Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  She wouldn’t try to blackmail him with this information, of course. Maybe she’d hint at things he wouldn’t want revealed, hint at things they might pursue further once they were partnered up. She would have to play it just right. The Italians weren’t exactly in the business of partnering up with women, but she thought she could sell it. And it wouldn’t be any trouble finding him. He’d be holding court at the back table of the Prince Street Social Club. Getting to that back table might pose a challenge, however.

  She jumped back on the T at Kenmore and rode down to the Haymarket stop. She crossed at the light and walked a block up to Hanover Street. To her, it was always like stepping back in time. The walkways grew narrower, with three-story brownstones crowding in close on either side of the cobblestone streets. The cafes spilled out onto the sidewalks, where men sat at tiny tables sipping wine and speaking Italian. A few of them made catcalls as she passed, with one particularly excitable older gentleman yelling out what might have been either a marriage proposal or a death threat.

  She turned left on Prince Street and walked one block toward North Square. Paul Revere’s house was behind her as she approached two enormous gentlemen standing outside the doorway to One Prince Street.

  “Sorry,” said the slightly larger of the two. “This ain’t ladies’ night.”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Marko.”

  “That’s funny. He didn’t tell us to expect no company.”

  “He’ll want to talk to me. Tell him it’s Violet from the Charlesgate. Tell him I’ve got a business proposition. Tell him… tell him if he won’t talk to me, I’ll have no choice but to talk to you.”

  The two giants exchanged a puzzled glance, then the larger one tilted his head slightly toward the door. The other one nodded and stepped inside.

  “Nice evening, huh?” said Violet.

  “Oh yeah. Real temperate. I was thinking of going for a swim.”

  She lit a cigarette and offered him one. He declined. A moment later, the slightly smaller giant emerged from the doorway. “Boss says he’ll see her.”

  “How about that? Life hasn’t lost its power to surprise. Head on in, miss.”

  And so Violet went where few women had gone before: inside the Prince Street Social Club. It basically looked like an indoor version of the street cafes she’d passed along the way. Men crowded around small candlelit tables, drinking wine and speaking Italian. But at each table, all conversation stopped as she walked by. It took an eternity to cross the room, but finally she was standing in front of Marko’s table. He was easily the smallest man in the room: whippet-thin and no taller than fivefoot-eight, although his slick helmet of hair added at least two inches to his height. He smiled and gestured to the seat opposite him.

  “Miss Violet. An unexpected pleasure. Please sit. Can I offer you some calamari?”

  She sat. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s fried squid.”

  “Oh. I don’t think so, thanks.”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s not for everyone. I have to say I’m surprised to see you here. And I was very surprised to hear what you told my boys outside. It sounded like, I don’t know, a threat.” He smiled again.

  “No, of course not. They must have misunderstood.”

  “I figured that was the case. Let me pour you a glass of wine and you can tell me why you’re here.” He did so.

  “Well…I guess you must have heard about what happened over at the Charlesgate.”

  “I heard Jimmy took a header off the sixth-floor staircase. Tragic. And the same night Dave T turned up dead at the museum. That was a real shame. I am really going to miss that poker game.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Tell me, how is that girl I’ve been seeing over there lately? Dorothy? How is she holding up?”

  “Oh, I…think I heard she took a bus back home.”

  “Back home. Where was she from?”

  “I think somewhere in New Hampshire.”

  “New Hampshire? I would have guessed Kansas. You know, Dorothy, Kansas? No, I’m joking. I know you girls don’t use your real names.”

  “No, we don’t.” She sipped her wine.

  “So this is why you came down here? To tell me something I already know about that piece of shit Jimmy Dryden? No offense.”

  “No, none taken. But no, that’s not all I wanted to tell you. See, the cops have shut down the Charlesgate. I figure because Jimmy and Dave T were paying them off and now that’s not happening anymore.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Well, no reason to let a viable business opportunity go to waste, am I right? I thought maybe you and I could partner up to get things up and running again. Who knows, maybe we could even coax Dorothy to come back.”

  “Interesting idea. No offense, again, but I don’t see myself partnering up with a cocksucking whore. Just not the way I do business. You understand.”

  “I understand it’s unusual. But I think I can sweeten the deal for you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know that thing Dave T was up to the night he was killed? I’m guessing he didn’t clear that with you.”

  “He did not. And I would be very angry with him were it not for the fact he’s gone on to his just reward.”

  “The cops don’t know who killed him. But I do. It was Jimmy. He killed Dave T and that driver they found dead in the car. The three of them were in it together. They planned it together and then Jimmy took them out.”

  “No shit. And you know this how?”

  “Jimmy came back to the Charlesgate in a panic. He hadn’t planned to kill them but things went bad in a hurry. But he had the paintings. He wanted me to help him hide them.”

  “But then he had an unfortunate accident.”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe it wasn’t an accident like they said. Maybe an ambitious woman saw a chance to advance her station in life.”

  Marko raised his glass. “Salud.” He finished off his wine and set down the glass, grinning from ear to ear. “That is some story, Miss Violet.”

  “It’s all true. Only one person on earth knows where those paintings are now. And you can be the second. You can fence them, turn them in for a reward, whatever you want to do. I only ask two things. One, a ten percent finder’s fee. And two, a fifty/fifty partnership on reopening the Charlesgate.”

  “Very fair terms. Except let’s forget the Charlesgate. We’re done with that place. From what I hear, Boston University has the inside track on buying it and turning it into student housing. But so what? It’s only real estate and we’ve got plenty of that all over town. We can open a bigger and better whorehouse anywhere we choose. Fifty/fifty like you said. But I can’t just take your word for this. I gotta see this art for myself.”

  “I’ll tell you where it is if you tell me we have a deal.”

  Marko grinned and extended his hand. She shook it. “It’s a deal. So spill.” She told him about the stables and the rug rolled up in the second stall on the right. She didn’t mention the secret hiding place where her favorite painting was stashed.

  “Tell you what,” said Marko. “I’ll go over and check it out myself tonight. If it’s as you say, and I’m sure it will be, we’re in business. But I’m gonna have to ask you to wait here until I get back. I’ll have one of my boys keep you company. Now like I said, I’m pretty sure it’s going to check out. But it’s only fair to tell you. We got a nice, shiny new sausage grinder in the kitchen there. And if, for some reason, it doesn’t check out, I’m going to come back here and personally feed you into that sausage grinder. Feet first.”

  Marko smiled again, stood and whistled. The front door opened and the two enormous men stepped inside. “Joey, you’re gonna stay here and keep an eye on Miss Violet. Paulie, we’re gonna go see a man about a rug.”

  OCTOBER 23, 1986

  Shane Devlin was in a particularly foul mood as we got started on our second day of searching the stables. The Red
Sox had lost the fourth game of the World Series the night before, their second loss in a row at home. The series was all tied up and home field advantage now reverted to the Mets. Shane had seen it all before and he wasn’t happy.

  “Always the same with these cocksuckers. In ’46 I was listening to the series on the radio while my trial was going on. I could barely give a shit whether or not I got the death penalty because Ted Williams hurt his elbow in a fucking practice game and wasn’t worth a shit. I got my sentence on the day Pesky held the ball and Enos Slaughter scored the winning run for the Cardinals. I couldn’t tell you which hurt me worse.”

  “I’d say you need a serious dose of perspective,” I said, digging through yet another box of worthless knickknacks. “Sure, you spent forty years in the can, but we’re going on sixty-eight years without a championship here.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “You should be. That was funny.”

  What happened next wasn’t funny. Shane whacked his penlight across my nose. Blood gushed from my face and I howled like a kicked dog as I dropped to my knees, clutching my nose. “Why the fuck did you do that?” I finally managed.

  “Kid, I’m sick and tired of you running down my time in stir like it’s a fucking joke. I spent ten years in Charlestown and another thirty in Walpole. Two of the most dangerous, disgusting hellholes on this planet. I used to wake up at three in the morning with rats running across my face. In Charlestown my cell didn’t even have a window, just a cheap piece of plywood that didn’t begin to keep out the cold in the middle of fucking February. The men I lived with in Walpole were the scum of the fucking earth. They all said they were innocent, but I was the only one who really was. Oh, it wasn’t all bad. We had movie night. We could listen to the Sox on the radio, and when TV came along, we could watch the games. We had a creepy inmate selling ice cream in the prison yard. One time I got in an argument with him because I asked for a creamsicle and he insisted I’d asked for a fudgicle. I broke his fucking nose in three places. His name was Al DeSalvo. You know who that is? The fucking Boston Strangler. So if I broke the Boston Strangler’s nose, what the fuck do you think I’ll do to you?”

  I didn’t have a reply to that because I was too busy trying to stop the bleeding from my own nose.

  “Oh, no smartass remarks? Well, let me tell you one more thing. I’ve got the key to this place. I’ve got Missy upstairs practically licking my balls. So what the fuck do I need you for anyway? And don’t say I need you to move these boxes. I’m just making you do that so I don’t have to do shit. But believe you me, I could move ’em if I had to.”

  I rummaged through the box and found a fancy linen napkin. I leaned my head back and pressed it to my nose. It was more than a bit musty but I didn’t care at this point.

  “There you go, kid. Hey, I just want you to know where you stand. I’ve been a good sport. But I’m done with your comments. You smart off to me one more time, they’re gonna find pieces of you in all these boxes someday. Are we crystal clear?”

  I nodded as best I could with my head tilted back and bloody cloth jammed up my nose. For the first time he really seemed to take note of my condition.

  “All right, maybe it’s time we called it a day,” he said. “Get that fixed up and meet me here same time tomorrow.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later in room 629, Murtaugh was asking me what the fuck happened to my face.

  “I tripped running down the stairs because I was late for class.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like you. You should go to the emergency room.”

  I did. I spent almost two hours in the waiting room trying not to stare at the guy spitting blood into a Styrofoam cup before a doctor would see me. He determined that my nose wasn’t broken but that the cut would need stitches, which he administered. As I walked back to Charlesgate feeling like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, I pondered my options. It was a little before 10 p.m. I had to meet Shane at three o’clock the following afternoon. That meant I had to pull an all-nighter to accomplish what I had in mind.

  I retrieved my Buick from its prime parking spot with the broken meter and aimed it north. I caught the last two innings of Game 5 on the radio and managed to distract myself from my own problems as the Red Sox withstood a late charge by the Mets to hold on for a 4−2 win. I stopped once for gas, No-Doz and a 64-ounce Coke. At 3:30 a.m. I pulled into the driveway of my parents’ house on the coast of downeast Maine. Normal people were sound asleep. My father was loading lobster traps into his pickup truck.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Tommy. Didn’t expect to see you on a school night.”

  “I’m not staying long. I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Ayuh. Whatcha need?”

  “I need to borrow a gun.”

  MAY 7, 2014

  Coleman pocketed his phone.

  “Bad news?” Jackie asked.

  “Not sure. You got a pen and paper I can use?”

  “Uh…sure. Hang on a minute.”

  She scrounged up a pen and a yellow legal pad and handed them to him. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making a timeline.” Coleman leaned over the pad and started jotting down notes, consulting his phone several times along the way. When he was done he stared at the pad, tapping the pen against his teeth.

  “Well? Are you going to share?”

  “We might have a problem.”

  “How so?”

  “Did White call your cell at 3:55 a.m. on the 25th?”

  “I dunno. Did he? I mean, he called me a few times after our last meeting, but I always let it go to voicemail.”

  “It was a trick question.”

  “How so?”

  “At 3:55 a.m. on the 25th White had already been dead for anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours. But somebody called your number from his phone.”

  “Well, like I said, I didn’t answer any calls from his number. I programmed my phone so they’d go straight through to voicemail. And he never left a message. You can check it and I’m sure you will.”

  “I believe you but it’s out of my hands now. The FBI has taken over this investigation. But the good news is I’m gonna walk into my LT’s office tomorrow and get my job back.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because I was right about our Charlesgate murder. My new pal Hayden Childs down in Rhode Island just texted me this photo from White’s phone.”

  Coleman held up his phone. Jackie’s eyes widened as she recognized the image.

  “It was him. White broke into my condo…”

  “Looks that way. But the timestamp on the photo indicates it was taken on the night of the 24th, which is the day after we found Rachel O’Brien’s body.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Could mean he killed O’Brien and came back later. Maybe something spooked him. Remember, he had the keys and it took a few days for the building management to change all the locks. Or maybe—”

  “He was hiding out in here for two days, waiting for me to come home.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Either way, the FBI has his phone data now, which means they have that photo and your phone number. You’re gonna be hearing from them. And when they figure out the connection, they’re gonna call my boss to tell him they’re taking over the Charlesgate case and folding it into their overall White investigation. They’re gonna hope both murders tie into something bigger—serial killer, international drug trafficking, terrorism…”

  “Unsolved art museum robbery?”

  “I don’t know if they’ll make any connection with the Gardner thing. But they’ll be looking for a big win, especially in the Boston branch of the bureau. Ever since Whitey Bulger’s been back in the news, it’s dredged up all the bad publicity from the corruption that ran rampant in the Boston FBI back in Whitey’s heyday. So they’ll dig around. They’ll turn White’s apartment upside down. And they’ll be coming after you. Hard.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” />
  “I’m trying to prepare you. Because when they find out the last call made from his phone was to you, they’re going to question you. At length. They’re going to get their claws in your life and they’re going to dig deep.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “I know. But they’re not just gonna take your word for it. Look, I’ve got a friend in the Boston bureau owes me a favor. I don’t know that he’s going to be assigned to this case, of course, but I can pick his brain at least.”

  “I don’t understand any of this. If White killed Rachel O’Brien and then broke in here a day later and stole my laptop…who killed White?”

  “Who knows? He sounds like a guy who made a lot of enemies. Whoever it is, they still may still have his phone. They definitely called you from the phone after White was already dead.”

  “Called me why?”

  “A guess? They saw your number come up frequently in his call log. They figure you’re someone he knows well. They called the number with the intent of establishing that he was still alive at 3:55 a.m. and that you were the last one he talked to. They hoped White would never be identified—that’s why they burned the body—but if he was identified, the police would definitely check his phone records. They picked you as a red herring.”

  “Wow. You really do think like a cop. But I have another question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If the FBI ends up taking over the Charlesgate case, what makes you think you’ll be getting your job back?”

  “Because I get to walk into my LT’s office and say ‘I told you so.’ We could have had a nice easy win for the department if he’d left me on the case. Instead, J. Edgar takes it away and gets the credit.”

  “Does your boss usually respond well to ‘I told you so’?”