Liam walked over and grabbed the remote out of Broadark’s hand, pointed it toward the television and pressed the power button. The set blinked once hard, the light exploding in a flash that consumed the screen, then receded from the corners to a pointed horizon in the center of an ancient, darkened picture tube. “No more television,” he said.
Broadark looked up at him from the sofa. Liam wondered whether he would make his move. It depended on the orders he’d received on the phone call. Liam figured he’d rather know sooner than later.
He could see the calculations that ran through Broadark’s mind. In some respects they both functioned in the same way. Confrontations like this came down to a series of calculations: who could reach his weapon first? What were your adversary’s weaknesses? Where was he exposed? Who was more willing to take the chance? How far were you willing to take the fight?
Liam could see all these questions rattling off in sequence in Broadark’s eyes, the sums of the equations being added and multiplied and calculated. Then an answer was reached. Broadark shrugged and pulled his beer out from under his arm and took a sip.
Liam reached out and grabbed away the beer. He walked over to the sink and poured it out. “No more booze, either,” he said. He knew Broadark was not a threat-yet. If he had the go-ahead to take Liam out, he would have reached for his gun when Liam took the remote. Liam had a little more time. Not much, though.
Broadark rose from the couch. He walked over to the narrow counter in the kitchen. “What, then?” he asked.
“I told you, there’s one more.”
“Yeah, you told me,” Broadark said. “You also told me he’s in jail. Not much we can get from him while he’s there, is there?”
“There are other ways.”
“What are they?”
The truth was, Liam didn’t know. He was running out of time, and he had lost all his leverage. “The lawyer,” he said. He wasn’t even sure what it meant when the words came out of his mouth, but when he heard them, they triggered something in him-a hope that had been slipping away.
“The lawyer,” Broadark repeated. There was skepticism in his voice. “What about the lawyer?”
“We follow the lawyer,” Liam said. “He’s the only contact we have with the last one, but we can use him to make our point.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. All I know is that he’s the key.”
For a moment, Liam thought Broadark would pull out his gun right then and be done with it all. Instead, though, he nodded without conviction. “All right, then,” he said. “Follow the lawyer.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Captain Melvin Skykes shared little with other Boston police officers. He didn’t swear; he didn’t drink; he didn’t smoke. He ran to stay in shape, and he ate no meat. He was partial to dark pinstriped suits more appropriate for a Wall Street trading floor than a grimy police station. He was devoid of ethnicity. In appearance he was nothing like most of the officers who served beneath him; and yet he commanded respect. He had built his career by being the best example of the “new cop” Boston had tried to introduce to the force in the wake of scandals in the 1980s. Most of the others brought in had long since sought refuge outside the department. Skykes succeeded because his attention to detail-whether investigative or administrative-was unparalleled. Those who entered his office unprepared to discuss every aspect of any case on which they were working risked their careers. The detectives under his command toed a line straighter and sharper than any other in the department, and the results showed.
Sitting in Skykes’s office just after lunch, Stone felt as if he were sitting for an oral exam. He didn’t particularly mind; he was prepared.
“Seven dead,” Skykes said. He was leaning back in his chair, the tips of his fingers brought together in a steeple. He spoke slowly, and there was no emotion in his voice. You might have thought he was talking idly about a baseball score, except that most people in Boston could never maintain his level of equilibrium discussing the Red Sox.
“Five,” Stone offered. It was a stupid response-as though five murders wouldn’t be a problem. “There were only five last night.”
Skykes gave Stone an impatient, condescending look. “I was counting Murphy and Johnny Bags.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone said. “With them, that’s right. It’s seven.”
Skykes began again. “Seven dead,” he said. He threw Stone a look that dared him to interrupt. Stone didn’t. “Any leads?”
Stone kept his mouth shut. He was learning.
“Nothing concrete,” Sanchez said. “Not yet.”
“Anything at all?” Skykes asked.
“Long shots right now,” Sanchez said. “Nothing that would be helpful in keeping the press at bay.”
Skykes whirled on her. “Who said anything about the press? My only concern is solving these murders.”
“Right,” Sanchez said. “Nothing that gets us close to figuring out who actually did it, then.”
“So we have seven dead bodies in this city-connected people”-Skykes flicked a piece of lint off his lapel as he spoke-“and we have nothing to go on whatsoever?” The challenge was plain.
“I didn’t say nothing to go on. Just nothing definitive enough to call a concrete lead,” Sanchez replied.
“Let me be clear, Detective,” Skykes said. “I want to know about anything we’ve got. I don’t care if it’s concrete. I don’t care if it’s Play-Doh. If it pertains to this case, I want to hear about it.”
Sanchez cleared her throat. “The IRA may be involved,” she said. She looked again in Stone’s direction.
“I assume you’re not talking about someone’s retirement account,” Skykes said.
“No sir, I’m not. The other IRA,” Sanchez said. Skykes focused hard on Sanchez. The stare was penetrating, and Stone wondered how she withstood it in silence.
“The Irish Republican Army,” Stone offered. Skykes’s attention shifted to Stone, but the intensity of the stare remained. Stone bore the look for a few moments, then cracked. “From Ireland,” he said.
“I’m aware of the IRA’s origins, Detective Stone,” he said. “What I’m not aware of is how they have any connection to a bunch of murders in Southie. Don’t you read the papers? The IRA’s dead; what in God’s name makes you think they’re tied up in this?”
“Padre Pio,” she said after a moment.
“Padre Pio,” Skykes said. “The torture technique?” Stone was impressed.
“Exactly,” Sanchez said. “Both Murphy and Ballick were shot through the hands, so we figure there’s a possibility this was an IRA job.”
Skykes shook his head. “It still doesn’t make sense. There’s a truce in Northern Ireland, and a government has been formed from parties on both sides. The IRA disarmed; turned in all their weapons.”
“Maybe it’s not the IRA itself, then, but someone close to them,” Sanchez said. “The boys in the IRA always had close ties to the Irish mob here in Boston. Some of them still have smuggling connections. Maybe one of them is freelancing.”
Skykes considered this. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. This is too thin to count as even a theory from what you’ve told me; it’s hardly a lead.”
Sanchez could feel Stone looking at her. She knew what he was thinking, but she was resistant to sharing any more with the captain. Her success had come, in many respects, as a result of her ability to keep secrets.
Skykes could read her hesitation. “If there’s more, I want to know about it, Sanchez,” he said.
“‘The Storm,’” she said.
“‘The Storm’?”
“It’s what was written at the scene of Murphy’s murder,” Stone said.
“There’s a chance that it’s a reference to one of the paintings that was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum back in ’90,” Sanchez said.