The Dead Room (15 page)

30

‘Forgive me for asking the obvious question,’ Darby said, ‘but you’re positive Special Agent Alan was on the boat?’

‘I am, but you don’t have to take my word for it,’ Jennings said. ‘Read the FBI transcripts. That is, if the FBI will let you. It took me, oh, I don’t know, three months of visiting their office every morning before they finally produced the transcripts of what happened that night.’

‘Did you ask to listen to the audio?’ Darby knew the Feds recorded the communications between the boat and the command post.’

‘As a matter of fact, they did,’ Jennings said. ‘Sadly, they wouldn’t allow me to listen to the tapes, citing that they were part of an ongoing Federal investigation.’

Darby grinned. ‘You don’t trust the
Feds
?’

Jennings laughed. ‘I know, I know. I should place more faith in our government officials. But I’m a stubborn old man, Miss McCormick. I’ve seen too many things here in Charlestown – things that would make the hair on the back of your pretty neck stand on end. I’ll tell them to you sometime, but right now I want to know how a Federal agent has somehow resurrected himself from the dead only to wind up being shot to death inside Kevin Reynolds’s basement – which is full of human remains, no less. If you have any ideas or theories, I’d love to hear them.’

For the next twenty minutes she led Jennings through her brushes with the unidentified men in the woods, the driver of the brown van and the cameraman with his laser mike.

‘Now
that
is an interesting development,’ Jennings said after she finished. Then he glanced down at the body. ‘And
this
man is Peter Alan. I’ll bet my salary for the entire year on it. But don’t take my word for it. His prints will be stored in the database.’

Darby nodded. All federal and state employees – all law enforcement personnel – had their fingerprints stored inside the national fingerprint database, IAFIS. ‘I’ll print him here,’ she said. ‘I’ll call someone from the lab to get the fingerprint card so we can get a head start.’

Footsteps moved to the top of the basement steps.

‘Hey, Stan,’ the patrolman from the kitchen said.

‘Yeah, what’s up?’

‘Is there something wrong with your phone?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘Tim’s been trying to call you and said he keeps getting your voicemail. He’s got a lead on Reynolds.’

‘Coop called you earlier but couldn’t get you on the phone,’ Darby said. ‘I tried calling you from the road and kept getting your voicemail.’

Jennings took out his phone and examined it. ‘That’s odd.’

‘What?’ Darby asked.

‘It’s dead. I thought the battery was charged when I left the house. I’ll have to grab a spare.’ He turned to the stairs and shouted, ‘Get Tim on the phone; I’ll be right up.’

Jennings reached into his pocket, came back with a business card and handed it to Darby.

‘These gentlemen you mentioned seeing in Belham today: if you see them again I want to know. I might be able to help you identify them.’

‘How will I get in touch with you?’

‘Talk to Jake – that’s the patrolman upstairs in the kitchen. He’ll be able to track me down.’

‘Before you go, post someone at the front door. If these men I mentioned are lurking around, I don’t want them to gain access to the house. I’d also like to call Detective Pine from Belham and bring him into this, as the two cases are related.’

‘As long as everyone shares, I don’t have a problem.’

‘You won’t have a problem.’

‘Good. Keep me in the loop.’

‘Will do.’

Jennings ran up the basement steps. Darby turned her attention to the cardboard box packed with bones.

Two skulls stained brown from their time buried in the soil. Judging by the smooth cheekbones and shape of the foreheads, both skulls belonged to Caucasian females.

‘Darby.’

She turned to see Coop standing just a few feet away.

‘While you were talking with Jennings, I tried calling the ME’s office,’ he said. ‘I kept getting static.’

She took out her phone. It turned on fine but the screen kept flickering.

‘All of our phones aren’t working?’ Coop said. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

She thought back to what she’d seen earlier on the hospital video. The man posing as Special Agent Phillips – Peter Alan, according to Jennings – had brought with him some sort of high-energy radio frequency device that fried the circuitry inside the hospital’s security cameras, computers and phones. Was there some sort of HERF device down here?

Darby looked around the basement. A small black plastic device sat on the top of a chest-of-drawers. The unit was the size of a pack of cigarettes and had a tiny glowing green light. No buttons, only a switch. She turned it and the green light disappeared.

She checked her phone. The screen had stopped flickering.

‘Try your phone.’

He did. ‘It seems to be working. No interference. That device, is that the HERF thing Teddy C. told you about?’

‘I don’t think so. If it was, our phones would be dead. My guess is it’s some sort of jamming device.’

‘Then why is Jennings’s phone dead?’

‘Don’t know.’ She crouched again and searched the rest of the man’s pockets.

Inside the suit jacket she found another black device – this one flat, maybe half the size of a paperback book. It had a thick rubber antenna and a blue LED with a frequency number.
I think I found your HERF device, Ted
.

The device didn’t seem to be turned on – if it had been, their phones wouldn’t be working at all.

Darby looked at the spent rounds scattered across the floor.

‘There’re nineteen of them,’ Coop said.

A normal nine held sixteen. An extended mag could accommodate the number of spent shells lying on the basement floor. Given the tight pattern of shots on the body, she guessed the Glock eighteen had been set to semi-automatic fire.

Coop had moved to the dusty four-drawer oak chest lying at an angle next to the Asian armoire. He sidled up to an old mattress and dismantled bed frame leaning against the wall and turned on his flashlight.

‘Take a look at this,’ he said, and shined the beam of light behind the chest.

31

Darby saw several footwear impressions in the dirt – some good enough to cast. Each one was the sole of a sneaker, judging by its shape and tread pattern.

‘The tread pattern is different,’ Coop said, ‘but it’s the same size as the one you found in Belham.’

‘I agree.’

‘Kind of an odd place to be standing, don’t you think?’

‘Not if you’re hiding.’

‘Exactly. If you wanted to pop your Federal friend, why not do it when he’s coming down the steps?’

‘Good question.’

‘I also took a look at the grave behind that armoire and found another human skull.’

‘Why were you in such a rush to get down here?’

‘Anything involving Kevin Reynolds makes me nervous.’

‘You didn’t mention anything about him when we were in the car.’

‘I didn’t know he was involved until we pulled up to the street,’ he said. ‘When I saw the house, that’s when I knew.’

‘Jennings gave you the address. You didn’t recognize it?’

‘Darby, I don’t know
everyone
who lives here.’

‘Do you know Reynolds?’

‘Sure do. He introduced the town to herpes.’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘I don’t. He’s sort of a neighbourhood fixture – people still cross the street when they see him. At least the people who grew up here still do.’

‘You’ve been awfully quiet.’

‘I’ve heard Jennings’s rap before.’ Coop shut off the flashlight. ‘I’ll go get a fingerprint card. I’ll call Mark and Randy, get one of them to come down here so they can take it back to the lab.’

‘Tell me more about Reynolds first.’

‘He worked for Sullivan from the time he was seventeen. Kevin was a bouncer at this local bar called McGee’s. Place is a real shithole. You only went there if you were looking to score bad coke or get stabbed. Mr Sullivan saw Kevin in action a few times and offered him a job as a bodyguard and chauffeur.’

‘Mr Sullivan?’

‘Sorry, old habit. You saw Sullivan on the street, or if he came up and said hello, that’s what you called him. Frank was big on respect. If you didn’t show it to him or Reynolds or any of his flunkies, you’d better have a good dental plan, ’cause you’d be crawling home with two black eyes and at least one missing tooth.’

‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’

‘I never had any run-ins with either of them. I kept my distance. Not that it was easy. When I was growing up, Frank and his boys owned every inch of these streets. You did what you were told.’

Coop moved to the grave. ‘I’m surprised Kevin’s mom didn’t smell these bodies. I wonder if they poured lime on them.’

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘You grew up here.’

‘Your point?’

‘I’m sure you heard rumours about missing women.’

‘Sullivan and his crew had a merry-go-round of young ladies. If you had the IQ of a Tic Tac, he moved you to the front of the line. Too bad the guy isn’t still alive. You’d find him real interesting.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He was a serial killer. We’re talking numbers that surpass those of Ted Bundy.’

‘I don’t recall anything about Sullivan ever being arrested.’

‘He never was. The guy was untouchable. You can attain that status if you have inside help.’

‘Anyone we know?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you know the names of any of Sullivan’s female victims?’

‘No.’

‘You must know something. The guy lived in Charlestown, I’m sure you –’

‘Darby, I’m not a walking history book when it comes to all the shitheads who’ve lived here.’

‘What’s bothering you?’

‘Sullivan is a sore spot for me. The people who lived here when I was growing up – my parents included – viewed him as this Robin Hood character who, okay, while not a nice guy, was actually good for the city because he kept drugs out of here. Which was bullshit. Sullivan started selling heroin in Southie, making big money, and he’s walking around here telling people how he’s going to kill anyone he catches selling it. The man was a genius at playing both sides of the fence.’

It’s more than that
, she thought.

‘The other thing is, you know how I feel about Charlestown. How it’s stuck with this townie reputation, that everyone living here is collecting welfare while planning to rob a bank or armoured car. Do we still have our fair share of yahoos and junkies? Absolutely. But name a place that doesn’t. Of course, the press would lead you to believe that that’s all we have living here. Charlestown’s different now. We’ve got a better class of people. The gentrification wave cleaned up most of the shit, but the press won’t report that. And when the news gets out that bones were found in Kevin Reynolds’s house, it’s going to resurrect all that Irish gangster bullshit again. It’s like a skid mark you can’t wash from your underwear.’

‘Thanks for the visual,’ she said.

‘You’re welcome. Now can we get to work?’

Darby didn’t answer. Coop was keeping something from her; she could feel it in her gut. ‘What is it about Kendra Sheppard that’s really bothering you?’

He rolled his eyes.

‘You’re not being honest with me, Coop.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’

‘You didn’t talk in the car, you didn’t –’

‘You didn’t say much of anything either.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Darby, I told you everything I know. Why are you turning this into a goddamn inquisition?’

Because you never were a good liar, Coop. I can see it in your eyes. And the more I keep pressing you, the more defensive you get.

‘I’m going to go upstairs, get the fingerprint card and call the ME’s office,’ he said, emphasizing each word. ‘You’re more than welcome to escort me, since I’m getting the feeling you don’t trust me.’

‘I never said I didn’t trust you.’

‘Then can I get off the witness stand and do some work? Or do you want to waste more time grilling me?’

‘Call ops and have them page Castonguay,’ Darby said. ‘I want him here taking the pictures. Tell him I think I found his HERF device.’

32

Jamie sat alone in the living room waiting for the TV commercial to end. She could hear Carter playing with his Spiderman figures upstairs in the bathtub. Michael was still in his room. When the kids came home from camp, Michael had marched straight upstairs and slammed his bedroom door shut. She went to talk to him. He had locked the door. He refused to talk to her and refused to come out for dinner.

She asked Carter what was bothering Michael and Carter just shrugged.

The answering machine provided a clue. She had forgotten to check it when she first returned home.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Russo, this is Tara French, the director of the Babson sports camp here in Wellesley.’ The woman’s polite voice carried a good amount of caution, as if she didn’t quite know how to broach a difficult topic. ‘Please give me a call at your earliest convenience. I’d like to speak to you about –’

Michael
, Jamie had thought, deleting the message. Something had happened at camp today. She’d give Michael some time to cool down, then get his version of whatever had happened and speak to the camp director first thing tomorrow morning.

The second message was from Father Humphrey: ‘Jamie, please call me. I’m… I’m worried about you.’

The TV commercial ended. The newsreader for the New England Cable News channel, an ageing man with wiry grey hair and bright white teeth she suspected were dentures, started talking in a serious voice about the lead story, ‘a grisly homicide and shocking discovery in Charlestown at the childhood home of Kevin Reynolds, a former close associate of Boston’s notorious Irish mobster Francis Sullivan’.

Frank Sullivan
. Jamie knew the name, of course, but she couldn’t recall anything specific about the man’s legacy beyond suspected murder, extortion and people who suddenly vanished into thin air. She had graduated from the police academy in February of ’92 – nearly a decade after Sullivan’s death. The Irish mob – and the Italian Mafia, for that matter – had been dismantled by the time she had started her first Boston patrols. A year later she had transferred to Wellesley, a town whose greatest threat was the occasional burglary. She met Dan during that year, got married and quit working when she was pregnant with Carter.

The horse-toothed newsreader disappeared as the screen switched to an Asian reporter who was broadcasting live from Charlestown. Jamie could see blinking blue and white police lights on the windows and wet pavement behind the reporter.

The reporter gave a brief rundown of what had happened early this afternoon: ‘Charlestown resident Andrea Fucilla, who lives in an apartment building across the street from the childhood home of Kevin Reynolds, heard gunshots and called the police.’

The screen cut to an elderly woman with olive skin and a crooked nose holding up a pair of thick glasses. She stood under an umbrella but her stringy brown hair was damp from the rain. She spoke in broken English.

‘I was on the phone talking to my daughter when I hear popping sounds like firecrackers. But didn’t think it was firecrackers so I call police.’

‘How did you know the gunshots came from the Reynolds home?’ the reporter asked.

‘I sit by open window smoking my cigarette and hear
pop-pop-pop, pop-pop-pop
. That’s what I tell police. That and what I saw.’

‘What did you see, Miss Fucilla?’

Jamie felt a sickening dread crawling across her skin.

‘I saw a man come walking out of house,’ the elderly witness said. ‘I didn’t get a good look at his face. His head was tilted down because of the rain. He wore Red Sox windbreaker and baseball hat.’

I saw a man come walking out of house. A man.

Jamie sighed deeply, the tension dissolving inside her chest.

The screen had switched back to the reporter. ‘Police confirmed that a male victim was found shot to death inside the house but won’t release the name or any further details regarding the human remains discovered inside the basement.

‘Mary Sullivan, mother of Kevin Reynolds, died last month. Local residents have spotted Kevin Reynolds in Charlestown during the past few weeks and told us he was getting ready to put his mother’s home up for sale.’

Now a split screen of the reporter and the newsreader.

The newsreader said, ‘Is Kevin Reynolds a suspect?’

‘Police have refused to comment but cited him as a person of interest,’ the reporter replied. ‘They are asking any resident who sees Kevin Reynolds to call.’

The screen switched again to show a photograph of Kevin Reynolds. The picture had been taken some time ago, Jamie thought. Reynolds had a pie-shaped face and pug nose, but his curly hair was brown, not grey. And his clothing was straight out of the eighties: rose-tinted sunglasses and a thick gold chain draped over a white Champion T-shirt worn so tight it showcased his budding man boobs.

A toll-free number flashed across the bottom of the screen. The reporter promised to bring viewers more details as the story developed.

Jamie felt certain Reynolds was one of the men who had murdered her husband. She knew she had to move on him quickly. First, she had to find a way to bring him out of hiding.

She got up from the sofa, wiping her damp palms on her shorts and nursing the idea she’d been mulling over since leaving Charlestown this afternoon. She was about to shut off the TV – she needed to get Carter out of the bathtub – when the newsreader launched into a story outlining Kevin Reynolds’s history with Frank Sullivan.

On the TV screen, a black-and-white mug shot of Frank Sullivan’s first arrest at twenty-two. He had thick and wavy blond hair and wore a trench coat. He held a Boston Police arrest card a few inches below his freshly shaved chin.

He had a scar on his right wrist – and it was of the same size and shape as the one Ben Masters had had.

She blinked, figuring her mind was playing a trick on her. The scar was still there. Same size, same shape.

She shifted her attention to Frank Sullivan’s big ears sticking out from the sides of his head.

Ben had had the same ears.

Now pictures of a younger-looking Sullivan flashed across the TV screen. She was dimly aware of the horse-toothed newsreader saying something about how Sullivan, an only child born in East Boston to a single mother, had started off his career stealing cars before graduating to armed robbery. He was arrested for holding up a bank in Chelsea and served two years in a Cambridge prison.

Next, a surveillance photograph of a much older Francis Sullivan taken, according to the newsreader, the month before he died during a botched FBI raid on Boston Harbor. Sullivan bald on top, the hair on the sides of his head completely grey. Big ears and a wrinkled curtain of flesh dangling underneath his chin.

Ben had had the same rooster neck when she’d seen him inside her house. He’d had the exact same scar and –

Francis Sullivan is dead
, a voice whispered.

Ben has the same ears – and that scar on his wrist, it’s the exact same size and pattern.

It’s a coincidence, Jamie.

No, it’s not.

She tuned out the voice as she grabbed the remote control, frantically searching for the pause button. There. She pressed it, freezing the picture, and then dropped the remote and ran for the basement.