“Jay? What do you think?”
“I think it’s him.” I pointed at the face. “The bushy gray eyebrows. The ratty buck teeth. Even in profile…” I moved my finger down the image. “Look there. The way he’s humped over like that.” Mr. Lombardi’s posture was unique and beyond abysmal, like a sloth with scoliosis. I felt the rage surge. I thought of that day at the Little People’s Playground. Lombardi didn’t have any grandkids with him. Didn’t strike me as odd at the time. He’d simply been strolling the grounds, trolling for new victims. All that bullshit about beauty and the joy of laughing little boys? Made me sick. Right out in the open. His MO was easy to deduce. I recalled his sympathetic pitch for me to enroll Aiden in UpStart, like he was only there to help. Taking advantage of parents, stealing childhoods. Chris had been right. Who would do a damn thing about it?
“Should we turn the disc over to the police?” Charlie asked.
Fisher groaned.
“What?” Charlie said. “I thought you agreed it was him?”
“It is him. I took gym with that dirty old pervert. You could see the way he looked at you when you were changing or in the shower. That’s Gerry Lombardi.” Fisher turned to me. “But all you have is that disc? Not the original hard drive?”
“Chris said Pete had the hard drive.”
“And Pete’s dead.” Fisher shook his head. “I can see why your brother was trying to get more evidence. That disc alone won’t cut it. There’s no digital coding, no electronic thumbprint telling us where the photos originally came from. You can’t connect it to anyone. I mean, unless some kid comes forward. Has anyone ever accused Mr. Lombardi of something like this?”
“Not that I know of,” I said.
“Won’t stick,” said Fisher, shaking his head. “Couple grainy profiles? No way. That disc is useless.”
“But the disc was burned off a Lombardi Construction hard drive,” Charlie said. “Surely, that proves something.”
“That disc could’ve been made in China for all we can prove.”
“Turn it off,” I told Charlie. I couldn’t stomach those pictures any longer.
I walked out to the living room, Fisher and Charlie tagging behind. I fell into the floral print couch, wrapping my head in my hands.
“Brought your brother to the station?” Fisher asked.
“Yeah.”
“What are they going to do with him?”
“Talk to him, I guess. He didn’t kill Pete, I know that.”
Fisher looked deeply concerned.
“What is it?” Charlie asked.
“Listen, guys, it doesn’t matter if he killed Pete Naginis. They’ll say he did. Jay, this real estate deal, this ski resort and condos, we’re talking tens of millions. And Michael Lombardi’s political career? If there is any hint their father is involved in something like this-”
“You said those pictures don’t prove anything,” said Charlie.
“You think the Lombardis are taking that chance? You don’t hire the Commanderoes as your security if your goal is to play nice. Somebody killed Pete.”
“Could’ve been a trick turned bad,” I said.
“Sure. Or it could’ve been the Commanderoes.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“I’d get down to the station and talk to Turley and Pat. Put the cards on the table.”
“You said that we couldn’t use that disc. I’m supposed to walk into the precinct and accuse Adam and Michael Lombardi, Ashton’s favorite sons, of murder. With no evidence? They’ll lock me up with my brother.”
“The disc is useless,” Fisher said. “But they don’t know that. Or else they wouldn’t have been hunting your brother so hard. He’s easily disposed of. You gotta come up with a plan of action. Worst thing that could happen right now is they cut your brother loose. Once he’s out of that jail cell and back on the street, he’s an open target, a sitting duck.”
“What if Adam plants another prisoner to shiv him or something?” Charlie said, sounding worried.
“This is Ashton, Charlie, not NYC,” said Fisher. “You’ve watched too many cop shows.”
“Besides,” I said, “I made Turley promise no one but the police would be allowed near him.”
“Oh, Rob Turley promised?” Fisher scoffed. “Never trust a cop.”
“Fine,” said Charlie, his feelings obviously hurt. “Then maybe they ship him down to Concord.”
“Why would they ship him down to Concord?” Fisher snapped. “Don’t be stupid. You gotta think, Charlie. Concord has no jurisdiction here.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Charlie, “then why would they send a big city detective up to Ashton to investigate?”
“What big city detective?” asked Fisher.
“Cop from Concord,” I said. “Was up earlier in the week, headed back to the city.”
“They sent a detective all the way up from Concord? You never told me that.”
“Why would I tell you, Fisher? We’ve hung out twice in ten years. This is the most you’ve talked to me since I felt up Gina Rosinski in high school.”
Fisher’s eyes narrowed to slits. He quickly relaxed. Nice to see he was finally letting it go.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But it’s weird they’d put a Concord detective on the case. What I’m trying to understand is, why?”
“We thought so too,” said Charlie.
“Figured the Lombardis have some pull,” I said. “Especially Michael.”
“Pull? Sure. He’s a state senator. But he can’t just pick up the phone and have the cops working for him. Doesn’t work like that. And why Concord?”
“This McGreevy’s a real bulldog too,” I said.
Fisher’s face drained of all color.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Did you say McGreevy? Wallace McGreevy?”
“Yeah. Actually, Wallace-”
“-David John McGreevy. Concord detective.”
Charlie and I exchanged a glance.
“How’d you know that?” I said. “We never told you.”
“And you’re sure that was his name?” Fisher asked.
“Yes. I saw the badge. The initials anyway-D. J. When he came up with Turley and Pat after someone broke into my apartment. I remember thinking the name was odd. Y’know, because of the saying about not trusting a man with two first names. Real abrasive asshole too. Why? You know him?”
“Not personally.”
“What then? You’ve heard of him? Is there something wrong with the guy?”
“Only if you think there’s something wrong with a dead man investigating crimes. I don’t know how to tell you guys this. But Detective Wallace David John McGreevy died two weeks ago.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Back in Charlie’s office, huddled around the computer, Fisher pulled up an article from the Concord Monitor archives that ran two weeks earlier.
Charlie read aloud over my shoulder.
“‘The body of Detective Wallace David John McGreevy was found in his home early Sunday morning, the victim of a gastrointestinal rupture.’ Ouch.”
“I only knew about it,” Fisher said, “because my company holds the life insurance policy on the guy. Plus, it’s not a name you forget.”
“So you think someone is impersonating a dead cop?”
“Someone’s walking around with his badge, ain’t he?” Fisher gestured to a block of text at the bottom of the screen. “Read the last paragraph, Charlie.”
“‘There appears to have been no signs of forced entry, although the police are not ruling out foul play.’” Charlie waited. “Huh? Foul play?”
“That’s the thing,” said Fisher, “and why I remember the case. Dude suffered internal hemorrhaging. They found traces of glass in his stomach.”
“Glass?”
“Like someone had shaved a light bulb, the ME said, put it in his cornflakes or coffee, perforated his abdominal wall-fucker bled out. Nobody can prove it wasn’t an accident. As if anyone eats glass by mistake. But he wasn’t married. No girlfriend, no kids, lived alone. As a cop, you always make enemies, but with no motive or suspects, we’ll probably have to pay out on the policy. Sister is the beneficiary. Lives in Kansas. Hadn’t spoken to her brother in twenty-five years. Was shocked when we called her. Piddly policy. Fifty grand. Still, you don’t forget circumstances like that.”