Do Not Go Gentle (10 page)

ibn Ezra frowned. “I'm sure there are other connections, detective, and as you yourself said, not all of the victims had any connection to our group.”

Cal leaned forward. “No, Mister ibn Ezra, but there are enough connections to grab any cop's attention. In my experience, connections like this are no coincidence.”

After pausing in silence again for a moment, ibn Ezra stood and looked down at Jamie and Cal. “Detectives, I do not know what to tell you. We are a religious group, not a Mafia hit squad. We do not engage in illegal activities. If you had any actual proof connecting these victims to the Disciples, I'm certain we would be having this discussion in your offices, not mine. Therefore, this interview is over.” ibn Ezra walked to his desk and pressed a button.

Jamie and Cal stood and walked to face the cleric. “We were hoping you might cooperate with us,” said Jamie. “It would be easier for all of us if we could have that cooperation.”

ibn Ezra smiled grimly. “I disagree, detective. Aaliyah, please show these gentlemen out. If you have any further questions, officers, you should direct those to our attorney, whom I will be calling now to discuss what I consider to be harassment on your part. Here is his card.” ibn Ezra leaned over the desk and handed the card to Jamie. “This interview is over.”

“Gentlemen?” The statuesque receptionist was in the doorway, gesturing with her hand.

“We'll be in touch Ezra,” said Cal in a parting shot.

Aaliyah walked them back to the entrance in silence, and then she held the door open for them. “Good day, gentlemen.” With that, Cal and Jamie left, deciding to return to Jamie's house and compare notes.

* * * *

Sedecla sat in her comfortable, high-backed chair in the subterranean chamber. She was meeting with her managers, discussing the situation, which had occurred earlier today. Once ibn Ezra had finished relating the visit he had received from the police, Sedecla began questioning him closely. “So these detectives had nothing but the mark of the
skandola
linking their victims?”

ibn Ezra shook his head. “They claimed to also have found links between some of the victims and the Disciples.”

The manager of the Mazzimah also shook his head. “They don't have anything—they're just throwing everything they can find against the wall to see what sticks.”

“Can you be certain of that, Timothy?” Choate's deep voice sounded like the rolling of distant thunder in the room. “I know you are also a detective, but shouldn't we be worried about this pair connecting us to these cases?” The fat man, as usual, was dressed immaculately, this time in a tailored, dark brown suit with a deep peach shirt that somewhat obscured his true size.

Timothy scowled at Choate. “Rufus, you worry like an old woman,” he scoffed.

“So that makes me an old woman as well?” Sedecla said softly. “Of course, that is literally true in my case, but like Rufus, I am disturbed that these two detectives have managed to perceive a link between us and our gathering activities.” She smiled warmly, but it chilled the men's blood.

“They have no concrete links, only guesses and hunches. Nothing they could take to court.”

“I am not interested in whether or not this could go to court, Timothy.” Sedecla was displeased. “This isn't about court cases—this is about my ability to continue gathering the power I need without interference.” No one spoke for several seconds—Sedecla in thought, the men awaiting her next comment. “Timothy, your position in the central homicide division gives you ultimate jurisdiction over these cases, does it not?”

“Not completely, Mistress. These detectives have the authority to continue investigating any crimes within their division. They are only slightly overreaching by including these other cases.”

“Tell me of these two men, then.”

Timothy paused. “As you are aware, I know these two men well.”

“Indeed—that is why you must take the lead in this matter.

“Jamie Griffin and Cal Cushing have been detectives in the Dorchester division for several years now. I have worked with them in the past on cases and I was, in fact, on the scene with them when they discovered the latest body.”

“Are they good detectives? Could we mislead them? Could we possibly convince them to look the other way or even join our cause?”

“No way,” replied Timothy. “Jamie is too good to be misled and too principled to be bought or turned. Cushing is pretty much a straight arrow as well, although he has some vices, such as gambling, that we might put to use, but he comes from a wealthy family, so money would not sway him.”

“So are you telling me there is nothing you can do to prevent them from making any further trouble for us?” Sedecla asked archly.

Timothy shook his head. “No, I did not mean to imply that. I went through the academy with Jamie, and we socialize in our off hours. I can feed him misinformation and lead him away from our activities. As far as Cushing, I may have to find a way to pressure him through his gambling habits.”

Sedecla considered this for some time before replying. “Very well, Timothy. Let us try your method, but I want you to assign some of your men to keep an eye on these detectives.”

“I will do so, Mistress, but it will have to be done carefully.”

“So as not to raise any suspicion?” Sedecla was displeased with his answers.

“I'm afraid so. If we push too hard or too clumsily, it will only make them dig harder. As I said before, I know these guys, and they don't back down from anyone or anything.”

“Perhaps,” replied Sedecla. She scrutinized her lieutenants. Choate and ibn Ezra were quiet, staying out of the byplay over the detectives, “but let me assure you, Mister O'Neill, I will not permit these men to interfere with my plans. If you cannot successfully divert them from our operations, they will have to be removed from the equation.”

Timmy O'Neill's face grew grim. “You can't be serious. You're talking about murdering cops?”

ibn Ezra jumped in. “If that is what the
Qedesh
commands, you will make it happen.”

O'Neill stood. “Mistress, I am loyal, but I must warn you that I cannot participate in murdering cops.”

Sedecla inclined her head and smiled up at O'Neill, then slowly stood to face him. “So where do you draw the line, Timothy? You manage many illegal activities for me: drugs, gambling, and prostitution. You have no problems with the assault and disposal of our sacrifices or those who oppose the Mazzimah, but you quail at taking such actions against the police? Why? Because they are police or because the one is your friend?”

O'Neill refused to lower his gaze, even though Sedecla radiated anger at him. “Both, Mistress—and because murdering cops will only make matters worse.”

“Indeed. Well, I must consider this carefully. You have your orders, Mister O'Neill. Carry them out.”

“I have always carried out your commands, Mistress.”

The two other men stood now as well, since the meeting was over. “Very well, Timothy. Just remember your place and your degree of participation in our activities. It is in your own best interest to divert these men as well.”

Timothy O'Neill said nothing further as he left the chamber alongside Rufus Choate. Sedecla detained ibn Ezra with a soft touch to his arm. After the other two men had left, she turned to ibn Ezra. “Achan, I have my doubts about how much longer we can count on Mister O'Neill's unwavering support.”

The cleric smiled ever so slightly. “I would agree,
Qedesh
.”

Sedecla nodded. “So I am directing you in strictest confidence to have two of your most trusted men follow both O'Neill and his detective friends. I do not intend to be blindsided as I continue my work. None of them are indispensable.” ibn Ezra bowed in response and they both left the chamber.

“Feckin' Red Sox,” exclaimed Jamie. “Dropping a doubleheader to the thrice-damned Yankees and in the middle of a pennant race, no less.”

Cal shook his head. Unlike Jamie, Cal wasn't a baseball fan. “Cheer up, Jamie. At least the Pats won their home opener and the Celtics look like they should have another good year.”

“True, but how do you go from finally winning the Series twice in four years after nearly a hundred year drought to finishing third in the AL East two years in a row? It's unconscionable.”

Cal chuckled. “That's why I like ‘real' sports like football and basketball.” It was another riff in their long-standing routine. Jamie played along on auto-pilot, too tired to have his heart in it.

They were driving downtown to follow the first real lead in over a week. Jamie was still on sick leave, but it hadn't kept him from working with Cal on any solid leads they developed. It made Cal uncomfortable, but he knew he couldn't keep Jamie completely out of the case. “So what did your union rep say?”

They had stopped by the Boston Police Patrolmen's Association, on their way to their appointment. Jamie made a face. “Well, it's not as bad it could be, but I'm running out of options.”

“Why's that?”

“I'm going to be out of sick days by the end of this week. After that, I have to start using up the rest of my vacation time.”

“Well that sucks. What do you have left-two weeks?”

“Yeah,” Jamie said, “I think it's actually eleven days, which would take me to the end of the month. I hope to Christ I'm not still sick by then.”

Cal was silent for a few moments as he navigated traffic getting on the 93 heading downtown. Then he asked, “So what happens if you
are
still sick at the end of the month? Or past that?”

“Bite your damned tongue, Cushing,” snarled Jamie. Then he sighed after a moment, rubbing his hand over his head. “Ah, I asked the same question myself, so I can't bitch at you. My rep said that if I burn up the rest of my vacation time, I have to petition the Police Commissioner for a leave of absence, which can be either with or without pay, at his discretion. As it is, I've now been out long enough that I can't officially go back to work until I give them a certificate from my doc, explaining what was wrong with me and why I couldn't work.”

Cal made a rude noise. “You'd better not let it go that long, Griffin. Sully is talking about pairing me up with some rookie if you aren't back soon. He'd have my nuts in a vice if he knew I was including you in this investigation as much as I am.”

“Like you could keep me out,” retorted Jamie. “I just wish I could get over this shit.”

“The blood work and MRI didn't find anything, huh?”

“Nope. Not a damned thing. The vampires down at the hospital took twenty or thirty vials of my blood—nothing. I had an MRI, with and without contrast, whatever the hell that means—nothing.”

“So, what's the next step?”

“According to Jerry, now I get to start a whole feckin' parade of visits and tests.”

“Like what?”

“Like another infectious disease specialist, a neurologist, rheumatologist, cardiologist, and an ears, nose & throat guy. Plus, at the same time, I'm getting a whole bunch of tests from these jokers: an MRA—don't know how that's different from an MRI, something called a ‘nuclear stress test', tilt table test, sleep study, hell even a lumbar puncture.”

“What? Why a lumbar puncture?” Cal made a face—one of his true fears was needles.

Jamie shook his head. “I don't know, something about some diseases only showing up in your spinal fluid. I told Jerry to do whatever it takes, as quickly as possible, to find out what the hell's wrong with me. I'm going to be living down at Mass General the next week.” Jamie looked grimly out the window at the gray, rainy day that reminded everyone autumn was fast approaching. The cold, light rain suited his mood—cranky and irritable, a condition not helped by his headaches, fatigue, and dizziness.

They rode in silence as they navigated through heavy traffic off the Storrow Drive exit and made their way slowly to the North End. After running into nothing but brick walls following their interview with ibn Ezra, Cal and Jamie had finally developed two separate leads. The first had come when Jamie decided to look deeper into the financial dealings of the Disciples of Endor. He found out that a company called Samuel Properties, a large development company in Boston, owned the Disciples' offices. Consequently, they were on their way to meet with the Samuel Properties' general manager. The second lead had come from Cal talking with other detectives.

“So, tell me again: how'd you link the Disciples and this ‘Mazzimah' group?” he asked Cal.

Jamie's partner clucked his tongue. “I swear, Griffin, your brain is going too. Like I said on the phone, I was asking around about whether anyone knew of any dirt on the Disciples. It turns out that they have been investigated a couple of times for a possible connection with one of the larger crime syndicates in town, a group called the ‘Mazzimah,' whatever the hell that means.”

“We've never encountered them before,” said Jamie.

“Nope. They've mostly been operating in Boston proper, although they are branching into Dorchester. I got most of this from Jimmie McPherson over in Vice. According to Jimmie, the Mazzimah has their hands in pretty much everything: gambling, prostitution, drugs, stolen property; the usual.”

“So, what's the connection to the Disciples?”

“Well, like I said, Vice has looked into the Disciples a couple of times, but never managed to come up with anything concrete linking them to the Mazzimah. Mostly rumors and second-hand stories from former members of the Disciples. Nothing that would allow Vice to look any further into the group, but I figure, where there's smoke, there's got to be fire. So I've put the word out among my CIs that I'm interested in learning anything more about the Mazzimah and the Disciples.”

“Any nibbles yet?” Jamie and Cal both had confidential informants. Some they shared, but most were separate and they kept them that way to maintain secrecy.

Cal shook his head. “Not yet, but I'm waiting to hear back from two of my main guys. I'm hoping they can give us something to go on there.”

Jamie sighed. “So for now, all we've got to go on is this guy Choate, right?”

“Right. We're going to the Samuel Property offices on Hull Street.”

They turned right onto Hull, a narrow street than ran southeast past Copp's Hill Burying Ground toward the Old North Church. “Yeah, this is the street that takes you past the Skinny House.”

“That spite house that's only about ten feet wide?” asked Cal.

“Spite house? I don't know—what's a ‘spite house'? All I know is that the Skinny House is supposed to be the narrowest house in Boston.”

“Jamie, Jamie,” said Cal reprovingly. “You've got to brush up on your Boston history. In 1874, two brothers got into a dispute. Each had inherited land from their deceased father. While the second brother was away serving in the military, the first brother built a large home, leaving his brother only a small piece of property that was supposedly too tiny to build on. When the second brother got home from the service, he decided to ‘spite' his brother and built a four story wooden house blocking the sunlight and ruining his brother's view. Thus, it's referred to as a ‘spite' house.”

“Hunh,” replied Jamie, “and here I thought my brother could be a real asshole.”

“Well, Patrick can be, but that's beside the point. Here it is,” Cal said, pointing out the right side. The gray wooden structure looked like a house that had been squished together by the buildings on either side. “It's a pretty crazy place from what I hear. Supposedly it's so narrow inside that if there are more than five people inside and one of them has to go to the bathroom, the others have to move. Here we go,” said Cal, pointing to the right as they entered the next block. “This is the place.”

Jamie took his time getting out of the car and he could tell that Cushing watched him.

“You keep moving like that, and we'll get a handicapped sticker to go with our police placard.” Cal said.

“Up yours, Cushing” replied Jamie.

“Yeah, well, let me do the nicey-nice this time, okay?”

“Okay, whatever.”

They entered a plain reception area, small but clean and neat. An older woman sat behind the receptionist's desk. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” replied Cal, “we're here for an appointment with Mister Rufus Choate. Detectives Cushing and Griffin.” They held out their badges for inspection.

The woman, whose outfit reminded Jamie of his third grade teacher, sniffed and pushed herself with great effort to her feet. “Wait here. I'll let Mister Choate know you're here.”

After she had shuffled out of the room, Cal sighed and whispered to Jamie, “Sure. When
you're
the ‘good' cop, you get a supermodel; I get my grandmother.”

“You just don't lead a good life, Cushing.”

Cal made a rude noise that only Jamie could hear. After a few minutes, the receptionist shuffled back, followed by an obese man. He was impeccably dressed in expensive clothes, and his girth was impressive. A faint ring of wispy white hair ringed his head.
Man,
thought Cal.
This guy's got to be pushing four hundred pounds
—
maybe from the far side of that number.

“Detectives,” rumbled the rolling mound of humanity. “Rufus Choate. Pleased to be of service to Boston's finest.” He engulfed Cal and Jamie's hands in his meaty, damp fist, with a powerful grip. “Can I have Mrs. Fanning get you gentlemen some coffee?”

“That would be great—cream and sugar in mine,” replied Cal.

“I take mine black,” said Jamie. He could swear that Mrs. Fanning gave him a black look that would have rivaled the ones given to him by the nuns in grade school.

Choate heaved his bulk back down the hall to an office. “Please detectives,” he said gesturing to a pair of hard chairs before a cherry desk and computer workstation. He lowered his bulk into an oversized office chair that looked like it was reinforced with steel beams. Nonetheless, Jamie could hear it creak as Choate sat. Jamie would have put the man's age as near his own, but he realized that Choate's weight and general appearance could make him look older than his actual age. “How can I help you?” He raised his massive hands into a temple in front of his expansive chest.

“We were wondering,” Cal began, “if you could give us any information on one of your tenants.”

“I'll do what I can,” replied Choate. “Which tenant?”

“The Disciples of Endor,” said Jamie sharply. He and Cal closely watched the man's reaction.

“Indeed,” replied Choate. His eyes revealed nothing, and his face might have been carved from granite.
Boy, I'd hate to play poker with this guy
, Jamie thought. “I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you, gentlemen. The Disciples have been excellent tenants for over a decade. Never late on rent, they have not only maintained the property, they have put in many improvements out of their own pocket. They cause no trouble, which is not the case for everyone to whom we rent. What more do you wish to know?” His dark brown eyes, almost black on black, looked out with an implacable gaze.

Cal decided to wait several seconds before answering. However, the technique did not change Choate's demeanor. He could have been a stone Buddha for all the reaction he showed during the silence. Finally, Cal continued. “What do you know about the cult's leader, Achan bin Ezra?”

Choate folded his hands to his chest and leaned back in his chair, causing another ominous creak. “Cult? What a pejorative term. I would hardly call the Disciples a cult. To my knowledge, the Disciples are a devoted religious group, and
Kohen
bin Ezra is their spiritual leader. My dealings with him have always been cordial and professional.” The fat man looked out at the detectives challengingly.

Cal and Jamie exchanged a quick glance. The lead was tenuous and so far, they had nothing on the Disciples that would allow them to obtain a warrant for further digging.

“Do they own any properties to your knowledge, Mister Choate?” asked Jamie. He was fishing, and he could sense that the big man knew it.

Choate stuck out his lower lip and shook his head. “No, detective, not to my knowledge. Tell me, what is this all about? Is there something I need to know? I would be distressed to learn that these fine people have been involved in something illegal. It would be
most
out of character for them.”

Cal now shook his head. “No, we have no knowledge of any such activities, Mister Choate. Their name came up as a possible connection in a string of homicides and we have to follow every lead.”

“
Homicides
?” Choate now leaned forward and placed both hands palms down on his desk. “Then I'm quite certain there is no connection to the Disciples, detectives. As I've said, they are not the type of people to be involved in anything like that.”