Double Homicide

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “It’s enough to get him into college.”

  Dorothy sat up straighter. “If he doesn’t apply himself academically, that’s worth nothing.”

  “One thing at a time, baby.” The horn blew. Halftime was over. “Can I make a suggestion that we not think about work or kids or marriage and just enjoy ourselves and watch the game?”

  “Yeah, that’s why sports are so good for people. We can pretend the stakes are high, but really they’re meaningless.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” McCain answered.

  The opposition brought the ball into play and missed the first shot.

  Right away, Julius came down with the rebound and drilled it over to the point guard to take down the court. The Seahawks set up their positions playing the zone rather than a one-on-one. As soon as Julius got the ball, he was double-teamed, so he kicked it out to the perimeter. B.G. tried a long shot and missed, and Julius came down with the offensive rebound.

  Julius went up for the shot.

  He was promptly smashed in the chest by the opposing center’s arm. His body flew backward, and he hit the floor headfirst, a loud thud resonating as his skull made contact with the wood. The crowd emitted a single gasp. Then stunned silence as the coach, trainer, and teammates ran out to the floor and gathered around Van Beest’s motionless body. For the next few moments, time lengthened until the clock seemed to stop.

  “Jesus, what was that guy thinking?” McCain muttered under his breath. “It ain’t a bar fight, you know.”

  “And they say b-ball isn’t a contact sport,” Dorothy answered back. “Stupid kids.”

  “Stupid coaches. I’m sure Ducaine’s coach said, ‘I don’t care what you do, dammit, just take him down.’”

  “If he said that, he should be fired,” Dorothy shot back. “Arrested.”

  “Agreed.” McCain stared at the floor. “I think he’s wiggling his foot. Julius is.”

  Dorothy craned her neck upward and looked at the giant screen. “Yeah, they’re talking to him.”

  “He conscious, then?”

  “Yeah, I believe he conscious. Thank God!”

  Two men were bringing out the stretcher, but the Boston Ferris coach shook it off. Slowly, Julius sat up and waved.

  The crowd broke into deafening cheers.

  Two Pirate trainers helped Julius to his feet. Obviously unsteady, Van Beest looped one arm around one of the trainers and began to walk it off. If Van Beest wasn’t able to attempt his free throws, he would be out of commission for the entire game.

  After a minute or so, Van Beest managed to walk up to the free-throw line without help. Shaking his head several times, blinking several times, he was off balance and winded.

  He missed the first shot but made the second one.

  Even in this compromised state, he could sink one, the ball touching nothing but net. Unreal, thought McCain. That kind of talent had to come from God.

  Because the foul was ruled as a flagrant, the Pirates retained possession. Immediately, a time-out was called and substitutions were made. Julius got a rousing round of cheers as he was led to the lockers. Marcus came back on the floor.

  The Pirate star was out for more than ten minutes of playing time, giving Ducaine an opportunity to come alive, reducing the lead to a single bucket. But then—straight from Hollywood—Julius came jogging up the ramp in his warm-up suit. With exaggerated flair, he unsnapped the suit and, without even so much as a glance at the coach, sat in front of the scorer’s table waiting for the horn to announce his presence.

  A minute later, he was back on the court, determination and focus etched into his face. He made his first attempt—a nineteen-foot shot from the perimeter—showing everyone that his hands and eyes still worked perfectly in sync. On the opposite end of the court, he grabbed a defensive rebound, took it downcourt himself, and slammed down another basket.

  Julius was angry.

  Julius was turbocharged.

  Julius was unstoppable.

  In the end, the Pirates set a team record against Ducaine, winning by twenty-four points.

  4

  To keep his toes frost-free, McCain bounced on his feet as he waited outside the stadium with Dorothy. She just had to say good-bye to her son. The ushers had kicked them out of the building, and now they stood in the blistering chill of night waiting for the team because the coach had apparently come down with a serious case of postgame logorrhea. They stood among an enclave of well-wishers, friends, and relatives, including the middle-aged fanatics who lived vicariously through the team’s triumphs.

  Guys with no life.

  McCain experienced a sharp stab of depression, then shook it off, shielding his face with his gloved hands and letting out a puff of warm breath that drifted over his icy nose. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay out here, Dorothy.”

  “So go home.”

  “Not until you go home.”

  She turned to him. “I’m not the one that’s freezing.”

  “He don’t even want you around, Dorothy.”

  She glared at him. “Sez who?”

  “Sez me—a male who can remember far back enough to know that kids don’t want their moms around.”

  A back door opened, and the team members began to filter out. The cheering was immediate. Hugs and kisses were passed all around. Marcus came toward his mother, and Dorothy, not one for subtlety, clasped her hands around his neck and hugged him hard enough to crack a few joints. He patronized her with a couple of pats on the back, then broke away.

  “Hey, Micky.” Marcus was all smiles. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You had some great moves tonight, Marcus.”

  “Yeah, it was a good game.”

  Dorothy said, “How about we celebrate with some cheesecake at Finale’s?”

  Marcus smiled, but it was muted. “Actually, Ma, the guys and I were gonna go out for a few drinks.”

  Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  “Where?”

  “Yes. Where?”

  “Ma, I’m twenty-one.”

  “I know your age. I gave birth to you, remember?”

  “We’re not having this conversation, Ma—”

  “Don’t you cut me off.”

  Marcus remained stoic, but his face was tense. “We’re going to hit a couple clubs, that’s all.” He kissed her cheek. “Go home. Don’t wait up for me.” Marcus jogged away, meeting up with his teammates, pounding fists and bumping chests with his friends. Julius walked up to him and grabbed his head, plowing his knuckles into Marcus’s helmet of kinky curls.

  Dorothy smacked her lips and tried to hide disappointment. McCain put his arm around her. “Why don’t you and I go to Finale’s?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “Dorothy?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’m thinking that maybe I am a little tired. And I need to deal with Spencer. I should go home.” She turned away. “Thanks anyway.”

  McCain said, “Don’t bite my head off, Dorothy, but I’m thinking that . . . Why don’t you let me have the talk with Spencer? Just a suggestion, okay? And think a moment before you refuse.”

  She gave the idea some consideration. “Okay.”

  McCain was stunned. “Okay?”

  “I’m not in a good state right now, Micky. I’m smart enough to know that.”

  “All right.” McCain took out a piece of nicotine gum and popped it in his mouth. “So I’ll meet you at your place.”

  “Thanks, Mick. You’re a good friend.”

  She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. She was an inch taller than he was and outweighed him by twenty pounds. On a good day, Dorothy could take him down in arm wrestling. She was strong, smart, and fearless, commanding instant authority with everyone from the high-muck-a-mucks to the most hardened of felons. People listened to her . . . except, of course, her own kids.

  It wasn’t that Spencer was surly or disrespectful. He didn’t interrupt, nor did he roll his eyes even once—a
gesture made famous by Micky Junior. He nodded at the appropriate times, looked sufficiently grave. But it was clear to McCain that the message wasn’t getting through. Spencer packed because he felt in danger, even though statistics were clear that the kid was more likely to shoot himself or an innocent bystander than get popped by a perp jamming a gun in his face.

  “You gotta know what you’re doing, Spence,” McCain said. “Otherwise you freeze, then suddenly the perp’s got a weapon to use against you.”

  A nod.

  “You’d never forgive yourself if you killed someone by accident . . . even not by accident. You never get over that—taking someone else’s life even if it’s justified. You don’t want that hanging over your head. So it just ain’t worth the risk.”

  Silence.

  They were sitting at the dinette table, the Bretons’ Christmas tree a small affair tucked into a corner of a modest living room. It added a bit of sparkle to an otherwise solemn conversation.

  Dorothy had put up a fresh pot of decaf when they got home. McCain had just about finished off the pot while the boy continued to nurse his single can of Coke. Dorothy had locked herself in her bedroom but probably sat with an ear to the door.

  Finally, the boy spoke in a soft but passionless voice. “You’ve actually killed people, Micky?”

  McCain hesitated, then nodded. “Twice. And the first time didn’t make the second time easier.”

  Spencer nodded. “And it was real hard on you, right?”

  “Hard doesn’t even describe it. It’s anguish.”

  “But you get up every morning and go to work with a gun in your holster, knowing that it could happen again. Why?”

  “Why?” McCain let out a small laugh. “It’s part of my job, Spencer. I’m an officer of the commonwealth. I’m required to carry a gun. Matter of fact, I’d be just as happy if I didn’t carry a gun. Not for what I do. Now, a uniform officer . . . That’s a different story. He’s gotta carry a piece.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause the uniforms are sent into some very dicey situations. Without a piece . . . pshhhh. It could really be bad, and before you talk, I know what you’re thinking. I’m not saying that the public schools are picnics, Spence. I understand your position. But you gotta play the odds. And the odds are much worse carrying than not.”

  “Yeah, you go tell the odds to Frankie Goshad and Derek Trick. Only they won’t be hearing you from six feet under.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Derek more than Frankie, but that’s not the point. They weren’t doing nothing, just hanging and minding their own business, and some muhfuh cruises by, talking trash and waving an automatic. Next thing they’re both dead. If they woulda had a piece, they might’ve been able to protect themselves.”

  “Or maybe not.”

  “Then they woulda gone down like men instead of being exploded up like they was nothing but bonus points in a video game.”

  “Or they might have shot up a kid or someone innocent before they got shot up themselves.” McCain shifted in the chair. “The thing is, Spence, that no matter how you try to rationalize it, it’s illegal. And you not only put yourself at risk, you also put your mom at risk.”

  The boy’s eyes went up to the ceiling. He was saved from having to respond by the ringing of the phone. Spencer’s eyebrows arched, and a puzzled look came over his face. “One of your buds?” McCain asked.

  “No, I got my cell.” The teen got up slowly and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” His sleepy eyes suddenly widened. “What’s goin’ on? You okay, bro?”

  McCain could hear sirens over the line, a male voice screaming, “Go get Mom now!” He grabbed the phone from Spencer. “Marcus, it’s Micky. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s bad, Mick!”

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay, but it’s bad. Someone shot up the place—”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Everyone’s screaming and crying. Blood all over the place. Cops have sealed off the doors.”

  “Where are you, Marcus?” McCain’s heart was doing a steeplechase.

  “I’m at a club in downtown Boston.”

  “Where in downtown Boston?”

  “In Lansdowne.”

  “At the Avalon?”

  “No, a new one . . . something Genie . . . Wait a sec . . . Yeah, it’s called Pharaoh’s Genie. It’s a couple blocks past Avalon.”

  “I’ll grab your mother, we’ll be right down. You swear you’re not hiding anything? You’re okay, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m whole, Micky. But I’m telling you it’s real bad. Julius is dead.”

  5

  Black skies, poor visibility, and icy roads made travel slow and dangerous. The only redeeming factor was almost no traffic this late. McCain drove because he didn’t want Dorothy behind the wheel. Even in his sure hands, the car bobbed and slid through truncated streets and makeshift alleys and detours.

  Downtown Boston was one big freaking detour, courtesy of the Big Dig, better known as the Big Boondoggle. Decades had passed, tens of millions of overbudget dollars kept being pumped into the project, and rush hour was still a bloody mess. A couple of major arteries had opened, but the planners had failed to take into account that the city and its environs would grow faster than they could handle. Just brilliant. Someone was getting rich off of it. As usual, it wasn’t him.

  His partner of eight years sat in the passenger seat, her jaw clenched and posture rigid. She was swaddled in coat, gloves, and scarf, her forehead dripping tiny beads of sweat because the heat was blasting full force. McCain thought about making conversation but nixed the idea. What could he say anyway? With nothing to occupy his mind, he began to think about what to expect.

  Marcus had been sketchy with the details: a shoot-up following some kind of loud altercation. Something about a girl dancing with the wrong guy, but there was a subtext. Members of Ducaine’s basketball team had exchanged nasty words with a couple of the Pirates. Maybe they shot at Julius, or maybe Van Beest had just been caught in the cross fire, this time his size working against him. As far as Marcus knew, Julius was the only fatality, but others had been hurt.

  “I wonder who caught it,” Dorothy said. The sudden sound of her voice made McCain jump. “Did I startle you? Sorry.”

  “Nah, I’m just a little spacey. Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same thing. Probably Wilde and Gomes.”

  “Probably.”

  “They’re good.”

  “Yeah, they’re good.” She paused a long time. “Not too territorial.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Dorothy. You’re too close to the case to grab it.”

  “It wasn’t my kid, Micky. Besides, I have something personal to offer. I know Ellen Van Beest. Not well, but better than they do.”

  “That can work against you.”

  She ignored him. “Do you think it was something personal against Julius?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Just seems odd that he was the only one who was killed.”

  “Marcus doesn’t know all the facts. Could be more people died.”

  “Lord, I hope not.”

  McCain took a corner too fast, and the car skidded out on the ice. “Wow. Sorry about that!”

  Dorothy turned down the fan on the heater. “I dunno, Michael. I keep waiting for this parenthood thing to get easier. I think I’d rather wait for that Godot fella.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  The car turned silent except for the steady swoosh of hot air coming off the Honda’s engine.

  Pharaoh’s Genie sat on Lansdowne Avenue about a block and a half from the green-painted iron girders of Fenway Park, not far from Gold’s Gym. Wide street for Boston, fronted by old brick industrial buildings and warehouses, some of which had been renovated into clubs and bars. McCain couldn’t get near the address. The entire block was choked off with cruisers and unmarkeds, ambulances, and lab tech vehicles. Hot white spots
overpowered the Christmas lights. Beyond the cordon, civilians milled, rubbing their hands together, stamping their feet. Willing to freeze in order to catch a glimpse of someone else’s misery.

  McCain parked, and the two of them got out and trudged toward the action. As soon as they got within shouting distance of the scene, a couple of uniformed officers tried to stave them off. The shorter of the duo, a young, redheaded Irishman named Grady, blinked several times, then recognized Dorothy. Even in layers of wool, her physique was hard to miss.

  “Sorry, Detective Breton. I didn’t realize it was you.” He stepped aside to let her pass. “Where’s your car?”

  Southie accent. It came out “Wheahs yuh caah?” Then the guy noticed McCain, and his eyes got official all over again.

  McCain wondered: What do I look like if not a cop? He showed his gold shield. “We had to park it down a ways. When did the call come through?”

  “Maybe forty minutes ago.” Grady bounced on his feet. “Someone from the fire department should close these places down. Nothing but problems.”

  “They’d just show up somewhere else.” Dorothy pushed ahead. “I’m going to find Marcus.”

  McCain followed her.

  The club had once been a warehouse, its exterior bricks painted matte black. The interior was accessed by a small steel door, making the space a firetrap. As soon as McCain stepped inside, his face was slapped by hot air that stank of fresh blood and gunpowder. It was chaos, police personnel desperately trying to calm down horrified witnesses while EMTs tended to the wounded. A young black man was lying on the floor facedown, hands cuffed behind his back, guarded by four uniformed officers because the kid was a very big boy.

  Dorothy quickly scanned the room, trying to spot Marcus, but the crowd was thick and the lighting was poor. The walls had also been painted black, with purple Day-Glo up lighting that provided spooky, fun-house illumination. There was some reflection from the long, mirror-backed bar that ran along the eastern wall, but it was more for atmosphere than clarity. The room was crammed with people, upturned tables, and lots of chairs. Two fifteen-foot-high aluminum Christmas trees framed the bandstand, twinkling Tivoli lights adding to the sense of the surreal. Some of the trees’ elaborate ornaments had fallen and shattered on the dance floor. Paramedics had cleared open areas and were tending to the wounded and the shocked.