David Hosp - Among Thieves

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “I think you’re just guessing.”

He shook his head bitterly. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

“Like you said, it was a test.”

“So, what’d I get, like a C?”

“It was pass/fail.”

“And?”

She hesitated before she answered. “I’ll get back to you.”

Special Agent Robert Hewitt sat in his car, watching the activity at the Body Shop from across the street. Things had quieted down, and now those who remained were loitering, mainly. They stood around, smoking cigarettes or leaning against their cars, cracking jokes as they waited for the bodies to be rolled out. He’d watched as the detectives pulled away, and he was tempted to go back in to get another good look. He was sure that no one who remained would have the balls to force him out without Sanchez there, but his presence would draw too much attention, and too many people on the force would start to ask questions. That would make his life more difficult.

He took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

“Yes,” the man answering the line said.

“It’s me.”

“And?”

“Murphy’s dead.”

“How?”

“How do you think?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. He was beaten. Badly.”

“Tortured?”

“That’s a reasonable conclusion based on what I saw. And there was a message written next to the body.”

“What was it?”

“‘The Storm.’”

“That’s our boy. Have there been any others yet?”

“Not that I know of. Murphy’s bodyguard was killed, but he’s not involved, and he wasn’t tortured. Maybe there won’t be any others at all.” As Hewitt spoke, the coroner’s assistants wheeled two gurneys out of the Body Shop. They were laughing as they slid the body bags into the van.

“There will be others. Otherwise, why send the message?”

“If so, then we don’t know who they are yet. I haven’t heard about anything else that matches what was done here, and I would have heard about it.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Stay on top of it. This is the break we’ve been looking for.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I think it’s time for me to be more involved. I’m coming to Boston.”

It took Finn nearly an hour to make the two-and-a-half-mile journey from Nashua Street to Fenway Park. Normally the drive would have taken fifteen minutes, but it was Patriots’ Day and the streets were packed.

Patriots’ Day, which marks the battles of Lexington and Concord in 1775, is celebrated only in Boston. It’s one of three smug local holidays intended to remind an indifferent world of Boston ’s place in American history. For all the city’s parochial pride, however, few Americans would have heard of Lexington and Concord were it not for Schoolhouse Rock. Even worse, few Bostonians have any idea what Patriots’ Day is intended to celebrate. They do know, though, that it means an extra day off, and it’s the day on which the Boston Marathon is run every year. It’s also a day the Boston Red Sox play a special morning game at Fenway Park. The holiday causes mayhem in the city, as people line the streets early, and the bars are packed by midmorning.

Finn parked at the edge of the Fens, close to the Back Bay, in a lot owned by a client. He’d called ahead to reserve a space, knowing that otherwise there was little chance of finding anyplace to leave his car. By the time he’d pushed his way through the carnival atmosphere around Fenway Park it was nearing noon. When he found his seat next to Tom Kozlowski and Lissa Krantz two rows behind the Red Sox dugout, Boston was leading six-nothing in the fourth inning.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, squeezing into his seat.

“Your loss,” Kozlowski replied. He was a butcher’s block of a man in his early fifties, with a bold, carved face marred by a long scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to the bottom of his ear. He was dressed in cheap polyester slacks and a sport coat Goodwill would have turned down. Blue collar through and through, he’d spent a quarter of a century in the Boston Police Department, most of it in homicide, before he was pushed out and became a private detective. The cop inside him wouldn’t let go, though. He worked out of a small office in the brownstone in Charlestown where Finn had his law practice, and did enough work for Finn that they loosely considered themselves partners. “You missed a few good innings,” Kozlowski said.

“I said I was sorry.”

“I heard you.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Problem is, you’re late. We been coming to this game ever since you started the firm. It’s a tradition.”

“I only started the firm a couple of years ago,” Finn pointed out.

“Even worse. New traditions are fragile.”

“Quit your bitching and watch the game,” Lissa said. She was a small, attractive, razor-tongued woman in her mid-thirties, with thick dark hair and a strong jaw. She’d worked as a paralegal for Finn while attending law school at night, and since graduating and passing the bar the previous year had been taken on by Finn as an associate. She was wearing capri pants and a cashmere sweater that had probably cost more than Finn paid her in a month; she came from that kind of money. She and Kozlowski had been dating for over a year, and Finn couldn’t imagine a stranger couple. The thickness of their skins and their physical attraction to each other seemed the only things they had in common. Apparently that was enough.

“You’re the one who’s been bitching about him for the past hour,” Kozlowski said to her. “Don’t play all innocent.”

“I’ve never played innocent.”

Kozlowski grunted. “True enough.” To Finn he asked, “Where were you, anyway?”

“ Nashua Street.”

“New client?”

“Maybe. Old acquaintance; we need to talk about whether he’s gonna be a client.”

“Anyone I would know?”

“You remember Devon Malley?” Finn asked.

“From Southie? The thief?”

“That’s the guy. You know much about him?”

Kozlowski shook his head. “Not really. He had a rep for a while, but it died. He was basically a minor player.”

A beer vendor passed in front of them in the aisle. Lissa put her fingers in her mouth and gave a deafening whistle. It was loud enough to startle the young man, and he nearly dropped his tray. “Yo! Three over here!” she yelled.

Finn put a finger in his ear and gave a pained shake. “Is that really necessary?”

“Jesus, you’re a pansy,” she replied. She pulled out her purse and found a twenty.

“You sure you don’t want me to get these?” Finn asked. “It’s a work function.”

“Keep your wallet in your pants, boss. I’ve got more money than you.”

“True. But still…”

She looked at him. “You really want to pay?”

“Not really, no.”

“Fine. Then shut up.”

Finn smiled at Kozlowski, who just shrugged. “So, what did Devon get pinched for?” the ex-cop asked.

“Robbery,” Finn answered.

“No shit, that’s what he does. You wanna be a little more specific?”

“Not really.” Finn took a sip of his beer. “He was robbing a clothing store,” he said after a moment.

“Allegedly,” Lissa tossed in.

“Good girl,” Finn said. “Allegedly.”

“How allegedly?” Kozlowski asked.

Finn shrugged. “The police walked in on him in the store at midnight holding a bunch of women’s lingerie,” he admitted.

Kozlowski shook his head. “That’s not very allegedly. It’s gonna be hard for him to live that down.”