They boarded, and Cal turned on some lights, then took off his suit coat and tossed it onto the corner of a bench couch. He jerked his hand toward the opposite bench, and Peeper sat meekly.
Cal went to the bar and poured himself a large tumbler of Bruichladdich forty-year-old whiskey. As he finished his first gulp, Cal heard a small voice from the bench ask, “Aintcha gonna offer me one?”
Cal looked in disbelief at the CI, sighed and said, “Oh hell, why not?” He poured more into his own glass, then took out a second glass and poured a small amount into it. “If your information is solid, not only will I let you live, I might give you seconds.” He walked to Peeper, handed him the glass, and then stood over him. “Now talk.”
Peeper closed his watery brown eyes, took a long sip of the whiskey, and then exhaled loudly. “Ahh, man, you sure got great tastes in drinks.”
Cal sat across from Peeper, took out his gun, and set it on the shelf. “Let’s hear it.”
“Alright, alright,” said Peeper in his best offended tone. “Ya asked me to keep my ears open for anything concerning that nutjob group, the disciples of whatsit, right?”
“The Disciples of Endor, that’s correct.” Cal took a fortifying sip and steeled himself to let Peeper relate his information in his own, inimitable style. Man’s got a real talent for bullshit.
“Alright, so see, I was hanging out at King Arthur’s the other night, okay?” King Arthur’s was a seedy strip club in Chelsea. Cal wouldn’t have been caught dead in King Arthur’s, but it was a great source of information for Peeper. “Dixie had just gone on, and I mean, she’s okay, not nearly as doggie as some of the gals they got there if ya know what I mean.” Cal made a circular motion with his finger, indicating that Peeper should speed it up.
“Yeah, yeah. So anyways, Dixie is in the middle of her bump-and-grind, and I look at this guy sittin’ next to me, nursing a beer. So I says to him, I says, ‘She ain’t bad, but there’s a couple a broads later on who are a lot better.’ So this guy, he’s like forty or so, right, built like a fireplug, face like ten miles of bad road and he looks at me kinda bleary eyed, man, like’s he’s had a few too many, ya know? So we gets to talking about the dames who dance there and after a while, we start trading 411s. Turns out, he’s some low-level grunt in the Mazzimah.”
When Cal sat up straighter, Peeper nodded, and then took another sip. “I thought that might get yer attention, Mister High-and-Mighty Detective. Yeah, I thought so. Anyways, this guy is really drunk, so he doesn’t bitch when I offer to buy him some whiskey. We gets to talking more, and after looking around like he didn’t want anyone else to hear, like anyone could hear anything over the crappy sound system they use there, he says, ‘So what’s the craziest thing you ever seen?’
“So I tell him some BS story about one of the dead hookers I seen, and he just about jumps out of his skin. So I says, ‘What’s wrong, buddy?’ and he looks around again, taps the bar for another refill, on my tab. I’m thinkin’, man this better be worth it, then he starts spilling his guts. Turns out, not only is he Mazzimah, he’s like a lieutenant or sergeant or something, you dig it?”
Cal restrained himself from reaching out and choking Peeper. One thing he learned over the years was that Peeper had an overinflated sense of self-importance, but the little shithead had a nose for getting information that matched his oversized physical nose. Cal polished off his whiskey and said, “Look, Peep, it’s been a long, rotten day. I’m interested in your info, but I’m dead tired, so give me the bottom line, and I’ll pour you another.”
Peeper’s eyes narrowed at Cal, but he pounded back the rest of his drink and handed Cal the empty glass. “Make it a double?”
Cal sighed. “Sure—tell you what, if you can give me something truly amazing before I’m done pouring, I’ll make it a triple.” He picked up the Bruichladdich and started pouring slowly.
Peeper almost jumped out of his seat and rushed his words together in a panic. “Okay, okay—this dude tells me he’s been to the secret headquarters of the head honcho, a Batcave kinda place up inna North End, and he watched the witchy woman in charge suck the life right outta this gal he helped kidnap.” The words poured out of Peeper. Then he watched anxiously as Cal stopped pouring.
Keeping his excitement under control, Cal nodded casually. “Okay, you get a triple.” He finished pouring the drink, then stepped back to the bench and held the drink out, but snatched it away as Peeper tried to grab it from him. “Uh, uh, uh—there’d better be more my friend. What else?” Cal dangled the glass side to side just out of Peeper’s reach.
Peeper sat back on the bench and wiped his mouth with the back of a dirty hand. Cal knew he would have to send that cushion to be cleaned tomorrow. “Yeah, alright, yeah, yeah, you’re right, there’s more—the guy tells me where to find this secret hideout.”
Cal holds his breath for a second, then nods and hands the glass to the informant. “Okay, then—tell me more about that while you finish your drink.”
Peeper took a long swallow, his prominent Adam’s apple jumping up and down like a fishing bobber with a big one on the other end of the line. “Man, I could get used to this.”
“No you couldn’t. Tell me or I’ll toss you into the harbor. You smell like you could really use a bath,” Cal growled.
“Jeez, okay, dude, lighten up.” Peeper took another sip, and then continued. “So you know where that cemetery is in the North End?”
“Which one, you moron? The North End has almost as many cemeteries as restaurants.”
“Okay, okay, the big one up by North Church, whatchamacallit.”
“Copp’s Hill,” Cal asked softly. He was trying not to lead Peeper—he needed to find out what the man knew, not have him agree mindlessly with whatever Cal said.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, the dude tells me that he and two others snatch this gal from Cedar Grove Cemetery, then drive her to this place across from Copp’s Hill. He tells me there’s a garage entrance in one of the storefronts, only it don’t look like no garage door—it’s got like tinted windows so you can’t see inside, but he says it’s right near that skinny house everyone makes such a fuss about.”
“Okay, go on.”
“So, he tells me when you pull in, there’s a door that leads to this underground cavern or somethin,’ and they took this gal to a big cave. Then he had to watch this voodoo priestess or whatever the hell she is, do some mumbo-jumbo and he’s thinkin,’ ‘Man this is seriously fucked,’ when all of a sudden, this gal’s body starts wrinkling up like a raisin or somethin.’ So I has to tell him, ‘Yeah, man that’s seriously twisted, dude.’”
Cal looked at Peeper. “So tell me in detail where this guy went.”
Once Peeper described the location to the best of his ability, he polished off the rest of his Bruichladdich and held up his glass hopefully.
“No way,” Cal replied. “You have any idea how much that whiskey you’re guzzling costs?”
“It’s worth every penny for what I told ya, ain’t it?”
Cal took the glass and set it in the sink beside the bar with his own. “Yes, it was worth what you drank—but no more. Get out of here before I change my mind about giving you a bath in the harbor.”
Peeper stood, woozy, but still managed to object. “Izzat any way to treat a valuable asset?”
“Yes,” said Cal firmly, “and don’t ever ambush me like that again or I’ll go ahead and shoot even if I do recognize you.”
Once he had ejected Peeper and made sure the man left, Cal walked back into the Called Shot, and poured himself one last Bruichladdich, which he sipped while pondering the information Peeper had given him.
Cal awoke the next morning unusually fatigued. He stood for a long time under the hot water in the shower, made some strong coffee—with extra cream and sugar—and when he left, Cal felt almost human. By the time he reached the station, Cal had made up his mind. On the drive to Dorchester, he had debated with himself about giving Sully
a heads up on this lead. I don’t really have anything yet, he decided, hoping he wasn’t just rationalizing. Sully’s going to want something solid before he gives me a green light to move forward, but I know in my gut that this is pay dirt. It’s always easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission.
Cal slogged through the rest of his paperwork, taking a short break for lunch. As the day wound to a close and evening fell, Cal slapped a folder down onto a large stack and said, “Praise the Lord and pass the whiskey, I am finally caught up.” Sully came out of his office and applauded deprecatingly, as did the two other detectives still hanging around. “Thank you, thank you. I’d like to thank all the little people who made this possible, but I sold them to a traveling circus last week.” Accompanied by groans, Cal strolled out of the station and drove home.
Cal paced around his apartment until midnight, and then changed into heavy black cotton slacks, long-sleeved black t-shirt, black socks, and shoes. He shrugged into his knee-length black leather jacket, then slid a black BPD ball cap onto his head, and donned black leather gloves. He checked his gun, loaded some additional clips into the pockets of his coat, along with some brass knuckles, lock picks, and his backup gun. Then he darkened his face and made his way down to the garage.
The streets were deserted as he drove his BMW slowly toward Copp’s Hill. I’m going to make a couple of passes first. If everything looks kosher, I’ll park on the far side of the park and make my way to where Peeper’s ‘dude’ said the entrance was. It’s got to be near the entrance we used when we visited Sedecla that day. I’d bet a month’s pay on that. Cal cruised past the place and saw no one on the streets or in Copp’s Hill, on any of the three trips he made around the vicinity.
Well, here goes nothing. Cal got out of the Beemer, locking it as he swiveled his head to make sure he didn’t have an audience. He slid the heavy plastic keyless car starter into his pocket and left his other keys in the car. He wasn’t about to give out any noise from keys jangling in his pocket. Other than that, he carried his badge in the inner pocket of his leather coat, and sticking up from the deep outer pocket on his right side was the black rubber handle of his heavy high-beam flashlight, which could serve as a billyclub as well as a light source.
Seeing no one, Cal strolled into the dense line of trees that ran down Snow Hill Street on the western side of the trapezoidal cemetery. Boston’s second oldest cemetery, Copp’s Hill dated back to 1659 and was the final resting place of both famous people like Cotton Mather as well as a number of unmarked graves of African-Americans. Cal hated winding his way through this section, but it offered him the most cover. He told himself that it was because he risked tripping over a half-buried grave marker, but cemeteries made him jumpy, especially on a dark night, where the moon hid its face.
Cal took his time, watching as he went for anyone who might spot him, so it took him several minutes to reach the Hull Street side of the woods. After ensuring that no one was on the street in either direction, Cal dashed down the sidewalk to the next stand of trees, a couple hundred feet to the southeast down Hull Street. Once there, Cal crouched down in a dark, concealed patch and did nothing but watch for several minutes. The last thing he wanted was for some passerby to see him and call the cops. While he wouldn’t necessarily get arrested, Cal didn’t want the headache of explaining what he was doing to Sully. Let’s get in, have a quick look around, and get back out. Simple reconnaissance.
Cal quickly and silently picked the lock of the door that he, Jamie, and Ramirez had entered on their visit. Yeah, I owe you for Ramirez, bitch. Cal shut the door as softly as possible, but the click of the lock engaging sounded like a rifle shot to his heightened hearing. He took out the flashlight and scanned the nearby walls for alarm system keypads. I’m not sure I could disarm one quickly enough to matter, though. Luck was with Cal. The only keypad he saw was the one by the door that Cal was certain led to the garage, which in turn, supposedly led to Sedecla’s underground complex. Cal walked to the keypad and took a small toolkit from the interior pocket of his leather jacket. Cal examined the case of the keypad lock and found the way to remove the cover. Bingo. He was relieved to find that the keypad lock had a key slot for a bypass key. People think these electronic keypad locks are so much more secure—they’d crap if they knew that most of them had a bypass key feature. Cal picked the bypass lock, opened the door, and held it open while he replaced the cover over the keypad lock.
Cal closed the door quietly and shone his flashlight around the garage area. There were two cars, an SUV and a Maybach limo. He walked to the door at the opposite end of the room, which had another keypad lock, and, being the same as the first, it presented him with no obstacle to entry.
After closing the door, Cal clicked off his flashlight. He stood in a dim tunnel. Must be an old smuggler’s tunnel, but it has been upgraded. The floor was spotless gray tile and red brick walls, which were old, but well maintained. The ceiling was also tiled, in off white, with dim, overhead lights marching down the passageway before him. Cal crept down the tunnel for about a hundred feet and was confronted with another keypad lock. Damn. She’s hell on security, but she really does need to upgrade her locks. Although, right now I’m glad she didn’t. After picking the lock and closing this door, Cal could see that the tunnel emptied into a much larger room.
Although this room also had only dim lighting, Cal nonetheless crouched down and surveyed the room carefully. The tunnel ended in a wide, arched doorway into the larger room. Cal guessed it to be about a thirty-by-thirty-foot room, square in shape. There were three rows of theater-style seats in front of him, so Cal slid behind these, peering over the seat top, hunkered down on his heels. The room looked empty. No one sat in the seats in front of Cal or at the conference table and chairs spread out at the far end of the room. A platform raised about two feet off the floor on the opposite wall. Looking around, Cal saw the dim lights of electronic equipment in a corner. Several monitors and computers sat in standby mode, with various green, blue, and red power lights eyeing Cal from across the room.
Seeing no one, Cal rose back up into a crouch and descended past the theater seats to the conference table. He didn’t see anything or anyone, so Cal stood and walked. There was another doorway on the wall across from the computers, but it was closed. I wonder if it would safe for me to turn one of these computers on and see what I can find? She might have these computers networked and tied to the security system. If she doesn’t though, I could probably find some solid evidence. Cal was debating the best course of actionwhen he heard a soft scrape behind him. He spun around, scrambling to pull his gun. Cal saw a huge shadowy shape. He brought his gun around to fire, and raised his arm, trying to block the blow flashing toward him. Cal felt an explosion of pain inside his head. He stopped and wobbled for a moment. Then he got a fleeting, fuzzy view of his attacker, who knocked the gun out of his hand. Cal pitched forward, the tile floor rushing toward his face. Then everything splattered into darkness.
* * * *
Cal slowly became aware of two things—intense light and extreme pain. His head felt like someone had bashed it with a sledgehammer. He attempted to reach up and feel the damaged portion only to discover that he was bound hand and foot. Cal tried to clear his head and fight the blindness brought on by the light. Gradually, he realized that he was lying flat on the floor, with his hands and feet secured by zip-ties and completely immobilized by chains that led away from his body in either direction. As the pain receded, Cal turned his head to either side, and then craned his neck. He was restrained in the center of some type of pattern inset into the floor. There were alternating circles of black and red, with pictures integrated into the design. Cal’s eyes were still trying to bring everything into focus against the brightness of the light when he heard a sultry contralto voice. “Ah, I see our guest has awakened.”
Cal watched groggily as Sedecla Aba walked into view, looking down on him as an entomologist might examine a specimen pinned to an exhibit ca
rd. Her face was set into hard lines, sharpening rather than diminishing her beauty. “Yeah, thanks for the great reception,” he managed to mumble.
Sedecla feigned a look of surprise. “Detective Cushing, you could hardly expect any other type of reception given that you were illegally breaking and entering. I hope Tomás did not hurt you too badly.” She held out a hand.
For a moment, Cal thought there had been a total eclipse. Instead, he got a good look at his attacker as the man blocked out the glaring light. Tomás had to be at least six-seven, six-eight, and crowded the hell out of three hundred, all of it muscle. His dark eyes burned as he glared down at Cal. “We have better security than you think, cavalão.”
Sedecla gave Cal a thoughtful look. “How did you manage to break past our keypad system?”
Cal snorted softly. “Ever hear of a bypass key, sweetheart?” He instantly regretted giving this woman any valuable information, even something as trivial as her door locks.
Cal felt a stabbing pain in his ribs as Tomás kicked him once, savagely. “You will show some respect, caganita.”
As he drew back his foot for another kick, Sedecla restrained Tomás. “Do not fret, Tomás. We will show Detective Cushing the error of his ways.”
An icy wave swept through Cal, but he kept his voice calm and even. “Listen, lady, right now you’re ahead of the game. You can get me in a helluva lot more trouble than I can stir up for you. You’ve got me on B&E, and your goon here did nothing excessive in knocking me down and restraining me.” Cal pulled at his bonds. “Although this seems a little bizarre, if you quit now, I’ll walk away unable to proceed against you because you have a witness to my illegal entry.”
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