The Son of John Devlin (4 page)

“We’ve already reduced his sentence about as far as it can go,” she said. “But there’s still some wiggle room.”

“He’s in for?”

“A somewhat unattractive homicide,” said Emily Lawrence, a sense of irony in her voice.

Del Rio’s eyes widened in mock horror. “ ‘Justice Department Springs Killer!’ ” he said, smiling. “I can see the headline already.” He sat at the end of the table wearing blue jeans, black lizard cowboy boots, and a brown leather jacket. He sipped his coffee and peered over the top of the container.

A couple of people at the table laughed, but Emily Lawrence looked coolly at Del Rio. U.S. Attorney Norman Kearney, her superior, was an able man, though he was prone to considering the political calculations of various prosecutorial options.

“The other factor,” Emily proceeded smoothly, “is that Mr. Jones’s theatrical nature is such that he likes to draw things out over two or three acts. He likes to keep us in suspense. He enjoys that. So we can only push him so far.”

Emily held a pencil between two fingers of her right hand and tapped it in a barely audible drumming motion on a pad of paper. She appeared quite intense. Her brow was knit, her eyes narrowed. She took pride in her reputation as a skilled narcotics prosecutor. Assistant United
States Attorneys from around the nation had visited Boston to study her investigations and prosecutions, and she’d given presentations at a dozen or more seminars for state and federal prosecutors. Her two biggest scores had involved prosecutions of a heroin ring and a crack cocaine organization. Altogether, in the two cases, she had prosecuted and sent to prison eleven dealers for an average of nine years.

For some time her energies—all of her energies, it seemed—had gone into her work. She remained single, despite her best efforts. She was childless. And, at the moment, there were no prospects in her life.

Now, as Emily Lawrence gazed at those seated at the table and contemplated the case at hand, she felt a sense of fear. She feared that the deal would be completed before she could stop it. She feared, as well, that the information about the deal would find its way back through the Boston Police Department to those distributing the narcotics, for she and others had been burned badly by the BPD before.

There was no question that there were leaks within the department. The only question was the source.

Emily Lawrence thought back to when she’d developed an informant within an Asian-run heroin ring, a year earlier. For nine and a half months they had plotted and waited, and waited and plotted. Her target had been Raymond Chan, the overseer of the Chinese gangs in Boston, a thin, laconic man who smoked Gauloises with a gold cigarette holder and was rumored to have two wives at two different residences: one in suburban Lincoln, and another, not yet seventeen, somewhere in Chinatown. There were numerous deals about which the informant had provided information, deals the FBI was
eager to act upon. But Emily Lawrence had been insistent that they wait until a situation presented itself that allowed them to catch Raymond Chan. Such deals, only the largest, were rare. And they were exceptionally well-concealed, for above all else, Raymond Chan valued his freedom.

Her conflicts with the FBI throughout the process had been widely known. She had refused to relent when the FBI insisted on raiding one particular deal for fear that Raymond Chan would not show. And he had not shown. And the bust had been held back.

Finally, the time had come. The informant told of a deal involving three-quarters of a million dollars’ worth of heroin to be delivered to a Chinatown social club. The plans were well laid: Raymond Chan and his men would be involved in a poker game, and the heroin would be brought in by two men from New York in boxes designed to carry poker chips.

Two days before the deal was set to happen, Emily Lawrence went to the Boston Police Department. The club at which the buy would take place was known for its gambling. Every now and then it was raided by the BPD, and she wanted an assurance that there would be no raids on the night in question, for a raid would lead to cancellation of the deal.

She met with the commissioner and explained the significance of the raid. At the time, she’d had no reason to feel guarded in her dealings with the Boston police. And so she had freely described the federal plan.

Two nights later everything was in place. But when the FBI showed up at the club, they found Raymond Chan playing poker with a few associates. No heroin, no drugs of any kind. Emily Lawrence had been at the scene,
and what she remembered most clearly—the detail that would stay with her always—was the expression on Raymond Chan’s face. His smile told her all she needed to know. It said, “I outsmarted you. You thought you had me, but you have been fooled.”

There had been seven important cases over a four-year period where the DEA or FBI drug raids in Boston had been anticipated by their targets.

“So what sort of facility is he in?” Duffy asked. “Minimum, I suppose.”

“Medium,” said Emily. “Danbury. And that’s our leverage. He’s dying to go to a federal country club.”

“So present him with an alternative,” Duffy said. “He pitches in or goes to maximum.” Duffy shrugged as though to say, What could be simpler? An arrogant scowl crept onto his face.

Kevin Duffy was a heavyset man in his late thirties with soft pink skin and wisps of thinning reddish hair. He was chubby through the middle and had developed an extra layer of fat around his neck. Duffy possessed a weak chin, which he attempted to disguise with a goatee, but it was a scraggly, ill-trimmed patch of orange on his chin. He was a dutiful agent who took his work seriously, but often appeared to think of himself more as a tough, urban detective than as an agent of the FBI. It seemed he decided too late in life that he’d chosen the wrong career path, and so now took on the affectations of a detective who’d seen all of the hardscrabble life of big-city crime. That he was, in other words, Del Rio.

But Del Rio hated Duffy, as Del Rio hated all FBI agents. Del Rio believed the FBI was incompetent and arrogant. One of his men, Detective Steve Burke, had been shot by a drug dealer in a raid that Del Rio believed had
been botched by the FBI, a blunder Del Rio would never forgive. He struggled to mask his contempt for the FBI in general and Duffy in particular.

“We actually used that a couple cases ago on him and it had the opposite impact,” said Emily Lawrence. “He shut up for months.”

Duffy sat forward in his seat, folding his hands on the conference table. He was clearly annoyed. “Look, let’s talk real-world here,” he said. “Let’s sit Mr. Jones down and give him a choice between his continued incarcerated comfort or some genuine discomfort.” He startled the others by banging the palm of his hand down on the table. “Let’s try this. Let’s move him. Why don’t we just move him. Roust him. Couple marshals escort him at three
A.M.
to a bus for a ride to Illinois and then maybe down to Texas. See if that doesn’t strengthen his vocal cords.”

“Strengthen his vocal cords?” Del Rio repeated with a laugh.

“Look, if we do that, we could lose him completely,” said Emily Lawrence. “That works with certain types of characters, but it’s too big a risk with Mr. Jones.”

“What do we have to lose?” Duffy asked.

Emily frowned. “We could lose him completely,” she replied, as though the point was obvious.

“But it might open him up, too,” Duffy said, warming to the idea. “Nice long bus ride,” he added with a smirk, “has a way of changing behavior.”

“No,” said Emily, clearly annoyed that Duffy continued to pursue his notion. “It’s too risky, Kevin. We can’t afford to have him go into a shell. He’s too valuable.”

Duffy shook his head regretfully. “I don’t know. Little castor oil works wonders.”

Del Rio laughed out loud again. “Castor oil?” he repeated. “Thanks for the analysis, Sam Spade,” he said in a mocking tone.

The situation reminded Jack Devlin of a fight between two hockey players with a long-standing mutual grudge. They needed no excuse, no cheap hit, no cross-check. All that was required was for one to look at the other and recall his hatred.

Duffy glared back at Del Rio. “This is a federal matter,” he said. “We’ll deal with it.”

Del Rio’s expression indicated grave confusion. “May I make a query here, Madam Chairwoman,” he said in a mocking tone. “Here is the sum and substance of my query. Upon hearing my colleague from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I ask this simple question: Are agents in the employ of the Federal Bureau of Investigation currently involved in an experiment that includes the smoking of marijuana or the use otherwise of hallucinogenic substances?”

Duffy glared across the table at Del Rio, who could not help but smile.

“Del Rio,” said Emily Lawrence. “I don’t think—”

“I’m not going to sink to his level,” Duffy said angrily. “I have a strong conviction a long bus ride would work.”

“And you base that on what, Kevin?” Emily Lawrence asked calmly.

“Astrology,” Del Rio said, deadpan.

Emily Lawrence was suddenly red-faced. “Superintendent Del Rio,” she said sharply as she turned to face him. “Our purpose here is to compare notes and see whether this tip we have has any shape yet in the real world. And if you can be instructive in that vein, by all means speak
up. Otherwise, I would ask that you refrain from succumbing to your juvenile instincts.”

The room fell silent. No one spoke to Del Rio that way. The silence seemed prolonged, growing more awkward with each moment.

Del Rio nodded very slowly. “You’re right, Emily,” he said. He turned to Duffy. “To the gentleman from the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said, sounding contrite, “I would like to apologize for my mocking comments and tone, and I will do so as soon as he admits that because of his incompetence one of my men—”

“Jesus Christ!” Duffy shouted, banging the table.

Emily Lawrence sat forward in her seat, clearly angry. Her meeting was being destroyed. “I think the Boston Police Department would do well to avoid throwing stones,” she said, “at least perhaps until it is a place where one can readily tell the difference between the cops and the crooks.” As she uttered these words, her gaze shifted to Jack Devlin and fixed on him. The sentence hit Devlin with remarkable force, like an unseen punch to the gut.

Where one can readily tell the difference between the cops and the crooks
.

Though Devlin was aware of Duffy saying something about Del Rio, and then other voices joining in the fray, he did not hear what they said. He sat silent, stung by Emily’s words, for she’d been looking right at him—not as though to say the department was crooked, but as if to say, “You, yes you. You know whereof I speak. You know what I’m saying is the truth.”

Suddenly, the meeting was breaking up, everyone rising from the table; accusations were traded, voices raised. Devlin rose, too, and followed Del Rio out of the conference room and down the hallway.

As Devlin left, Emily Lawrence watched him, and realizing that he’d taken her words personally, she felt instant regret for she had not meant to hold his gaze as long as she had; had not meant, at least not consciously, to imbue her words with such meaning.

“So?” Del Rio said as he and Devlin walked quickly toward the bank of elevators.

“So, what?” Devlin asked.

“So tell me I was wrong,” Del Rio said. “Tell me I went too far. Tell me I’m an asshole.”

“It was uncalled for,” Devlin replied.

“I can’t help it,” Del Rio said, turning away, fidgeting, clearly struggling inside.

“You have to help it,” Devlin said. “We have to work with these people.”

Del Rio abruptly turned to face Devlin. He looked furious. Del Rio was a full half foot shorter than Devlin and not nearly as broad-shouldered, but he exuded a sense of energy and power.

“You fuckin’ listen to me, Detective Devlin,” he said, poking his forefinger into Devlin’s chest. “That guy’s not just an asshole, he’s a dangerous asshole. And I can’t look at his ugly fucking face without thinking of Stevie Burke being undercover and almost getting whacked by some Jamaican fucking posse because the Federal Bureau of Investi-fucking-gation in the person of that asshole Duffy is an incompetent dick. And so when I go into those meetings, I have the very best intentions, but when I look at him I think of Stevie and I think, ‘Fuck it!’ ’Cause the truth is the truth is the truth, Jack, and don’t forget it.”

Spittle had come flying from Del Rio’s mouth and he
was breathing hard now, his fury only barely under control. And before Jack Devlin could say anything, Del Rio turned, ignored the elevator, and took the stairs, twelve flights down to the street.

J
ack Devlin rode the elevator to the ground floor of the John W. McCormack Federal Courthouse in Post Office Square, stung from the rebuke. He could not get her look out of his mind, that steady, determined, insistent gaze when she had said it to him.

Where one can readily tell the difference between the cops and the crooks
.

Jack walked through the lobby of the building, past the metal detector, and took the staircase that led to the parking garage. He got into his Cherokee and sat back in the seat, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. Wonderful, he thought. He had managed, in a single meeting, to incur the wrath of both Emily Lawrence and Del Rio. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had an hour to get out to Holy Name. He could drive the long way, take his time, and still be early.

He started the Cherokee and began to ease it out of the parking space. He was headed toward the exit at the rear of the building when a stairway door flew open and Emily Lawrence burst forth directly into the path of his vehicle.

“Stop!” she shouted, her face flushed, thrusting out
her hand as though she were a school crossing guard blocking a speeding driver.

She moved quickly around to the driver’s side as Jack rolled down his window. Her brow was knitted and her lips pursed. She was clearly troubled. “Can we talk?” she blurted. “Do you have a minute?”

She had just insulted him in the most pointed way possible, he thought, and now she wanted to chat. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. He cocked his head and said to her: “You and I have nothing to discuss, Counselor.”