The Son of John Devlin (3 page)

They could hear Moloney breathing heavily, and when he spoke, he sounded very angry indeed.

“Where’s the money, you little faggot?” he demanded.

“I don’t got—”

“Bingo, again,” they heard Curran say. “Bingo, again, my friends.”

Curran had entered the kitchen with two fat wads of cash wrapped in a brown paper bag. It had been stashed in a tile above the drop ceiling.

“Oh, Little Bo Peep,” Moloney said. “Little Bo Peep, you’re back. You little sweetheart, you. Okay, honey, we’re going downtown to let the savages have their way with you. How about it?”

They could hear a muffled sound, and did not know what it was at first, but then Devlin realized Luis was crying.

“Fuckin’ kid is good,” Del Rio said. “We’re talking Oscar nominee.”

“I’ll do anything,” Luis said through his sobs. “Don’t put me in jail, man.”

This was precisely the type of situation that Moloney
and Curran fed off. They held all the cards. The solution to Luis’s problem was so neat, so easy.

“Hey, we’d like to help,” Moloney said, “but there are rules. There’s—” He caught himself. “Maybe, though, maybe there’s a way to work things out.…”

“I’ll do anything, mister,” Luis said.

And so they quickly arrived at a mutually beneficial agreement. Luis would keep the dope. Luis would remain free. Luis would not be arrested or charged or jailed or sodomized by the most brutal of men. And the detectives, the servants of the people, the men with the gold shields, Moloney and Curran, two fine Irish Catholic lads who’d sworn to uphold the law, would take the cash, twelve thousand U.S.

Devlin pulled the Cherokee out of the alleyway and onto the street, accelerating quickly down to the front of 322, pulling in directly behind Moloney and Curran’s Crown Vic.

Devlin and Del Rio were out of the Cherokee, moving swiftly toward the entrance to the building, when Moloney and Curran stepped outside. Just as they did, Curran, seeing the two men, turned and started back inside the building. Del Rio was suddenly at his side, just inside the door, holding it open with his back as he grabbed for Curran’s jacket and yanked him back out onto the sidewalk.

“What are you goin’ back inside the building for?” Del Rio asked. “What’s in there? What, you forgot your hat? What?”

“I was gonna …”

“You were gonna what?” Del Rio asked. “You were
gonna do what? It looked like you were duckin’ me, Bobby, huh?”

“No, I—”

“What’s your problem?” Moloney asked Devlin. “What’s this fuckin’ attitude?”

He regarded Devlin suspiciously, then turned to Del Rio. “What’s the fuckin’—”

“How’d the bust go?” Del Rio asked, jerking his head, motioning toward the building.

Moloney hesitated. “Dry hole,” he said. He shrugged.

“Dry hole,” Del Rio repeated, nodding.

“It happens,” Moloney said.

“Nothin’,” Del Rio said. “No dope?”

Moloney shook his head.

“No cash?” Del Rio asked.

Moloney paused, staring at Del Rio. “Dry hole,” he said as he took half a step back, eyeing Del Rio, then Devlin. Moloney’s hands were in his raincoat pockets, and as he took them out, Devlin watched him carefully. Devlin held his right hand behind his back, gripping his service revolver.

“Whaddaya got in the pocket?” Del Rio asked Moloney.

“Look,” Curran said, his voice trembling with fear, “is this some kind of a … what the fuck is this?” he asked, turning to Devlin. “Jackie, we’ve worked together. What’s up here?” Devlin could see that Curran was on the verge of panic, heard it in Curran’s voice as he implored him to intervene.

“What happened up there?” Devlin asked, his voice calm, even subdued.

“Jesus,” Curran said, “routine. The kid’s clean. Big deal. It happens, huh? Jackie, you know.”

“Empty your pockets,” Devlin said, turning to Moloney.

Moloney appeared stunned by this. A look of disbelief came over his face. He feigned amusement. “Who the fuck do you think—”

“Now,” Devlin said. “Empty them now.”

Moloney froze. He reached into his pocket and took out the cash, holding it in his fist.

Devlin and Del Rio stared at it.

“So I gamble,” Moloney said. “Big deal. Violation of department rules, so sue me.”

“Gamble?” Del Rio said. “What the—”

“I won this in a card game,” Moloney said. “In Southie. Over on the—”

“We have it all on tape,” Devlin said quietly. “We taped the whole thing.”

There was a moment of silence, a shattering moment when reality struck home and Moloney and Curran could think of nothing to say.

“Dear God,” Curran whispered.

When Moloney spoke, his voice had lost its arrogance. “Let’s talk about this,” he said. “We know each other. We go back,” he said to Del Rio. “Nobody’s perfect. There’s—”

Devlin stepped behind Moloney and reached around to remove his service revolver. Moloney did not resist. Del Rio did the same with Curran, who stood speechless.

“We’ll go downtown now,” Devlin said. “We’ll all go in the Cherokee.” But nobody moved.

Moloney stood frozen for a moment, then squinted at Del Rio. He held his hands out by his sides, palms up. “What … can’t we talk?”

“What’s to talk about?” Del Rio asked. “You guys—”

“We go back,” Moloney said, looking pleadingly at Del Rio. “We go back. Let’s show some respect.…”

Del Rio shook his head. “We’ll talk downtown,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Suddenly, the gravity of it all seemed to strike Moloney a thunderous blow. He turned to Devlin, fury evident in his eyes. “What is this?” he said. “The sins of the father. You avenging—”

But Moloney did not finish his sentence. For, suddenly, Jack Devlin had grasped Moloney’s left shoulder in his left hand while he took the fabric of his raincoat in the back—as though Moloney were a human ramrod—and rammed Moloney into the wall, banging the side of the big man’s face into the bricks, scraping away layers of skin from his forehead and down across his cheekbone on the right side of his face, sending blood down to his shirt collar.

Devlin, teeth jammed together, jaw clenched, put his face up so close against Moloney’s he could smell the beer on Moloney’s breath. Bringing his mouth close to Moloney’s ear, he whispered so that Del Rio and Curran could not hear: “Don’t ever say that again. Don’t ever say it again as long as you live.”

J
ack Devlin fantasized that the most alluring woman he had ever met was secretly in love with him. When Emily Lawrence walked into the room, Devlin did not focus on the smoothness of her skin or the silkiness of her jet-black hair, cut short high on the back of her neck, or the prominent cheekbones or the full lips or the narrowed waist or the shapely calf muscle. When she walked into the room, his gaze was instead fixed upon her blue eyes, on their bright awareness. She moved easily toward her seat at the head of the conference table, and as she did so she greeted those in attendance with brief hellos. He followed her closely as she moved, expecting her to say something to someone else before turning to him. But she looked in his direction abruptly, and he was caught staring and felt his face flush as he quickly looked down and then back up, smiling at her. She watched him for a moment as though amused by his reaction. She stepped in his direction, and the beat of his heart quickened. She reached out to shake his hand, and held it a moment longer than she’d grasped the others’. Or had he imagined it?

Emily Lawrence was Assistant United States Attorney for the criminal division in Boston. She was thirty-three
years old, five feet seven inches tall, with the physique of an athlete. In college, she’d been a champion squash player, and still played at a top amateur level. In her dark blue wool suit and beige silk shirt, she looked serious and businesslike. Yet beautiful. She had an open face, high cheekbones, a delicate jawline, and a generous, infectious smile when she let it be seen.

She began the meeting, but Jack was not paying attention to what she was saying. He thought instead about the two occasions when they had discussed the possibility of going out, only to have circumstances intervene. He’d met her at a law enforcement conference and later called to invite her to a movie. She’d had plans, however. A month later she invited him to dinner. He had had plans. That was three months ago, and nothing had happened in the meantime.

Emily Lawrence took her place at the head of the conference table. Seated around the table were Luke Downey, director of the State Attorney General’s Criminal Division; Kevin Duffy, chief of investigations for the FBI in Boston; Anita Rogan, Assistant District Attorney for Suffolk County; and, from the Boston Police Department, Devlin and Del Rio.

Emily looked around the table to make sure everyone was in place. She glanced down at her notes and began speaking.

“We have some information that a major deal is in the works,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “The information comes from a source who has proven reliable in the past. One Mr. Jones.”

“From the Suarez case?” Anita Rogan asked.

“The very same.”

Those around the table nodded, for Mr. Jones had
established himself as a knowledgeable and reliable witness. In the Suarez case he had traded his testimony for a substantial reduction in his sentence.

“So he’s talking again,” said Downey, the man from the State Attorney General’s office.

“I thought he was tapped out?” said the FBI’s Duffy.

“He was,” said Emily Lawrence. “But he’s still connected, and he has fresh information.”

“Out of the blue?” Duffy asked.

“His lawyer came to us, told us he had something he wanted to talk about,” said Emily. “Something new.”

“Any good?” Duffy asked.

Emily Lawrence shifted in her chair and leaned forward. “Very good,” she said. “Potentially very good. Mr. Jones says there is a very significant deal about to happen. When exactly, he cannot say. But soon. What’s significant about it is that it involves new people. Who, he will not say, at the moment. But he said there’s a new cast, and a new product.”

There were looks of surprise around the table.

“Not coke or smack?” Anita Rogan asked.

“Morphine,” said Emily Lawrence. “Pure, medical-grade morphine.”

“Wow,” Downey said. “That’s different.”

“Very,” nodded Emily Lawrence.

“Morphine?” Del Rio said, clearly surprised.

Emily nodded again. “And the highest grade of morphine,” she said. “A grade so high, of such purity, that we speculate it comes directly from one of the pharmaceutical companies.”

“A theft, hijacking?” Duffy asked.

“In all likelihood,” said Emily Lawrence.

“They’re very sensitive about that,” Duffy said.
“They rarely report to us when a shipment has disappeared. It’s a bigger problem than people realize, shipments of controlled substances not reaching their destinations.”

“Mr. Jones says the idea is to target the suburban and college markets in Greater Boston,” said Emily Lawrence. “We know independently that there has been a reduction in drug use among college students in the past few years. Ditto for the suburbs. Mr. Jones says the dealers have been searching for a product that will prove popular. Most of these things scare people, but they’ve done some test-marketing and Mr. Jones says the response to morphine has been very strong.”

“Test-marketing?” Downey said with disbelief.

Emily Lawrence nodded. “They think that with the economy so strong, they can build the business very substantially among these two target groups.”

Anita Rogan nodded. “Makes perfect sense.”

“That’s what’s scary about it,” said Emily Lawrence. “It’s so plausible. So levelheaded. So perfectly sensible from a business standpoint. They believe that morphine is right for a number of reasons. It’s safe. In part because it’s so high-grade. It’s taken orally, so there isn’t an HIV issue. It’s priced within reason. And it’s one of the greatest highs ever. Obviously, whoever is behind this knows what they’re doing. There are more than a half-million students in the Greater Boston area. Another million yuppies in the suburbs making good money. Think of the implications.”

And to these law enforcement professionals experienced in the drug wars, the implications were immediately clear. Such a product could have enormous appeal, and if sold and distributed by a new broker, would attract
that traditional source of narcotics—organized crime—and quite likely result in a vicious and deadly territorial war.

These men and women knew that the suburban cocaine scourge of the 1980s had been defeated not only by the collapse of the economy, but by the diligence of law enforcement officials. It had been very difficult, nasty work, however, and fighting again in the leafy suburbs was not something they wished to do.

“I don’t want to sound preachy, but I say this because I believe it: Those of us in this room can stop this,” said Emily Lawrence. “It will require the same diligence and persistence we all displayed fighting cocaine. And it will not be easy, but it will be vastly easier if we’re able to cut it off before it begins. And that means doing whatever we have to do to prevent the shipment that’s coming from reaching its distribution channels. Ideally, obviously, our goal is to figure out who’s behind this, grab them and the morphine before the deal is consummated. And I think we can do that. But it will take some cooperation.”

She glanced around the table at the men and the woman from the various law enforcement agencies. Everyone nodded in agreement, with the exception of Del Rio. He sat stonily silent.

“Do we have any idea when this is coming down?” Duffy asked.

“Mr. Jones wants to talk about the terms of a deal before he says anything more,” said Emily.

“Have you pressed?” Del Rio asked. He set down a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee container and sat back in his seat.

Emily shrugged. “As much as we’re able. Mr. Jones is rather theatrical. He goes at the pace he wants to go at.
In the Suarez case it took him a year before he was ready to give us everything.”

“But it sounds like there’s a sense of urgency here,” Anita Rogan said.

“How much leverage do we have?” Downey asked. “I mean, I wonder how far a judge will let us go in cutting his sentence.”