by Bill Eidson
CHAPTER 14
THE TRIP TO LORTON STATE PRISON TO SEE JOHANSEN WAS A BUST.
Worst than a bust.
While Parker watched through one-way glass, Ben and Sarah sat down across the table from Johansen. His hands were manacled to a belt around his stomach. Johansen’s face looked puffier than before, but there was a malicious excitement in his eyes. On an impulse, Ben asked him flat out if he had arranged for the bomb.
Johansen shook his head dismissively. “I expect someone took a swat at you for what you’ve done to me, and to the country. But I wouldn’t waste my resources to deal with people on your level.”
“Then why did you agree to see us?” Ben said.
“For entirely personal reasons,” Johansen said.
And then he spit in Ben’s face.
He moved so fast that Ben had barely reacted before Johansen’s face was in his own.
The door behind Ben opened immediately, and the guard came in and grasped Ben by the arm. Parker came in moments later. Together, they pulled Ben and Sarah out of the room as Johansen said quietly, “Think twice before you open a package. Sweat it out before turning the key in your car. The free people of America will decide whether or not you live or die. The free people of America will no longer tolerate the collusion of the media and government—’’
“Ah, shut up,” Parker said, and slammed the door shut. He looked at Ben with bemused sympathy. “Tell me—what are you feeling right now?”
Within fifteen minutes, they were in Parker’s car on the way back to the airport.
“OK, what have we got?” Parker said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Johansen was actually telling the truth on this. We’ve been responding to all sorts of shit. Guy out in Seattle killed a state cop who stopped him for speeding. Said it was his revenge for Johansen. Federal buildings are all back on full alert for bombs. Couple of white supremacist enlisted men in Norfolk kidnapped, raped, and murdered a young black woman supposedly as a ‘political statement.’ Admitted the rape part was a little something for themselves. And burning black churches is back in fashion, only with a new twist. You know about that church down in Alabama last month? Preacher opened his bible that somebody had hooked up to a motion detector detonator. Pulpit had enough plastique to take out him and eight people in the front pew.”
Parker looked in the rearview mirror, back at Ben sitting there with his gear. “Got to say that your friend Gallagher is the first one in the media to take it, though, if that’s what it was. Most of these nuts seem to like the attention of the press just fine.”
“What do you know about Jimbo McGuire?”
Parker shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’d look at him hard.”
“Have you?”
“Not directly, not on this. I understand the Bureau’s Organized Crime unit in Boston has been looking at him for some time. I know an Agent Ludlow has a file on him but there’s nothing conclusive. Again, as far as the death of Peter Gallagher, it’s Boston Police’s show.’’
When they reached the airport, Parker walked around to open Sarah’s door. He shook Ben’s hand. “I’ll keep in touch. Anything that I think you can use, I’ll call.”
Parker touched Ben on the shoulder. “Watch yourself.”
Ben took another few minutes in the men’s room to wash his face again before they boarded the plane. He could still feel the spittle on his cheek even though he had scrubbed the skin raw.
When he came out, Sarah was sitting at the gate. Her face was pale.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
She simply nodded. She was silent the whole time they were boarding the plane. A single, angry tear slipped down her face as the plane took off, and she looked out her window in the direction of the prison. It was too far away to see, but still she looked. “The bastard,” she said. “The bastard still doesn’t even know who I am.”
That night, as Ben walked down the hallway to his studio, he was thinking of his kids, thinking about tucking them in when they were younger. Thinking how often he’d missed it because he wasn’t home or he had begged off to Andi, “I’ve got processing to do.”
Thinking about Sarah, too, on her way home to her little girl.
He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. He smelled gasoline.
It was faint, but it was there. Ben instinctively began to back away, but the man inside made his move before Ben realized he was there.
He grabbed Ben by the upper arm and spun him around. The door slammed behind him, throwing the room into darkness. Ben cried out as the man sunk two hard punches into Ben’s stomach.
The man worked in terrifying silence.
Ben tried to cover his stomach. There was a whistling sound and a crashing blow alongside his head. Ben staggered, and then fell to his knees. The whistling sound came again. Ben ducked and the blow glanced off his head and landed on his shoulder. He fell onto the floor, his right arm numb.
“That’ll do you,” the man said. Ben could hear him breathing hard now.
The man felt down and rapped Ben hard on the head with his knuckles.
Ben lay still, certain that reacting would only put the guy back to work.
After a moment, the guy shuffled away.
There was a faint glow of light, and Ben opened his eyes to see the man standing by the file cabinets. He had a small flashlight in his hand, and the beam hit his face for moment. Ben captured the image in his head with the clarity of a photograph. It was the security guy from McGuire’s office. The one who had come after Peter.
The man slid open one of Ben’s file cabinet drawers of negatives. He swore, and opened several more. “Jesus Christ, how many you got here?”
The man quickly opened all of the drawers on Ben’s six cabinets before bending down to lift up a big metal can, which he rested on top of the cabinet. He unscrewed the cap.
The smell of raw gasoline filled the room, and that galvanized Ben.
He’s going to burn them, Ben thought.
His life’s work.
Ben squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of the layout of his loft.
Ben saw the place in his head, the door leading to the kitchen area.
Knives. They were all in drawers, he would never get to them fast enough.
What else?
And then, probably because fire was imminent, he saw it in his head and even saw it when he opened his eyes. The fire extinguisher. In the bracket outside of the kitchen area. At his angle on the floor, he could see it outlined against the light from the window. When he was on his feet, it would be in shadow. He’d have to get his bearings on the countertop, and then reach straight down.
The flashlight beam turned his way for a moment, and Ben kept himself still as the light washed over him. Then the man turned it back to the files.
Ben came up from the floor.
The room spun as Ben charged forward. The man grunted in surprise. Ben bumped his hip into the counter, then caught hold of the extinguisher and tugged it away. The man dropped the flashlight, the beam playing over his face as it fell. He was pulling a blackjack out of his pocket as Ben crashed into him.
Ben was too unsteady to make it a solid hit, but it was enough to spin the man around. Ben fell to his knees but then came, up and swung the heavy extinguisher around, hitting the guy with a hollow clunking sound on the elbow.
The man cried out, and that was damn good to hear.
Ben swung the extinguisher and connected again, but the man remained on his feet. Ben hit him again, a blow to the head that made the guy stagger back against the file cabinet.
The man saw the gas can beside him and flung it, covering Ben with a sheet of gasoline.
“You’re gonna burn, you nosy bastard,” the guy said, sweeping a manila folder into a puddle of gas and coming up with a lighter.
Ben slipped and fell, and with the drugged slowness of nightmares, he saw the man step up to the edge of the glimmering pool of liquid.
Ben pulled the pin on the
extinguisher and squeezed the handle.
The blast caught the guy full in the face.
He staggered back and Ben came after him.
Ben shoved his elbow in his face, and landed two punches in the guy’s stomach. It was like punching a bag of wet cement. The guy spun the wheel on the lighter. Sparks flew but the gasoline didn’t ignite.
Ben jumped back, terrified of those sparks. And then he did what came naturally when the guy again started to put the lighter to the gasoline-soaked folder—Ben kicked him in the balls.
The guy made some noise then.
He also bent double to protect himself.
Ben took him in a headlock and rolled him over his hip into the puddle of gasoline. “You’ll burn too.”
As suddenly as the attack started, it was over. The guy got to his feet and bulled past Ben.
It took Ben a split second to get it. He stood, slipping and sliding in the acrid gasoline, waiting for the next attack, when the light from the hallway spilled into the room as the man opened the door and ran.
Brace and Calabro arrived immediately after the fire department.
“This is an improvement,” Brace said. “You don’t even need a trip to the hospital. Next time, how about you just wrap things up for us?”
Ben looked up from his file cabinets. After putting on dry clothes, he had checked through the files repeatedly, and had finally assured himself that none of the negatives were ruined. The firemen had spread foam in the room and all the windows were open. Ben said, “Keep talking, I’ll let you know when you get funny.”
Brace smiled. “It’s just when I hear about the exciting boy photographer investigations with Johansen in D.C. and surveillance on McGuire that I get jealous we don’t have your skills at work for us on the Boston Police.”
“Makes him testy as hell,” Calabro said. “Jealous that he’s stuck with a fat-assed old cop like me as a partner.” Calabro breathed deep, taking in the gasoline fumes. “Jesus, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
“So who did it?” Brace asked, opening his notebook. “Guy with eyes as sharp as yours must have a pretty good description for us. Didn’t manage to snap off a shot, did you?”
“Afraid not.” Ben waved them out the balcony. “Let’s get some air.” As they walked out, Ben thought fast, thinking about what Deegan had—possibly—hinted about Brace and Calabro.
Ben said, “Sarah Taylor tells me that you haven’t been out to see McGuire yet. How come?”
“Was that who you saw?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“That’s because you’re confused,” Calabro said. “You media types get to ask us cops questions, but we don’t have to answer. On the other hand, when we cop types ask you questions, you do have to answer.”
“Not unless you’re arresting me for spilling gasoline in my own home,” Ben said. “Now how about it?”
Brace shrugged. “We told Ms. Taylor the truth. Sure, McGuire is a suspect, he and your Mr. Johansen are at the top of our list. But we had nothing on him, and why get his guard up any more than it’ll already be? If you’ve got something for us on him, I’ll roust him out of bed tonight.”
Ben told them about the fight, gave him what description he could of his assailant.
“This him? Rod Dawson?” Brace said. He pulled out a copy of the photo that Peter had taken, and then, a mug shot with head-on and profile shots. Ben studied them, carefully.
“That’s him. The guy was bald. And the size is right, six-one, two hundred pounds. Hard as a rock, when I hit him.”
“Could you pick him out of a lineup?”
Ben closed his eyes. Saw the brief flash of light playing on his face: the blue of his eyes, the wide nose, the coarse skin, the harsh slash of his mouth. “I can pick him out. Besides, right about now he’s probably taking care of a cut on the back of his head. I hit him with the fire extinguisher.”
“Good move.” Calabro looked at Brace. “He’ll be scrubbing that gas and the foam off himself somewhere right now.”
“Might as well start with his home address,” Brace said. “Sometimes we get lucky.” He took out a cell phone and began making calls for backup for an address in South Boston.
“Take me along.” Ben stepped into his apartment to grab his camera bag.
Calabro looked at Brace.
“All right,” Brace said, grudgingly. “Got some more questions for you on the way, anyhow.”
“So what was he after?” Brace said. “What have you got that he wants?” The cop spoke easily even though he was making the big Ford fly down the Southeast Expressway, heading down toward South Boston.
“The obvious, I’d guess. A photo. Negatives.”
“Of what? What have you got?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I’ve been shooting, but I can’t think of a goddamn thing that I’ve captured that’s worth this.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t recognize it. Maybe it’s of him talking to somebody he shouldn’t be talking to,” Calabro said. “A competitive family, maybe. Making alliances that’ll get him burned, maybe going around Uncle Clooney.”
“The sort of thing we officers of the law might recognize that a paparazzi might miss,” Brace said.
“I’ll share,” Ben said. “I’ll talk to my editor, I expect he’ll go along. But that’s the thing. All that film I shot of McGuire was processed and printed at the Insider. This stuff at home is my personal freelance.”
“Oof,” Calabro said. “Imagine that?” he said to Brace, with a grin. “These goons burn down his studio, all his work, probably take out the building and they don’t even get the shots they want.”
“Him, too,” Brace said, jerking his head at Ben. “They were going to burn him to a crisp, too. Always said these guys were mean. Never said they were smart.”
The radio crackled just before they reached Dawson’s apartment building.
Ben could barely decipher the fast squawk of words coming from the speaker, but Calabro and Brace looked at each other, and listened carefully.
“Shit,” Brace said, as they turned the corner.
A police cruiser was parked in front of the building, and two cops were leaning against the porch rail, coughing. A small crowd of people stood around them, many of them dressed in pajamas. Flames poured out of a third-story window. Brace floored the car and brought it up behind the crowd and then jumped out. He and Calabro pushed their way through to the two uniformed cops with Ben right behind. Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Everybody out?” Brace asked.
“Think so,” one of the cops said, the younger one. His face was smoke streaked, but he was regaining his breath faster than the older cop who was wracked with coughs. “We hit all the doors. Heard somebody running down the back stairwell, but didn’t see him. We couldn’t go for him though, we had to get everyone out.”
“What about Dawson?” Calabro asked.
The young cop looked at his partner. “I don’t know what Dawson looks like, but Lenny does. Was that Dawson, Lenny? The one up in his apartment? He was still alive when we saw him. He can’t be now.”
The older cop nodded. He wiped his mouth and broke into a fresh spasm of coughing. Then he jerked his head at the flames that were now roaring out the third-floor window and rushing up the side of the building. He said in a rasping voice, “Yeah, that was him. Couldn’t be a nicer end to an asshole like that. Somebody lit him up like a goddamn torch.”
CHAPTER 15
JIMBO MCGUIRE TURNED THE SHOWER ON HOT, AND SOAPED UP. HE felt the tension drain from his shoulders, and went through his mental checklist.
Suzanne was drowsing in his bed, and she knew her job.
His lawyer was on alert, a call from a phone booth. The gun tossed off the General Edwards Bridge in Lynn. Unregistered, anyhow.
McGuire’s clothes were wrapped around a brick in the bottom of the Charles River. The spare set of clothes in the trunk paid off. He knew he would need to talk to Un
cle Patrick, but tomorrow would be soon enough.
McGuire was pleased with himself, pleased that the old moves were still alive and well. Pleased that his time and growth at Stanford hadn’t dulled his ability to think fast, to get his hands dirty.
Replacing Dawson would be an annoyance, true. The guy had been pretty good at his work, even if he did have the attitude that he was just on loan from Uncle Pat. Like he was indulging little Jimbo. Tonight he looked like a goddamn clown, standing there, soaked in gasoline, face still white with the extinguisher foam. “He saw me,” Dawson said. “I’ve gotta get out of town. Gimme some cash, willya?”
“Why didn’t you shoot him?”
Dawson had gestured to himself. “Look at me! He soaked me with this shit. I couldn’t take a chance on the flash.”
“You should’ve,” McGuire had said, tossing a match. “Odds would’ve been better.”
Dawson had screamed like a girl. McGuire had put two rounds into him just to shut him up.
That goddamn photographer. Who could’ve figured?
McGuire stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He admired himself in the full mirror: deep chest, the proverbial washboard stomach, well-defined arms. He had swum competitively as a kid and still kept up with it, doing two miles at the pool every other day. He did weights at least three times a week. Curly black hair, blue eyes. Winning smile.
Let the fags at the holding cell give him a try, he’d snap bones and dislocate a shoulder or two before they even got close. Assuming they even tried once he passed the word he was Patrick Clooney’s nephew.
Most everybody knew to back off at that name, but there was always some amateur who didn’t get the news. That was fine with McGuire. He didn’t mind an opportunity to show off his years of martial arts training. To show that he wasn’t just some punk living off Uncle Patrick’s name.
He dried his hair quickly, and then padded into the bedroom and laid out jeans, his favorite oxford shirt, and Nikes. Might as well be comfortable.