pervert. You could see the way he looked at you when you were changing or in the shower. That’s Gerry Lombardi.” Fisher turned to me. “But all you have is that disc? Not the original hard drive?”

  “Chris said Pete had the hard drive.”

  “And Pete’s dead.” Fisher shook his head. “I can see why your brother was trying to get more evidence. That disc alone won’t cut it. There’s no digital coding, no electronic thumbprint telling us where the photos originally came from. You can’t connect it to anyone. I mean, unless some kid comes forward. Has anyone ever accused Mr. Lombardi of something like this?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  “Won’t stick,” said Fisher, shaking his head. “Couple grainy profiles? No way. That disc is useless.”

  “But the disc was burned off a Lombardi Construction hard drive,” Charlie said. “Surely, that proves something.”

  “That disc could’ve been made in China for all we can prove.”

  “Turn it off,” I told Charlie. I couldn’t stomach those pictures any longer.

  I walked out to the living room, Fisher and Charlie tagging behind. I fell into the floral print couch, wrapping my head in my hands.

  “Brought your brother to the station?” Fisher asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What are they going to do with him?”

  “Talk to him, I guess. He didn’t kill Pete, I know that.”

  Fisher looked deeply concerned.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked.

  “Listen, guys, it doesn’t matter if he killed Pete Naginis. They’ll say he did. Jay, this real estate deal, this ski resort and condos, we’re talking tens of millions. And Michael Lombardi’s political career? If there is any hint their father is involved in something like this—”

  “You said those pictures don’t prove anything,” said Charlie.

  “You think the Lombardis are taking that chance? You don’t hire the Commanderoes as your security if your goal is to play nice. Somebody killed Pete.”

  “Could’ve been a trick turned bad,” I said.

  “Sure. Or it could’ve been the Commanderoes.”

  “What do you propose we do?”

  “I’d get down to the station and talk to Turley and Pat. Put the cards on the table.”

  “You said that we couldn’t use that disc. I’m supposed to walk into the precinct and accuse Adam and Michael Lombardi, Ashton’s favorite sons, of murder. With no evidence? They’ll lock me up with my brother.”

  “The disc is useless,” Fisher said. “But they don’t know that. Or else they wouldn’t have been hunting your brother so hard. He’s easily disposed of. You gotta come up with a plan of action. Worst thing that could happen right now is they cut your brother loose. Once he’s out of that jail cell and back on the street, he’s an open target, a sitting duck.”

  “What if Adam plants another prisoner to shiv him or something?” Charlie said, sounding worried.

  “This is Ashton, Charlie, not NYC,” said Fisher. “You’ve watched too many cop shows.”

  “Besides,” I said, “I made Turley promise no one but the police would be allowed near him.”

  “Oh, Rob Turley promised?” Fisher scoffed. “Never trust a cop.”

  “Fine,” said Charlie, his feelings obviously hurt. “Then maybe they ship him down to Concord.”

  “Why would they ship him down to Concord?” Fisher snapped. “Don’t be stupid. You gotta think, Charlie. Concord has no jurisdiction here.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Charlie, “then why would they send a big city detective up to Ashton to investigate?”

  “What big city detective?” asked Fisher.

  “Cop from Concord,” I said. “Was up earlier in the week, headed back to the city.”

  “They sent a detective all the way up from Concord? You never told me that.”

  “Why would I tell you, Fisher? We’ve hung out twice in ten years. This is the most you’ve talked to me since I felt up Gina Rosinski in high school.”

  Fisher’s eyes narrowed to slits. He quickly relaxed. Nice to see he was finally letting it go.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “But it’s weird they’d put a Concord detective on the case. What I’m trying to understand is, why?”

  “We thought so too,” said Charlie.

  “Figured the Lombardis have some pull,” I said. “Especially Michael.”

  “Pull? Sure. He’s a state senator. But he can’t just pick up the phone and have the cops working for him. Doesn’t work like that. And why Concord?”

  “This McGreevy’s a real bulldog too,” I said.

  Fisher’s face drained of all color.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Did you say McGreevy? Wallace McGreevy?”

  “Yeah. Actually, Wallace—”

  “—David John McGreevy. Concord detective.”

  Charlie and I exchanged a glance.

  “How’d you know that?” I said. “We never told you.”

  “And you’re sure that was his name?” Fisher asked.

  “Yes. I saw the badge. The initials anyway—D. J. When he came up with Turley and Pat after someone broke into my apartment. I remember thinking the name was odd. Y’know, because of the saying about not trusting a man with two first names. Real abrasive asshole too. Why? You know him?”

  “Not personally.”

  “What then? You’ve heard of him? Is there something wrong with the guy?”

  “Only if you think there’s something wrong with a dead man investigating crimes. I don’t know how to tell you guys this. But Detective Wallace David John McGreevy died two weeks ago.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Back in Charlie’s office, huddled around the computer, Fisher pulled up an article from the Concord Monitor archives that ran two weeks earlier.

  Charlie read aloud over my shoulder.

  “‘The body of Detective Wallace David John McGreevy was found in his home early Sunday morning, the victim of a gastrointestinal rupture.’ Ouch.”

  “I only knew about it,” Fisher said, “because my company holds the life insurance policy on the guy. Plus, it’s not a name you forget.”

  “So you think someone is impersonating a dead cop?”

  “Someone’s walking around with his badge, ain’t he?” Fisher gestured to a block of text at the bottom of the screen. “Read the last paragraph, Charlie.”

  “‘There appears to have been no signs of forced entry, although the police are not ruling out foul play.’” Charlie waited. “Huh? Foul play?”

  “That’s the thing,” said Fisher, “and why I remember the case. Dude suffered internal hemorrhaging. They found traces of glass in his stomach.”

  “Glass?”

  “Like someone had shaved a light bulb, the ME said, put it in his cornflakes or coffee, perforated his abdominal wall—fucker bled out. Nobody can prove it wasn’t an accident. As if anyone eats glass by mistake. But he wasn’t married. No girlfriend, no kids, lived alone. As a cop, you always make enemies, but with no motive or suspects, we’ll probably have to pay out on the policy. Sister is the beneficiary. Lives in Kansas. Hadn’t spoken to her brother in twenty-five years. Was shocked when we called her. Piddly policy. Fifty grand. Still, you don’t forget circumstances like that.”

  “You can’t just walk into the police department with a fake badge,” Charlie said. “Can you?”

  “In Ashton?” I said. “Pat Sumner is about a week from retirement. I don’t think that kid Ramon speaks more than ten words of English. Otis? Turley? Really?”

  We all looked at each other, thinking the same thing.

  I checked my cell. No service. “Where’s your landline, Charlie?”

  He pointed toward the kitchen. I
ran through the living room and found the cordless on the stove, and hurriedly punched in the police station’s number, which I knew by heart, having called it so many times over the years.

  It rang a long while, until Claire finally answered.

  “Oh, hi, Jay.”

  “Claire, I need to talk to Turley. Where is he?”

  “Um …” Pause. “He and Pat just walked outside with your brother.”

  “What are they doing outside?”

  She sighed heavily, like you do right before delivering unwelcomed news. “I guess they want him down in Concord. I’m sorry, Jay. That detective came back up for him. Remember him? McGreevy?”

  “Claire, you have to stop them. You hear me? Do not let him take Chris!”

  “Um, I think you need to talk to Pat or Turley.”

  “There’s no time! Please!”

  “Oh, wait. Here he is, Jay.”

  The phone was set down on the other end, and I could hear the muffled chatter of joking voices in the background. It felt like an eternity before Turley finally picked up, though it had probably been only a few seconds.

  “Oh, hey, Jay. Was about to call you. McGreevy is taking your brother down to Concord. But don’t worry. He hasn’t been charged with—”

  “Listen to me, Turley. Listen to me carefully. You have to stop them. You hear me? Do not let McGreevy leave with my brother.”

  “Calm down, Jay.”

  “Do not let them leave! Stop them!”

  “I can’t do that, Jay.”

  “He’s not a real cop.”

  “What?”

  “McGreevy is dead. That guy isn’t McGreevy!”

  “Huh? Jay, you’re not making any—”

  “I’m on the way. I’ll explain everything when I get there. Do not let them leave!”

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “I mean, they … they’re already gone.”

  “What! When?”

  “Just now. When I walked inside.”

  “When, exactly?”

  “Literally, less than a minute ago. But I’m telling you—”

  I dropped the receiver and took off out the door, Charlie running after me. I hurdled down the front steps into the freshly settled night, a light snow beginning to fall, big soft balls floating like tufts of eiderdown. I patted my pockets for my truck keys.

  “What are you gonna do?” Charlie asked.

  I climbed into my Chevy. “Find them.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No. You stay here.” I didn’t know how this was going to play out, and I didn’t want to involve Charlie any more than I already had. I jabbed the key in the ignition and fired my engine. “I’ll call you.”

  “There’s two ways out of town, Jay.”

  “They’re going to Concord.”

  “How do you know?”

  He was right. McGreevy was a Concord cop. Only this wasn’t the real McGreevy. They’d catch the Turnpike, either south to Concord or north to Canada, it was a crapshoot, and I couldn’t cover both on my own.

  “I’ll take the Turnpike north,” Charlie said. “Just in case.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Call me if you see them.”

  “Go! We’ve got to catch them before the turnoff to the Interstate. Once they hit the 93, we don’t stand a chance.”

  I peeled out of Charlie’s driveway, making for Camel’s Back and Axel Rod Road. The country skies grew darker. I hooked a hard left, tires squealing as I swerved onto Orchard Drive, back end fishtailing all over the goddamn place.

  I panned up and down the long street. If they were going south, they’d have to take Orchard. It was the most direct shot to the Turnpike. Nothing. Even if they were going north, they’d still have to access Orchard eventually. I couldn’t have missed them. There weren’t any streetlights in the cuts, but I should’ve at least been able to make out tail lights in the distance. I couldn’t see a damn thing. They wouldn’t be leisurely sightseeing through the center of town; they’d be on the move. They had to be around here somewhere. If you wanted out of Ashton, the Turnpike was your only option. Unless you took Christy Lane to Ragged Pass, and tried to go over the summit. But who would do that? After Lamentation Bridge and Echo Lake, there was nothing but dead-end cul-de-sacs and quaint neighborhoods in the foothills. And no one went farther than that. The peak itself was a deathtrap, especially in the winter. That high up, Lamentation Mountain’s dirt roads carved through crags and gullies, meandering for miles, growing narrower and narrower, more hazardous by the minute. You could disappear in its shadows forever, and no one would even know you were missing …

  I slammed on my brakes, flipped a bitch and made for Christy Lane, pushing seventy on the slick, icy street. I took the turn going so fast, my headlights barely provided any lead time to react to the hairpins and hazards. But this was my town; I could drive these roads blindfolded.

  Ice and stone kicked up, dirtying high beams, hands shaking in a fit, though whether from the cold or chest-pounding anxiety, I couldn’t be sure. I grabbed my cell to call Charlie. No bars. No surprise. I was on my own.

  The moon tucked behind dense banks of storm clouds as I down-shifted my Chevy into second and began to climb the snaking, bumpy terrain toward the watershed. Coming upon Lamentation Bridge and Echo Lake, still not seeing their vehicle, I realized the foolish mistake I’d made following my gut on a whim. I pounded my steering wheel. Of course McGreevy, or whatever his name was, would make for the Turnpike. Get the fuck out of Dodge as fast as possible. I must’ve just missed them. They probably left earlier than Turley had said, which meant it was over. Even if I turned around now and hit one hundred, they’d have already made the Turnpike. Once there, they’d blend into the chaos of traffic and truckers, hit the Interstate and be long gone. I didn’t even know what kind of vehicle they were driving. The only reason to come this way was if McGreevy’s impersonator planned on killing my brother, sawing a hole in the ice, and sending him to a cold, watery grave, which seemed too surreal to grasp.

  Besides my brother’s potential murder, losing Chris now would mean no more time to right any ships, no more opportunities to reach an understanding. All the distance between my brother and me, never broached, all that water under the bridge, swept out to sea, with no chance for reconciliation. And just as I thought this, I caught the dim red glow of tail lights ascending Ragged Pass.

  I punched the Chevy into gear, kicking cylinders into overdrive. Floored it, V-8 torqueing with a rush and a push; I took serious air over ramps of bedrock. Tires gaining traction, I gave that machine all she could handle, big block thrumming under the hood, 367 horsepower wailing. An ordinary car, in these conditions, didn’t stand a chance. My headlights soon fanned the rear window. I could see Chris cuffed in the backseat.

  The Pass had no guardrails. When people did venture up here, usually teenagers looking to party, it was during the daylight and warmer months when they could navigate slowly. We were in a high-speed car chase in the dead of night and the middle of winter.

  My big truck could easily ram the fake McGreevy’s puny car off the road, sending him careening down the mountainside. Except that my brother was in that car too.

  I saw a flash of light first and then I heard the blast of gunshot. Both hands gripped firmly on the wheel, I ducked down and swerved, grinding gravel and gears, not surrendering an inch.

  Having lived here my whole life, I knew about the turnaround coming up, less than a third of the way to the summit, a tortuous turn nicknamed Dead Man’s Curve. I had less than half a mile, but if I could wedge around them, get out in front, I could broadside the Chevy and force them to stop. It wasn’t the best plan. I didn’t have a gun, which this guy clearly did, and I’d be putting myself right in the line of fire, in more ways than one. What choice did I have? I wasn’t letting this sonofa-bitch take my brother. There was nothing stopping this guy from turning around at any minute and putting a bullet in Chris’ brain. The second I gave him any relief, he’d realize t
hat. I strapped on my seatbelt.

  Fifty yards from the turnabout, I punched it hard, tires spinning on the steep incline, until my machine dug down deep, took root in the earth, and with a thunderous surge rocketed me past, wrenching loose both side-view mirrors in a shower of sparks. I slammed on the brakes, spinning 360º on the snow and ice, squared up in time to see a pair of headlights gunning straight for me. I braced for the collision. The impact was fast, fierce, furious, whipping me around and crumpling my driver’s side door, snapping my head into the glass and leaving an instant spider web crack. But my truck was too big to get pushed around much, its sturdy steel frame and body absorbing the brunt of impact. The car that struck me—not so lucky. It sprung back into itself like a dejected Slinky, windshield exploding and splashing down diamonds, then stopped dead in its tracks. Smoke billowed from beneath its hood, and the car began slowly slipping on the ice, rotating around, gaining enough speed until the nose pointed downhill. It hopped the ledge where a guardrail should have been, balanced momentarily, like a teeter-totter on a parapet, before dropping twenty feet, headfirst into a boulder.

  I unhooked my seatbelt. My door was jammed. I slid out the passenger side, rushing, limping, to the edge of the Pass. Down below, steam continued to stream from the engine, rear-end sticking straight in the air like a diver who’d misjudged the depth and dove straight into the mud.

  I clasped onto frozen berry branches, using stumps for footholds, whatever could give me some traction to navigate the slippery, rocky, terrain.

  “Chris!” I called out.

  Nothing came back but country stillness.

  Then I heard a faint cry.

  Pressing forward, I slipped and fell on my ass, sliding a few feet and thwacking the back of my head before popping up, right beside the driver’s side door, where, for all I knew, I could be greeted by a gun in my face.

  Except, I wasn’t. And the guy in the driver’s seat wasn’t going to be sticking a gun in anyone’s face, ever again.