Sitting in Skykes’s office just after lunch, Stone felt as if he were sitting for an oral exam. He didn’t particularly mind; he was prepared.
“Seven dead,” Skykes said. He was leaning back in his chair, the tips of his fingers brought together in a steeple. He spoke slowly, and there was no emotion in his voice. You might have thought he was talking idly about a baseball score, except that most people in Boston could never maintain his level of equilibrium discussing the Red Sox.
“Five,” Stone offered. It was a stupid response-as though five murders wouldn’t be a problem. “There were only five last night.”
Skykes gave Stone an impatient, condescending look. “I was counting Murphy and Johnny Bags.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone said. “With them, that’s right. It’s seven.”
Skykes began again. “Seven dead,” he said. He threw Stone a look that dared him to interrupt. Stone didn’t. “Any leads?”
Stone kept his mouth shut. He was learning.
“Nothing concrete,” Sanchez said. “Not yet.”
“Anything at all?” Skykes asked.
“Long shots right now,” Sanchez said. “Nothing that would be helpful in keeping the press at bay.”
Skykes whirled on her. “Who said anything about the press? My only concern is solving these murders.”
“Right,” Sanchez said. “Nothing that gets us close to figuring out who actually did it, then.”
“So we have seven dead bodies in this city-connected people”-Skykes flicked a piece of lint off his lapel as he spoke-“and we have nothing to go on whatsoever?” The challenge was plain.
“I didn’t say nothing to go on. Just nothing definitive enough to call a concrete lead,” Sanchez replied.
“Let me be clear, Detective,” Skykes said. “I want to know about anything we’ve got. I don’t care if it’s concrete. I don’t care if it’s Play-Doh. If it pertains to this case, I want to hear about it.”
Sanchez cleared her throat. “The IRA may be involved,” she said. She looked again in Stone’s direction.
“I assume you’re not talking about someone’s retirement account,” Skykes said.
“No sir, I’m not. The other IRA,” Sanchez said. Skykes focused hard on Sanchez. The stare was penetrating, and Stone wondered how she withstood it in silence.
“The Irish Republican Army,” Stone offered. Skykes’s attention shifted to Stone, but the intensity of the stare remained. Stone bore the look for a few moments, then cracked. “From Ireland,” he said.
“I’m aware of the IRA’s origins, Detective Stone,” he said. “What I’m not aware of is how they have any connection to a bunch of murders in Southie. Don’t you read the papers? The IRA’s dead; what in God’s name makes you think they’re tied up in this?”
“Padre Pio,” she said after a moment.
“Padre Pio,” Skykes said. “The torture technique?” Stone was impressed.
“Exactly,” Sanchez said. “Both Murphy and Ballick were shot through the hands, so we figure there’s a possibility this was an IRA job.”
Skykes shook his head. “It still doesn’t make sense. There’s a truce in Northern Ireland, and a government has been formed from parties on both sides. The IRA disarmed; turned in all their weapons.”
“Maybe it’s not the IRA itself, then, but someone close to them,” Sanchez said. “The boys in the IRA always had close ties to the Irish mob here in Boston. Some of them still have smuggling connections. Maybe one of them is freelancing.”
Skykes considered this. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. This is too thin to count as even a theory from what you’ve told me; it’s hardly a lead.”
Sanchez could feel Stone looking at her. She knew what he was thinking, but she was resistant to sharing any more with the captain. Her success had come, in many respects, as a result of her ability to keep secrets.
Skykes could read her hesitation. “If there’s more, I want to know about it, Sanchez,” he said.
“‘The Storm,’” she said.
“‘The Storm’?”
“It’s what was written at the scene of Murphy’s murder,” Stone said.
“There’s a chance that it’s a reference to one of the paintings that was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum back in ’90,” Sanchez said.
Skykes nodded. “The speculation has always been that the IRA was involved in that theft,” he said. “Do we have any point of contact? Any way we can work the theory?”
“Not really. Just the lawyer.”
“The lawyer.” Skykes closed his eyes and Stone had the impression that his mind was processing information like a computer. “Finn, right?”
“That’s right, Captain,” Sanchez said.
“What do we know about him?”
“Good reputation for courtroom work. He handles mainly criminal defense cases; he’ll take on a civil matter here and there if the payout is good enough. Lives in Charlestown, where he’s got his office-grew up there too. When he was younger he got into some trouble. Managed to pull himself out, though.”
“So how is it that he came to show up at both Murphy’s place and Ballick’s shack right around the time they got dead?” Stone couldn’t tell whether the captain’s question was rhetorical; he let Sanchez deal with it.
“We don’t know. When he showed up at the auto body shop, he told Stone that he was there for a client-Devon Malley. Malley’s a thief. There’s a chance that he was involved in the Gardner job, too. He was busted Monday morning looting Gilberacci’s on Newbury. Someone called in a tip it was gonna go down. Don’t know who.”
“So Malley may be tied in to all this?” the captain asked.
“It’s possible,” Sanchez said.
“When’s the lawyer coming in?”
“He was supposed to be in today, but he called and said he had an emergency. He said tomorrow, maybe.”
“Maybe?” Skykes said. “We’re the police; since when do we accept ‘maybe’ in a murder investigation?”
“Finn’s a lawyer, and unlike most, he’s not dumb. We lean on him too hard, we won’t get anything; he’ll show up and claim privilege on everything he knows. The conversation will last all of thirty seconds. If he doesn’t want to, he won’t tell us what he had for breakfast without a subpoena and a couple of trips to the appellate court.”
Skykes grunted. “Probably right. Anyone else we can work on?”
“Finn works with Kozlowski. He handles Finn’s investigations. It’s a good bet that if Finn knows something, Kozlowski knows it too,” Sanchez noted.
“Tom Kozlowski? Former cop?”
“That’s him. You know him?”
Skykes shook his head. “Not personally. I know of him. He was a good cop, but a pain in the ass. You won’t get anything out of him. He’s too smart to make a mistake, and anything he found out from Finn is covered under attorney-client privilege too.”
“Can we lean on him?” Sanchez suggested.
Skykes laughed. “Sure, but it’d be like leaning on Mount Washington. He’ll hold you up, but he won’t move. That’s not who he is.”
“What, then?” Stone asked.
Skykes looked at Sanchez for an answer. “We put a tail on the lawyer,” she said. “See where he goes; who he talks to. He’s gotta know something.”
“That could take weeks,” Stone lamented.
“Maybe, but unless they’re willing to talk to us voluntarily, it’s the best we’ve got,” Sanchez said.
Skykes nodded to them. “However you want to work it is fine with me. Just make sure we get something useful. I don’t care that the dead guys were scumbags when they were alive; seven dead bodies is seven dead bodies. I don’t like it in my city.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lissa left the Green Dragon ahead of the others and headed to Southie to pick Sally up from school. Finn and Kozlowski stayed for a little while to talk strategy; then Finn drove Kozlowski back to the office in Charlestown. The brief respite of seasonable weather had ended, and New England was exacting its revenge as the skies turned gray and troubled and the wind spat drizzle at Boston ’s inhabitants. It was like this every year, and yet people seemed to forget. A few mild days in April tempted Bostonians into believing winter had been banished, but it always regrouped for a final assault. It was usually May before the weather was consistently pleasant.