Читать книгу Measure Of Darkness - Chris Jordan, Chris Jordan - Страница 14

Chapter Six

Why Murder Is like Real Estate

An invitation to meet a source at a certain upscale lounge on Boylston Street means dressing for the occasion. In this case, for Jack Delancey, that means slightly down. He has changed into an off-the-rack JoS. A. Bank blue blazer, one that dry-cleans easily, and a pair of light, cotton twill dress slacks with knife-sharp creases. Top-Sider shoes, ever so slightly scuffed, because the outfit is already kind of boaty, so why not go all the way?

Upon entering the retail area of the cigar store, Jack is waved past the bar and through into the lounge. Not a large venue by any means, but nicely furnished, and one of the few places in the city where a man—or a woman, for that matter—can legally enjoy an alcoholic beverage and a tobacco product at the same time, in a nonfurtive manner. The source awaits him, puffing on a fat Padron Maduro, a snifter of port at his side. He doesn’t bother to rise. “Hey, Jacko. Very sporty.”

Jack adjusts his slacks and takes a seat in a very comfortable leather chair, not far from the fireplace, directly opposite the source. “Captain Tolliver, my pleasure.”

Glenn Tolliver, a captain of detectives with the Massachusetts State Police, chuckles. “If we’re going to be formal, guess I’ll have to address you as Special Asshole in Charge.”

“Special Asshole, Retired. Or resigned. I’m too young to retire, right?”

“You smokin’ tonight, kid?”

“That’s a Padron 1926 you got there? What is it, thirty-five bucks?”

“A little more. Live a little—I already started your tab. The way I figure, if I’m going for the most expensive drink in the joint, I might as well have the most expensive cigar. Especially if my hotshot pal from the private sector is paying.”

“So, how is the port?”

“Excellent. Dow’s 30 Year, Tawny. Maybe when I’m retired or resigned, or whatever it is you are, I’ll be able to afford a place like this. You think your boss would hire me?”

“Wouldn’t count on it.”

“Not as long as she has you, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

Jack decides what the hell, he should be able to expense this somehow, so he orders what Tolliver is having. Soon enough they’re puffing like a couple of locomotives, snug in the luxuriant stink of fine tobacco, and Jack thinks, not for the first time, that sometimes in life you get what you pay for. Which in this case includes a high-ranking detective in the state police. No one has dared call him Piggy (on account of his slightly upturned nose) since his days as a linebacker for Boston College. In his mid-forties now, and somewhat florid of face, Tolliver still has the military bearing of a uniform trooper, and the cool, calculating eyes of a man who has observed the worst of human behavior, from careless murder to child abuse. As is so often the case, his response has been to develop a sense of humor so deep and dark and apparently careless that it can frighten civilians.

“Ah,” says Tolliver, exuding a plume of smoke from the pricey cigar. “Thank God the man got murdered on the left side of the river. If it was Boston we couldn’t touch it. Murder is like real estate: location, location, location.”

“I’m sure the good professor was happy to oblige.”

“Poor bastard. All those brains and they end up all over the floor.”

“You put eyes on the scene?”

“Always, Jack. I need to see it for myself. What better way to work up an appetite? So what’s your interest in the croak?”

“Croak? Is that new?”

“Word up, dude,” Tolliver says, affecting a much younger voice. “Got it off a paramedic who looks to be about twelve years old. He says, and I quote, ‘Excuse me, sir, but when can we move the croak?’”

“Kids these days.”

“Yeah. So? Your interest?”

“The big guy.”

Tolliver sits up a little straighter. “No shit? Randall goddamn Shane. I should have known. You probably knew him since the Academy, eh?”

“Exactly that long. How’d you get onto him so quick?”

“Wait, hold on now, you wouldn’t be harboring a fugitive, would you? Doing a favor for an old friend?”

“No, I would not.”

“Swear on your little black book?”

“My little black book went away when I married Eileen, but yes, I swear.”

“Because I couldn’t help you there. Other than to suggest you counsel the suspect to surrender himself posthaste.”

“Posthaste?”

“I have an education. Nuns gave their lives, and their rulers.”

Jack purses his lips, thinking over his next move. “Okay, here it is. I’ll tell you everything I know about where Shane might be if you’ll share why you want him for this.”

The state police detective sits back, smoking luxuriantly and thinking it over, or pretending to. All part of the tease because they both knew they were going to share before entering the premises, or the meet would not have taken place, certainly not on Jack’s dime.

“It was all very convenient,” Tolliver begins. “The tip came down from on high.”

“How high?”

“Not God himself, but close. A heads-up to be on the lookout for this former federal agent who had been observed entering and exiting the home of the victim.”

“The professor was under surveillance? Why?”

“I believe the term ‘national security’ may have been uttered. No details, of course. Other than that if we do pick him up we’re supposed to turn him over to the feds immediately.”

“What agency?”

“The notification came through Homeland. Which as you know doesn’t necessarily mean it originated there. Homeland can be a communication conduit for almost any other government agency, even those it doesn’t actively manage, like FBI and CIA.”

“And this tipster specified a local motel where Shane might be conveniently located?”

Tolliver is decidedly not amused. “Tell me that wasn’t you torching the vehicle.”

“It wasn’t me,” Jack says, pleased that he can be honest, at least in a technical sense. “Glenn, you should know I did have contact with your suspect later on in the day, before he was apprehended.”

“Apprehended? Like hell. I’d know if we had him in custody.”

“Not by you. Apprehended by others. Guys in black ski masks, very professional.”

The captain of detectives looks startled, then quickly regains some of his humor, shaking his head ruefully. “What do you know, they got there first. I can tell this is going to be a good one. What’s your interest? I mean besides the fact that you and the suspect were Academy sweethearts.”

“Mostly that. You know about his wife and kid?”

“I read the file, Jack.”

“Well, some of us keep an eye on Shane, help out when we can. He’s one of the good guys.”

“Yeah? If he’s so good what does that make the victim? One of the bad guys? And if we didn’t put your pal in cuffs, exactly who did?”

Jack, who has learned to balance his boss’s orders with the practicalities of maintaining access to various law enforcement agencies, decides to tell the captain of detectives what happened, mostly. He does so succinctly and without elaboration, as if writing a police report. By the time he gets to the end, Tolliver is openly gaping.

“Holy shit, a black helicopter? For real?”

“Figure of speech. No idea what color the thing actually was. But I swear you could barely hear it. Some kind of stealth version.”

“Still, I thought that was an urban legend.”

“Apparently not.”

“And they never showed a warrant?”

“Never said a word. Slam, bam, not even a ‘thank you, ma’am.’”

“Your boss must be freaked.”

“Naomi doesn’t freak.”

Tolliver shrugs, as if he doesn’t quite believe it. “So I heard. Good for her. Must be kind of weird, working for a female, huh?”

“Not weird at all.”

“No?”

Jack shakes his head, enough already.

Tolliver sighs. “Hey, one of these days maybe you’ll wangle me an invitation. I’d love to see the inside of that place.”

Jack changes the subject. “Long way around, Shane was not the shooter. That’s a definite. He’s that rarest of things, an innocent man.”

Tolliver snorts. “Nobody is innocent in this world, least of all Randall Shane. We have a garment with blood on it. A shirt, extra large, 17-inch neck, 37-inch sleeves. The shirt would fit your average gorilla. It has discernible splatter on the right sleeve, indicative of proximity to a gunshot. It will take a while, lab work being what it is, but I’ll bet you a bottle of this port that the blood belongs to the vic and the garment links to Mr. Shane.”

“No bet. You’re probably correct about the matchups but there’s an explanation: the shirt was deliberately used in the crime, donned by the real shooter and then planted. And if Shane never got back into his motel room, how did it get there?”

“Working on that. It’s not only the garment, which you already knew about from the detectives on scene, and don’t think I didn’t know that. There’s something else. Something way better.”

“Oh?” says the former FBI agent, the little hairs stirring on the back of his well-barbered neck.

“We have the murder weapon, Jack. Registered to your pal, and his prints are all over it.”

“What? Where?”

“Located behind a Dumpster on the same block. Like he tried to chuck it away and threw it a little too far.”

“Shit,” says Jack.

“Very deep shit,” the detective agrees, puffing happily on his forty-dollar cigar.