Authors: Sydney Bauer
Move to Strike
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Sydney Bauer has worked as a journalist and TV executive. While Director of Programming for a major Australian network, Sydney was able to indulge a personal passion for US dramas such as
CSI
,
Law and Order
and
24
and meet with revered TV writers such as Steven Bochco.
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Also by Sydney Bauer
Undertow
Gospel
Alibi
TO
STRIKE
SYDNEY
BAUER
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First published 2009 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Sydney Bauer 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Bauer, Sydney.
Move to strike / Sydney Bauer.
978 1 4050 3907 9 (pbk.)
A823.4
Typeset in 11/15pt Birka by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane, Queensland
Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group.
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
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These electronic editions published in 2009 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Move to Strike
Sydney Bauer
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To Brian â my âArthur'
As always there are so many people to thank.
First up a huge thank you to all at Pan Macmillan â James Fraser, Kylie Mason, Jane Novak and especially my publisher and friend Cate Paterson.
Thanks also to Harvey Klinger.
To my amazing friends in Boston including: Boston Municipal Court's Christopher Connolly and the wonderful Superior Court's Dana Leavitt â one of the smartest, kindest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting; Jake Wark and the legendary Tom O'Reilly for allowing me to pick their experienced prosecutorial brains; Marcia Izzi and all at the Boston ME's Office for their learned advice and sunny dispositions; the DYS's Mary Sylva and Fred White â who not only taught me all there is to know about juvenile justice in Massachusetts but also showed me the ârock'. A special thanks to David Yannetti â my real life David Cavanaugh; Kevin Molis â my very own Joe Mannix; and John Sorese, the man I was lucky enough to sit next to on a plane.
To Dr John Donnellan â a brilliant physician, sharp-shooting firearms expert and friend rolled into one.
To my friends and family â a big thank you for your support. And most importantly to Jarrod for steering me through the most difficult of plot twists both in these pages and not, and Claudia, who feeds the squirrels in Boston Common with peanuts and me with hope and inspiration and love.
Saturday 10 February
âR
emind me why I am here again,' said Boston Police Department's Homicide Unit Chief Joe Mannix as he tugged at the too-tight bow tie around his neck. It was almost eight and pre-dinner drinks had been flowing for well over an hour â the noise level in Boston's impressive Four Seasons Hotel ballroom increasing with every glass of Veuve Clicquot.
âAh . . . well,' began Joe's good friend, Boston criminal defence attorney David Cavanaugh. âI'll start with the fact that I spent my entire last weekend shovelling snow from your driveway, and then, let's see, there was that little matter of my helping you push your SUV down said driveway so I could charge it with jumper leads from
my
LandCruiser which saw
your
car purring like a kitten and
my
battery left flatter than the beer at the Idle Hour,' he finished, referring to Joe's less than savoury drinking haunt in South Boston.
âThe beer at the Idle tastes just fine,' said Joe. âAnd you should stop complaining. In the very least I was kind enough to give you a lift home.'
âIn
your
SUV,' smiled David. âWhich I have no doubt is still purring like a . . .'
âKitten?' interrupted a now grinning Joe. âNah â more like a contented tiger, or a jaguar ready to pounce.'
âThere you go,' smiled David as he accepted another beer from a passing waiter.
The room was packed. The close to 4000 square foot high-ceilinged space was now overflowing with 300 men in dinner suits and women in ball gowns who swept in and out of the ornately decorated tables with all the elegance and urgency that networking at high-powered events such as these required.
The annual Massachusetts Law Society St Valentine's Day Ball was a major asterisk on Boston's legal fraternity calendar â the first chance since New Year's to don the finery and make contact with old friends, new acquaintances and, more importantly for many, stroke the egos of those they either needed to impress on one hand, or intended to exploit on the other.
When David's boss, Arthur Wright, of Wallace, Wright and Gertz, begged off the annual do for the second year in a row, and David's pregnant partner Sara announced she was flying south to see her birth mom in Atlanta for the weekend, David had roped his good pal Mannix into playing his âdate' for the evening â figuring that if he was going to suffer mingling with the âin' crowd for close to four hours, then at the very least his detective friend could repay the previous weekend's disaster by graciously sharing the âpain'.
âDavid,' said a voice from behind.
David turned to see his good friend and fellow Boston College Law School grad Tony Bishop move towards him with his arm outstretched. âHey, Tony,' said David. âYou remember Joe?'
âSure,' replied the good-looking Bishop, wearing a designer tux David knew would have cost the blue chip corporate attorney a cool four figures. âIt's good to see you again, Lieutenant. Although, judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing you are here under sufferance.'
âMore like torturance,' replied Joe with a smile. âAnd if that's not a word it should be â simply to describe how a cop like me feels at a five-star schmooze fest such as this.'
And they laughed.
Fifteen minutes later, dinner was served â a four-course feast which
began with an entrée of salmon marinated with lightly smoked wild fennel, followed by roast octopus tartare with avocado, tomato and spring onion, progressing to a wild mushroom crusted filet mignon with truffle jus, and finishing with a dessert of lemon fallen soufflé tart with coconut ice cream.
The room appeared to sparkle inside and out. Four crystal chandeliers hung like diamonds from the silver leaf ceiling complementing the fairy lights strung on the now leafless trees outside the windows. The imported silk drapes had been pulled back to reveal the snow-drenched expanse of the sculptured Public Gardens and beyond.
âYou've done it now,' said Tony Bishop, pointing to an anxious-faced woman who was arguing with a hotel employee about some sort of problem with the seating.
âJesus, Tony,' said David, taking another sip of his European beer. âThey put me and Joe on a table with Roger Katz for Christ's sake.' The ambitious Suffolk County Assistant District Attorney was an old opponent and egotistical ass who both David and Joe were more than comfortable despising.
âTrue,' said Tony. âBut switching name cards is more than just a little juvenile, DC,' he smiled, still referring to David by his college nickname after all these years.
âHaving said that,' Tony continued, âI've just noticed that Amanda Carmichael is sitting across from Katz which gets me to thinking that maybe
I
should have been the one screwing with the seating allocations from the get go. That woman is smart, driven and . . .'
âNot bad to look at either,' said David, who knew that every red-blooded male in the ballroom had checked out the twenty-something ADA Carmichael, whose normally well-secured long blonde hair now fell loose down her pale, bare-skinned back.
âYou think?' smiled Tony, who had always had the ability to not only target, but more often than not leave, with the best looking woman in the room. âI hear she broke up with that high-powered ass from the Attorney General's Office.'