Deadly Diamonds (4 page)

These three were as unlikely a match as any that could be cast in Hollywood. Two had survived the teenage street fights of a tough Charlestown neighborhood of Irish immigrants. One of those two had become a highly ranked boxer before being called by God to fight for souls in the uniform of the Church. The other took his passion for battle to the arena of the courtroom.

And then there was the third, Dominic Santangelo, the kid from the North End of Boston, the third musketeer who had shared the “one for all, and all for one” code during Matt Ryan's rise through the ranks of boxing, until life's crossroads forced a decision on Mr. Santangelo that splintered the brotherhood. Mr. Santangelo had chosen the path of a different brotherhood and had risen to be the former reigning don of the Boston family of
La Cosa Nostra
.

There had, in fact, been a forty-year moratorium on the bonds among the men in that room, until, as Monsignor Ryan liked to put it, God produced a crisis in Mr. Santangelo's life that brought them together in an embrace that was cheered in Heaven. That was one year ago. Once again now, the embraces were rekindled, the toasts were made, and the business at hand was faced. I sat to the side and let Mr. Devlin broach the question.

“Dominic, the last time we sat in these chairs, you made a decision. You vowed to pull out of the business you'd followed those forty years. As far as I know, you've kept that vow.”

“Do you need to ask, Lex?”

“No, I don't. I trust you the way I trusted that scrawny little Italian kid who barreled into a fight on the side of me and Matt, how many, fifty years ago, give or take? And that makes this difficult.”

Monsignor Ryan knew what was coming, but Mr. Santangelo leaned in with concern in his eyes. He raised his open hands.

“There's nothing you can't ask me, Lex.”

“I hope that's true, Dominic, because I'm going to ask you to go back to the people you knew in that life and help me make peace.”

There was no hint of retraction of the offer of help, but there were lines of concern at the suggestion of recrossing bridges that must have been burned in his withdrawal from another life. Mr. Devlin laid out all that I had brought to him that morning, including the discovery of the body and its condition. Nothing was held back.

“The boy says he made a mistake, Dominic. A stupid mistake, but didn't we at that age? I don't speak for his father. His father's troubles are of his own making. I leave him where I find him.”

I watched the face of Mr. Santangelo and tried to read what was behind those eyes. If I saw more to the story than young O'Byrne was disclosing, what must a man who had lived the life of mob treachery have been reading into it?

“The car is gone, Dominic. That's in the hands of the police, but that's just a matter of money. The father'll make up the financial loss.”

Mr. Santangelo stood and walked a few steps in thought. When he turned back, he seemed to be fighting something inside.

“Lex, we just drank wine to a new day of trust between us. It's a trust that has cost me more dearly than even you could know.”

“If you have regrets, Dominic—”

“Hear me, Lex. I won't dishonor the toast we just drank.” His eyes were now burning into those of Mr. Devlin. “And I'll demand the same of you.”

Mr. Devlin was on his feet. “I don't understand.”

“You don't, Lex? You don't? Then let me say it clearly. There's nothing you can't ask me as a brother. But you don't ask as a brother. You give me this story that I don't think you believe yourself. This poor little eighteen-year-old boy with his little juvenile pranks. This is the son of a man who would have killed me in a breath if I had let my guard down over the last forty years.”

“I said I don't ask for the father.”

“That's not the point!”

They were within a foot of each other. The heat and the volume were rising, and the priest was on the verge of coming between them.

“Stay there, Matt. This is a boil between Lex and myself. It has to be lanced. I need to know that Lex didn't come here to play me for a fool.”

I could see the wounding in Mr. Devlin's eyes.

“Dominic, I say before this priest we both love, in God's church, that was not my intention. I meant no deception. I heard this story not two hours ago from Michael. He was dragged into it against his will in the early hours of the morning. I have one concern and one only. It's not for O'Byrne. He's not worth the trouble. It's not even for his son, whom I've never met. We're not in kindergarten. I see the inconsistencies as clearly as you do.”

“Then why do you ask me to go back to that life? I've cut ties. Who in that Irish mob are you trying to protect?”

“None of them. They're a blight on my race.”

“Then what?”

“The peace, Dominic. The peace. Dear God, if you can't see it, who can? They're tinderboxes. My Charlestown and South Boston and your North End. If I know that, you know it better. If a shooting war breaks out over this, it's not just O'Byrne who'll suffer. The whole city will suffer. Innocent blood along with the guilty.”

They stood together for what seemed like an age. No words passed between them. Monsignor Ryan and I were totally rigid awaiting an outcome that could have gone in ten different directions, most of them bad.

Dominic Santangelo was the first to lower his eyes. His tone was softer, and he was looking at Monsignor Ryan.

“Father Ryan, I look to you not as my old friend, but as the priest. Give me your absolution. I doubted my friend. The years have made me a suspicious, untrusting old man. Tell him I was a fool. Lex Devlin has never done a deceitful thing in his life. Ask his forgiveness for me.”

I saw Mr. Devlin walk over and turn Mr. Santangelo toward him.
“You're asking me to forgive you for being human, Dominic. I'm more human than you are.”

Mr. Santangelo patted the hand on his shoulder and sat down. The crisis of confidence had passed, but the concern was still written on his face.

“What you're asking, Lex, I'm not sure I'm in a position any longer to make the peace. Some bridges have been burned beyond repair. What might have been done years ago as a matter of power—” He held up his hands. “I no longer have the power.”

“But you have the will, Dominic, and you know the players. I think you know where the hot spots are on your side. It's worth trying.”

“That much I can do. Where's the boy now?”

Mr. Devlin looked at me.

“I honestly don't know.” I thanked God I could say that with a straight face.

Mr. Santangelo smiled a knowing smile and nodded. “I'm sure you don't. My old nemesis, O'Byrne, hasn't lost a step.”

Mr. Santangelo rose and shook hands all around, mine last of all. He held my hand and looked into my eyes while he said, “You're a smart young man, Michael. Be careful of whom you trust. We have an old Italian saying, ‘If the devil were sick, the devil an angel would be.'”

CHAPTER FOUR

I'd done what I agreed to do. Beyond getting Mr. Santangelo to intercede, it was pretty much out of my hands. With that blissful, foolishly optimistic thought, I was back in my office by ten.

My indispensable secretary since my early days with my former law firm, Julie, whom I would never demean by sending her out for coffee, had a steaming cup of Starbucks' best at my desk with the
Globe
open to the Sports section.

I was savoring the glow of Rick Santee's report of the three-goal shutout our Bruins had handed the Toronto Maple Leafs the night before when Julie buzzed.

“Michael, there is one creepy guy on your line. I don't think you should take this one.”

“Julie, if I didn't take calls from creepy guys, we'd lose half our clients.”

“No. Michael. Your clients are weird. This guy is creepy. I think I'll just tell him you're out and hang up.”

“Thank you for the coffee, Julie. It's delicious. Put him through.”

“And when this turns out badly, and I say I told you so—”

“Just put him through, Julie. I have one mother. That's the quota.”

Not that I'd tell Julie or she'd screen out some of our most lucrative clients, but her instincts have always been right on. Those first words over the phone in an acutely Irish brogue, “Mr. Knight, I have a message from Kevin O'Byrne,” sent an icicle straight up my spine.

“And whom might I be talking to?”

“You're talking to someone who's telling you that Kevin is not available to tell you himself. I'll give you the message.”

“Just for the sake of credibility, what does ‘not available' mean?”

“It means that the young Mr. O'Byrne wants to meet with you, you being his lawyer and all. You can ask him yourself.”

No lawyer could have framed an answer giving less information. The tone suggested that there was no water in that well.

“Where does he want to meet?”

“He'll be at the benches across from Kelly's Roast Beef on Revere Beach Parkway at midnight. Do you know the place?”

“I do.”

“Then I'll say good morning to you with one last word. He has something rather delicate to say to you. Be alone.”

I was tempted to ask, “And will he be alone?” but nothing in the conversation so far suggested that I'd get the truth.

I spent the rest of the afternoon asking myself why in the name of sanity I'd get more involved in this thing. The extent of my representation of the highly questionable Kevin O'Byrne ended with our laying his problem in the lap of Dominic Santangelo. The answer to my question came around four that afternoon when Mr. Devlin called me down to his office.

He was on the phone when I walked in. He nodded me into my usual chair facing his desk and hit the speaker button. I recognized the cantankerous voice of the predominant source of professionalism in Boston's District Attorney's Office. Billy Coyne was of Mr. Devlin's vintage. Their frequent jousts on the field of honorable combat, i.e., the criminal justice court, had bred an unusual bond of respect—even affection—that showed through their constant exchanges of verbal jibes.

“Michael's here, Billy. I'll let you break the news. You're on speaker.”

“Hello, kid.”

If I live to be a hundred and win appointment to the United States Supreme Court, I'll never outgrow Mr. Coyne's epithet, “kid.”

“Hello, Mr. Coyne. What news?”

“I understand you represent Kevin O'Byrne.”

I held my hands up in mock shock to Mr. Devlin. I was unaware of any representation, or desire for representation, beyond what I'd done. Nevertheless—

“And if that's true, Mr. Coyne?”

“Lex, is your boy getting cagey here?”

“He's not my boy, Billy. He's my partner. He can speak for himself.”

“Then speak, kid. Do you represent him or not?”

There was no point in hedging. He had me curious.

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Then I'll give you the courtesy of a heads-up. Your client's just been indicted.”

“Interesting. For what?”

“For murder. Salvatore Barone. His body was found in the trunk of his own car in Roxbury early this morning.”

Mr. D. and I exchanged quizzical looks. He took the lead.

“Are you going for a record here, Billy? You usually let the body cool before you go to the grand jury.”

“This one has legs in a lot of different directions, Lex. Kid, you're on notice. You're welcome for the courtesy, in case you were about to thank me.”

Mr. D. jumped in. “Billy, the last time you did a gratuitous favor, Nixon was in office. What do you really want?”

“This is for you, kid. There's a bench warrant out for young O'Byrne's arrest. Needless to say, if he came in on his own, it could work in his favor.”

“In other words, Mr. Coyne, you don't have the foggiest notion of where to look for him, and your life would improve if you could talk me into bringing him in.”

I heard a sigh over the phone. “Lex, you've turned the kid into the same kind of cynical pain in the rump I've been dealing with since we met. Now I've got two of you.”

I caught Mr. D.'s grin. I picked it up.

“Thank you, Mr. Coyne. That's high praise. I'm curious. What possible evidence could you base an indictment on?”

“The body was found in its own blood in the trunk of his own car. There were fingerprints in the blood under the body. Guess whose? We had his prints on file from a DUI incident a few years ago.”

Kevin, you devious, lying little punk. Now we know who moved the body
.

“That's interesting. Anything else?”

“Tell you what, kid. Why don't I leave my office open tonight? You can drop by and rifle through the file. Short of that, given the unprecedented generosity of this office, shall we agree on when you can have young Mr. O'Byrne here in custody?”