Black Diamond (23 page)

With as little movement as possible, I reached into my coat pocket for my cell phone. I used 411 in a whisper and got a connection to Paddy Boyle. The thug in the hall was so into his weak connection with Ireland that he couldn't hear me.

I can seldom remember being more relieved to hear a human voice on the other end of a phone line. Boyle was his usual gracious self.

“Yeah. What?”

I said in the loudest voice I could muster, “This is Michael Knight. Just stay on the line, Mr. Boyle. You're going to hear something interesting.”

That time the thug in the hallway heard me. He came back into the bedroom with the rifle aimed at my left eye. I recognized him as one of the men at the bar in Boyle's pub.

I held my cell phone up to him. I knew Boyle could hear everything we said. I put it on speaker.

“It's for you. It's your boss. It's Paddy Boyle. You work for him, don't you? I've seen you in the pub. What's your name?”

“What the hell're you talkin' about? Gimme that thing.”

He grabbed for it, but I pulled it back to get a few more words in. Truth be told, I was stalling for a miracle.

“No name, eh? Mr. Boyle'll know you anyway. About thirty, six feet, sandy curly hair, Red Sox T-shirt with Johnny Damon. Scar on the right side of your face.”

I could hear Boyle screaming into the phone, “Casey! Is that you? What the hell's goin' on over there?”

Casey, if that was his name, was stymied. With Boyle on an open phone, and me narrating a situation that he clearly did not want to have to explain to Boyle, he didn't know if he was afoot or on horseback. But he did have that damn rifle.

I still needed time. I got Boyle to stop the flow of obscenities long enough to get in a word.

“Mr. Boyle. Your man, Casey, here says he'd like a word with you. Shall I put him on?”

What he said in more flavorful words came down to, “Put him on!”

I held the phone out to Casey. He looked at it as if it were a coiled cobra. He couldn't refuse Boyle. He grabbed the phone, but there was no time to speak. The gravel in the road in front of the house growled with the skidding sound of cars pulling up in front of the house. I knew in my heart that they were Winthrop police cars. I also knew they were there because of Tom Burns's call.

I raised my head enough to see out the window facing the beach. Armed uniformed police were running up the beach side toward the back and both sides of the house.

Casey dropped the phone. Whatever he feared from Boyle was trumped by the closing circle of police. He bolted down the stairs and ran through a side door into the narrow space between houses. He covered less than twenty feet before he was boxed in by police with weapons drawn.

It took another fifteen minutes to carefully untie and ungag the three girls. There was no time for the comforting they needed. While they threw some clothes into suitcases, I took Kelty downstairs to wash the blood off the cut on his head, and show him with hugs and treats what I thought of him. I blocked out the thought of what would have happened if he hadn't found them in that bedroom.

At some point, the thought of the pre-trial conference with Judge Peragallo penetrated through everything else going on in my mind. I called Julie. In the most unperturbed voice I could manage, I asked her to see if Mr. Devlin could have the hearing put off until the next morning.

The five of us piled into Terry's Escalade, thrown-together luggage and all. I figured at that point we could drive direct without evasive action. It wasn't likely that either gang could get a tail on us that fast.

Two hours later, we were deep in the pine woods of New Hampshire on the dirt road that led to my family cottage on Milton Pond. We had picked up food and other supplies for an indefinite stay on the way through the town of Milton. The cottage had been recently winterized for stays through cold weather, and if seclusion was a key factor, it had it in spades.

I stayed while the girls were settling in with unpacking and planning something to eat. Little Erin was with Kelty on the beach in front of the cottage making a sand castle.

I stressed a few final points with Terry and Colleen before leaving. No phone calls out on the cottage phone. No charges on credit cards. Both of those could be traced. If I had to call, I'd let it ring twice, hang up, and call again. Answer no other calls. I'd have a trusted friend from town deliver a rental car in the morning so they could get into the town of Milton for shopping, but no farther.

They took it in like troopers. By the time I was ready to leave, the morale in their little group seemed astoundingly good, considering what had happened within the previous four hours. There were kisses and hugs all around, including Kelty.

Terry walked me to her car, which I'd be using to get back to my Corvette. We just held on to each other with no words for a long time. I know we were both wondering if life would ever give us a time together to just feel love for each other in unbroken peace. We could only hope and pray for it some day. But not this night.

The next morning, I decided to use the two-ring code to call the Milton cottage. The girls were into pancakes and New Hampshire blueberries and coming through like troopers.

The most definite word I had to give them was to hold tight until I called them with the all clear. Only the Lord knew when that would be.

I could hear the worry in Terry's voice that could only come from a deeper love than I deserved, considering what I'd put her through. I made a mental note on the balance sheet that I owed her love and peace by the ton. The former I could promise. The latter, for the moment, was out of my hands.

Julie's cell phone message told me that the pretrial conference before Judge Peragallo was set for nine thirty. I had breakfast in a little hole-in-the-wall on Arch Street that I'd never been in before—just to break any routine that could have been noticed. I entered the courthouse through the jurors' entrance, thanks to a buddy on the security desk. It started me wondering where the line was between caution and paranoia.

Our little menagerie gathered in the judge's chambers with His Honor presiding from behind a magnificent walnut desk. Judge Peragallo was young for the bench—mid-thirties, but something of a wunderkind as a trial lawyer. He had the reputation for shooting straight down the middle. He could match any lawyer in front of him in intelligence, and he had caught on quickly to the subtle tricks
of older practitioners who walked into his courtroom with an eye to playing on the youthfulness suggested by his boyish features. They frequently walked out with their heads tucked under their arms. He was nobody's fool.

The cast of characters included: Mr. Devlin and myself on the side of right and justice, and D.A. Angela Lamb and Billy Coyne representing the prosecution.

The judge set a brisk tone after barely clearing the good mornings.

“Counsel, when can we bring this to trial? Keep in mind, we have a man sitting in jail.”

Angela, never one to let a point pass unscored, was on her feet as if a spring came through her chair.

“Your Honor—”

“No need to stand, Ms. Lamb. We're in chambers.”

She was down as fast as she'd been up. What she lacked in courtroom savvy, she made up in obsequiousness.

“Your Honor, the people, as always, are on the side of swift justice. The people stand ready—”

I'd been before Judge Peragallo before. I'd noticed that when he got the slightest whiff of bull crap, his eyelids came down slightly and his level of intolerance climbed on a steep vertical curve. He spoke softly, but the edge was there.

“Ms. Lamb, the people are out doing whatever the people do on a Tuesday. Let's keep this thing real. What does the D.A. want?”

Angela flushed as if she were in an instant tanning salon. Bluff and posturing were clearly her best, if not only weapons. They generally served her well. In fact, she was likely to ride those two qualities into the next higher elected office as long as Billy Coyne was competently sitting first chair for the district attorney's office in the courtroom.

Mr. Devlin stepped into the breach before Billy could come to her rescue.

“If I may, Your Honor—”

“You may, Mr. Devlin. Please.”

“Thank you. I imagine our esteemed district attorney was about to claim readiness to try this case in the next five minutes. That would give us swiftness. I'm afraid it would be a far cry from justice. There are complications. May I point out one of them.”

“I'm all ears, Mr. Devlin.”

“Then perhaps Your Honor would entertain a motion. The defense would like to move for disclosure of the names and addresses of every eyewitness to this so-called murder the prosecution intends to call.”

Angela was still off balance and this nearly tipped her out of the chair. Her personal need to recoup face trumped her greater need to call in reinforcements, to wit, Billy Coyne. Her voice rose half an octave.

“Your Honor, that's out of order. We've had no notice that this would be turned into a motion session. There are matters of security, protection of witnesses. We're not prepared—”

Mr. Devlin cut in. “No, Your Honor, I can see that Ms. Lamb is, as she says, not prepared.”

Mr. Devlin was leaning back in his chair with a composure that nicely counterbalanced Angela's increasing flustration, to coin a word. Billy Coyne had lines in his forehead that projected near panic at what the loose canon in a pantsuit to his right might say next. Judge Peragallo was reading every expression with a faint but increasing smile. He looked to Mr. Devlin with anticipation.

“Well, Judge, I'll take her off the hook. If witness security is her worry, I'll withdraw the motion.”

Angela almost sighed in relief. Judge Peragallo's focus remained locked on Mr. Devlin as if he knew that that was not the last shoe to drop.

“On condition, Judge, that the district attorney play fair with this court and the defense and admit here and now that she has no witness
whatsoever who can testify to what caused Mr. Ryan to plummet out of that saddle. Surely that doesn't put any prospective witness in jeopardy.”

Judge Peragallo's smile was in full flower when his attention shifted back to Angela. His distaste for officiousness was matched by his appreciation for a subtle, legitimate ploy of counsel.

“Ms. Lamb, the ball would appear to be in your court.”

She got as far as a strained, “Your Honor—” when Billy launched a lifeboat—more for the case than for his superior.

“Judge, do you mind if I make a request?”

Judge Peragallo seemed to welcome getting the case back in the hands of two professional trial counsel.

“I wouldn't mind a bit. I might even welcome it.”

“Perhaps not when you hear it. I know you have a full docket. May we have just five minutes for a brief conference?”

“You may. Take ten minutes if we can get this case scheduled for trial.”

Billy all but took Angela's arm and led her out of chambers and down the corridor. Mr. Devlin and I followed them outside. We gave them some distance to get their act together. It was a study in body language to see Angela's arms flailing while Billy applied soothing, calming hand motions to quell her little tantrum. In a matter of minutes, Angela's steam had been expended, and Billy seemed to be doing the talking. Eventually she gave Billy a rigid nod, and they headed in our direction. Billy took Lex aside, but I could hear their conversation.

“You got your point across to the judge, Lex. What do you want out of this?”

“We need three weeks. Why the hell not? Other than Angela's grandstanding, there's no reason to rush it. Vasquez is not going anywhere. Let's get the right result out of this case.”

“All right. Let's go back in.”

I stopped Billy before they opened the door. “Mr. Coyne. We need to talk about things that can't be said here.”

He looked at me, for the first time I could recall, more as if I was an attorney than a gofer on a high school summer job.

“When?”

“It has to be today. Lunch?”

He looked questioningly at Mr. Devlin.

Mr. Devlin picked it up. “The Marliave, Billy. Noon. And yes, the tabs on me. Next time you pick it up, or I'm going to claim you as a dependent.”

Our little troop marched back into the judge's chambers. The judge seemed relieved when Billy did the talking for the prosecution.

“Defense has no motion on the table, Judge. We agree to trial in three weeks.”

The judge slapped the desk in approval as he bolted upright and headed for his courtroom.

“Done, gentlemen—and lady. Three weeks.”

Tony took our lunch orders in the upstairs private room of the Marliave. As always, we left the choice and personal preparation of food to his culinary talents. His friendship with Mr. Devlin went back a couple of decades. Tony's son and another teen-ager had pulled an ill-advised heist of a delicatessen in the North End that netted them more cash than they thought existed in the world. Unfortunately, they had tapped into a drop site for the Boston Mafia's numbers racket for the week. The police were the least of the kids' worries.

Mr. Devlin used some personal contacts with that North End organization. He arranged to have the money returned with no pulverized kneecaps. From that day on, neither Mr. D. nor anyone in his company had ever seen a printed menu at the Marliave. We were like guests in Tony's home, and no other hand touched the preparation of the delectable repasts he set before us.

An added feature was that when Tony had served us and closed the door on the way out, we had privacy that I would trust beyond anything the FBI could offer.

Once served, Billy began the veal and pasta and the conversation at the same time.

“And so, gentlemen. What's this superb lunch going to cost me?”

Mr. Devlin set the agenda in clear terms.