Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “Brooks.”

  “Right.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence, during which Rodney struggled to hide how much he’d enjoyed the entire exchange. Finally Shane drained his beer and stood. “You got a towel, Tommy?”

  “A towel? Uh…sure. What for?”

  “Whaddaya think for? I need a shower if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh. Sure.” I went to the closet and found what appeared to be a reasonably clean towel. I tossed it to Shane, along with my bathrobe. The image of him wandering the halls of Charlesgate with only a towel wrapped around his waist was too horrifying to contemplate. He set the towel and bathrobe on his chair and began to unbuckle his pants.

  “Hey, grandpa? Maybe do that in the other room?”

  “I got nothin’ you boys haven’t seen before.”

  “I’d rather not take that chance.”

  Shane shrugged, picked up the bathrobe and towel, and went into the outer room. I stood at the door and listened until I heard the door to the hallway slam shut. I opened the door a crack to make sure he was gone, then slumped back into my chair.

  “Chief,” said Brooks. “Your grandpa’s kind of an asshole.”

  “He’s not my grandpa. He’s a psycho on parole. He spent forty years in prison for killing two men, including a cop. And if he has his way, I’ll either be dead or in jail tomorrow night.”

  Another awkward moment of silence followed. Finally Murtaugh, the only one who’d already known Shane wasn’t my grandfather, spoke up. “So what can we do to make that not happen?”

  And with that one question, I felt like a fifty-ton weight had been lifted from my chest. At the same time I felt like an idiot. I had friends. Friends who maybe could help me out of my predicament. I’d been so worried about confiding in them for fear of getting them in trouble, I’d almost forgotten they might be willing and able to keep me from getting killed.

  So I told them everything and we came up with a plan. If it worked it would keep me out of jail without killing Shane, which we all agreed was the ideal scenario. When Shane got back from the shower, wearing my bathrobe and running my towel over his head, we put it in motion.

  “Hey, Tommy,” said Rodney. “You oughtta ask your grandpa to join us.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” I said. “I think we have other plans.”

  “Join you for what?” Shane asked.

  “Game 6 tomorrow night. There’s going to be a big viewing party down in the ballroom.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Shane. “But I think we’re watching that somewhere else. Right, Tommy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, you’re not gonna want to miss this,” said Rodney. “Alpha Pi Theta, you know, the fraternity I’m in? We’re setting the whole thing up. Cash bar for those over twenty-one, or at least those with ID that says they’re over twenty-one. They’re gonna have a half-dozen TVs with the ballgame on, and some games of chance, too. Roulette wheel, blackjack, shit like that.”

  “Is that legal?” Shane asked.

  “Well, it’s all for charity. The Jimmy Fund. We planned it weeks ago and, lucky us, it happens to coincide with Game 6. It’s gonna be quite an event. Students, faculty, staff…maybe a couple hundred people altogether. We should be able to raise a shitload of money for those poor cancer kids.”

  Shane caught my eye. I raised a “whaddya think?” eyebrow.

  “That does sound like fun,” said Shane. “You think I’d be

  welcome at this shindig?”

  “Of course! Like I said, it’s for charity. The more, the merrier. We’re gonna test the fire codes in this old rat trap, that’s for sure.”

  “All right,” said Shane. “Count us in.”

  I shrugged. “Fine. Anything for a good cause.”

  And the rat trap was set.

  MAY 9, 2014

  Jackie thought about going back to the office, but she’d already requested the whole afternoon off and didn’t think she’d be able to concentrate on setting up press screenings for the new X-Men movie. So she jumped on the green line to Kenmore and walked home, where she was not terribly surprised to find Coleman waiting for her on the Charlesgate stoop.

  “Hey, Jackie.”

  “I guess ‘go fuck yourself’ was too ambiguous for you?”

  “No. I got it. I deserved it. But you deserve to know what I found out today.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Can we go inside?”

  “No, you can tell me right here.”

  “Jackie…”

  “Just tell me, detective.”

  Coleman slumped against the entryway. “Okay. Well, I think I told you about my friend in the Bureau. I called him today to see if he knew anything about their investigation into the White murder and…all the rest of this. He said you were being questioned downtown but it was only a formality. They already had everything they needed—a confession, video evidence, the whole nine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “White had an assistant. Wendy Tucker.”

  “I know.”

  “And Wendy Tucker has a boyfriend. William Ambrico. Slick Willy as he’s known on the street. A real piece of shit threetime loser. In and out of juvie, eighteen months in MCI Concord for aggravated assault, questioned and released in a bank job down on the Cape. His family tree reads like a history of organized crime in Massachusetts. His great-uncle Francis, known as Frankie Pot Roast, ran the North End Mob in the ’50s until the Feds ran him in for tax evasion and he got shivved in the shower at Walpole in ’63.”

  Jackie swallowed hard. She had no doubt that this William Ambrico was the man she’d encountered on the steps outside the Emerson alumni office, but saw no reason to share that information with Coleman. “And so what?”

  “And so one day after you met with White, White gets to talking with Wendy about you and how he’s helping you and how he thinks he’s got a shot with you.”

  “Oh, for chrissakes.”

  “You know, trying to make her jealous, like she better jump aboard the Charles White Express before it leaves the station. She’s overheard part of your conversation with White, so she asks him about it, acting like she’s all impressed with him. And now he’s telling her about your friend Tommy and his article about how these valuable paintings might be hidden in the Charlesgate, and wouldn’t it be cool to sneak in there and try to find them? And she thinks, yeah, that would be cool, but not with you, asshole. So she goes home, tells Slick Willy all about it. He’s intrigued, of course. Sets up an appointment under a fake name, Charles Finley, to tour an open unit at the Charlesgate. The plan is just to look around, get a feel for the place. But Willy, he’s got no stealth mode. He sees this big keyring the realtor has and he decides, spur of the moment, he’ll just have to kill her to get it. He chokes her out on the spot. Spends a couple hours sneaking around the building, trying the keys on any door that looks like it might have some kind of storage area behind it. I dunno, offices, conference rooms, janitorial closets, whatever. Short attention span, though, he gives up and goes home.”

  “Did he tell Wendy what he did? That he killed Rachel O’Brien?”

  “No, he claimed he picked her pocket for the keys. That’s how dumb this guy is, because the next night the murder is all over the news. Wendy sees it. And White also sees it. And knowing Slick Willy’s reputation, he puts two and two together, figures he’s been cut out of the loop. He heads over to Wendy’s place, which is also Willy’s place. He tries to blackmail them. He knows Willy killed the woman and he’ll go to the cops if they don’t cut him in. He’s saying this to a guy he knows just killed someone like he was tying his shoes. And he says they need him, because he knows you have information on your laptop that will help them find the paintings.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Like we speculated before, he must have thought you had Donnelly’s email address and if they had your laptop, they could get ahold of him by posing as you. And White knows you�
��re out of town on business. You made sure he knew that.”

  “Well, congratulations, detective. You got one thing right.”

  “Come on. Put yourself in my shoes.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll play detective. This Slick Willy kills Charlie White. Shoots him twice in the head.”

  “With a gun the Feds now have in evidence.”

  “So now they gotta get rid of the body. Slick Willy, being such an ace criminal, decides to dump him over the state line. Takes his wallet and phone, drives him to Rhode Island and dumps him.”

  “Yep. He’s got White wrapped up in a length of carpeting. Douses it with gasoline, tosses it in the dumpster behind Dunkin’s and drops in a match. But before he does all that—”

  “He goes to the Charlesgate. He’s still got the keys. They haven’t changed the locks yet. He lets himself into the building and into my apartment. Takes the laptop. Smashes my framed Annie Hall poster, either because he thinks Woody Allen is a creep or he thinks I’ve hidden the paintings behind it.”

  “Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  “Explains why you find yourself out of work. He takes a picture of the scene, using White’s phone, which he’s already taken off the body. Calls my number from this same phone, a few times, even after he’s dumped White’s body, hoping to make me look suspicious in the event the body is ever identified.”

  “You got it.”

  “Worked like a charm on you.”

  “And I’ll always regret it.”

  “So what about your friend Woodward? The art detective?”

  “He’d been calling for White at the Emerson office. Bonus for Wendy out of all this, she now has the job of the man her boyfriend murdered. On Tuesday, Woodward calls one more time before heading back to England. He gets talking to Wendy, explains he’s an art detective investigating the Gardner museum robbery and he’d been discussing a lead with White. She takes down his contact info, calls Slick Willy, tells him this guy has a lead on the paintings. Which is not exactly what he said, but whatever. Slick Willy calls Woodward, says he’s a friend of White, sets up a meet outside the Gardner after hours. At this point Woodward should have called me, but he decides to handle it on his own. Well, why should he be the first one to make a good decision in this whole mess? Anyway, Woodward shows up for the meet, Willy tells him to spill the beans or else, but Woodward’s got no beans to spill. Woodward says something about calling the police and that’s all Willy has to hear.”

  “Two shots in the head.”

  “Right, but security at the Gardner has improved since 1946, and this time the cameras catch it all. Feds identify him pretty quick because Wendy was already on their radar. Along with you, she was one of the last people called from White’s phone, and she mentioned her relationship with Ambrico when they questioned her. Feds show up at their apartment with a warrant. They find the murder weapon matching the bullets from both White and Woodward, they find White’s phone, they find your laptop, the whole shooting match. Wendy flips on Slick Willy, gives him up for the first two murders, cuts a deal that puts her in for six years. Slick Willy’s looking at a full boat with no parole once he’s convicted, which won’t be a problem.”

  “So that’s it?” said Jackie. “Case closed?”

  “That’s it. Unfortunately you won’t get your laptop back until after the trial.”

  “I’ve already replaced it anyway. I do have one more question, though.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you ever, even for a minute, think I was innocent?”

  “Of course, Jackie. I never really thought you were involved, it’s just…”

  “Yeah. The cop in you. So does this mean you’re off the hook with the BPD?”

  “Not exactly. I’ll keep my rank and pay grade but they’re gonna bury me in a deep, dark hole.”

  “Somewhere you can work on your dollhouse furniture.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you ever watch The Wire?”

  “Nah. I can’t stand cop shows.”

  “Well, you really missed out.” She smiled tightly and unlocked the front door. “You really missed out, Martin.”

  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  “No shit,” said Coleman.

  AUGUST 10, 1947

  Shane Devlin sat on his bunk in his eight-by-twelve cell on Death Row, thumbing through a dog-eared paperback copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep. He’d never been a big reader but there wasn’t much else for him to do between now and his date with Ol’ Smokey. He certainly never had any visitors, which made it that much more surprising when the screw from Chelmsford told him someone was waiting to see him.

  “Who?” Shane asked.

  “Guy named Louis Albertson. Says he’s doing some work on your appeal.”

  Shane set down his book and stood while the guard unlocked his cell and slapped the cuffs on him. To date his court-appointed lawyer had shown exactly zero interest in his appeal so it was quite a surprise to hear that someone he’d never heard of was waiting to discuss the matter.

  Shane followed the screw from Chelmsford down to the visitor’s center. A dozen or so convicts were chatting with their wives or lawyers. One man sat alone at a table near the door. He was sinewy and sunbaked, with a scraggly beard. For nearly a full second, Shane didn’t recognize his own brother.

  He took a seat at the table, his cuffed hands in his lap.

  “Hi, Shane,” said Jake.

  “Fuck are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

  “No one knows who I am but you. I’ve got a fake passport, everything.”

  “You’re still taking a hell of a chance.”

  “Had to. I did you wrong, brother.”

  “You did the smart thing. I was dumb. I went home and fell asleep. They had our fingerprints all over your car, our clothes from the South Station garbage. I had no alibi. Dave T was no fool. Until he was.”

  “Yeah. But you never should have had to take this rap alone.”

  Shane shrugged. “If it wasn’t this, it would’ve been something else. I’m no angel. Never was.”

  “But you don’t deserve to die.”

  “And I don’t want to. But there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Shane lowered his voice. “What, Jake? You gonna bust me out? Where have you been for the past year anyways?”

  “I been all around the world. Working cargo ships. My name is Louis Albertson now, officially anyway.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing. You go right on being Louis Albertson. You should have never taken the risk of coming here.”

  “I can’t live with this, Shane.”

  “Shut the fuck up. Of course you can. I’m the one who can’t live with this. The state of Massachusetts says so. That’s the difference between you and me. I know exactly when I’m gonna die, right down to the minute.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Come on. My appeal? That’s going nowhere. When did you get back to town, anyway?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “And have you been to the Charlesgate?”

  “I went by the other day. It’s a women’s dorm now.”

  “I know that. But that doesn’t mean those paintings aren’t still there.”

  “Shane, forget about those paintings. Marko probably had them in his car when his ass got blown to kingdom come. What the hell else would he have gone to the Charlesgate for?”

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “No. I don’t know that. But I’ve had plenty of time to think, all my time at sea. I’ve thought a lot about that poker game at the Charlesgate. What an impulsive decision that was to take it down. And it worked to a point. But I look at everything it set in motion. Pat dead. You on death row. And this whole thing with the paintings. We would have never been involved, it would have gone a whole different way. Maybe Dave T uses the Casey cousins instead. They get away with it, fence the pa
intings, no harm no foul. I mean, except for the art lovers. But that whole chain of events, we set it off with that poker game. And who knows? Maybe it’s just getting started. As far as anyone knows, those paintings are still out there somewhere. There’s no telling what we set in motion.”

  “Who gives a shit? I mean, by all rights you should have drowned in the Pacific Ocean three years ago. But here you are.”

  “And it ain’t right. I was ready to die for my country. I sure as hell better be ready to die for my brother.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Cutting a deal. Turn myself in for the cop killing, let ’em give me the chair on condition they commute your sentence to life with the possibility of parole. Like you said, I’ve been on borrowed time the last three years anyway. You know how I’ve been since I got back from the war. It’s like I never really came back, like I died over there and everything since is just… waiting around. For nothing. Face it, I’m dead already. No reason you should go too, for a crime neither of us committed.”

  “Come on, Jake. The dice have been rolled. You’re there and I’m here. There’s gotta be a reason. You’re off the hook. Take your good fortune and run with it. I’ve made my peace with this.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late. I already made the deal, Shane. They know who I am. I asked to see you one more time as part of it.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “It’s true. They’re gonna take me straight to your cell on death row from here. You’ll be put in gen-pop. It’s all worked out. I found a lawyer yesterday and we sorted it all out.”

  “You’ve gotta be outta your mind.”

  “Maybe. But here’s the thing, Shane. I never looked out for you the way I should have. This is my chance. So, what the fuck, maybe you could be a little gracious about it.”

  Shane ran his hand over his eyes. “Parole, huh? You think that will ever happen?”

  “I dunno. No time soon, that’s for sure. But if you ever do get out of here, I want you to make me a promise.”

  “Anything. Of course.”

  “Don’t go after those paintings. If they haven’t been found by the time you get out, don’t go after them. They’ll bring you nothing but trouble.”