“That can work against you.”
She ignored him. “Do you think it was something personal against Julius?”
“Who knows?”
“Just seems odd that he was the only one who was killed.”
“Marcus doesn’t know all the facts. Could be more people died.”
“Lord, I hope not.”
McCain took a corner too fast, and the car skidded out on the ice. “Wow. Sorry about that!”
Dorothy turned down the fan on the heater. “I dunno, Michael. I keep waiting for this parenthood thing to get easier. I think I’d rather wait for that Godot fella.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
The car turned silent except for the steady swoosh of hot air coming off the Honda’s engine.
Pharaoh’s Genie sat on Lansdowne Avenue about a block and a half from the green-painted iron girders of Fenway Park, not far from Gold’s Gym. Wide street for Boston, fronted by old brick industrial buildings and warehouses, some of which had been renovated into clubs and bars. McCain couldn’t get near the address. The entire block was choked off with cruisers and unmarkeds, ambulances, and lab tech vehicles. Hot white spots overpowered the Christmas lights. Beyond the cordon, civilians milled, rubbing their hands together, stamping their feet. Willing to freeze in order to catch a glimpse of someone else’s misery.
McCain parked, and the two of them got out and trudged toward the action. As soon as they got within shouting distance of the scene, a couple of uniformed officers tried to stave them off. The shorter of the duo, a young, redheaded Irishman named Grady, blinked several times, then recognized Dorothy. Even in layers of wool, her physique was hard to miss.
“Sorry, Detective Breton. I didn’t realize it was you.” He stepped aside to let her pass. “Where’s your car?”
Southie accent. It came out “Wheahs yuh caah?” Then the guy noticed McCain, and his eyes got official all over again.
McCain wondered: What do I look like if not a cop? He showed his gold shield. “We had to park it down a ways. When did the call come through?”
“Maybe forty minutes ago.” Grady bounced on his feet. “Someone from the fire department should close these places down. Nothing but problems.”
“They’d just show up somewhere else.” Dorothy pushed ahead. “I’m going to find Marcus.”
McCain followed her.
The club had once been a warehouse, its exterior bricks painted matte black. The interior was accessed by a small steel door, making the space a firetrap. As soon as McCain stepped inside, his face was slapped by hot air that stank of fresh blood and gunpowder. It was chaos, police personnel desperately trying to calm down horrified witnesses while EMTs tended to the wounded. A young black man was lying on the floor facedown, hands cuffed behind his back, guarded by four uniformed officers because the kid was a very big boy.
Dorothy quickly scanned the room, trying to spot Marcus, but the crowd was thick and the lighting was poor. The walls had also been painted black, with purple Day-Glo up lighting that provided spooky, fun-house illumination. There was some reflection from the long, mirror-backed bar that ran along the eastern wall, but it was more for atmosphere than clarity. The room was crammed with people, upturned tables, and lots of chairs. Two fifteen-foot-high aluminum Christmas trees framed the bandstand, twinkling Tivoli lights adding to the sense of the surreal. Some of the trees’ elaborate ornaments had fallen and shattered on the dance floor. Paramedics had cleared open areas and were tending to the wounded and the shocked.
A VIP mezzanine ringed its way above the lower level. The elevated story had its own bars and its own waitresses. Instead of backless stools or wooden director’s chairs, it had plush velvet couches and love seats. The tier was the site of intense tech activity. Even at this distance, McCain could spot a dangling arm.
He exchanged looks with his partner. Dorothy’s eyes welled up with tears. “I dunno if I’m ready for it. You go up there. Let me find Marcus first.”
“Good idea.” McCain gave her shoulder a firm squeeze, then headed for the stairwell. The elevator had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape. As he approached the hub, his stomach started churning. The hot dog he’d eaten at the game laser-sliced through his gut. What was that all about? He pushed through the crowd until he was afforded a clear view. Swallowing to keep from retching.
Three hours ago, this boy had played the game of his life. Now the handsome face of Julius Van Beest was waxen and soulless.
Eyes without light, mouth open, rivulets of blood dripping down the left temple. The kid had taken hits to his head, right arm, right shoulder.
McCain felt someone touch his back, and he jumped, pivoting. Cory Wilde was holding an evidence bag, looking guarded.
Wilde was in his mid-thirties, a balding man with a bland face except for having one green eye and one brown eye. As a result, he seemed asymmetrical.
“What are you doin‘ here, Micky?”
“Keeping my partner company. Her kid’s here. He called her up.”
“No shit! Who is he?”
“Marcus Breton, BF guard.”
A shake of the head. “I’ve been busy up here.”
“What happened?” McCain asked.
Wilde glanced at the body. “We got a shooter cuffed downstairs.”
“I saw. What was the flash point?”
“Some argument about the game.” Wilde rubbed his nose against his shoulder because his hands were latex-gloved. “You were at the game?”
“Me and Dorothy both.”
“Somebody clobbered Julius on court?”
“Someone fouled him hard. He the shooter?”
“I dunno if it was him personally, ”cause I wasn’t at the game. But it looks like the teams took it off the court. Lot of name-calling. Then when Julius made a move on a girl, there was a scuffle. The bouncers broke it up. The offending party left and everything was fine and peaceful, la-di-da. Then the OP comes back with a couple of buddies and, bam, bullets start flying.“
“He came back looking for Julius?”
“Looks that way. If you see the way he fell down… C’mere.” Wilde took McCain over to the body. He took his gloved hand and stuck his pinkie into an elongated bullet hole on Julius’s shoulder. “You can feel the upward path of the trajectory. Now, anyone shooting towards the big guy’s head would have to shoot upward. But this angle’s pretty damn steep.” He took his finger out. “Wanna see for yourself?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Has to be that the bullets came from below and were fired upward. And that isn’t the picture we’re getting from the witnesses.”
McCain bent down and sniffed the wound. No strong odor of gunpowder leaked from the man’s clothing- consistent with a long-range shot. “Julius the only fatality?”
“So far, yes. Paramedics have taken a couple of people who look to be in fairly serious condition, but they was talkin‘ on the gurneys-a good sign.”
McCain nodded. “What’s the name of the sweetheart who shot Julius?”
“B-baller named Delveccio. Guy’s got a very hard attitude, and he’s not saying anything except for you know what.”
“”I didn’t do nothin‘.’ “
“What else?” said Wilde. “When the bullets started, there was mass panic. Asshole claims he was just there, someone else did the shootings, the only reason he was singled out was because he was from Ducaine.” Wilde frowned. “When we searched him, we didn’t find a weapon.”
“Find it anywhere else?”
“Hey,” said Wilde. “You must be a detective. Yeah, that’s the problem. We found weapons. As in plural. Lots of weapons.” He shook his head. “It’s like every idiot in the place was packing. Man, this one’s gonna take up lots of time. It would sure make it easier if someone confessed.”
McCain nodded. He knew the drill. Detectives would go through the confiscated firearms and try to pair each weapon to its owner using gun ID numbers-if they hadn’t been filed or acid-burned off-state reg numbers, latent prints. But prints were often hard to pull from a fired weapon, because when a gun was discharged, hands jerked and slid and stuff got smudged. Even so, Ballistics would be required to discharge each recovered firearm into gelatin blocks to get the tool markings. Hopefully, one set of markings would line up with the fatal bullet. It was tedious, tedious business.