Brighton (22 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS
had come and gone since Bridget first watched Peggy Quinlan suck a dick. These days Peggy taught CCD on Sundays, railing at any teenager dumb enough to listen about the virtues of abstinence and the perils that befall those who indulge. But there she was in the fall of ’74, tucked underneath a canopy of trees in the heart of Indian Rock, taking Eddie Evans right down to the root. Bridget was all of eleven when she lay on the tar paper roof of 8 Champney and watched, then wrote about Peggy. Now, she sat in the same spot and stared at the page of printed words, a collection of lumpy letters that looked more like finger painting, all of it smudged and a little off center. Bridget smiled at the memory of Eddie’s cum shot, a leonine spurt of white that caught both her and Peggy by surprise. Bridget recalled nearly rolling off the edge of the roof and hearing a titter of laughter below as Peggy fell backward into a pillow of dead leaves and put her hand over her mouth, amazed at what it had wrought. Bridget flipped forward in her notebook. There were more pages devoted to Peggy. Not all with Eddie. In fact, he barely lasted six months before being replaced by a backup cornerback on the high school football team. Then, a baseball pitcher. A drummer. And,
finally, the accounting major turned actuary who went to Bentley. Peggy had paid for Bridget’s silence—twenty bucks a week, right up until the day she married the actuary. Folks in Brighton wondered why fourteen-year-old Bridget Pearce stood up in Peggy’s wedding. But Bridget wanted to wear a fancy dress and get her picture taken in the worst way. And Peggy thought that was a fine idea.

Bridget closed the notebook and returned it to its place in the strongbox her grandmother had once kept on a shelf in a china cabinet. She thought about her conversation with Kevin’s girlfriend. The inviting smile, the way she touched the back of Bridget’s hand, the lilt of her voice that bubbled and ran like a string of perfectly struck notes on a piano. Even in the fucking morgue. Bridget was quite sure her brother never stood a chance.

There was a stirring below. Bridget dropped flat, the tar paper again cool and sticky at the same time on her face. A branch broke with a snap that sounded like a gunshot. She raised her head until the bottom of her chin was level with the parapet wall. Bobby Scales poked his head out from behind an outcropping of granite. A warm shiver coursed through her, curling her spine and loosening her loins. Bridget pulled out a fresh notebook and watched. A half hour later, Bobby left. Bridget scribbled away for another five minutes and reread what she’d written before flipping the notebook shut. Then she found a spot against the building, in the shade of what was left of the chimney, and slipped a hand down her jeans, feeling the stickiness there. It took all of ten minutes. When she was done, she picked up the notebook and put it back with the others—an even dozen, spanning more than a quarter century. She stared at her tomes lined up in a neat row, then sealed up the strongbox behind some loose bricks. It was stupid to leave them all
up here, but old habits die hard. And sometimes not at all. She climbed down off the roof and circled the block.

The air was heavy with the smell of earth. Huge trees, knuckled trunks of wood topped by nodding heads of green, looked down on her as she’d so often looked down on them. And she could feel their judgment. Anxious to get out from under, Bridget climbed up on a shelf of rippled limestone and got her bearings. She had a pretty good idea why Bobby had been sniffing around Indian Rock but wanted to see for herself. Up ahead was a clearing, dominated by a large boulder. It sharpened to a narrow point, with a fissure that ran up its face and formed a cleft at the very top. This was the spot where she’d seen him. Bridget was sure of it. She climbed down and began to thread her way forward. All around her, wet light licked at the new leaves. Bridget quickened her pace. She never saw the root, erupting out of the ground like a web of gnarled, gray fingers, grabbing at her ankle and dragging her down into the mire.

“Fuck.” Bridget rolled onto her back and sat up. He was squatting on the very top of the rock, balanced like some ancient totem, legs pulled up under his chin, arms wrapped around his knees. Bridget felt herself blush and scrambled to her feet. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Sit down.”

Bridget remained standing. Bobby Scales’s eyes never left her. “I need to disappear for a while.”

“What do you mean ‘disappear’?”

“Exactly that. For a month. Maybe more.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“I want you to keep an eye on the business while I’m gone.”

“I don’t collect, Bobby.”

“Finn will take care of that. You just make sure the money gets where it’s supposed to.”

“Don’t I always?”

Bobby didn’t nod yes or no. Didn’t move a muscle. Bridget wondered what he knew about her and Finn.

“Are you afraid to be alone with me?” he said.

“Should I be?”

“No one knows we’re down here.” He smiled and it was like a terrible flash of lightning.

“You need something else?”

“A favor.”

Bridget snorted. “What else is new?” She picked up a sharp stone, tossing it from hand to hand, testing its weight.

“The thing between us was a mistake, Bridget.”

“You think that’s what I’m talking about? Don’t flatter yourself.” She fired the stone at a squirrel, nearly catching him in the flank as he scuttled up the side of a tree.

“Will you help?”

“When he cut me, you were the one who did something about it.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I’m just saying. That’s why I’ll help. Nothin’ else.”

“Okay.”

“What are they after?”

“The Curtis Jordan thing. And two others.”

“Others?”

“Two women. The cops will come around, take apart my apartment, nose around Joey’s.”

“They’ll try to get us talking.”

“So talk. You don’t know anything anyway. Just don’t leave any of the paperwork around.”

“I’m good at hiding things.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Bridget felt a thrill, soaked in equal parts lust and fear. Her whole life she’d been the watcher. Or had she?

“After a month or two, things will settle down and I should be back. If not, do what you want.” Bobby’s voice trailed off.

“You ain’t coming back.”

He swung his eyes across. “What makes you say that?”

“I know about the produce market. They say someone’s coming up from Providence. Might already be here.”

“I’ll straighten it out.”

“Don’t go back to your place.”

His fingers twitched.

She inched a little closer. “I can help, Bobby. I mean really help.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can. And the beauty of it is, no one ever has to know.”

He tipped his head a fraction, as if he’d heard a soft, round note in the distance. “What are we talking about?”

After she left, Bobby remained where he was, perfectly balanced, staring hard at the roofline of 8 Champney, wondering about ev
erything Bridget Pearce saw and everything Bridget Pearce knew. There was a rustle behind him, and Finn stepped into the clearing.

“Where is she?” Bobby said.

“Waiting for the bus.”

“What do you think?”

Finn shrugged. “She’s a devious cunt.” He leaned his weight back against a flat slab of rock, stomach stretched tight against a blue Boston Red Sox fleece. Bobby watched the red B heave up and down as Finn panted in the heavy air. The hike through the woods had taxed him.

“What is it?” Finn said, itchy under Bobby’s gaze. Bobby jumped down off his perch, prowling the edge of the clearing as he spoke.

“You ever get the rest of the money that Irishman owed us?”

“Sorry, B. I never got the chance.”

“What are the cops saying?”

“He got stuck in the gut or chest or something. They found him behind the Winship.”

“You said you drank up the Corrib with those guys?”

Finn pawed at the ground with the toe of his shoe. “A little bit, sure.”

“But you’re not going in there tonight?”

“Why the fuck would I go in there?”

“Good. Go home. Grab an early night in bed. And stay away from Bridget.”

“Bridget?”

Bobby stopped pacing. “You think she’s skimming off the book?”

“Bridget? Fuck, no.”

“I know you’re banging her, Finn.”

“
Was
banging her.”

“Come here.”

Finn made a meal of shuffling closer but hardly moved at all.

“Come here.” Bobby grabbed him by the thick shank of muscle between his shoulder and neck. Finn winced and dropped to a knee.

“Fuck, that hurts.”

“Look at me.”

Finn looked up and found a gun tickling his cheek. “How long we known each other, B?” His eyes were wide and swimming with broken blood vessels.

“Is that all you got to trade?” Bobby slid the gun down so it was under Finn’s chin. “Take it.”

Finn wrapped his lips around the barrel and waited for whatever was next.

“I know what you did, Finn.” His friend tried to speak, but Bobby held up a finger. “Now, I need to know if you’re solid.”

Finn nodded once.

“You understand what that means?”

Another nod. Bobby ground the barrel in until it hit the soft back of his throat. Finn never broke eye contact, unblinkingly offering his life in the hope he’d be allowed to keep it. The moment hung on a hook, then Bobby put the gun away and helped his friend to his feet. “Go home and stay there. I’ll swing by later if I get the chance.”

Bobby half listened while Finn mumbled his apologies and promised to do better. Bobby patted him on the back, then gave him a hug, and sent him on his way back through the woods. Finn looked a little shook, but probably not as much as Bobby would have liked. That might wind up costing Finn his life, but
it was so hard to tell. When it was quiet again, Bobby followed Finn out, a gym bag hanging from the fingers of his right hand. Six minutes later, he was standing on the roof of 8 Champney, enjoying the view. He squatted down and zipped open the bag, pulling out the nickel-plated nine with the black grip. Next came the thirty-eight he’d used to kill Curtis Jordan. He laid down both guns, side by side, and looked at them. Bobby didn’t have a lot of time, not if Providence had already sent its man. But he didn’t need a lot of time. And whatever happened after that, happened. He reached into his bag again for a beige envelope thick with photographs and dealt them out like a run of playing cards. Rosie Tallent and Sandra Patterson were the first two, then two more. Chrissy McNabb and Seamus Slattery. All of them, except for Patterson, the fucking dregs of Brighton. Bobby hung his head between his shoulders and studied the images. There was one picture missing from his collection. One person who was still breathing. And that was a distinction that wouldn’t last for long. Bobby stalked the roof’s perimeter, then walked back to front. When he was satisfied, he got to work.

A SKINNY
guard with food in his mustache unlocked the door to Kevin’s cell and motioned for him to follow. They put him in a small holding room with a table and two chairs. The Middlesex cops hadn’t booked him. No prints. Just took him to a lockup in Cambridge and dumped him in the cell. That was almost seven hours ago. Kevin heard the scrape of metal as someone turned a key. Lisa Mignot walked in and sat across from him.

“Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?”

“The sheriff owed me a favor.”

“You want to tell me what I’m doing here? Or should we discuss it in the context of the lawsuit I’m gonna file.”

“You’re not going to be suing anybody, Kevin.”

“Why’s that?”

Lisa measured out a long breath before answering. “I stashed you here for two reasons. First, I didn’t want DeMateo to pick you up for questioning and parade you around downtown. Second, I wanted to let you know your friend’s gonna be arrested on the Patterson thing.”

“You told them about the reservoir?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then what?”

“They have links between Scales and Patterson. Links between Scales and Curtis Jordan. The gun will tie in Rosie Tallent.”

“It’s all circumstantial.”

“You ever hear of an Irishman named Seamus Slattery?”

“Why?”

“He turned up dead last night behind a grammar school in Brighton. Stabbed in the chest. Coroner says around eight or nine
P.M.
”

“So what?”

“Scales and Slattery had some history. The feeling is Slattery might have owed him money.”

“Bookies don’t usually kill people who owe them money.”

“DeMateo’s gotten pretty comfortable with the idea your buddy’s involved in a lot more than gambling. By the way, what time did you hook up with Scales last night?”

“Around eleven.”

“No idea where he was earlier?”

The image of the bandage on Bobby’s hand flashed through Kevin’s head. “No.”

Sounds from the hallway. Iron scraping iron. The whine of a hinge as a door swung open and shut. Somewhere, someone swore. Laughter.

“Was Slattery done like the others?” Kevin said.

“No ligature. No gunshot. But there is something. The margins and angles on the Slattery wound were identical to Patterson and Tallent.”

“Same knife?”

“We think so. The M.E. also was able to map out the actual wound paths. We couldn’t do much with Tallent, but in both
Slattery and Patterson it appears there was a nearly identical flaw at the very end of the blade. At first we thought the tip might have broken off during one of the attacks, but I went back through the M.E.’s files this afternoon and couldn’t find anything.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Sometimes if a knife breaks during an assault, it will show up in x-rays. In this case, it would have been a tiny piece of metal that looked like an inverted ‘v.’” Lisa held her fingers about a quarter inch apart.

“But you didn’t find anything?”

“I looked at all the x-rays we had. Nothing.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the case against your friend isn’t perfect, but it’s more than enough to get things rolling.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I used you. I used our relationship. And I’m sorry for that.”

“You can keep the apology.”

“Fair enough, but tell me how that helps you? Or your friend?”

“So it’s business?”

“Either way, he’s going down, Kevin. I’m just trying to make it a little easier all around.”

He could smell her skin, still fragrant, still compelling even now as she sat across the table and bargained away his friend’s life. “Bobby needs a day.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Kevin shook his head.

“Can you find him?”

“I don’t know.”

She held up a finger. “One day. If he runs, they’ll arrest you on the Jordan thing and march you past all your buddies in the
media. Believe what you want, but I don’t want to see that happen.” Lisa pulled out her key to the apartment in Beacon Hill and put it on the table. “I moved my stuff out this morning.”

Kevin stared at the key, a crooked reminder of all that was dead and all that was dying, then pressed it into a pocket. Lisa climbed wearily to her feet.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of here before my boss finds you.”

“Can I get a look at the autopsy files you were talking about?”

“They won’t help.”

“I’d still like a look.”

“I’ve got copies in the car.”

Lisa was parked on the street. She pulled a brown binder from the backseat wrapped tight with several rubber bands and gave it to Kevin. After he left, she clicked her nails on the steering wheel and thought about her final throw of the dice, wondering if she’d made a mistake giving him the files. And if maybe she wasn’t being played herself. Fuck it. Lisa was all about Lisa. She knew that now, clear and hard as the painted eyes that looked back at her in the rearview mirror. So why did she feel like opening the door and getting sick in the gutter? She took out her phone and punched in the number for Bridget Pearce.