Frame-Up

by John F. Dobbyn

  That explained his shift with me from lunch to dinner. Perhaps.

  “John told me at lunch that he had an appointment that afternoon that was going to solve everything. He was going to be free to do a lot of things he couldn’t do before. I think that may have involved our relationship, although he didn’t say it directly. I think he was being deliberately vague about it.”

  The mist became a teardrop. I gave her time and a Kleenex.

  “He said something else. He gave me an envelope and asked me to hold onto it. He said he didn’t want to have it with him during his meeting. He asked me to mail it the next day — that would be that Saturday — unless he told me otherwise. But then he was killed that evening.”

  “Did he say whom he was meeting?”

  “No, he didn’t. I have no idea. This is the envelope.”

  She handed me what we used to call a report-card manila envelope, sealed, stamped, and addressed to Mr. Anthony Aiello at an address in the North End.

  “Do you know who Anthony Aiello is, Mike?”

  “Yes.”

  I fingered this thing that could be more explosive than the bomb that killed John. There was a small, interesting, hard bulge in the envelope the size of a peanut shell.

  I wondered about telling her that Anthony “Chickie” Aiello, also known as “Fat Tony,” was one of those names the press loves to highlight in the large-print headlines for a quick, cheap, boost in circulation. The news articles always include the word, “reputed,” followed by “mobster” or “underworld figure” or “close associate of Dominic Santangelo.” They could call him a three-toed frog as long as they precede it with the word “reputed.”

  The more reliable scuttlebutt among the lawyers at the bars was that Tony Aiello was the underboss of the Santangelo Mafia family, the number-two man and advisor to the don, and nothing “reputed” about it.

  The nickname “Chickie” sounds cute and cuddly. Nothing could be further from the truth, as any number could testify if they were still alive. The derivation of the nickname goes back to the days of his introduction of gambling on live cockfights in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. It produced a growing income until the don squelched it for good business reasons. An interesting fact of life is that Aiello could populate Boston Harbor with more human bodies than mackerel, and only the Boston Herald would raise a ruckus to sell papers. On the other hand, one incident of cruelty to animals — including chickens — would ignite the wrath of a sizeable and voluble section of the populace. Not good for business, and business is all that matters. The cockfights ended, but the name “Chickie” stuck.

  I took the envelope. Since she didn’t actually ask who Anthony Aiello was, I saw no point in volunteering the information.

  “I’m curious, Terry. Why did you decide against mailing it?”

  “I don’t trust any of those people John worked for. After he was killed, I didn’t know what to do. That’s why I thought of you. I know John trusted you.”

  I nodded and fingered the lump in the envelope.

  “Unless you have second thoughts, let’s take a look.”

  She indicated no qualms, so I tore open the envelope. There was a sheet of white typing paper with no words on either side. It simply held a well-worn tubular key with a yellow handle and the number 134E on it.

  “It looks like a key to a pay locker. Probably one of the terminals. My guess is North or South Station. It looks too old for the new lockers at Logan Airport. Probably South Station. That was closest to John’s office.”

  “What will you do with it? Are you going to send it to Mr. Aiello?”

  “Under the circumstances, I don’t think that’s what John would have wanted. Why don’t you leave this with me? The less involved you are, the better.”

  She took another deep breath. This time I could sense her relief in being out from under a burden she could not understand. I put the key in the top drawer of my desk. I was about to ask her if there was anything else, when the phone rang.

  “Julie, have you still got the pope on hold?”

  “He hung up. This time it’s Mr. Devlin. He wants you.”

  “Put him through.”

  I heard the button click, and the voice meant business.

  “The indictment’s in. Let’s go to work.”

  I saw my visitor to the door, but not until after taking her address and phone number in Winthrop across the harbor — just in case anything came up. I was in Mr. Devlin’s office in three minutes flat. He was on the phone with Mr. Santangelo and waved me in. He did not put the conversation on speakerphone, which didn’t surprise me. The arrangements they were making were delicate and confidential, quite possibly a matter of life or death.

  When Mr. D. hung up, he seemed uneasy.

  “I’d like to keep this simple, Michael. Why don’t you meet me here at nine tonight? We’ll be going for a ride. My car, you drive.”

  We took Route 9 west out of the city. Mr. D. called the lefts and rights. Two hours later, we pulled up behind the back door of a small jail facility on the east side of the City of Springfield. We turned out the lights and waited. About midnight, another car pulled up across the street from us. I didn’t recognize the figure that got out of the car until Billy Coyne walked up beside the window. He nodded to both of us.

  “Will he show, Lex?”

  “You remember that autographed picture of Ted Williams in my office? The one you always wanted? I’ll bet it against dinner at Locke-Ober’s. Michael included. He’ll show.”

  Billy leaned against the side of the door in silence. I could see the red glow as he lit up a cigarette.

  “Can’t hear you, Billy. Is it a bet?”

  “You know gambling’s illegal, Lex. You’re soliciting a public official to commit a crime.”

  “In other words, no bet.”

  Billy took a deep draw on the cigarette. “The bet’s on. But if I lose, I’ll prosecute you.”

  “You can’t. We’re out of your jurisdiction.”

  We waited. Twenty minutes of silence. Mr. D. slouched down in the passenger seat with his eyes closed. Billy had climbed in the backseat. We both jumped when Mr. D. broke the silence.

  “Billy, that dinner includes drinks, before and after, right?”

  “Doesn’t seem to matter, does it? Your innocent lamb is probably half way to Sicily.”

  “Before and after, right?”

  “Why not?”

  “Good.”

  Mr. D. got out of the car for no reason apparent to me until I saw in the rearview mirror a faint light from a streetlamp glint on the black surface of a limousine without running lights. It moved slowly until it slid in behind us. Billy was out of the car behind me and dialing numbers on a cell phone. He whispered into the phone, “They’re here.”

  The back door of the lock-up opened, and two uniformed officers came out onto the platform. We all watched as four dark double-breasted suits with plenty of Italian wool material to hide unnatural bulges got out of the limousine. The men were not massively large, but from their movements and the way they filled out the suits, they appeared to be athletic and well conditioned. They scanned the area for whatever could be seen in the darkness.

  Mr. D. started to walk past them toward the limousine. Two of them blocked his path until the voice of the don gave the okay. He walked between them, and the back door of the limousine swung open. Mr. D. got in. He was there for five minutes before the door opened again. A slight figure, compared to the dark suits on either side of him, walked at a quick march up the stairs and into the building, accompanied by the two uniformed officers.

  That was it. It was over. Mr. D. got back in the car, and after a few words about meeting the next day, Billy went back to his car.

  On the way back to Boston, now that we could get our minds on something else, I took the time to fill him in on my visit from Terry O’Brien and the key that was sitting in my desk.

  “What do you plan to do with it, Michael?”

&
nbsp; “I’ll check it out tomorrow morning. I think I’ve seen those keys at South Station.”

  He gave me a nod, and he was quiet the rest of the way back to the office. I stopped Mr. D’s car in front of the parking garage where I always left my car. Before I got out, he turned and gave me that look that had a message behind it.

  “Michael, you’ve got a good mind. I want you to use it every minute of the day while this is going on. These are no choirboys. They have the morality of a sledgehammer. I don’t want you hurt. Again.”

  “I’ll be careful, Mr. D.”

  He shook his head.

  “Careful doesn’t do it, Michael. I’m talking about being constantly defensive. There’s a thought that’s been waking me up nights.”

  He had my full attention.

  “We keep assuming they deliberately killed John McKedrick.”

  “True. What else, Mr. Devlin?”

  The look was intensifying.

  “That Friday, you were about to get into that car. What if McKedrick hadn’t started the car till you were in it?”

  Surprisingly, the thought had actually never occurred to me. Maybe I’d been unconsciously rejecting it, but once out in the open, it hit me like a linebacker from the blind side. I had no answer.

  “Think about it, Michael. It was more natural for him to wait till you got into the car to start the engine. What if John McKedrick was not the target?”

  I forced down the acid that was slowly rising out of my stomach, and put on a steady voice.

  “An interesting thought, Mr. D. But given our different lines of work, wasn’t John a much more likely target?”

  “I tell myself that at three every morning. It gives me precious little relief. What I’m saying is you watch every move you make till we get this sorted out. I want you alive and present someday at my retirement party.”

  I smiled. “I just want to be alive and present at that dinner at Locke-Ober’s.”

  That brought the first smile I’d seen on Mr. D’s face, forced or otherwise, since the world exploded.

  I woke up the next day to one of those pull-the-covers-back-over mornings. A raw, dank mist crept in from the ocean to paint everything a depressing gray. It was hard to roll out of my apartment on Beacon and Dartmouth, but after a “black eye” at Starbucks — a double shot of espresso in a cup of black coffee — my personal fog began to lift.

  Mr. D. beat me to the office. It was Saturday, but we usually worked at least a half-day. He seemed to have the nervous fidgets as we discussed questions we should ask our client.

  The phone rang about quarter of nine. Mr. D. punched on the speakerphone. His secretary, Mrs. Hansberry, announced, “Mr. Devlin, it’s the officer from Springfield.”

  “Thank you, Anne. Put him on.”

  “Mr. Devlin, this is Captain Martin.”

  I’ve never given myself credit for psychic powers, but the voice sent a chill from the tip of my spine up to the back of my neck and down again. There was the kind of tremor in the baritone voice that gave me the feeling he’d rather lock his grandmother in solitary than make this call.

  “Captain Martin. I was about to call you. Is everything all right?”

  “No, sir. Not … No, sir. I swear we did everything. We had everything covered. I can’t explain it yet, but I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  I had a feeling he was pleading his case to someone beyond Mr. Devlin, and I could just imagine who that was.

  “Bottom of what? Is Peter all right?”

  “I can’t …”

  “Say it, man. Is he all right?”

  Then the shoe fell.

  “Sir, he’s dead.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “We found him dead in his cell this morning at six o’clock. The cell door was open. His throat had been cut. Two guards were unconscious in the corridor outside the cell. We’re doing all we can, but that’s all we know right now.”

  Mr. Devlin was as stunned as I was, but he fired the right questions. “What was your prisoner count last night?”

  “Twelve. Eleven were in the main block. Mr. Santangelo was alone in protective solitary.”

  “And this morning?”

  “Full count. Counting Mr. Santangelo.”

  “How many guards were on duty last night?”

  “Two. Plus Lieutenant Lewis in the central office. We’re a smalltown lockup, Mr. Devlin. The facility’s underequipped. We took Mr. Santangelo as a favor to Mr. Coyne. We thought the primary protection was secrecy.”

  “As did we. Do you have video monitoring, Captain?”

  “Yes, we do, but—”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this, Captain.”

  “The cameras covering the main block and solitary both malfunctioned. We’re investigating now.”

  Mr. Devlin looked at me with an expression of total, hands-tied frustration.

  “Let me know as soon as you learn anything. Has the boy’s father been notified?”

  “That’s been more difficult than it sounds. There’s no listed number or address for Mr. Santangelo, sir. We’ve kept it from the press until he can be notified.”

  Mr. Devlin closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. I know he was trying to absorb the blow and cover every base at the same time. I scribbled a note and put it in front of him. He read it and asked the question.

  “Do you have the videotapes that covered the front and back entrances to the lockup?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Have you checked them? Did anyone come into the building or leave it after Mr. Santangelo arrived?”

  “That was the first thing we did. No one entered or left the building all night after you were here.”

  “And you haven’t a clue about movements of any of the other prisoners?”

  “I can only say there was a full count in each cell last night and this morning. All cells were locked during that period. As I said, the videos in the—”

  “Yeah, I know. Captain, you’ll be getting calls from the press in about five minutes.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Devlin. I won’t say a word.”

  “Yes, you will, Captain. You’ll tell them exactly what you’ve told me, including the fact that Mr. Santangelo was brought in last night in secrecy. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but I’ll need clearance from Mr. Santangelo.”

  “You have it. I’m his attorney.”

  As soon as he hung up, Mr. Devlin made calls to news editors at both the Globe and Herald. He also notified the three major television stations and WBZ, the major news radio station. The word was brief. Call the captain in charge of the lockup facility in the city of Springfield just west of Worcester. Be prepared for a major story.

  That done, he made the call that we could both have lived a full and happy life without experiencing. The speakerphone was on, and he left it that way when Dominic Santangelo came on the line.

  “Dominic, it’s Lex.”

  There was a heavy sigh on the other end. “I’m an old man, Lex. When you call me ‘Dominic’ instead of ‘Dom’ I know you’re going to make me older still.”

  “Did we ever pull punches with each other?”

  “No.”

  “There was a murder last night.”

  A pause, then “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, Dom.”

  There was a silence followed by one word.

  “How?”

  “It was quick, Dom. His throat was cut.”

  There was nothing but silence. Eventually, Mr. D. spoke very softly.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Dom. I wish we had more time. We have to make some plans.”

  “I’ve tried your plans, Lex. I’ve even tried your law. I don’t think they serve me very well. I’ll keep my own counsel now. Good-bye once again, Lex.”

  “Dom, this won’t go away. Before you do anything, meet with me and Matt. What can you lose? Just listen to me, and then do what you wish.”

  There was a heavy silence. We were at a fork in th
e road. Before a choice was made, Mr. Devlin spoke once more and then hung up.

  “I’m leaving now, Dom. I’ll be at Matt’s church in half an hour. I’ll wait there one hour.”

  When we pulled up in front of the Church of the Sacred Heart, there was no other car parked on the road within a block. Monsignor Ryan met us at the door and took us back to his office. Mr. Devlin excused himself to use the phone in the curate’s office while we waited. When he returned, it was still just the three of us.

  I could hear the seconds ticking on the wall clock. We had arrived at ten o’clock exactly. I knew that we’d be leaving at eleven o’clock exactly if no one showed up. I knew there was nothing left to do but listen to the ticking and pray. I also knew that if we left that office without some agreement with Mr. Santangelo, there would be a bloodbath across the streets of Boston and beyond that would dwarf the mob wars of the sixties.

  At one minute past eleven o’clock. Mr. Devlin rose out of his chair. He looked — and I’d never thought of this word in connection with him — defeated.

  “Thank you, Matt. It’s in God’s hands now.”

  “It always was, Lex.”

  We reached the office door, when the phone rang. Monsignor Ryan picked it up, said “Hello,” and handed the receiver across to Mr. Devlin.

  Mr. Devlin listened for a minute and simply said, “We’ll wait.”

  We sat again without saying anything further. In about five minutes, the door opened and Mr. Santangelo came in. His complexion was gray, and there were no smiles. He stood just inside the door opposite Mr. Devlin.

  “So, Lex. I’m here to listen.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Dom. I wasn’t sure you’d give my way a chance.”

  “He didn’t. I did.”

  The voice that came from the door behind Mr. Santangelo startled us all. There was a slender, dark-haired younger man looking intently at Mr. Devlin. Their eyes were locked, and when the young man approached, they came together with their arms around each other for a long moment. I couldn’t hear the words that were whispered between them, but they were soft and seemed to express an affection that had aged roots.

  When he turned back to me, Mr. Devlin said, “Michael, I’d like you to meet my godson. This is Peter Santangelo.”