Brian Mcgrory - Dead Line

I couldn’t see the cops’ faces, but I did see that the driver rolled down her window.

“We’ve got a courtside seat to an honest to goodness turf battle,” Sweeney said, sounding at once interested and amused.

I looked at him quizzically.

“Feds verses Boston PD,” he said, by way of elaboration, “right here in front of you.”

This was somewhere far beyond intriguing, given that I hadn’t said a word to Sweeney yet about my suspicions of FBI involvement, not because I was holding out, but just because I had no idea where this was going.

I asked, “How do you know those guys are Feds?”

He acted angry in that way he sometimes does, even when he’s not. “Look at them, for chrissakes,” he replied, his voice louder now. “Who the hell else do you know wears a suit jacket when they’re driving in a car?”

Good point. I guess nobody. I said, “So they’re FBI.” It was as much a question as a statement of fact.

“Bet your ass,” he said, his tone still angry. Then, calmer, “Straight out of central casting.” I could all but picture him munching on a large bucket of popcorn as he watched the unfolding show.

I turned my attention back to the battle at hand. Nobody looked particularly happy. This wasn’t a collection of lawmen — and — woman — swapping war stories from the trenches, maybe giving one another the needle, talking about the fragile state of modern America when a pretty young woman can be savaged in a downtown parking garage. No, these people looked to have the personalities of professional golfers.

One of them reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out — a gun? No — a sheet of paper. He deliberately unfolded it and handed it to the driver.

With that, the van doors opened. The driver got out and inspected the sheet. The second cop, the passenger, came around the vehicle, his two G-men escorts in tow. He, too, pulled a rumpled sheet of paper out of his back pocket, unfolded it in greater haste than his federal counterpart, and shoved it into the hands of a man who looked to be the FBI ringleader. For a long moment, everyone stood around reading the two sheets of paper. I wish newspapers attracted that much attention in the age of cable television. What we had was a certifiable standoff.

“What are they doing?” I asked Sweeney. Sweeney, by the way, is a man of monstrous proportions, not like a hippo, but more solid, like a bear. When I looked over at him, I saw he had a tiny pair of field glasses tucked under the bill of his Boston Red Sox cap and was peering intently at the proceedings.

“Dueling warrants,” he said, the binoculars still pressed against his black, shiny face. “This could get real interesting.”

I asked, “Why do they need warrants to get into a dead woman’s house?”

“Maybe they don’t, unless she’s living in there with someone who might be a suspect — a husband, or a boyfriend, or a roommate of some sort. You know if she’s married?”

“Don’t think so. I checked the property records online before I came over, and she’s the sole owner.”

“Then like I said, boyfriend or roommate.”

Outside, the female cop pulled the radio off her belt, turned her back on the assembled crowd, and made some sort of call, I assumed to headquarters. Not to be outdone, the FBI ringleader, virtually indistinguishable from his colleagues, pulled a tiny cellular telephone out of the breast pocket of his suit, took two steps in the other direction, and made a call to God knows where. It could have been the attorney general of the United States, the way this thing was looking. Now that would be a good story.

“Who they calling?” I asked.

“You think I read minds or lips?” Sweeney replied. Okay, good point. I just thought he might have been in a similar predicament at some point in his long law enforcement career.

Sweeney, you see, is of the Boston Police Department homicide unit, retired, a lieutenant when the gold watch finally came. I met him a year ago, when my newspaper was under a takeover threat and my publisher was shot to death. We did each other an enormous favor, and from that, I think we’re entwined for life. He moved back to Boston from a retirement home in one of those wretched little towns in Florida, and is now making a small fortune telling people things about police departments that they wouldn’t otherwise know. For me, he does it for free. He thinks he owes me. I do nothing to dissuade him of the notion.

“Here we go,” he said.

As he said this, another unmarked cruiser gunned up Mount Vernon Street and jammed on the brakes behind the FBI sedan, which sat behind the police van. A man in a shirt and tie, carrying a sport jacket over his shoulder, got out and walked determinedly into the crowd.

“Fed or cop?” I asked.

Sweeney put his glasses down and looked over at me like I had just fallen face-first off a beaten-up turnip truck.

“He’s carrying his jacket,” he said loud, his voice soaked with aggravation. “Of course he’s a cop.”

As if to prove the point, the cop in question grabbed the federal warrant, read it for all of nine seconds, and handed it back. Immediately, he began jawing with the FBI ringleader.

Do they have free refills here on the large sodas?

Then came another car from the other direction. Two guys wearing their jackets — Feds, I’d hazard a guess — got out and walked into the crowd. People were pointing fingers, raising voices, gesticulating wildly.

Sweeney said, “You mind me asking why you give a damn about this murder?”

“Can’t tell you,” I replied. “Not because I can’t tell you, but because I don’t really know. I think it’s connected to something else, and this whole scene confirms my beliefs.”

Interesting as all this was, it wasn’t getting me what I needed, which was to find out if Hilary Kane could have in some way been connected to the heist. And if she was, then did my story in that morning’s paper get her murdered? It was nearing noon. I had a lot of work to do, and the sands of time were pouring through the hourglass of life.

“I’m going over,” I said, putting my hand on the door handle.

“You’re what?” Sweeney asked me this loudly, but he was more amused than upset.

“Public street. I’m allowed.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

With that, I opened the door and stepped out. We were about ten cars down from the action, so nobody took any notice. I walked down the middle of the street toward the assembled crowd, which now consisted of precisely six FBI agents and three Boston police detectives, not to mention the two patrol officers who were at that moment pulling up in a cruiser, though I guess I just did. I had a legal pad in my hand and a pen in my pocket.

“Possession is nine-fucking-tenths of the law, and we’ve got it.” That was the Boston PD detective in the necktie, fairly shouting his lucid analysis into the reddened face of the FBI ringleader.

“The other tenth is this warrant, and that fucking trumps it.” That was the FBI agent, providing his equally lucid response.

Several of the underlings on both sides of the warrant divide looked over at me warily as I approached, probably wondering if yet another agency was about to get involved.

I gave them my most sheepish, party-crashing smile and said, “Morning. I’m Jack Flynn from the Record. Just trying to get the lay of the land out here.”

I heard an FBI agent, the late-arriving supervisor, mutter, “Fuck.” Two of the other well-dressed agents cut me off as I continued to walk, such that we were chest to chests.

I caught the gaze of the Boston supervisor, who gave me some sort of knowing look, and already, without knowing why, I was on his side.