The Secret Friend

by Unknown

  Now that he knew the truth, he wished God would take it away. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know.

  It’s not just about me any more, Daddy. You know about what happened to the others.

  Hale checked his watch. He could still make the call. He still had time.

  They can’t speak for themselves. They need you to speak for them.

  Hale stumbled across the room and scooped the cell phone from his desk.

  You can’t let them suffer in silence.

  He dialled the number.

  Look at me, Daddy.

  He felt numb as Malcolm Fletcher answered the call.

  ‘Yes, Mr Hale?’

  Daddy, look at me.

  Hale looked at the armchair where Emma sat, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap.

  Think about the parents of all those young women. Don’t they have a right to know the truth? Don’t they deserve justice?

  ‘Have you changed your mind, Mr Hale?’

  You’ve been given an amazing gift, Daddy. God heard and answered your prayers. Are you going to refuse him?

  Hale rubbed the whiskers along his face. ‘Do it.’

  ‘You are aware of the potential risks.’

  ‘That’s why I employ the best lawyers in the state,’ Hale said. ‘I want the son of a bitch to pay for what he did. I want him to suffer.’

  53

  Tim Bryson crunched a Rolaids between his teeth as traffic crawled past the Tobin Bridge tolls. Cliff Watts had the window down so he could smoke.

  A battered plumber’s van, complete with a ladder fixed to the top, was waiting in the left lane, two car lengths behind the Jag.

  Bryson’s phone rang. It was Lang, the man driving the plumbing van.

  ‘I ran the plates. The car’s registered to a man named Samuel Dingle from Saugus. I’ve got an address.’

  Bryson felt a sick feeling crawling underneath his skin. ‘Is it stolen?’ he asked.

  ‘If it is, nobody has reported it,’ Lang said.

  ‘Send someone over to the house. Call me back when you find out.’

  The Jag drove fast across the new Zakim Bridge, heading for Boston’s southeast expressway. So close, Bryson thought. Too close.

  Fletcher merged onto Storrow Drive, heading west. A few minutes later he took the Kenmore exit.

  The problems of tailing someone in a city without being spotted were numerous – the traffic lights, the maze of oneway streets and, in the case of Boston, the never-ending headaches of the Big Dig. If you didn’t stick close to your mark, you could lose him.

  Malcolm Fletcher wasn’t acting like someone who knew he was being shadowed. No sudden turns down a narrow street, he didn’t change direction – he wasn’t doing any of the normal counter-surveillance manoeuvres to shake off a tail. The man stuck to the main roads and kept up with the flow of traffic.

  Fenway Park was dark and deserted. Without the Red Sox playing, the place was dead. Traffic was light. Watts kept a good, safe distance.

  Fletcher put on his blinker and turned left into a parking lot. Watts drove past him. Bryson turned in his seat, wondering if Fletcher had spotted the tail.

  A guard rail lifted into the air. Fletcher pulled inside the parking lot.

  Watts banged a U-turn at the lights and found an empty spot along the side of the street, in front of a fire hydrant. He killed the lights but not the engine. Bryson already had the binoculars in his hands.

  The parking lot was well lit and, thankfully, there was no tree cover, just a chain-link fence. There. The Jag was parked in a corner on the far right.

  Bryson looked past the Jag to Lansdowne Street. The dingy area – horse barns at the turn of the century that were later converted to warehouses – was now home to a string of popular bars and dance clubs set up inside brick buildings. Lines of young men and women stood behind velvet ropes in the freezing cold, waiting for the bouncers to usher them through.

  ‘What the hell is he doing down here?’ Watts asked.

  Good question, Bryson thought. The Jag door opened.

  Malcolm Fletcher was dressed in a dark wool overcoat. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked like a character from The Matrix. He didn’t look around, just shut the door and jogged across the street.

  The people in line stared at him, wondering if he was some sort of celebrity. He stepped up to a bouncer with a big, round head. The bouncer leaned forward to listen.

  Bryson read the sign above the door: Instant Karma.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Watts said. ‘The son of a bitch is going dancing.’

  Bryson’s phone rang as he watched the bouncer pull back the velvet rope to let Fletcher pass.

  ‘You think he spotted us?’ Lang asked.

  ‘If he did, the smart move would have been to try to shake us off,’ Bryson said. ‘He wouldn’t lead us to a dance club. Have you ever been inside Instant Karma?’

  ‘Hitting the clubs isn’t my scene any more. I’m way too old.’

  ‘We broke up an ecstasy ring about two years ago. The bottom level connects to other clubs. I’m going to head inside with Watts. I want you to coordinate the surveillance. Who else is with you?’

  ‘Martinez and Washington,’ Lang said. ‘Tim, this guy attacked three federal agents.’

  ‘He did it in the privacy of his own home, and he took his sweet time. Move your boys to the front. There’s an alley around the back, near the fire exits. Park there. I’ll escort Fletcher out through the alley.’

  From the glove compartment Bryson pulled out a surveillance rig – an earpiece and lapel mike with encryption that allowed him to keep in constant communication with his team without the possibility of eavesdropping.

  ‘I’ll contact you once I’m inside,’ Bryson said.

  54

  A small, portable Sony radio shaped like a bubble was set up on the floor. A cassette was playing, the reels going around and around as a woman screamed in pain.

  Not wanting to disturb any fingerprints, Darby used the tip of her pen to press the player’s stop button. The only sound she heard was the wind howling above her.

  The remains resting against the debris were skeletonized; no muscle or skin. All that was left were bones inside women’s clothing: jeans, a black shirt and a long winter jacket covered in dust. The jeans were bundled down around the ankles, the white underwear inside them stained black with dried blood.

  Darby peeled back the jacket to reveal a lab coat with ‘Sinclair Hospital’ embroidered on the breast pocket.

  A grey winter scarf was wrapped around the woman’s neck. Strips of duct tape had been used to secure the wrists and ankles.

  Behind the skull was a hair mat – long, blonde hair covered in dust. The skull, with its sharp eye orbits, tapered chin and smooth cranium, were that of a female. The vertical teeth confirmed that the woman was Caucasian.

  There were no breaks on the skull to indicate a head injury. Hopefully Carter, the state’s forensic anthropologist, would be able to determine a cause of death. That wasn’t always the case with skeletal remains.

  Darby found maggot husks scattered inside the remains. Entomology would use the husks to pinpoint the time of death. She wondered how long the remains had been here.

  A red purse lay next to the body. Darby looked inside. The purse was empty. She checked the jean pockets. Empty.

  Darby moved the beam of her tactical light around the area. It was impossible to tell what this place was. Mountains of debris covered crushed hallways and doors. There was no ceiling. Looking past the missing floors, all the way to the roof, she saw the night sky.

  Malcolm Fletcher didn’t crawl through the vent. He must have come through one of these doorways. To do that, he would have to be familiar with the layout of the basement.

  Darby took out her cell phone, relieved when she got a signal.

  Her first call was to Tim Bryson. When he didn’t answer, she left a message and called Coop.

  ‘I’m inside Sinclai
r – I’ll explain everything when you get here,’ Darby said. ‘Have you met the two new guys who are working in ID?’

  ‘Mackenzie and Phillips,’ Coop said.

  ‘Which one of them is slim and small?’

  ‘That would be Phillips. He’s very slim because he watches his girlish figure.’

  ‘Tell him to dress warm and to wear old clothes. It’s dirty as hell in here, and I ripped my coat. I’ll tell the security people to expect you.’

  Darby looked back to the remains. The fear was gone, swallowed by the exhilaration of this new discovery buried deep in the earth.

  The bouncer who let Fletcher bypass the waiting line had a young face – he was no older than twenty-five, Bryson guessed. Judging by the rolls under the young man’s chin, most of the muscle had turned to fat.

  Bryson flashed his badge and moved the young man away from the other bouncers.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, you’re not in trouble,’ Bryson said. ‘I just want talk to you alone for a moment. What’s your name?’

  ‘Stan Dalton.’

  ‘The guy with the sunglasses you just let in, what did he say to you?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything, he just showed me his executive card and I let him through.’

  ‘Executive card?’

  ‘If you’re willing to pony up a grand a year, you can apply for an executive card which means you get to bypass the waiting line. You also get free valet service and access to the VIP area with your own waitress and tab.’

  ‘I’m assuming there’s a security checkpoint past the front doors.’

  ‘Every place has one.’

  ‘Okay, Stanley, you’re going to escort me past the security checkpoint, and then you’re going to come back out here and do your job. You’re not going to tell anyone about our conversation. Once I’m inside, you’re not to get on the horn and call your boss. The guy I’m watching, I don’t want to spook him. I need to play this nice and cool. If I go in there and find security hovering all over him, you’re going to have a permanent problem with the IRS.’

  The front doors opened to a hall blasting heat and techno music pounding behind black walls. Across from the coat check-in room was a security checkpoint consisting of two men with serious expressions holding metal-detection wands to frisk the patrons.

  Stan Dalton had a private conversation with the security boys. They nodded and let them into the club without having to go through the ordeal of being frisked.

  The dance club seemed like a party taking place in hell. Pounding techno music blasting from speakers, boom-boom-boom, the dance floor packed with pretty young women wearing revealing tank tops and half-shirts showing off their surgically enhanced tits and flat stomachs, tight pants hugging the sweet curves of their asses as they jumped and gyrated under mirrored disco balls, boom-boom-boom, hands waving in the oppressively hot air smelling of sweat and perfume and sex, hands holding drinks, bodies grinding together, men with girls, girls with girls, men with men, boom-boom-boom, everyone happy, smiling, drunk and high.

  Set up in the corners, below the laser lights, were cages holding dancing girls in bikinis. One cage held two young muscular men dressed in black bikini briefs, their tanned, perfectly sculpted bodies glistening with oil and glitter to reflect the lasers and coloured lights. Bryson looked away, disgusted, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling where plasma TVs played music videos.

  A bar was set up to his right. The counter was covered with Plexiglas, bright white lighting beneath it. Waitresses wearing black leather pants and matching bikini tops placed drinks on their trays and hustled off to a roped-off area behind the bar crammed with black leather couches and chairs – the VIP area. Malcolm Fletcher, still wearing his black-lens sunglasses, stood next to a jaw-dropping young woman wearing a tight black dress. She was tall and had long, dark red hair. She looked like Darby McCormick.

  The woman whispered something in Fletcher’s ear, then walked away.

  A moment later Fletcher stood and followed, swallowed inside the crowd of gyrating bodies and groping hands.

  Christ, where did he go? Bryson looked around the club. The techno music was deafening. One song blended into the next, boom-boom-boom, that same hideous beat playing over and over again, vibrating inside his chest.

  There; there he was, standing on the opposite side of the dance floor with the redhead, who was talking to a security guard, a pissed-off looking gentleman sporting a long goatee and a lot of jailhouse tattoos inked on both forearms.

  The guard nodded and stepped aside. The woman opened a door marked ‘Private’. Fletcher followed.

  55

  So that’s why you came here, Tim Bryson thought. Fletcher was heading downstairs to get laid. Perfect.

  Bryson put on his earpiece. The lapel mike was already in place.

  ‘Lang, can you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Stand by,’ Bryson said as he pushed his way through the dance floor.

  The bouncer guarding the door marked ‘Private’ put his hand out and asked for a password. Bryson flashed the badge and had to scream above the music to tell the guy with the goatee not to let anyone else down here.

  Bryson descended the black-painted stairwell in the dim light, the shit music shut off by the thick metal door but the same hideous beat pounding inside his head, boom-boom-boom, Watts running behind him. No doors, the stairs kept leading down and down, Christ, how deep was this place buried?

  Six flights of stairs and here was an archway leading into a room with a marble floor. Aquarium tanks were built into the walls, packed with bright coral and colourful fish. Standing behind a podium much like the kind in restaurants where they took your dinner reservation was a tall man with a shaved head. He was dressed in a black suit and silver tie.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

  Bryson looked to his right, to a change room with lockers. White terrycloth robes were neatly folded on the shelves.

  The man with the shaved head smiled. ‘You must be new. Welcome. My name is Noah. You can change into your robes or, if you prefer, you can go directly to a private room. Let me see what’s available.’ He looked down at the podium. ‘Room sixty-two is available. Shall I give you a key? Or would you like to enjoy the bathhouse first?’

  Bryson flashed his credentials. Noah cleared his throat.

  ‘Officers, this is a private establishment. Our members pay for their –’

  ‘I’m interested in only one member, a tall man with black-tinted sunglasses,’ Bryson said. ‘He came through here a few minutes ago with a redhead. Where did they go?’

  ‘They requested a private room – room thirty-three.’

  ‘Is it locked?’

  ‘I would imagine so.’

  ‘Do you have a spare key?’

  ‘It’s in the back office. Give me a moment.’ Noah disappeared behind a black curtain. Watts followed.

  Now Bryson had to figure out the logistics of removing Fletcher. Marching him up the stairs and through the crowded dance floor was not a viable option. Too many things could go wrong.

  Noah returned with Watts and handed Bryson a key.

  ‘Is there a separate, more private exit for your members?’ Bryson asked.

  ‘I was going to suggest using our elevator. It’s next to room thirty-three. It will take you up to the main floor and out a private door that leads to the back of the club.’

  ‘You’re talking about the alleyway.’

  ‘Yes. Our members value their privacy, as I’m sure you can understand.’

  ‘We’ll be very discreet, I promise. This room you’re taking us to, are there any other doors in there?’

  ‘No sir, just the single door which leads into the hallway.’

  ‘What about cameras? Do you have anyone watching this level?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Noah said. ‘Security cameras would be a violation of our members’ privacy.’

  Bryson talked to Lang through the lapel mike. Lang didn’t res
pond. I must be too far underground, Bryson thought. The walls are blocking the signal.

  He had better luck with the cell phone. The signal was weak but it would do. He told Lang where he was.

  ‘Repeat that?’ Lang said.

  ‘We’re going to bring Fletcher out through the alley. Move everyone into position. If you don’t hear back from me within twenty minutes, storm the club.’

  What to do with the bald man? Bryson didn’t want to leave him here. He might call management. He might bring additional security. He could do any number of things to protect his job. Bryson wanted to play this nice and quiet.

  ‘Lead the way.’

  Noah escorted them into a hallway of white tile and dim lighting designed to hide faces. There was a steamy reek of chlorine from the bathhouse. Murmured conversations and moaning from behind each of the closed doors. From a room far down the hallway, a man screamed in either pain or ecstasy, maybe a combination of both.

  Noah stopped in front of room 33. Grunting came from the room across the hall. The door had a mesh grating in it. Darkness in there but Bryson could make out the shape of a man. He was tied down to a table and wore a leather mask.

  ‘Harder,’ the man cried. ‘Harder.’

  A woman laughed.

  Bryson removed his handgun and listened at room 33. He heard running water. He motioned for Noah to step closer.

  ‘Is there a shower in this room?’ Bryson whispered.

  ‘Each room has its own bathroom.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘When you open the door, it will be to your left.’

  ‘Locks?’

  ‘Yes, each bathroom door has a lock. I don’t have a key. If you’d like additional help, I could call security.’

  ‘No. Please step back. Stay right here.’

  Noah moved against the far wall, looking as though he might faint. Bryson turned to Watts.

  ‘I’ll go in first and you’ll cover me. If he makes a move, take him down.’