The man didn’t know how to respond. Finally, he said, “Okay, eight dollars.”
Cordero handed him the ten and told him to keep the rest as a tip. He thanked her and showed them outside, then locked the door behind them and got back to setting up for the day.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Harvath said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m a little bit disappointed, though.”
“You haven’t even tried the coffee yet.”
He smiled at her. “Yesterday, you took me for breakfast where the Boston Strangler killed his last victim, and today it’s just a coffee bar.”
“Just a coffee bar,” she replied, shaking her head. “Shows what you know about Boston history, Mr. Expert. Trust me, you don’t want to know about this one.”
“I knew it,” said Harvath as he peeled the lid off his to-go cup and blew on his coffee. “You homicide cops can’t help yourselves. Like moths to a flame.”
“I’m telling you, we’re here for the coffee. Trust me.”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me to trust you. Why?”
“Because there is a story attached to this building and it’s horrible.”
“I’m a big boy,” he said, turning around to study the building’s brick faïade. “What’s the story?”
“Just remember,” she said, relenting. “You asked.”
“I take full responsibility.”
“Okay. Do you know what a baby farm is?”
He’d heard of a baby factory before, but something told him this was different. “No,” he replied. “I don’t think I know what that is. What are we talking about?”
“Back in the 1800s, women who got pregnant out of wedlock and who wanted to avoid the social stigma that came along with it would often place their infants in what was pejoratively called a baby farm. These baby farms could provide wet nurses and would take the child off the mother’s hands for a limited time or ‘adopt’ the child altogether if the price was right. The understanding was that the child would be cared for.”
“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case in this instance.”
“There was a notorious baby farm right here in the late 1800s. The woman who ran it was named Mrs. Elwood and she abused many of the children quite severely and even murdered several of them.”
Harvath grimaced. The idea of babies being given up by their mothers was bad enough, but to think they were abused and even killed at the hands of people entrusted with their care turned his stomach. There was nothing lower in his book than someone who abused children or animals.
“The café’s owners,” she continued, “opened a cigar bar in the basement that everyone said was haunted. They brought in some paranormal researchers who found a disgusting syringe from the 1870s that one of the ghosts allegedly drew their attention to. Once the syringe was taken out of the building, the haunting stopped.”
“Do you believe in all that stuff?” Harvath asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Spirits? Ghosts? I don’t know. I’ve seen some absolutely horrific crime scenes in my time, the last two days included. I suppose I can understand why some souls are unable to cross over. I’d like to think that if I got murdered, I’d be pissed-off enough to stay around until the case got solved. But I’m stubborn like that. What about you?”
“If anyone tried to murder me, it wouldn’t be unsolved because I’d take them with me.”
“Tough guy, huh?” she said.
“No,” he replied. “Just stubborn like that. You know.”
Cordero smiled, and suggested that they get going. As they walked, she said, “It all makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“What people will say a hundred years from now when they pass the murder scenes we’re working.”
It was a good question. “Let’s hope they say it was a tough case, but you and I figured it out as quickly as we could and we stopped anyone else from being killed.”
“Agreed,” she said as they reached her car and she looked at her watch. “Let me tell you what I think we need to do.”
CHAPTER 52
“Damn right I’m not happy!” Reed Carlton shouted into the phone at Harvath. “I don’t care what kind of contacts Monroe Lewis and the Federal Reserve have. Part of what they are paying us for is to be their eyes and ears in this case. They should have heard about this from me and I should have heard it right away from you. You were at the scene before the FBI, for Chrissake.”
“Sir, let me—” Harvath attempted, but he was cut off.
“Be quiet and listen to me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning, three in the afternoon, midnight, twilight, firelight, whatever frigging time it is! If there’s a development in a case we’re working on, especially a murder, I expect you to call me. Whether or not you’re going to wake me up should never factor into it. Do you understand?”
The boss was fired up and Harvath knew better than to respond in any fashion other than completely professional. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s my fault. It won’t happen again.”
Harvath’s phone had rung just as Cordero was dropping him back at his hotel. He had planned to shower and change while she went home to pick up her son and drop him off at day care. They were going to meet back at her office. In between then, Harvath was going to call the Old Man and give him an update, but apparently Monroe Lewis had heard from the FBI first.
There wasn’t much Harvath could add to what the Old Man had been told, only his belief that the victim was Peter Whalen, the missing Fed chair candidate from Chicago.
The information didn’t make the Old Man happy. Not that Harvath had expected it to. He wasn’t happy, either. Quite the contrary. They had been hired to try to help save four people and half them were now dead.
“So besides another dinner and maybe some dancing with this female detective you’re playing footsy with,” the Old Man stated, “do you have any plans to actually solve this case, or should I expect to read about it when you get around to sending me a postcard?”
Carlton was one of the most brilliant people Harvath knew, but he could be a real curmudgeon when he was pissed-off. In those instances it was a free-fire zone for his acerbic tongue. The only thing he could do was bite his own tongue and wait for the storm to pass.
“The Bureau guys at the scene are proceeding on the assumption that the remaining two missing Fed candidates are here in Boston,” said Harvath. “And we agree.”
“We?”
“Detective Cordero and I.”
“So what are they planning on doing about it?”
“They’re going to go public with the names and photos of the last two missing persons. Their hope is that maybe somebody in Boston has seen something and will provide actionable intelligence.”
“Are they going to publicize the Fed connection as well?”
“No,” Harvath replied. “It sounds like they’re going to do a straight missing persons, believed to be in the Boston area approach.”
“That should keep it out of the national media for a bit longer,” said Carlton. “But not much.”
“Lewis and the Fed have been on borrowed time anyway. The only reason all the missing persons haven’t been linked together is that nobody really knows who they are.”
“And the newest murder?”
“Boston PD has the scene locked down pretty tight. Because of the smoke and the fire trucks, they’re going to allow people to assume there was a fire. They’re not taking the body out in a body bag. They’re going to drain the gang box and transport it with the corpse down to the ME’s office.”
“How are they planning on putting the word out regarding the last two missing candidates?”
“If they hustle, they can get it included in the morning police roll call briefings. All the detectives and all the patrol officers will be given the names and photos, along with a brief description and as much of the story as the FBI decides they want put out there. I think they’re going to connect it to the other murders.”