“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.
She recognized Stone, and her expression changed. She morphed before his eyes into the angry woman he knew from their time together. “What the hell are you doing here, Stone?” she demanded.
“I heard you were sick,” he said. “I brought chicken soup.”
The boy, who had disappeared for a moment, was standing behind Sanchez now. “I don’t like chicken soup,” he said.
“I asked you to get back in bed,” she said to him.
“Aw, Mom,” he replied sullenly. He headed back into the house.
She looked back at Stone. “This is my personal, private space,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”
Stone stood his ground. “We need to talk.”
“He’s adopted.”
Carlos was in the family room, watching television, and Stone was alone with Sanchez in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table; she was cleaning the breakfast dishes. The question had been unspoken. He was glad she’d answered it without his having to ask it, though; he wasn’t sure he’d have had the guts. It was clearly a question she had to address fairly often. She was a single cop in her fifties. A six-year-old calling her Mom didn’t fit.
“He’s normally in school, but he woke up this morning with a fever, and the woman who takes him in the afternoon isn’t available this morning.”
“Seems like a cute kid,” Stone said.
“He was two when he came to this country. Now you’d never know he lived anyplace else. Funny how the world works that way, isn’t it?” she said. “Time moves on; kids forget the bad.”
“Is he your only child?” Stone asked.
“I had a daughter,” she replied. “She was murdered. So was my husband.”
He had no idea what to say. “That’s why you became a cop.” It was the only thing that came to mind.
She glared at him. “Yeah. That’s why I became a cop. And that ends our discussion of my personal life. You wanna talk work, fine, but talk quickly. Then I want you out of here. You shouldn’t be here in the first place.”