Robert B. Parker's Lullaby

by Ace Atkins

  “Coltrane.”

  “Billie Holiday.”

  “Chet Baker.”

  “Liston,” Hawk said. “That big ugly bear.”

  “Not every big black man is as pretty as you.”

  “Ain’t it a shame?”

  I finished my coffee, now cold.

  “You think maybe we follow Red and Moon to their stash?” Hawk asked.

  “Then we steal their stash?”

  “Make ’em more willing to talk.”

  “It could work.”

  “You thinkin’ you made Red nervous and he might tip off who really killed Mattie’s momma?”

  “Yep.”

  “Or maybe he just call ’im on his cell and say what’s up.”

  “Sure.”

  “But you also interested in the new shake-up in Southie,” Hawk said. “You want to know about Gerry’s new operation.”

  “Never thought the Broz family celebrated Saint Patrick’s Day.”

  “But now they’re in with a mick crew.”

  “Mick is a derogatory word for my people.”

  “Okay,” Hawk said. “Makes you wonder why a Polack would throw in with all these potato-eaters.”

  “Broz is a Slavic name.”

  “Y’all look the same to me.”

  We stayed on the small house till three in the morning. At three-ish, Red and Moon walked out of the two-story and to the Range Rover. I was pleased to see Moon sported two black eyes and several bruises on his face.

  “You give him that?” Hawk asked.

  “I did.”

  “Spenser,” he said in appreciation.

  Red finished a cigarette and ground it underfoot before climbing inside. The taillights clicked on, and he backed up before going forward. Hawk cranked the Jaguar and followed them to Marine Park and then south on Farragut Road. Farragut joined up with Columbia, and we followed the crook of the harbor down to Old Colony.

  “Gerry’s place,” Hawk said.

  “Kind of late for a sports bar.”

  “After hours.”

  “Wonder if they’d still pour me a beer?”

  “How’s beer set with bad coffee?”

  “My stomach is iron,” I said.

  “How ’bout we just hang and see what happens?”

  “Instead of just busting in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gerry would appreciate that.”

  “Glad to make Gerry happy,” Hawk said.

  We parked alongside a chain-link fence by a laundry service. The air smelled of strong, hot detergent. The little side road had a nice view of the front of Playmates. The bar downstairs was closed and dark. The second floor was brightly lit with shadows of men crossing by windows.

  “Wonder what they up to?” Hawk asked.

  “Maybe it’s a book-of-the-month club.”

  “Crime and Punishment?” Hawk said.

  “Lil’ Abner,” I said.

  Red and Moon walked out of the side door thirty minutes later. Moon carried two black duffel bags. Red opened the rear hatch, and Moon tossed them both inside. Red lit a cigarette. He finished and they both climbed back in the car.

  Hawk cranked the Jaguar.

  “Hold on,” I said.

  The Range Rover made a quick U-turn on Old Colony and headed north. The taillights disappeared.

  “They got the shit with ’em,” Hawk said. “Now or never.”

  “Stick with Broz.”

  Hawk shook his head and switched off the ignition. Snow continued to fall, light and shiftless. I stretched my legs.

  We did not talk for some time.

  Hawk had no need to fill the silence. We had nothing more to discuss.

  A half hour later, Gerry Broz came out wearing a black satin baseball jacket and a matching Kangol hat. He kept his right hand in his pocket and held a lit cigarette with his left. From across the street, I could see the smoke leaking from his mouth.

  He must’ve pressed the button on his keychain. The lights of a black Lexus flicked twice. Broz stood there smoking, his head tilting to the door, waiting for a man to join him on the street.

  He locked up behind the man. And the two men stood there talking for a second.

  The other man was a good head taller that Gerry. He was much older, with a ruddy face and thick, curly blond hair. His eyes were small and closely set, his face pale and deeply weathered. He wore a long black overcoat with the collar up. He smoked a cigar, his hands covered with fingerless gloves.

  The man nodded at Gerry’s words while checking out the bottom of his shoe.

  We were parked in shadow. But the larger man turned and stared into the straight shot of alley. Hawk placed his hands on the keychain.

  “Man sees us,” Hawk said.

  “He can’t.”

  “He do.”

  “Okay.”

  Hawk started the engine and turned north on Old Colony. The Jaguar purred. Hawk started to laugh.

  “The Irish Connection,” I said.

  “Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.”

  “Maybe Gerry’s boy isn’t the boss.”

  “Nope.”

  “I thought Flynn got life.”

  “Guess they didn’t expect him to live so long,” Hawk said. “Evil don’t die.”

  I nodded.

  “And now he’s doing business with Gerry and your boys, Red and Moon,” he said. “Hmm.”

  “Would you call that a clue?”

  “Yas-suh.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You want to talk to Vinnie about this thing?” Hawk asked, steering the car with two fingers.

  “Yep.”

  “Vinnie don’t like Flynn,” Hawk said. “Hate him the way Gerry Broz hates you.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “Plain fucked up,” Hawk said.

  “That, too.”

  29

  I met Vinnie Morris early the next morning at a Starbucks across Boylston. I felt slightly guilty for not supporting my hometown Dunkin’ Donuts. But it was within a baseball toss from my office, and at last count, Dunkin’ Donuts still outnumbered the boys from Seattle in the greater Boston area. I added a lot of milk and sugar to combat the bitter taste.

  “You see the tatas on that coffee girl?” Vinnie asked.

  “I believe the proper term in barista.”

  “She got a great set of tits in any language,” he said. “So what’s up?”

  Vinnie wore a navy cashmere topcoat with a glen plaid suit underneath. His dress shirt was a blue-and-white stripe, and his tie a light purple. He carried an umbrella, and his cordovan wingtips were protected by a pair of black rubbers.

  We stood at a small counter against the window facing Boylston.

  “I saw Gerry Broz last night,” I said.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “He was conversing with Jack Flynn.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “‘Oh, shit’ pretty much says it all.”

  “Can you enlighten me?” I asked.

  Vinnie nodded.

  He took a sip of coffee. I think he needed a moment to think. He was a medium-sized guy of dark complexion, his dark hair swept back in executive style. But I didn’t know many executives who could shoot a hole through a nickel at a hundred yards.

  “I’d heard some rumors,” Vinnie said. “But I thought it was bullshit. I don’t like this picture. Not at all. You’ve just fucked up my morning, Spenser.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  The office workers walking down Boylston were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The sidewalks had been swept and salted. The banks of snow were dwindling just a bit but were still high enough to cover the parking meters. Parking meters were best covered. I had tickets going back a few decades.

  “You know about Joe Broz and Flynn?” Vinnie asked.

  “I know they used to be in cahoots.”

  “‘Cahoots’?”

  “Technical
term,” I said.

  “If cahoots means shaking down loan sharks, busting up bookies, and killing people that got in their way, then yeah, I’d say they was in cahoots.”

  “How long was he part of Joe’s crew?”

  “He was never part of Joe’s operation,” Vinnie said. “He wasn’t really part of no one’s operation. Jack Flynn did for Jack Flynn. If working with Joe meant more for Jack, then, well, good for everyone. They had kind of a, I don’t know what.”

  “Mutual admiration society?”

  “Yeah.”

  I drank some coffee. I watched a young lady stroll in front of the big plate-glass window facing my office building. She must’ve been nearly six feet tall in her high-heeled riding boots and a smart wool coat. Her hair was in a neat bun, and she wore big Holly Golightly sunglasses. She was very put together.

  “You see that?” Vinnie asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Nice.”

  “Well groomed.”

  “So, yeah. Jack and Joe were tight before my time,” Vinnie said. “Back during the gang wars, they took out a lot of people who tried to buck the system. I know personally that Jack took out two boys from his own crew to keep the peace.”

  “That was mighty big of him.”

  “Last man standing,” Vinnie said.

  Another woman passed by the window. She wore a bright red coat and walked a small rat terrier on a long leather leash. She also was wearing tall riding boots and wearing large sunglasses. I sensed a trend. Her ears were plugged with buds to an iPod.

  “What about during the Vinnie era?” I asked.

  “He did jobs for us,” Vinnie said. “But Joe never trusted him. Said that Flynn liked killing too much. Like he’d send Jack to take care of something, you know, just to scare the shit out of someone, and the fucking guy would end up dead. Kind of screwed up the extortion process.”

  “A man who loves his work.”

  “He’s a fucking sociopath.”

  “You’ve killed a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, sure. But I don’t get off on it or anything. It’s a goddamn job same as any other. Lots of guys in Southie were last seen in the company of Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.”

  “Women?”

  “I don’t think he’d kill a woman,” Vinnie said. “You don’t just whack a broad. Unless it’s business. I mean, it’s got to be a real good reason. You kill a woman and your reputation goes in the shitter.”

  I rubbed my jaw. I turned back to the barista. She was serving up a couple of scones. I contemplated returning to my office with more coffee and scones. I wondered if they were blueberry. Vinnie joined me in staring. But I don’t think he was looking at the scones.

  “Can you see what’s what?”

  “I can talk to the kid,” he said.

  “Gerry is a middle-aged man.”

  “In the head, he’s still a fuckin’ kid,” Vinnie said. “Joe wouldn’t like him bringing in Flynn for anything. The kid should know that.”

  I finished my coffee. I decided to get one to go, with scones on the side.

  I reached for my gloves and my ball cap.

  “Vinnie, you mind me asking what ever happened to your previous employer?”

  “You mean like where’d Joe go? Is he still alive? Is he still active in the life?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That.”

  Vinnie grinned and tucked his umbrella under one arm. He put his index finger to his lips and smiled.

  30

  I returned to my second-floor office, opened the blinds, and kicked my feet up on my desk. I pulled out the file on Mickey Green I’d gotten from his tireless attorney. It was thick and daunting. But I had a tall cup of coffee and blueberry scones. I would prevail.

  Today called for cold rain, not snow, and the first signs of it began to tap at my glass. Coffee and scones just tasted better on a cold day. While I ate, I made a few notes on a yellow legal pad.

  I noted Mickey Green had spent the night of the killing with Tiffany Royce. Royce was never interviewed by the cops or by Green’s attorney. Tiffany was also an addict at the time and might not have been the most reliable witness. Mattie Sullivan saw her mother that same night with Red and Moon. But that fact wasn’t in the case file, despite Mattie telling the detectives. Legally, she wasn’t reliable, either—she was ten.

  Of course, Red Cahill said he was only selling Julie drugs. Red’s word not exactly the gold standard.

  Touchie Kiley said Julie Sullivan had a new man in her life. An older guy. The jealous type who’d tried to toss Touchie onto his caboose for chatting Julie up at the pub and scared the piss out of everyone else.

  Now there was an older thug in the picture. Still, it seemed like Touchie would’ve recognized a guy as known as Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.

  Or maybe all the oil in Touchie’s hair had impaired his brain.

  I circled Flynn’s name.

  I wondered if he’d been in or out of the pokey four years ago. I wondered if he worked for Gerry Broz or if Gerry Broz worked for him. I wondered why they’d aced five guys in Dorchester last month. I wondered if I’d just walked into a new gang war that didn’t have jack to do with the death of a twenty-six-year-old mother of three four years ago.

  I picked up the phone to call a woman I knew in the Department of Correction. She was there, and we chatted for a moment. She said she’d fax me what she had.

  I thanked her and hung up.

  I ate some more scone. I read several more pages of the report, careful not to leave grease prints on the documents.

  There was the standard page after page of preliminary hearings and motions. All cases generate a lot of paperwork. And a murder case generates more than most.

  A fat third of the way into the file, I spotted a list of evidence. I tilted my chair forward.

  Prints and blood taken off Mickey Green’s car. Crime scene photographs and castings of tire tracks taken at the crime scene. Julie Sullivan’s torn and bloodied clothes. And nail clippings taken from the deceased.

  “Oh, ho,” I said.

  “Oh, ho” usually signaled a discovery. I read on.

  I read through another scone, and the rest of my coffee.

  “That son of a bitch never requested lab results on the nail clippings,” I said.

  I wished someone had been there in the office to hear my discovery. I think it would have merited applause. Even Pearl would have at least lapped at my hand. If Julie Sullivan had time to fight back, the nail clippings could produce DNA.

  I stacked the papers and tucked them back into the file. I stood and placed the file in one of my two cabinets and walked back to my window.

  This was something.

  Just as I was feeling pretty damn good about myself, a black SUV parked next to a hydrant on Berkeley.

  Two men in dark suits got out and stepped onto the curb. Both men were white and youngish, with identically cropped hair. Their ugly ties flapped in the wind and rain. The wind knocked open one of their suit jackets, and I clearly spotted a gun and holster.

  One of the men reached into the SUV for a couple of Windbreakers. As they slid into them, I noted the brand name on the jacket. FBI.

  “Yikes.”

  I left my office door open and sat down at my desk to wait.

  I heard their shoes in my hallway. I leaned back in my chair.

  The two young men stepped inside.

  “You Mr. Spenser?”

  “If not, I should fire the guy who painted the name on the door.”

  “We’d like you to come with us.”

  I stood up. I was wearing a gun. My jacket hung on the tree by the door.

  “To whom do I owe the honor?”

  “Your vehicle was impounded in Buffalo last night,” one of the men said. They were hard to tell apart, sort of like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

  “Goody,” I said. “How I love Buffalo.”

  “A couple pounds of heroin were discovered in the trunk,” Tweedledum said.

&n
bsp; “Ouch.”

  “You mind leaving the weapon?” Tweedledee said.

  “I have a permit.”

  “Not for long,” Tweedledum said. He grinned.

  “You do realize my vehicle was reported stolen several days ago?”

  The agents did not respond.

  “And you do realize I am a respected Bostonian with numerous law enforcement contacts who can vouch for my stellar reputation?”

  “Tell your attorney,” Tweedledee said. “We got you on interstate trafficking.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. I slipped into my leather jacket and followed them out.

  31

  Tom Connor had a whole different hairstyle than his brethren. He went more for the big-hair, helmet-head look. Obviously, he spent a lot of time with it, the thick salt-and-pepper swept back from his florid Irish face. He wore a double-breasted pin-striped suit that had a light sheen to it. And an honest-to-God ruby pinkie ring.

  “Pinkie ring,” I said. “Nice touch. Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

  Connor did not respond.

  He walked through the interview room on the sixth floor of Government Center. The small room had a nice view of the North End and the waterfront. If it had been a hotel, they could’ve charged a hefty price.

  As I sat, Connor made a big show of taking off his slick suit coat and hanging it on a hanger by the door. He flattened a black-and-silver tie over his protruding belly and took a seat at the table. He opened a folder, took a deep breath, and flipped through several pages.

  “You know, some people are able to read without moving their lips,” I said.

  His eyes flicked up to mine and then down at the file. “Kind of cocky for a guy whose car was loaded with all that dope and impounded.”

  “That car was stolen in the Mary Ellen McCormack Housing Projects on Tuesday,” I said. “Call the Boston police.”

  “Smart guy like you would’ve reported it stolen just in case.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “I called the cops before heading up to Buffalo to score some heroin.”

  “Your vehicle was picked up as part of an ongoing drug investigation of a Puerto Rican drug syndicate.”

  “Okay,” I said. I spread my palms wide. “You got me. I’m a member of the Tito Puente cartel.”