“Just the two of us,” the first guard said. He seemed to be the senior of the two, though he was only in his early twenties.
“No other external alarms, right? Other than the one behind the desk?”
“No other alarms.”
Devon stopped them on the stairs. “If you’re lying and the cops show up, the first thing I’m going to do is run down here and put a bullet in your head, okay?”
“I understand.”
Devon looked at the man, but saw no evidence of deception on his face.
They led the two men down to the basement and found two posts about a hundred feet apart. They had the men turn around and bound their hands and feet tightly with duct tape. Then they tore strips and put them over the guards’ mouths and eyes. They pushed them down on the ground and taped them to the posts. “Nighty-night, boys,” Devon said. “We hear any noise and we’re coming down shooting. Remember what we said.” He looked at Liam and nodded.
They were in, and they hadn’t even needed to pull out their guns. His job was done.
Chapter Sixteen
Detective Stone arrived at the waterfront at dawn. The buildings were silhouettes against a gray sky to the east, and a light mist hung in the air, reflecting what seemed like a thousand blue-and-red flashing lights. Police tape blocked the driveway, and a bleary-eyed patrolman directed him to park on the street. “There’s a lot of ground to cover in there,” he said to Stone. “It’s gonna take the crime scene boys a while to finish.”
As Stone got out of his car and started walking toward the driveway, another car pulled up and flashed its brights at him. As it pulled alongside him, Sanchez rolled down the window. “You just getting here?” she asked.
“I just got the call,” he replied.
“Me too.” She looked toward the driveway. “Ballick?”
“Sounds like it. Some of his men, too. We don’t have confirmation yet.”
Sanchez rolled up the window and pulled forward, parking her sedan in front of the unmarked car she and Stone shared when on duty.
The view down the long driveway, flanked by the trees on both sides, seemed surreal to Stone. As the crime scene technicians did their work, flashlights sparked the fog in the growing light, like the warning signals of a dozen tiny lighthouses.
It only took a few yards before they were upon the first signs of the massacre. A body lay facedown in the middle of the driveway, covered with a light sheet. Stone bent down and lifted a corner. “Jimmy Kent,” he said to Sanchez.
“That’s about all the confirmation we need on Ballick,” Sanchez said. “We’ll find him here somewhere.”
“Looks like he was shot in the back. Clean kill would be my guess. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
They could see three other areas of activity outside, one set of lights on both sides of the drive, and a couple of lights on what looked like a pile of lobster pots at the end of the entryway. The little shack out toward the pier, however, seemed to be the center of attention. There were half a dozen cops and technicians milling about in and around the doorway. Even from a distance, some of them looked shaken.
Stone and Sanchez took a brief look at each of the three other bodies outside the shack. They didn’t recognize any of them, but they all had the same look of thug soldiers. “Whoever did this is good,” Sanchez said.
“I’m not sure ‘good’ is the first word that comes to mind,” Stone replied.
“Skilled, then. Whatever you want to call it, we’re dealing with someone who knows what he’s doing.”
They headed over toward the shack and cut through those loitering outside. No one seemed to want to look them in the eyes. As they approached the door, Sergeant McAfee stepped outside. “Detectives,” he said. “You’re not gonna believe this. You may wanna take a minute and get prepared.”
“Like Murphy?” Stone asked.
“Sort of,” McAfee replied. “Only way worse. There are lots of different knives and hooks in there used for gutting, scaling, and cleaning fish. Motherfucker got creative with his work. We assume it’s Ballick, but it’s gonna take dental records to be sure. There ain’t much left that’s recognizable. There’s a huge sink in there. That’s where he is. What’s left of him. Makes it a little cleaner, I guess.”
Stone peered around McAfee inside the shack. He couldn’t see much; there were too many people. He recognized one of them. He was difficult to miss. He was around six-four and black. “Feds are here,” Stone said to Sanchez.
McAfee nodded. “He got here around the same time we did.”
“How’d he find out about it?” Stone asked.
McAfee shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe the feds have some sort of newfangled crime detectors they aren’t sharing with us. Could’ve heard it on the radio, but he would have had to have been listening for it.”
Sanchez stepped into the shack. “Hewitt!” She didn’t quite shout it, but it was close. “Out here!”
Hewitt was standing against the far wall of the shack, staying out of the way, observing the crime scene people as they went about their business. He stepped around one of them who was on the ground, pulling up some debris and tagging it. “Detective Sanchez,” he said. He put his hand out.
She ignored the hand. Instead she pushed him toward the door.
“Take it easy, Detective,” he said. His voice was deep and there was a hint of a threat in it. “We’re on the same team.”
“Bullshit,” Sanchez said. “This is my team. I’m in charge here. If you were on my team, I’d know what the hell you’re doing here. I don’t.”
“I told you last time, at the Body Shop,” Hewitt said. “I’m involved in an organized crime task force. We have to investigate when connected guys get killed.”
“Bullshit again. Connected guys get killed in this city every day. I’ve never seen you at a crime scene before.”
Hewitt looked uncomfortable. “It’s a recent investigation,” he said. “This may be relevant to it.”
Sanchez put her hands on her hips. “Oh, well, why didn’t you tell me that? What’s the nature of the investigation? If we know that, then maybe we can help.”
Hewitt’s look went from uncomfortable to pained. “I’d like to, but it’s classified,” he said. “If there was any way…” His voice trailed off.
“Right,” Sanchez said. “If there was any way… I’ll tell you what, Special Agent Hewitt. You have three choices at this moment. You can tell me what you’re investigating, and we can work together. You can assert jurisdiction right now, in which case I’ll pull all my people off this. Or you can file an official request for cooperation through channels. Barring any one of those three, however, I want you to get the fuck out of my crime scene. I swear to God, if I see you within a hundred yards of any of my investigations, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
“You wouldn’t,” he scoffed.
“I would. I’m sure the FBI’s Boston office would love another investigation into its operating procedures right now. The last one went so well.” She stood there with her arms crossed. Stone decided at that moment to try to avoid ever crossing her.
“I’ll file a request for cooperation,” Hewitt said after a moment. He walked past the officers who had gathered around the scene to watch the show.
“You do that!” Sanchez called after him. “I’ll make sure it gets exactly the consideration it deserves.” Hewitt didn’t turn around. “I don’t trust them,” she said in a quieter voice.
“The FBI?” Stone asked. “You don’t trust the entire organization?”
She looked at him. “You weren’t here back in the nineties. We had Bulger and his crew nailed a dozen different times, but the feds tipped him off every time. We’d have the bastard nailed, and then he’d skate. We thought he was clairvoyant. But no, it turned out that the FBI was crooked. So, no, I don’t trust the entire FBI.”
“That was one agent, though, wasn’t it? John Connolly, and he went to prison for it. You can’t blame the entire organization for that.”