Something’s come up that has Remy Chandler written all over it. Nice, he thought.
Traffic was relatively light for that time of day, and he was able to get to Huntington Ave in almost record time. Even being nearby didn’t gurantee anything in Boston traffic; this just happened to be one of the good days. Who knew, maybe it was a sign of good things to come.
Yeah, right.
He had no trouble finding the right building—the police cars, ambulance and coroner’s van a dead giveaway. Slowly, he drove by the run-down tenement building.
Finding a parking spot proved to be more difficult than the entire ride, but he finally managed, leaving his car on the next street over, and hoofing it to the building in question.
The police had put up yellow crime scene tape around the entrance, keeping the gawkers at a safe distance. Remy stood across the street with the growing crowd, searching for a familiar face.
Eventually Steven Mulvehill came through the door of the building with his partner, Rich Healey. They were talking, Mulvehill removing a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat pocket and putting one in his mouth. Healey nodded, going back inside as Mulvehill walked down the steps to the street, butt dangling from the corner of his mouth while he scanned the crowds of curious onlookers.
Their eyes locked as they found each other, the detective motioning for Remy to follow. He moved through the rubberneckers, watching Mulvehill doing the same on the other side.
Remy crossed the street, navigating traffic that had slowed to a crawl to take a peek at the scene. The detective was standing out in front of McVee’s Liquors puffing on his cigarette.
“Not sure how McVee’s is for old Scotches, but maybe we can find a vintage bottle of Mad Dog.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mulvehill said, sucking on the end of the cigarette as if it were life support. “After what I just left, being three sheets to the wind would suit me just fine.”
“What’s going on?” Remy asked.
Mulvehill dropped what remained of his cigarette, rubbing it out as he exhaled a foul-smelling cloud of smoke. “Follow me,” he said as he started back toward the building. “Oh, and do that thing you do,” he said, turning slightly and waving his hand in the air. “You know, so you can’t be seen and shit.”
It would raise a whole lot of questions for Mulvehill if Remy were to be spotted at the scene of an active investigation. Remy’s being invisible would make it easier for everyone and would give him the chance to really look around.
Remy followed close to his friend as he maneuvered through the crowds outside the crime scene tape. A beat cop lifted the tape so that Mulvehill could get under; Remy had to practically jump onto his back so that he could make it under with him.
“Do you mind?” Mulvehill spoke softly from the corner of his mouth. “You weigh a freakin’ ton; I thought angels were supposed to be as light as a feather.”
“It’s all that Scotch you’ve been making me drink,” Remy whispered from behind. “Because of you I’ll probably have my wings revoked.”
“Go screw,” Mulvehill said.
“Excuse me, sir?” a uniform asked as he pulled open the door for the detective.
“Nothing,” Mulvehill said quickly, entering the run-down lobby. “Talking to myself is all.”
The lobby was empty and for the moment strangely silent, as if something unnatural had stolen away the sound.
“Are you ready for this?” Mulvehill asked, starting up the creaking wooden staircase. The stairs were covered with what had once been a flowered print runner, the pattern now practically invisible from years of stains and the treads of countless feet.
Remy was thinking of cracking wise, maybe something along the lines of I was born ready. But it just didn’t seem like the time for that.
There was something in the air of the apartment building, and as they climbed the steps, getting closer, it became stronger, more oppressive.
Something unnatural.
They reached the top of the stairs and proceeded down the hallway. There appeared to be two apartments on this level, the one that they were looking for obviously being at the end of the hall, with police detectives, uniforms, and two guys who belonged to the meat wagon out front, standing in front of the open door chatting amongst themselves. The guys from the medical examiner’s had placed their stretcher across the doorway as they laughed it up with two of the uniformed police officers.
They noticed Mulvehill coming down the hallway and immediately changed their demeanor, standing taller and attempting to exude an air of professionalism.
“We’ll be removing the deceased shortly, sir,” one of the drivers said. “The photographers just left, and Detective Healey is finishing up. As soon as he’s done, we’ll—”
Healey appeared in the doorway, sliding the stretcher out of his way. “All right, boys; it’s all yours,” he said.
He then noticed Mulvehill standing there and shook his head, a look of unease upon his face.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said, removing a pair of rubber gloves from his hands.
“Do you think I could take another look before you pack ’im up?” Mulvehill asked, turning to the drivers.
They looked at each other and shrugged.
“Sure, take your time,” one of them said.
Mulvehill moved the stretcher out of the way so that they could both pass through with little difficulty.
“I’ve got no idea what could have caused that kind of damage,” Healey said, again shaking his head. “Maybe if we look together we can—”
“Go grab a smoke,” Mulvehill told his partner. “You’ve done your part; let me take it from here.”
“You sure?” Healey asked, already moving, eager to leave the building.
Remy maneuvered around both men, starting down the hallway inside the apartment, checking out the rooms on either side, pretty sure that he’d know the scene of the crime when he came across it.
“I’m sure. And if you hit the store, pick me up a coffee,” Mulvehill told the younger man. “I shouldn’t be long here, wait for me outside. We’ll head over to Brigham to see what we can get out of the girlfriend.”
“Got it,” Healey said, on his way toward the stairs.
Remy was standing in a doorway looking into a filthy kitchen as Mulvehill came up from behind.
“What’s this about a girlfriend?” Remy asked.
“We’re guessing that she walked in on what you’re about to see,” the detective said, continuing down the hallway. “It’s down here.”
Remy followed, noticing a strange, smoky aroma wafting in the air the closer they got to the room at the end of the hall.
“What do you make of that?” the homicide cop said, motioning with his hand for Remy to look into the room.
The first thing he noticed was the gaping hole in the wall, seconded by the body of a man, probably in his mid- to late thirties, lying on his back on the floor of the room. His stomach and chest had been exposed—set afire and extinguished. The man’s body still smoldered, explaining the drifting stink of roast pork in the air.
“I don’t know what to say,” Remy said, unable to take his eyes from the corpse. Though the stomach and rib cage appeared blackened, the rest of the man’s remains were untouched.
Remy moved closer and squatted beside the body. The frozen expression on the victim’s face was horrible, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him.
“Who is he?” Remy asked.
“Douglas Bender,” Mulvehill said from the doorway. “A familiar face to Burglary. They got a hysterical call from the girlfriend before we did. I guess she and some of the guys had bonded over their love for poor misunderstood Dougie.”
Remy’s eyes moved over the body and to the area around it. There were deep gouges in the hardwood floor surrounding the murdered man’s corpse. He was immediately reminded of something he himself had seen before, marks very similar to this left in the hardwood floors of his own home by Marlowe’s nails, only these appeared much deeper.