Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “No doubt. So we’ll take a look. Can I finish my beer first?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I finished off my first bottle and got started on the second. Shane wandered over to the jukebox, eyed the selections for a minute or two, then made his way back.

  “I don’t know any of those fuckin’ songs. There’s one by Frank Sinatra, but I don’t recognize it.”

  “They don’t have music in prison?”

  “Sure. There was a radio in the metal shop, the younger guys would play the rock and roll station, but it was all the same to me. Maybe I’d remember some of ’em if I heard ’em.”

  “The Beatles? You must know the Beatles.”

  “I know one of them got shot. We were watching Monday Night Football and Howard Cosell broke the news. Tell you the truth, though, I was never all that interested in music. Never had any records. Or whatever those new things are, the little silver coasters.”

  “Compact discs.”

  “I guess they sound better, huh?”

  “That’s what they say. Look, honestly, I’m really not all that interested in making small talk with you, considering what happened last time.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “What happened? You grabbed me by the neck and slammed me against the elevator wall. There were threats. Not really the level of trust you want in a partner.”

  He laughed. “Kid, that was nothing. You need thicker skin, you’re gonna get involved in this kind of work.”

  “What kind of work? All I wanted from you was a story for the paper.”

  “At first, sure. But you’re just like anyone else. Dangle a little money in front of your nose and everything changes.”

  “Hey, if we find these things I’ll be doing a public service to turn them in. Yeah, we might have to bend a rule or two along the way, but if it all works out, who’s gonna care?”

  “Oh yeah, you’ll be a hero. But what if we have to do more than bend a rule or two?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m just saying it’s never as easy as you think it’s gonna be. I mean, yeah, there’s a chance we just waltz in, pop the lock on these stables and find the paintings sitting there on top of a chest of drawers. I personally hope that’s exactly what happens. But I’m not counting on it.”

  I drained the rest of my second Knick. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?” I paid the bartender and we headed out the front door and up the steps to Marlborough Street. One block west and a right turn later, we were at the front entrance of Charlesgate. I signed “grandpa” in again, but this time, instead of taking the elevator up, we headed downstairs to the basement. There wasn’t much to it: the laundry room, unoccupied, on the right, a door marked maintenance only on the left, and one unmarked door at the end of the hall. It was locked, of course. And it was locked well. There were two deadbolts along with the doorknob lock. Shane tested the knob, then leaned his shoulder into the door and shoved hard once, twice, three times.

  “You sure this is it?” he asked.

  “I don’t see where else it could be.”

  “Well, I don’t think we’re gonna force our way in there. We’re gonna need the keys. So who has them?”

  “The RD. The resident director.”

  “So you’re gonna have to get the keys from him.”

  “And how am I going to do that?”

  “We just talked about this, kid. What you’re willing to do. You’re gonna have to kill this guy.”

  I just stared at him. He held my gaze for a long, terrible moment. Then he started to laugh.

  “I’m just fucking with you, kid. God, you’re way too easy. What kind of asshole kills a guy just to get his keys? Look, just figure it out. Because otherwise I’m gonna figure it out for you. And you may not approve of my figuring.”

  “Fine. Let’s get out of here before someone comes down to do their laundry and wonders why I’m showing grandpa the basement.”

  We went back upstairs and I signed Shane out. I walked him to the exit, then used the intercom phone to call up to my room. After two rings, Murtaugh answered.

  “You’re not there,” I told him.

  “Actually, I am here.”

  “Well, find somewhere else to be for the next hour, will ya?”

  “Why? Are you about to get your dinky stinky?”

  “Yeah. I’m about to get my dinky stinky. So clear out and make sure to lock the door behind you. I’ll buy you a Knick later.”

  “You talked me into it.”

  I hung up, re-entered the building, and walked down the hall to the left of the front desk. I knocked on the door of the RD’s office. No answer. I tried the door, which was unlocked, and pushed it open. Gerald Torres, the resident director, was sitting at his desk talking on the phone. He flashed me an irritated look and raised an index finger. I nodded apologetically, closed the door and took a seat outside his office. Uncle Sam glared down at me from the opposite wall, strongly suggesting I not wait for the draft.

  Five minutes passed before Torres opened his door and beckoned me in.

  “What can I do you for?”

  “I hate to ask, and I know we only get two of these a semester, but I locked myself out of my room and I really need to get in like soon. My roommates aren’t around and I have a paper due by five o’clock and my only copy…”

  “Yeah, I get it. As long as you understand you only get one more for the semester. You lock yourself out after that, you can’t come to me for help.”

  “Understood.”

  I watched as he fished a massive keyring out of his lower left desk drawer. This was it: the ring that held the key to every door in the building, including the stables. At least I hoped that was the case. He followed me up to the sixth floor and unlocked my door for me. I thanked him and he was on his way. Now I knew where he kept it—I just had to figure out how to get my hands on that keyring.

  MAY 5, 2014

  With his afternoon suddenly free, Coleman dropped by Jackie’s office to invite her to lunch. He considered calling first, but decided he’d rather catch her off-guard. Even a suspended cop is still a cop at heart.

  Hill-Robenalt occupied most of the 30th floor of the John Hancock building. The receptionist greeted him with an expectant smile. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Jackie Osborne.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I just thought I’d invite her to lunch.”

  The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Your name?”

  “Martin Coleman.”

  She exhaled with relief. “You’re the cop.”

  “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Jackie’s mentioned you once or twice. I just wanted to make sure I don’t have to call a cop.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know, the restraining order. Jackie’s stalker. Didn’t you help her out with that?”

  This was news to Coleman, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Oh. Sure. Why, you thought I might be her stalker?”

  “Well, I never actually saw him. I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s just office gossip.”

  “No worries. Could you let Jackie know I’m here?”

  “Oh, duh. Sorry about that.” She pushed an extension on her desk phone.

  “This is Jackie.”

  “Jackie, Martin Coleman is here to see you.”

  There was a pause. Not an obvious one, but again, Coleman was a cop to the bone. He knew hesitation when he didn’t hear it. “Oh, of course. Send him back.”

  The receptionist killed the call and flashed Coleman another smile. “Third door on the left, past the kitchen area.”

  “Thanks…”

  “Kat.”

  “Thanks, Kat.” Coleman nodded and set off in the direction indicated. When he reached the third door, he knocked.

  “Come in!”

  He did. Jackie sat at her desk, framed by an expensive view of the Back Bay. Coleman whis
tled.

  “Nice digs,” he said. “I can see your house from here, as Jesus once said.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming. Did something happen?”

  “Sort of. But really, I just came by to ask you to lunch.”

  “Oh, I wish you’d called. I’m having lunch with a client today. A rep from Fox in L.A. We’re setting up this insane junket for the new Planet of the Apes.”

  “What’s a junket?”

  “It’s where we treat the entertainment press to a lavish trip, put them in a room for some happy talk with the talent, show them the movie and hope we’ve treated them well enough to get some positive press. We’re handling the whole East Coast for this one, which is kind of a coup.”

  “Best Apes movie was Conquest, 1972. Black Power allegory. Caesar’s speech at the end—‘and that day is upon you now!’— gives me chills every time.”

  “I’ve never seen any of them. Maybe we should switch jobs.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t go so well for you since I don’t have one at the moment.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m suspended for a week. And I’m off the Charlesgate case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Man doesn’t approve of my love life.”

  “Wait—this is because of me?”

  “Because of us. But you didn’t do anything wrong. I did. And my partner ratted me out.”

  “That sucks!”

  “Yeah, but on the bright side, I don’t have to park ten blocks away and shinny up your fire escape every time I want to see you.”

  “Well, that’s good. But still.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, you’re right. I should have called first. I guess I’ll catch up with you later?”

  “For sure.”

  Coleman nodded and made for the door, then stopped and turned back. “I had a funny little exchange with your receptionist Kat.”

  “I’m sure you did. She’s a character.”

  “I bet. But it took me by surprise. She seemed to think I had helped you arrange a restraining order.”

  Jackie rubbed her forehead. “Ugh. She’s such a blabbermouth.”

  “So am I correct in guessing this restraining order was against Charles White? And you didn’t tell me because…?”

  “I didn’t actually go through with it. I thought about it. I told you he was a little…”

  “Handsy, you said. Stalker, Kat said.”

  “Kat exaggerates.”

  “Well, if he wasn’t a stalker, why did you contemplate this restraining order?”

  “Honestly, I was sort of joking about that. Kat took it too seriously. I wasn’t really worried about this guy. He’s a little twerp.”

  “He’s a dead little twerp.”

  “What?”

  “The Rhode Island State Police found his body right off the interstate a couple days after the Charlesgate murder. Took ’em this long to ID him. He was burned beyond recognition, two bullets in the back of his head.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Serious as two bullets in the head, and it’s a good thing you never filed that restraining order. Otherwise I might have to bring you downtown for questioning. If I weren’t suspended, I mean.”

  “What are you saying? You think I killed this guy?”

  “Of course not. But it would sure as shit look like motive if you’d made this stalking thing official with the authorities.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “According to the Rhode Island staties, White has a history of this sort of thing. A student filed a restraining order against him when he was working at RISD in Providence. He was tried for rape.”

  “This is crazy. Look, there’s no way I—what? Followed this guy to Rhode Island and shot him in the head? Then set him on fire? I mean, when did this happen? I’m sure I have an alibi, I mean…”

  “Relax. Obviously I don’t think you had anything to do with this, but it definitely complicates things. Our whole theory about why he might be our Charlesgate killer? Well, what if it had nothing to do with the Gardner paintings at all? What if he wanted the keys to your condo so he could be waiting there when you got home?”

  She held a vacant expression for a long moment and then, all of a sudden, broke down sobbing. Coleman came around to her side of the desk and put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched away from him.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to upset you. But if you genuinely felt like you were in danger from this guy—”

  “I told you, I didn’t! He was a little creep. I was venting at drinks with the girls, and Kat, that fucking blabbermouth—”

  “Don’t be mad at her. I’m sure she’s just concerned. Look, you obviously have nothing to worry about from this guy anymore. That’s the good news.”

  She pulled a Kleenex from a box on her desk and dabbed at her cheeks. “Good news. Right. How do I know these Rhode Island cops aren’t gonna come sniffing around?”

  “Because we’re in Massachusetts.”

  “So what, they coordinate with someone in your office? They call in the FBI?”

  “Just settle down. For all we know, they’ll have this thing solved by happy hour. It may be completely random, some kind of highway psycho.”

  Jackie’s phone buzzed and she hit the intercom button. “Yes?”

  “Your lunch appointment is here.”

  “Thanks, Kat.” It would take a truly oblivious individual to miss the sarcasm, but from what Coleman had learned, Kat might just be that individual.

  “You bet!”

  Coleman kissed Jackie on the head. “Sorry about all this. Are you gonna be okay for this meeting?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Work Jackie doesn’t give a shit about Off-Duty Jackie’s problems.”

  “That’s a good way to be. Wish I could manage that myself.”

  She stood, straightened her skirt, and kissed him on the cheek. “See you later?”

  “Hells yeah. I got nothing but time.”

  He watched her walk away.

  JUNE 16, 1946

  Jake paced outside the entrance to the Rusty Anchor in the early morning light. He’d know the right moment when it arrived.

  Three hours earlier he’d been in Violet’s room at the Charlesgate. His shoulder still hurt like a sonofabitch, but the bullet was out and the wound was clean and bandaged. He’d survive. Well, he’d survive the gunshot injury. Whether he’d survive the night was still in doubt.

  “This is unbelievable,” Violet said, when he’d finished regaling her.

  “None of it was planned. Obviously.”

  “So what am I supposed to do with this junk?” She waved an arm toward the paintings on the floor.

  “Hide them. You know this building better than I do. There’s gotta be somewhere you can keep them safe. Temporary like.”

  She was about to make a smart remark when a pounding came at the door. “Violet! Open the fucking door!”

  “Shit,” she whispered. And then louder, “I’m with a customer!”

  “The fuck you are. No customer I know about. If someone’s in there with you, he’s a dead man.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy! Give me a minute.”

  “I’ve got a key, you fuckin’ lowlife bitch. You forget about that?”

  Jake heard the key in the door. The knob began to turn. He scrambled to his feet and took a position to the right of the door just as it began to swing open. He head-butted Dryden as he entered and knocked him back into the hall.

  “What the fuck?” Dryden struggled. He kneed Jake in the balls. Jake rolled onto his back, moaning. Dryden stood and kicked him in the head. “What the fuck is your problem?” He kicked again. Jake grabbed Dryden’s foot, yanking him offbalance. He collapsed and Jake rolled on top of him. He hauled back and drove his good arm into Dryden’s throat.

  “My problem? I got no problem. Can’t say the same for you.”

  Dryden clawed at his own throat. Jake stood. Behind him w
as Violet’s open door. In front of him, a closed door leading who knew where. Dryden got to his hands and knees and drove his shoulder into the back of Jake’s legs. Jake fell against the door in front of him, which crashed open to reveal the back staircase. He caught his balance on the bannister and looked straight down, six stories to the floor below.

  Jake felt the bannister crack as Dryden’s full weight hit him, but it didn’t break. Dryden’s hands went for Jake’s throat. Jake’s knee found Dryden’s midsection. What breath Dryden had managed to catch left his lungs all at once. Jake shifted his weight, let Dryden’s momentum carry him over the bannister, and watched him plummet six stories to his death.

  Jake didn’t stick around to perform the last rites. He backpedaled across the hall and pushed a stunned Violet, who was standing in her doorway, back into her room. He quickly closed the door and pressed his ear to it. A few seconds passed. He heard a woman scream.

  “Shit.” He turned to Violet, who was sitting on the bed, staring ahead in a near-catatonic state. Jake slapped her hard and she jolted to life, swinging her fist at his head. He grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm.

  “Oww!”

  “Okay, so you’re awake. Good. Because one of your coworkers is out there, or more likely, on the phone to the cops right now.”

  “Jesus. You killed Jimmy.”

  “It was self-defense. And he was a fucking degenerate pimp.”

  “He was my boss.”

  “Well, now you’re in business for yourself. How do I get out of here?”

  “I don’t know! Take the fire escape down to the courtyard. You can get on the second-floor roof overlooking the alley from there.”

  “And then what?”

  “I guess you’ll have to jump. What do you want me to say?”

  “Fine. Just—look. Stash these paintings in your closet. Once the cops have come and gone, find a safer place for them until I can get back here. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Sure you will. You already owe me three hundred bucks.”

  “I’ll double it. Hell, I’ll ten-times it. Three grand when I get back. But I gotta go.” He grabbed the oversized suit jacket Violet’s client had left behind, shoved open the window over the radiator, and slipped out onto the fire escape. He didn’t look back at Violet. If the rest of his night went badly, or maybe even if it didn’t, he figured he’d never see her again.