“Who was he?”
“That’s why we’re here,” said Hanson, who wore his customary attire: a navy blue suit, a white broadcloth shirt with DMH monogrammed on the cuffs, and a purple tie dappled with Holy Cross crests. “We are hoping you can tell us who he was.”
“I never saw him before,” I answered.
“Are you sure about that?” Pruitt handed me a photo of the man who shot me. “Take a good look at him.”
“I got a good look at him last night,” I said. “I didn’t know him. I’d tell you if I knew him.”
“We think he’s a Townie, Sparhawk,” Hanson said. “But we haven’t established his identity yet.”
“He didn’t have a wallet,” Pruitt added. “His fingerprints weren’t in CODIS. Did he say anything before you whacked him with that rock?”
“He said ouch.” They didn’t laugh. “He said ‘Dermot Sparhawk,’ that’s all.” I didn’t mention the brogue or slurring or whatever it was I had heard in his voice.
“So he knew you.” Pruitt surmised.
“He said my name.” I cranked the bed to upright and something occurred to me. “If you don’t know who he is, why do you think he’s a Townie?”
Captain Pruitt looked at Superintendent Hanson, who nodded.
“Ballistics,” Pruitt answered. “Last week a bank robber shot a Boston cop.”
“I heard about it, in Hyde Park.”
Pruitt continued. “The bullets we dug out of you matched a bullet we dug out of the cop. They were fired from the same weapon, the Walther PPS we recovered at the scene, your scene.”
“The guy who shot me shot the cop?” This surprised me. Usually criminals dump their guns after a job, especially if the gun was used to shoot a cop.
“No,” Pruitt said with authority, as if anticipating my conclusion. “We arrested a man for the cop shooting last week, a neighbor of yours named Jerome O’Shea. O’Shea is a longtime felon, as you must know. He’s behind bars, awaiting trial. He was in jail when you got shot.”
“Then O’Shea didn’t have the gun when you arrested him.”
“That’s right,” Pruitt said.
“Did you arrest the wrong guy for the cop shooting?” I asked. “Obviously, O’Shea couldn’t have shot me if he was in jail. What’s going on here?”
“I’ll explain it later,” Pruitt said.
“The man you killed had a $5,000 bill in his pocket,” Hanson said. “I called the Treasury Department, because I wanted to know if the bill was authentic, and they sent a man over to examine it.”
“What did he say?”
Hanson said, “He confirmed the bill was real, which I expected, because a vintage $5,000 bill had recently been stolen.”
“From the Hyde Park bank?” I asked.
Hanson and Pruitt again looked at each other. Hanson nodded and Pruitt said, “Have you ever heard of the World’s Fair of Money?”
“Nope, never heard of it.”
“Each year the American Numismatic Association sponsors the event,” Pruitt said.
Hanson added. “The Hynes hosted it this year. Two nights ago the fair was robbed. The thieves stole a $5,000 bill, the same bill we found on the man you killed.”
“In self-defense,” I said to Hanson, who has never been my biggest fan.
“They also stole four sheets of $100,000 bills. The Treasury Department lent the sheets to the ANA for the fair, and although the sheets are insured, they want them back.”
“I don’t see where I fit in.”
“Are you joking or something?” Hanson shook his head. Not a single silver hair moved out of place. “One of the robbers shot you, Sparhawk. He waited outside your food pantry, called you by name, and shot you. Can you explain any of this?”
“I told you I didn’t recognize the man.” A thought came to me, a thought I didn’t like. “You don’t think I was involved in the Hynes robbery, do you?”
“We know you’re not that stupid,” Pruitt said.
“Thanks, Captain.”
“Besides, we asked around,” said Pruitt. “You were seen at an AA meeting in Everett at the time of the heist, witnessed by twenty or thirty people. Apparently, you chaired the meeting that night.”
“So much for anonymity,” I said.
Hanson said, “The Treasury folks are investigating the Hynes heist, so don’t meddle in it. And one more thing, don’t talk about the World’s Fair of Money with anyone. We’re keeping it out of the press for now.”
III.
Two days later I was back on my feet and moving okay, albeit with a slight limp. I wouldn’t be skipping rope anytime soon, but at least I could get around without crutches, and that was a good thing. After drinking a pot of coffee at my kitchen table, I headed out the front door for work. When I rounded Tufts Street, I saw a dark gray sedan with smoked windows and a small antenna parked in front of my office. A patrol car would be less conspicuous. Captain Pruitt got out. He raised his big face to the sun and closed his eyes. I stopped when I got next to him.
“Coffee, Captain?”
Pruitt nodded his head and we went inside. I put on the coffee and motioned for him to sit. He still hadn’t said a word, so I spoke.
“I know I make great coffee, but I’m guessing you dropped by for another reason.” I mixed two cups on the sweet side, plenty of cream and plenty of sugar. They were basically hot milkshakes. “What’s up?”
“At the hospital you said you didn’t know your assailant.”
“I never saw him before that night,” I said.
“And yet he knew your name.”
“He said my name, but I didn’t know him.”
“Nobody seems to know him. We took fingerprints, DNA, dentals, and got nothing.” Pruitt adjusted his large frame and the metal folding chair squeaked. “He had no tattoos, no scars, no wallet, no keys, no cell phone. His pockets were empty.”
“Except for the $5,000 bill,” I said.
“Yeah, except for that. We checked Interpol and found zilch.”
“What’s next?”
“We’re running a composite sketch of him in tomorrow’s newspapers.” He drank some coffee, nodded, and drank some more. “We’ll show it on TV, too.”
“Not radio?” I waited for a chuckle that never came.
“The coroner reassembled his head and took a picture of it, but the picture was too gruesome for the public, nothing we could release to the press.”
“Reality TV can’t be too real,” I said.
“So our sketch artist drew a composite using the photo as a model. We’re releasing it tomorrow.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “Here it is. Show it around the neighborhood, see if anyone knows him.”
“Will do,” I said and got up, but Pruitt remained seated. “Was there something else, Captain?”
“The shooter’s blood alcohol content was point three two.” He took another swig of the sweet stuff. “The guy was legless, Sparhawk. We’re checking the bars and package stores in the area.”
“At least he wasn’t driving.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re not funny?”
“I’m serious.” I actually was serious. “You said he had no keys, so he wasn’t driving. Maybe he took a cab to Charlestown.”
“Jeez, Sparhawk, we’d have never thought of that.”
IV.
I walked home to eat lunch and noticed that Buck Louis’s door was open. Buck, a paraplegic and former Boston College teammate of mine, lives in the downstairs apartment of my two-family house. The other tenant, Harraseeket Kid, is my cousin and a full-blooded Micmac Indian. He lives in the basement by choice. Kid likes the hum of the furnace in the winter and the whoosh of the sump pump in the summer.
I knocked on Buck’s door.
“Come in,” he yelled. I entered his apartment just as Buc
k rolled into the parlor. Sweat glistened on his face, which he wiped dry with a dishtowel. “I was doing dips on the arms of my wheelchair. You can really feel it in the triceps.” He toweled the back of his neck. “Sorry I didn’t get to the hospital.”
“Your phone calls were plenty,” I said.
“Do the cops know who shot you?” he asked.
“They’re working on it.” I paused. “The shooter knew my name. He said it before he shot me.”
“He knew your name?” Buck rolled a few feet closer to me. “That means he targeted you.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“You said the police came to the hospital.”
“A superintendent and a captain,” I said.
“Why the higher-ups?”
“The shooter had a $5,000 bill on him.” I told Buck about the World’s Fair of Money heist at the Hynes. “The Treasury Department hasn’t told the press yet.”
“Probably too embarrassed,” Buck said.
“The thieves also stole $12.8 million in $100,000 bills. The $5,000 bill must’ve been a souvenir of some kind.”
“Like a kid getting a pennant at a ball game.” He dried his forearms and hands. “So after the Hynes heist, one of the robbers shot you.”
“It looks that way.” I handed Buck the composite sketch. “This is the man who shot me. Ever see him before?”
Buck studied it. “Nope, but with that mick face he must be a Townie, maybe Southie.”
“Funny you said mick, because I thought he had a brogue.” I rubbed my wounded thighs with both hands. “According to Captain Pruitt the shooter was drunk. Maybe I mistook his slurring for a brogue.”
“That’d be a first, a slurring brogue,” Buck said. “I’m no detective, but if he knew your name, he must be a Townie.”
“That makes sense,” I said, except it didn’t make sense. “If he were a Townie, I would have recognized him.”
V.
It was my day off from the food pantry, and I planned to visit every barroom, package store, veterans post, and after-hours joint in Charlestown to show them the composite sketch of the man who shot me. I started on Terminal Street near the Mystic Piers at a gin mill called Melvin’s Catch, which could have been called Melvin’s Miss. It stood on a listing wharf propped up by rotting pilings.
I opened the sodden door, but only after I put my shoulder into it. The hinges squeaked and the musty air attacked my nostrils. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness I took in the room. The place was a dump, and the barman fit the surroundings, not too clean, not too bright. I showed him the sketch.
“Do you know this guy?” I asked.
“What he do?” he murmured, barely looking at the drawing.
“He shot me,” I said.
“Never seen him before,” he said, giving me a taste of my own neighborhood norm, the Charlestown code of silence.
On it went. Each visit to each bar proved to be the same, and the sameness began to erode my defenses. The smell of stale beer and spilt whiskey went from distasteful to delightful, and I found myself wanting more. The seedier side of life looked good again, too damn good, and at that moment a chilling thought came to me. I was one drink away from a straitjacket. I called my sponsor, Mickey Pappas, and told him what was going on. The Mick didn’t like it. Drunks don’t belong in barrooms he said to me. They shouldn’t be in package stores, either.
I explained to him that I was trying to identify the man who’d shot me, and that I had to go to these places to ask questions. He said that if I went ahead with it, I should ask God for help. So I asked God for help and got the help I needed to stay sober. What I didn’t get was an ID on the composite sketch.
That night I went to an AA meeting at the Teamsters building in Sullivan Square and sat in the front row next to Mickey. A man named Skinny Atlas spoke. Skinny helped me solve a case a few years ago, though he probably didn’t realize it, and along the way I watched him get sober. After the meeting Mickey and I talked.
“Are you doing okay?” he asked. “Between the shooting and the gin joints, you must be jittery.”
“I’m doing fine,” I said.
“We got another sober day in the books.” Mick slapped my shoulder. “Go home and get some rest.”
§
At home that night I paged through the newspapers and saw the police composite sketch on the metro page of the Boston Globe, above the fold, as the ink slingers say. The caption read: ‘Do you recognize this man?’ It listed a phone number to call if you did. The caption said nothing about the Hynes robbery or the fact that the man in the sketch was dead. I wondered if it would do any good.
In the morning I went to the ten o’clock Mass, ate breakfast at the Grasshopper Cafe, bought the Sunday papers, and walked home. I read papers, filled in the crossword and Sudoku puzzles, and fell asleep on the couch. At four o’clock I woke up and called Jenny’s for a pizza delivery.
Bored and getting cranky, I phoned Captain Pruitt, got his answering service, and hung up without leaving a message. I called Harraseeket Kid. Same thing, no answer. The Red Sox were playing the Tigers in an afternoon game at Fenway Park, and I turned on the radio to catch the score. One of Detroit’s aces, they had more than one, had just finished striking out the side when my phone rang. It was Captain Pruitt. I turned off the radio and answered it.
“Thanks for calling back so quickly,” I said.
“What’s going on?” he grumbled. “Is there a problem?”
“Nothing’s going on, that’s the problem. Did anyone call about the sketch?”
“A few crackpots, nothing worth pursuing,” Pruitt said.
“I didn’t see it in the Sunday papers.” The newspapers sat next to me on the couch. “Are you running it again tomorrow?”
“No,” Pruitt said. “A second run wouldn’t do any good. The callers were a bunch of lunatics.”
We spoke a little longer and hung up.
Sitting around and doing nothing was beginning to wear on me. I needed to make something happen, anything to get things rolling, so I called the Boston Herald. I listened to a phone recording and selected option two, which forwarded me to advertising sales. To my surprise a human being answered. She said hello a second time, snapping me out of my stunned state. I told her that I wanted to place an ad in tomorrow’s paper.
“It’s too late for tomorrow,” she said. “How about Tuesday?”
I told her that Tuesday would be fine.
“Which section?” she asked, in a business-like manner.
“The back page, I want everyone to see it.” I answered.
“They’ll see it there. Let me check something first. I’m putting you on hold.” She came back about twenty seconds later. “Yes indeed, we can do that. We can run it on the bottom of the sports page, the best spot in the paper.”
We agreed on the size and I told her what I wanted it to say.
“The heading should read $2000 cash reward for information on the police composite sketch.” I thought for a second. “I want the sketch in the ad, too.”
“We can’t run the sketch again, not unless the police give us permission.”
“Damn.” I wanted the sketch in the ad. “The police gave me a full-size copy of the sketch. What if I scanned in my copy and emailed it to you? That way I’m the source of the sketch, not the police.”
“That’s an interesting angle.” She hesitated. “Sure, I think that will cover us. Do you need anything else?”
“Put my phone number in the ad, too.” I gave her the number, and we finished the transaction.
As soon as I hung up, my stomach stirred as if I had done something wrong. What was bothering me? Neither the cost of the ad nor the price of the reward would hurt me financially. I had plenty of money in the bank, thanks to a sizable finder’s fee I’d received for the recovery of stolen art. I guess I was
still not used to having money. I didn’t have to sweat the monthly nut anymore, and I felt guilty about it.
VI.
The ad ran on Tuesday morning. By Tuesday evening I had fielded more than fifty calls, all claiming to know the man in the sketch. Most of them were scammers, probably the same scammers that called Captain Pruitt. Two of the callers struck me as legitimate. The first one insisted that we meet outside of Boston. She said this in a voicemail, and I called her back as soon as I got it. It took three calls before she finally answered.
“Are you serious about the two thousand dollars?” she asked. “I can use the money.”
“I’ll have the cash with me when we meet,” I said.
“How come you care about the kid in the sketch?” she asked. “Why do you want to find him?”
“What’s your name?”
“Never mind about names.” The line went silent. I heard the striking of a match followed by an exhale. “I’m not sure I want to go through with this. It feels kind of creepy to me.”
“I just want to talk to you,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”
“We can meet in a public place.” I suggested. “Would you feel more comfortable if we met in a public place?”
“Oh, if we meet at all, we’ll meet in a public place, don’t worry about that.” She sounded more poised now. “Are you going to hurt him? I won’t get involved in something like that, because he wasn’t a bad kid.”
“All I want is information,” I told her.
“He was really drunk.” She took another drag and exhaled into the receiver. “I can tell you that much off the bat.”
“I need to learn all I can about him,” I said.
“You really have two thousand in cash?”
“All hundreds,” I said.
“All hundreds, huh?” She puffed and coughed. “I’ll meet you at Caffé Bella in Randolph, tonight at eight o’clock.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“How will I know you?” she asked.
The Revenge of Liam McGrew: A Dermot Sparhawk Mystery Page 7