by Jon F. Merz
"Want me to wait?" I asked.
McCloskey shook his head. "Nah, I can use you as a witness for visual identification. Come on."
We wandered over to the crime scene and I saw the gurney with the covered sheet. McCloskey was already in conversation with the patrol boys who’d arrived first. I waited until he gave them the okay to clear out and file a report before we headed over to speak to the crime scene team.
McCloskey introduced me to a woman named Sandra Billings who had the unenviable job of doing the autopsy later on when she got Woolery’s body back to the lab. She shook her head and gestured toward the gurney.
"Looks like he’s been dead better than twelve hours."
McCloskey cleared his throat. "Where’d they shoot him?"
"Twice in the head."
"Any idea what kind of rounds?"
"Could have been any number of Ôem. Could have been a 9mm judging by how the back of his skull was blown off. Could have been something else."
"Delightful."
She frowned. "Easy for you to say. You don’t have to piece the tiny bits of gray matter back together later."
"You get any trace evidence on the body so far?"
"Just a bunch of crabs looking for an easy dinner."
"It was weighed down?" I asked.
Sandra nodded. "Yeah. Had a bunch of heavy gauge chain wrapped around the upper torso. He sank head-first. Cute, huh?"
"Who found it?" asked McCloskey.
"Old guy hauling up his lobster traps."
"They lobster down here?"
She smiled. "Where you been, Frank? The Harbor's been pretty clean for the past couple of years. There’s folks down here all the time setting lobster traps."
McCloskey grinned. "Would you eat seafood from the Harbor, Sandra?"
"Not me, no. But you know, give it some more time, I might."
"I’ll remember that."
She grinned. "Stop flirting with me, Frank, it’s corny."
McCloskey looked at me. "She’s all heart, huh?"
"Seems to be."
Sandra eyed me. "So, what’s your story?"
"Me?" I grinned. "I’m just here for the seafood."
She nodded. "Shoulda guessed you were one of Frank’s friends." She turned to McCloskey. "You wanna see him?"
McCloskey pointed to me. "Show him. I'm trying to cut down on how many corpses I see with only half a head."
Sandra chuckled. "Yeah, good luck with that." She looked at me. "This way."
We moved over to the navy blue vinyl body bag with the heavy gauge steel zipper. Sandra stooped and slid the zipper down. She stood back.
"That him?"
I looked. Don Woolery, or what was left of him, peered back from beyond the Rixer Styx. The Harbor crabs had eaten well today apparently.
"Yeah. It's him."
She nodded to her assistants who loaded the gurney in the back of the wagon.
McCloskey came over and took her by the arm. "Can you let me see the report before anyone else?"
"Why?"
"I got a special interest in this case."
"Yeah? Wanna tell me about it?"
"Maybe related to another one I’m working on."
"Same MO?"
"Possibly. The other one wasn’t weighed down with chains though."
"Well, that usually means they don’t want the body found."
"Yeah, I pieced that part together, Sandra."
She grinned. "Just making sure you still remember police work 101, Frank."
"You’re busting my balls, Sandra."
"You wish."
"Just give me the report, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. You’ll get it."
We watched her jump into the wagon and drive away. Around us, the cops were already taking down the yellow crime scene tape. McCloskey wandered over to the dock and looked down at the water.
"Got any theories?"
I wheeled myself over. "Twelve hours in the water would mean it probably wasn’t Vanessa Patterson who had him killed."
McCloskey nodded. "I figure it had to be Darmov."
"Doesn’t explain how he knew Woolery would sell him out."
"Yeah, but maybe this was done for another reason, you know? Maybe Woolery already had an expiration date and we just didn’t know it. After all, this guy Woolery turned over for you awfully easy, didn’t he?"
"What the hell, Frank – you saying my powers of persuasion aren’t all they’re cracked up to be?"
"I’m saying he turned over awful easy." McCloskey turned around. "Come on, Jake, I know you better than anyone right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, shit. What would make a guy like Woolery turn for the likes of you. Let’s be honest, here. You’re a guy in a wheelchair."
"I used a little force on him."
"A little, yeah, I’d expect that. But were you a little surprised about his willingness to come over?"
"You think he had another agenda?"
"Seems likely."
"What are you thinking? Maybe sell out Darmov and take over the racket himself, that kind of thing?"
"Damned foolish thing to go after, but you never know."
"Woolery never struck me as being a candidate for MENSA."
"So," said McCloskey. "Darmov had him plugged and left for dead. Weighed down out here in the harbor, it’d take a while for anyone to find him-"
"So he thought."
"Right. And by the time anyone did, the crabs would have gone to work on his face enough that he might be almost unrecognizable."
"He didn’t count on the lobster fishermen."
"Hell, he might have been surprised as I was that people even lobster down here at all."
"He might at that." I watched a sailboat go cruising by, its sails full of wind. "There’s another possibility."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe Darmov was just rolling up loose ends from Melinda Patterson’s death the other night."
McCloskey mulled that over. "He could have killed him the same time as Melinda. Hell, he could have put Woolery away long before today. Why wait until now?"
"I don’t know. Maybe Woolery had a few deals going on that needed to be finished."
"Maybe." McCloskey sighed. "Doesn’t seem to be much else here." He turned back toward the van. "Let’s get going, okay?"
"Sure."
He helped me back into the van and then hopped into the driver’s side and started the engine. As we rolled back down Northern Avenue, he turned to me and grinned.
"You know your job just got a whole lot harder, don’t you?"
I nodded. "Yeah, that’s one way to look at it."
"One way?"
"I thought the same thing too on the way down here."
"But now?"
"But now I’m thinking that if Darmov had Woolery killed, or even if he didn’t, he’s suddenly got an opening in his organization."
McCloskey stomped the brake making the Bronco behind us lean on his horn. "You aren't serious!"
I grinned.
"Are you nuts? You can’t go apply for a job with Darmov."
"Why not?"
"Why not? Jesus, Jake, the guy has people killed as often as I lose hair."
"Yeah, but he’s still a businessman. And he’s still got a business to run. Besides, I’m willing to bet he’s got to keep some higher ups happy back home or he might be on the receiving end of some bullets himself. That means he’ll be anxious to find a replacement for Woolery. Someone who can keep the pipeline of steady customers coming."
"And naturally, that’s you."
I smiled. "Hey, how can anyone not trust a guy in a wheelchair?"
Chapter Ten
I checked in with Vanessa after I got back to the office. She picked up on the third ring.
"You have news for me?"
"Yeah. Don Woolery’s dead."
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. "So fast? I’m amazed at your skill."
"Don’t
be. It wasn’t me."
"You subcontracted?"
"No. Someone beat us to the punch."
"Who?"
"Not sure yet. But it was someone who didn’t want the body found for a while." I went on explaining some of the specifics.
She sighed when I finished. "So, now there’s only Darmov left. Do you anticipate any problems with him?"
"Plenty. First and foremost is finding the guy. The Russian Mafiya isn’t known for advertising itself too openly."
"Any ideas where to start?"
I fiddled around with the letter opener on my desk. "Some. I’ve got a friend looking into a few avenues for me right now. Hopefully, I’ll hear back later on today."
"Please keep me informed, all right?"
"Sure thing." I hung up and leaned back in the chair. I hoped McCloskey had some luck shaking the necessary information out of the Feds. He seemed to think he had a few markers he could call in that would yield one or two leads I could follow up on. I’d have to wait and see.
The clock on the wall read four in the afternoon and outside on Centre Street, the weather was making everyone come outside and enjoy themselves. Crystal blue skies without a trace of clouds made me want to inhale the entire atmosphere and breathe it out again.
Then go for a run.
Time was I hated jogging or any form of running. Sure I did it. I had to. It was a requirement for special operations training. But God how I hated it.
Now, I’d relish the idea of stretching my legs and running as hard as I could, dashing over the hills and pathways of the nearby Arnold Arboretum, a giant botanical park in Jamaica Plain.
When I was a little kid, I'd go running as fast I could. I'd get to the point where it felt like I was running so fast, I'd hardly feel the ground under me. Like I was going to jump right up into the sky.
I'd give anything to feel that way again.
Just to feel the blood pumping. Just to hear my breath heaving.
Just to move without the damned chair.
I think the toughest part about my physical handicap was my lack of support. Sure, I had plenty of friends. Plenty of casual acquaintances. But never anyone close. Never that special someone I could trust and confide in. The absence of such a person made things a whole lot tougher to weather.
I lost my family a long time ago so support has always been something of a solo project for me. Close relationships have also been scarce. And it’s not because I’m something of a womanizer. I appreciate women. I like looking at them and I like having sex with them.
When I can.
I slid the top drawer of my desk open. Jim Beam winked at me.
What the hell.
I took the shot glass out and poured myself a slug, bolted it down, and then had another.
I sighed and looked out the window. I'd make a pretty decent boyfriend. Maybe even a husband. Hell, if McCloskey could do it, I could.
Right?
Disgusted at this sudden overwhelming flood of self-pity, I wheeled out of the office again and wandered over to Dr. Poon’s office. I wasn’t scheduled, but I sure needed a bit of relaxation. Plus, given what I’d be dropping myself into later on, the needles sure would help.
Dr. Poon met me at the door of his office on Centre Street, a converted two-family house that he’d transformed into one of Jamaica Plain’s best sources for holistic health. I wondered for a brief second how he knew I’d be coming.
He smiled, as if reading my mind. "Brenda called."
I smiled. Long sentences weren’t something Dr. Poon played around with. Communication with him was always simple and abrupt. But that also meant that neither of us wasted each other’s time with lengthy drawn out sentiments.
He held the door so I could wheel myself into the treatment room and then helped me up on the table. He left me there for a few minutes while he lit some fresh sandalwood incense and slipped a CD onto the stereo.
After ten minutes, I suddenly felt his presence and marveled at how quietly he could move. I said so and he chuckled.
"Tai Chi."
That made sense. The old guy would have been a martial arts junkie. As for myself, I’d had some exposure to them, but most of my training came from the old North American Indian styles of fighting my uncle had schooled me in as a boy. I added to that over the years and since my accident, I’d taken up quite an intensive study of vital points. They made a lot more sense, given my present condition, than trying to do flashy roundhouse kicks.
Dr. Poon began easing needles into my back and soon enough, I was fast asleep.
*** *** ***
There was a stack of messages a mile high on my desk when I got back to the office. Brenda had left for the evening, but her note said she wouldn’t be in the next day.
McCloskey had called six times. I dialed him back at BPD headquarters and he grabbed the phone on the second ring.
"That you?"
"Yeah."
"Got something for you."
"I’m listening."
"The Aurora nightclub. Ever hear of it?"
"No. I don’t get out dancing much."
"Down by Congress Street."
"Weren’t we just there earlier?"
"Uh huh. Cute coincidence, huh?"
"You know what a fan I am of coincidences."
"Me, too. Anyway, that’s where you’ll find Darmov."
"Guaranteed?"
"Holds court there every night according to my sources."
I sighed. "All right. Thanks."
"Want to know something about the man himself?"
"You’re gonna tell me anyway, aren’t you?"
"Not if you’re going to be snooty about it."
"Go ahead."
"He’s ex-GRU. You know what that means?"
"Maybe."
"He was Soviet military intelligence. This guy Darmov ran some nasty teams in and around Afghanistan twenty years back."
"What kind of teams?"
"Assassination squads. Apparently, he likes keeping those same nasty types around him now. Most of his goons are ex-special forces types."
"Delightful."
"You got your work cut out for you, buddy. This guy Darmov doesn’t play around one bit."
"I’d say not."
McCloskey paused. "You’re really gonna go through with this, aren’t you?"
"Of course."
"You don’t have to, you know."
"Yes, I do. I owe it to a dead girl."
"Who? Melinda Patterson? What do you owe her?"
"Frank, she died trying to stop some nasty shit. The least someone can do is make sure the people who killed her don’t get a chance to do the same thing to someone else."
"This is about her sister, isn’t it?"
"Not at all. Okay, maybe a little. Can’t help it, she’s stuck in my mind. But otherwise, I am devoted to bringing Darmov down."
"What if he brings you down first?"
"Well, I don’t have much further to be brought down what with these great legs of mine and whatnot."
"I’m not joking here, Jake."
"I know you aren’t pal. And I appreciate the concern. But this is my job and I’m taking it seriously. You know what to do in case I don’t make it back."
"Yeah. I got the paperwork."
"So, I’ll call you tomorrow morning and let you know how it goes."
"Watch your six, Thunder."
I hung up and leaned back in my chair. McCloskey had the power of attorney over my modest estate. It wasn’t much, but there was some value to it. Most of it would go to charity. Some would go to Frank and Brenda.
I tugged open the top drawer and brought the bottle of Jim Beam out, poured myself two fingers into a small shot glass and sucked it down, refilled it, and drank it down just as fast.
Fucking around with a guy like Darmov wasn’t what I really wanted to do. But then again, how often in life do we really ever get to do just what we want?
And I meant what I’d told McCloskey. Some
one had to pay for Melinda Patterson’s death. Woolery was no longer an issue. That left Darmov and his hired goons. I’d do my best to take them out and make sure no more babies went missing as a result of his greedy ways.
Or I’d die trying.
Chapter Eleven
Getting back down to Congress Street via the MBTA was as much fun as my routine colonoscopy exam. It was doable Ð hell, it was even necessary Ð but man it was not going to be enjoyable.
I hauled myself back down to Green Street station, hopped the Orange Line inbound to Downtown Crossing and then switched to a Red Line train headed toward Ashmont.
I exited the Red Line one stop further down at South Station. Crowds of people bustled around me, bumping my chair on their way to catch Amtrak trains and Commuter Rail services.
Outside, the evening sky changed from a bright blue to a dull gray. Carbon monoxide and exhaust clogged the air as cars and heavy trucks lumbered past bouncing over the pockmarks and potholes caused by construction on the Big Dig.
I wheeled myself down past the Federal Reserve building watching two of the video cameras track me the entire time. Good thing, there was no telling what kind of evil a dude like me in a wheelchair could unleash given the right moment.
I coasted the last half of the bridge spanning the Ford Point Channel, a small waterway that separated the lower half of Congress Street from the upper half.
The Aurora nightclub wasn’t so much a nightclub as it was a boat floating in the channel next to the Children’s Museum. Cyrillic writing in neon helped ensure the clientele would almost be guaranteed to be Russian.
A long gangway led from the sidewalk down to the dock. I coasted down the planking and stopped at the end of it, considering my options.
There are very few ways to make the kind of impression I needed to make while in a wheelchair. In fact, short of blowing myself up with a block of C4 upon entering, I didn’t know any. So, with my head held as high as it could be, I wheeled myself up to the door.
And promptly bumped right into the doorman.
Actually doorman wasn’t the best description for him. Door "wall" might have been better. The guy was huge the way David Hasselhoff is huge in Europe. It was like looking at six feet of horizon named Boris.