Devon felt bad for Murphy. Not nearly as bad as he felt for himself, but bad all the same. Murphy had tried for him. Even after the others had given up on him, Murphy had kept him afloat, even if just. Had things been different, maybe the Gilberacci’s job would have been enough-the beginning of a comeback. A comeback clearly wasn’t in the cards now, though. He’d made his choice and there was no going back.
He turned his thoughts back to Murphy’s murder. It was hard not to leap to the obvious conclusion. It fit with the rumors he’d heard. It would make sense. But he still wasn’t certain. Murphy’d led a dangerous life. He’d pissed off lots of people, and he’d run with a vicious crowd. His murder could be a coincidence. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible, and Devon clung to that possibility.
There was only one way to be sure. Ballick was the key. They’d made their mistakes, but they’d made them together. Until he knew for sure, Devon was safer in jail.
He thought back over the past decades and wondered whether he’d have done anything differently. Probably not. He was who he was, and nothing would have changed that. Even if he’d known.
The Irishman didn’t trust Devon. It didn’t take a lot of brains for Devon to recognize it. In some ways, Devon could understand. Devon was undisciplined. He talked too much. The Irishman had a singular purpose, and from what Devon knew of him, he had dedicated his life-everything he was or would become-to waging a war that required the kind of commitment Devon would never understand.
It had been more than four weeks since they’d met at the Body Shop, and Devon still hadn’t delivered. They’d made one try, and it had been a farce. Two weeks earlier they had acted out a pathetic pantomime in front of the museum off Fenway. The Irishman and Devon pretended to assault another one of Murphy’s crew out on the street late at night, well within the range of the outdoor security cameras. The third man then ran to the museum’s side entrance and started banging on the door and ringing the bell, calling out for help. The guards, though, had been more cautious than Devon had expected, and had simply called the police, staying locked up in the museum themselves. The three of them had just barely cleared the area before the cops arrived.
“Don’t worry, Irish,” Devon had said. “I got another plan.” It was a lie at the time, and for three days Devon hadn’t slept or eaten. He knew his life was on the line. It took some time, but eventually he hit on another idea.
In some ways, the new plan seemed as foolish as the first. They were parked on the street in a beat-up red Toyota on a Saturday night, just a hundred yards or so from the museum’s main entrance. It was St. Patrick’s Day, and Boston was consumed in a spastic, celebratory madness. Even Dublin didn’t debase itself the way Boston did in recognition of Ireland ’s savior.
It was just the two of them, Devon and the Irishman, and they were dressed in police uniforms, complete with caps, badges, and fake mustaches. Devon felt as if he were in a cheap Laurel and Hardy remake, and he had to stifle a laugh at the thought. He’d been around the Irishman enough to understand that he was not a fan of levity.
They had planned to make the move just after midnight, but there was a delay. A party was in full swing in an apartment building near the museum and there were too many people out on the street. They decided to wait until the party broke up, and they just sat there in the car, for all the world to see. If they got caught, Malley knew that the Irishman would kill him as soon as he had the chance. Even if that didn’t happen, one of Bulger’s guys would push a button on him in jail, just to cut the line to the boss. Any way he looked at it, failure at this point would be fatal.
At one o’clock in the morning, the party in the nearby apartment building was just starting to break up. People were stumbling out of the building and moving on. A group of revelers broke away and started heading toward the car.
“Fuck,” the Irishman cursed. Devon ’s heart stopped in his chest.
“Just wait,” he said. He pulled the brim of the police cap lower on his forehead.
There were four of them, all male, headed straight toward the car. They looked young and drunk. The Irishman reached into his pocket for his gun. “Not yet,” Devon said.
They sat there for what seemed like an eternity as the boys approached. Out of the corner of his eye, Devon saw two of them look into the car, and he considered getting out. They moved quickly past the car, though, and picked up their pace.
“Kids,” Devon said. “They’re underage, and they’re more scared of us than we are of them.”
The Irishman reached up and swiveled the rearview mirror so that he could get a look at them. They were nearly a block away and still moving quickly. “Maybe,” he said. “That doesn’t mean they didn’t see us.”
“All they saw was the uniforms. They’re drunk. They won’t be able to tell the cops shit. Don’t worry.” Devon turned to look at the Irishman and smiled reassuringly. He could tell that the other man wanted to kill him.
“We move now,” the Irishman said. “We’re not sitting here anymore.”
“The party’s almost over,” Devon said.
“I don’t give a fuck. We’re not waiting anymore.” The Irishman opened the door and stepped out onto the street.
Chapter Ten
Stone stood before Sanchez’s front door in Brookline, just to the west of Boston. She’d called in sick. Word at the station was that she would likely be in later in the day, but he had no idea when. He checked the address listed in her personnel file and headed out. She didn’t know he was coming, and he figured she’d be pissed, so he was holding a container of chicken soup he’d picked up at a local deli, hoping it would allay her annoyance. Probably not, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Ultimately, he didn’t care; he wasn’t going to spend his life with a partner who wouldn’t discuss cases with him. He’d decided to push the issue.
When he’d visualized Sanchez’s home, he’d pictured a small, dark apartment somewhere in one of the city’s worst neighborhoods. Two, maybe three rooms, sparsely decorated, with few pictures and no personal items. A place befitting this woman who was so focused on her work, and so distant from those around her willing to help. It was a dark, lonely, angry life he’d envisioned for her.
The dwelling that matched her address from the personnel files met none of his expectations. It was a medium-sized house in a nice neighborhood right off the Green Line. Two blocks from Commonwealth Avenue, it had a large well-tended yard, and flowers flanking the covered entryway. The driveway had been swept, the flower beds had been edged, and there wasn’t a hint of peeling or cracking in the bright yellow paint on the home’s exterior. The place exuded contentment.
He rang the bell and waited. It took a moment, but the door opened, and a young boy stood in front of him, wearing pajamas. “Hello,” he said. He had dark hair and dark skin-far darker than Sanchez’s. His eyes were bright and trusting. He couldn’t have been more than six years old.
“Hello,” Stone replied. “I may be in the wrong place. I’m looking for Detective Sanchez.”
“Mom!” the boy shouted. “She’s here,” he said. “I’m Carlos. I have the flu.”
“Carlos, get back in bed!” Sanchez’s voice was unmistakable, though the tone was softer than Stone was used to.
A moment later, Sanchez was standing in front of Stone. She was dressed in chinos and a loose blouse, and he barely recognized her. The difference wasn’t so much in the way she was dressed, it was in her face. She normally wore her hair pulled back from the temples, giving her face a severe, angry look accentuated by the scowl she wore as a permanent expression of contempt for the world. Now her hair was down and her features were relaxed. She resembled less a bitter cop, more an attractive middle-aged woman.