The Son of John Devlin (18 page)

Jack sat back in the seat. “Rationally, I agree,” he said. “But I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

She reached over and took his hand, squeezing it. “It’ll be fine,” she said, smiling. “I’m absolutely sure of it. They’ll ask a series of questions, which we could predict right now. And they’ll put the conversation on the record, and that’ll be that.”

He hesitated, and she caught his look of concern.

“What should I do?” he asked.

“Precisely what you are doing,” she said. “Go back, go through the interview. Answer every question.” She hesitated. “Assuming the tenor is one of goodwill.”

He gave her a quizzical look.

“If it’s a collegial tone, then cooperate fully,” she explained. “If it’s clearly something they feel is required, something they must do, have no choice, that sort of thing. If, however,” she said, turning in her seat to face him, “there is any indication of hostility, if it at all feels adversarial, then walk out of that room and retain counsel.”

He was surprised. “Really?” he said.

She nodded emphatically. “If the temperature is high in that room and there’s any indication they might be coming after you, then absolutely.”

He leaned his head back against the airplane seat.

“Jack, I’m sorry if that surprises you,” she said. “But my interest here is protecting you. And these people are your friends unless they are not. And when they are not, they are not neutral, they are your adversaries. Look, I’m assuming that this will be a breeze. I don’t want to blow it out of proportion. I don’t want you going in feeling all sorts of anxiety. I really believe you’ll go in, have a perfunctory chat, and that’s it. But if not, if it feels like something more than that, then don’t be foolish. Get out. Exercise your rights.”

He watched her as she spoke, and saw the intensity in her eyes. She was so clearheaded, so smart. And she clearly cared about him.

He smiled at her. “I feel very lucky at this moment,” he said softly.

She cocked her head, puzzled. “Lucky how?”

“Lucky to be with you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Jack …” She smiled and took his hand. “I feel lucky, too,” she said. “Very.”

When Jack Devlin walked through the front door of Boston police headquarters, he was greeted by a young uniformed officer. “Detective Buckley asked me to meet you here,” the young man said, “and bring you to Conference Room 2B right away.”

Jack hesitated. He wanted to speak with Del Rio first.

“He asked that it be right away,” the young officer said insistently.

“Okay,” Jack replied, and they headed up the stairs to the second floor. Conference Room 2B was long and narrow, with windows on one side facing out over Berkeley Street. On the opposite wall there was a white board. There were three large ashtrays arranged on the table.

When Jack walked in, two homicide detectives were seated at one end of the table. Walter Buckley was the big one, six-two, well over 200 pounds. He wore charcoal-gray slacks and a light gray sweater vest over a shirt and tie. Buckley was in his early sixties, twenty years older than Alberto Lopez, his partner. Lopez was of medium height and build, with coffee-colored skin and a well-trimmed mustache and beard. Lopez wore a black Armani sport jacket and tight blue jeans.

The three men exchanged stiff greetings.

“So we, ah, are looking into this matter of Ray’s death,” Buckley said. He glanced at his El Producto panatella, at the growing, crooked ash, and reached over
and flicked it into the ashtray. “So, ahh, what can you tell us?” Buckley asked.

Jack looked at him. Buckley’s face was broad and fleshy, his eyes rheumy, veins cracked and red on his nose. His hair was black and gray, thick and disheveled. His shirt collar was open, his necktie askew. Jack saw that the gray sleeveless sweater vest had several small burn holes on the front.

“Nothing,” he replied.

Buckley raised his eyes and glanced toward Lopez. Buckley stuck the El Producto into the side of his mouth and spread his arms out to the side. “Then I guess we’re all done, Detective,” he said sarcastically. Buckley looked at Lopez and nodded. “We all done? ’Cause he knows nothin’. We must be done, huh?”

Lopez smiled at his partner’s theatrics. “If you could just walk through with us, Jack, maybe pitch in a little here,” Lopez said. “Just walk through.”

“The daughter doesn’t say ‘nothing,’ ” Buckley said. “She did not say that. She says you pushed Ray around pretty good, is what she says.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jack said.

“Oh, bullshit, huh?” Buckley said. “So, what, the daughter did it? She shoot Ray, you think? Pro’ly, huh?”

“Walter, let’s back up here for a minute,” Jack said. “You have a problem with me for some reason. What the reason is, I’m not sure exactly, but whatever it is, you obviously have a problem. I want to make clear to you that I don’t have a problem. You do. If you want to know what I know about the murder of Ray Murphy, I’ve told you. I don’t know anything. If you want to ask me directly whether I killed Ray, if you think that’s a possibility,
then ask me directly and I’ll tell you I did not kill him. But don’t play some juvenile fucking game with me.”

Buckley’s face turned red. He glared at Devlin. “You think you’re a tough guy, huh?” he said.

Jack frowned and turned to Lopez. “You want to ask me anything, because if not, then I’m going to go do some work.”

Lopez nodded. “I do, Jack, yeah, have some questions,” Lopez said. “If you could just walk through with us, Jack. Just walk through. You go to Ray’s house when? Sunday is it?”

“I drove out there Saturday, late afternoon, around four-thirty or so,” Jack replied. “He was outside working in the yard. I introduced myself and said I wanted to talk with him. We went inside and talked.”

Lopez nodded and shrugged his shoulders. “So you show up, Jack, and Ray’s outside working, like what, on the shrubs, what?”

“Cleaning up the yard, leaves, that kind of thing.”

“And you go up to him and say, what?”

“I asked if he was Ray Murphy, and he said yes, and I told him who I was.”

“And what did he say?” Lopez asked.

“He said, ‘Jesus Christ.’ ”

“ ‘Jesus Christ’?”

Jack nodded.

“So he was surprised?” Lopez said.

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He said I looked like my father,” Jack said.

“You looked like your father?”

Jack nodded.

“Anything else?”

Jack shook his head.

“So where’d you talk, outside, inside?” Lopez asked.

“Inside,” Jack said.

“He invited you in,” Lopez said.

“He wasn’t eager to talk to me,” Jack said.

Lopez drew back and squinted. “What do you mean, Jack? How did that manifest?”

“He said he was busy, had other things to do. I all but pleaded with him. And he let me inside and we talked.”

Lopez seemed puzzled. “All but pleaded with him, Jack? I don’t get that. Help me with that part.”

“I was very eager to speak with him and I thought this was my chance and I didn’t think coming back another time would work, so I wanted to nudge him and get him to talk to me.”

“So this was very important to you, obviously,” Lopez said.

Jack nodded.

“What was so important?”

Jack hesitated. “That’s a personal matter,” he said.

Lopez held up his hands as though to back off. “I respect that, Jack,” he said. “I do. But unfortunately, Walter and I are supposed to, you know, gather whatever information we can. We’ve got a retired cop here murdered in his home in one of the safest neighborhoods of the city. Shot with a police-issue weapon. I mean this is not a pretty picture. So while I’m sure it’s personal in a way, I have no choice but to ask about it. You understand this, I know.”

“It was about my father,” Jack said. “I asked about things that happened years ago when my dad was on the force.”

“Like?”

Jack looked away down the conference table. He looked at Buckley sitting sullenly, a scowl on his face, the El Producto between his fingers.

“I’m not going to get into that,” Jack said. “It was personal. Private. About my dad.”

Lopez seemed sorrowful. “Okay,” he said, “if you insist. But Jack, I don’t think …” He shook his head.

“So how long were you there?” Buckley asked.

“Less than an hour,” Jack said.

“And you’re not going to tell us about that conversation?”

“Other than that it was a personal conversation about my father, no.”

“So when you left Murphy’s house he was fine?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said.

“What was he doing?” Buckley asked.

“He was just standing there, holding the door, in his kitchen.”

“And you left and went where?” Buckley asked.

“Saturday? I went home,” Jack said.

“And you were home all evening?”

“No, I went home and showered and changed clothes and went out for the evening.”

“So you could give us the name of someone who could attest to your whereabouts Saturday night?” Buckley asked.

“I could.”

“So?” Buckley said.

“Is it necessary?” Jack asked, glancing at Lopez.

“Do you have something to hide here, Detective?” Buckley asked angrily.

Jack hesitated. “The person’s name is Emily Lawrence,” he said.

Lopez and Buckley looked at each other. “With the feds?” Lopez asked.

“Yes.”

“My compliments,” Lopez said. “Quite the beautiful girl, that one. Quite.”

Jack did not know what to say.

“So she could attest to your whereabouts for what period?” Lopez asked.

“Saturday evening from about seven until maybe two or so Sunday morning.”

Buckley laughed.

Jack turned and regarded him. Buckley drew on the El Producto and exhaled slowly, laughing again.

Jack tried to ignore him.

“You didn’t go to F.L.A. with her?” Buckley asked.

“Is that relevant?” Jack asked Lopez.

“Look, I know it’s kind of obnoxious,” Lopez said, “but you’ve done this kind of thing enough to know that if you were in my shoes you’d ask these questions. Am I wrong, Jack?”

“Yeah, I went to Florida with Emily,” he said.

“And the trip had been planned for a while?” Lopez asked.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Jack replied. “Very spur-of-the-moment. We both decided we needed to get away for a few days and we just went.”

Lopez nodded and made a note on his pad. “So let’s
just go back for a second,” Lopez said. “You did not have any sort of confrontation with Ray Murphy, is that correct?”

“Not a confrontation,” Jack said. “He didn’t really want to talk with me and I pushed it.”

“Pushed it how?”

“Rhetorically,” Jack said. “I pleaded. I think in a way he wanted to talk. He was relieved to talk.”

“Relieved?” Buckley said. “Why would he be relieved?”

Jack thought about it. “I think in a way he had long expected me to come talk with him, and I think he was glad to get it over with.”

Lopez got up and walked to the window. He looked out on Berkeley Street, hands in his pockets, the Armani jacket hanging in elegant folds.

“You’re throwing me off a bit here, Jack,” Lopez said. “ ‘Glad to get it over with.’ Get what over with? Why would he be glad?” Lopez shrugged. “Walk me through, Jack.”

“Ray Murphy knew what was going on back there,” Jack said. “He knew a lot. It was not a conversation he wanted to have.”

“Knew a lot about?” Lopez asked.

“What was going on.”

“How would he know?” Lopez asked.

“Because he was involved,” Jack said.

“Ray Murphy?” Lopez asked.

Jack nodded.

“Bullshit!” Buckley said. “That’s bullshit. I knew Ray Murphy.” Buckley leaned forward across the table. “What the fuck, the poor fucker is dead and you want to smear him in death. Jesus Christ!”

Lopez shook his head. “That’s rough stuff, Jack,” he said.

“You asked me why he was reluctant to talk,” Jack said. “I answered your question.”

“You fuckin’ guys,” Buckley said, shaking his head. “The educated man. Holy Christ! What a bunch of baloney.” Buckley laughed a harsh, mocking laugh. “I heard this woman once on the TV when they asked her what did women most want in a man, and she said an educated man. She’d studied this, see. And she said women want an educated man. What do you think of that, Devlin?”

Jack ignored Buckley. He rose from the table, ready to leave. “You all set?” Jack asked Lopez.

Lopez shrugged. “I got nothing else,” he said.

“Have you found that because you’re an educated man you get more pussy?”

Jack started toward the door.

Buckley laughed the harsh, mocking laugh again. This time there was a guttural tone to his voice.

“How about the federal woman, Devlin,” Buckley began. “How about her—”

Jack turned quickly and faced Buckley. “Don’t go there, Walter,” he warned in a calm voice. “Don’t go there.”

Buckley reddened. “I bet she gets a wet pussy, huh?” Buckley said, leering.

Jack knew that he should walk out of the room, knew what Buckley wanted him to do, knew he was being set up; but he could not help it. Something inside him flashed when he heard what Buckley said, and he responded with a hard right hand that caught Buckley on
the side of his head, just above eye level, and sent him crashing to the floor. Buckley lay there with both hands covering the spot where he’d been punched.

“That was very foolish, Jack,” Lopez said. “Very foolish.”

H
e knew Moloney was a bad man, and he thought it possible that Moloney was an evil man. Jack had heard the rumors, the whispers that the owner of the Blackthorn had been making payments to cops. Had those payments gone to Moloney? he wondered.

To build a strong case against one of the most visible veteran detectives on the force would send a message to the rank and file like nothing else possibly could. Moloney was smart, experienced. He’d been through Administration, Vice, Narcotics, Homicide. He’d been detached to work on a joint city-state task force with the Massachusetts State Police. He’d been a speaker at various law enforcement symposia at Northeastern University’s School of Criminal Justice. He’d been on special assignment to the office of the Suffolk County District Attorney.