And then he would set to work.
Galvin would crack, as absolutely everyone Dr. Mendoza worked with cracked, without exception. He would volunteer passwords and codes and so forth. No doubt about that.
What worried Dr. Mendoza was not Thomas Galvin. It was the others who were trying to get to him first.
The former DEA agents.
A few quick calls had established that they had been hired by the Zeta cartel. Los Zetas had been trying for quite some time now to penetrate Sinaloa’s security, and they had failed. Then they found a soft spot: Thomas Galvin.
If they captured Galvin, they would capture, in one swift move, the ownership of billions of dollars of invested capital. Seize it from Sinaloa. It would be a catastrophic loss, and it had to be stopped.
A black Chevrolet Suburban had been circling the perimeter of Galvin’s estate for the better part of an hour. They were hoping, as Dr. Mendoza was, to grab Thomas Galvin.
But they had to be stopped. Dr. Mendoza had to get to Galvin before they did. That was crucial.
Suddenly came the unmistakable sound of a police siren. A squad car roared up the road half a minute later, all of its lights flashing.
Was it possible…?
Yes. The police cruiser pulled right up to Galvin’s front gates. Dr. Mendoza could see through his binoculars one of the security guards checking the policemen’s badges and then waving it through.
The police car was entering Galvin’s property for some reason. Was Galvin about to be arrested by local law enforcement? The sirens wouldn’t have been activated for a routine visit.
Something very strange was going on.
After the police cruiser had been on Galvin’s property for almost five minutes, Dr. Mendoza heard the sirens again, and the squad car came rocketing back out through the gates.
In the backseat, a passenger was visibly handcuffed.
It was Thomas Galvin. He had just been arrested.
81
Sixty-five minutes later, the Honda was hurtling down Atlantic Avenue, past the North End, along the Boston waterfront.
Danny turned into a narrow lane posted with a NO VEHICLES ALLOWED sign, slowed to ease over the speed bumps, and pulled up to a gate labeled BOSTON YACHT HAVEN.
The gate was unlocked. The marina was open twenty-four hours, but it was slow this time of year. Most of the slips were unoccupied. There were a couple of cars in the front lot, probably belonging to marina staff. A guy in a short-sleeved blue polo shirt and holding a clipboard came out and circled around to the side of the clubhouse, looking preoccupied.
A few hundred feet away, Atlantic Avenue snarled and rumbled with rush-hour traffic, but here on the waterfront, it was oddly tranquil. A pair of seagulls soared and coasted on the breeze and then one of them dove suddenly to the surface of the water when it spied something.
Tom Galvin’s beloved boat, El Antojo, was moored on the right side of the clubhouse, where the water was deepest. It glinted in the late-afternoon sun. It was truly a beautiful ship. Danny could understand why Galvin loved it so. It was the biggest boat in the marina for now, but not for long. When the summer season began, there would be far bigger, more ostentatious boats.
Danny had downloaded the blueprints of the Ferretti Navetta 26 Crescendo, Galvin’s boat, and knew it was eighty-six feet long and almost twenty-three feet across. He knew it had twin MAN V8-900 engines and a fuel tank that held more than three thousand gallons.
He knew it could go as far as the Lesser Antilles without stopping to refuel.
Danny looked at his watch. He had very little time before Galvin arrived. Half an hour at most.
With Galvin’s key card, he unlocked the gate that led to the gangplank down to his boat.
Most of the wiring had been set up for him by Paul, the foreman at Medford Regional, back at the yard. Paul was a master electrician. It didn’t look particularly complicated. Now all Danny had to do, really, was put things in the right places.
Everything else was outside of their control. It would happen, or it wouldn’t.
It took him no more than twenty minutes. The sun was orange and plump on the horizon as it set. The sky was the purple of a bruise. The outside lights were coming on.
He heard the squall of a police siren approach, nearby. He cocked his head. The siren was getting louder and closer. He stepped off the boat and went up the gangway, through the locked gate, and around to the side of the yacht club.
The police car had pulled into the lot, its lights and siren now off. Leon Chisholm trundled out slowly, favoring one leg. He looked around at the clubhouse, at the water, and then he opened the back door.
Tom Galvin emerged in jeans and sneakers and a gray sweatshirt. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot. He looked like he’d been crying.
82
“Yes, sergeant, that’s correct,” Dr. Mendoza said. “The name is Thomas Galvin. I’ll wait.”
He had taken note of the squad car number as it pulled away from Galvin’s house. Only later had it struck him that it was a Boston Police car, not a Weston one. On his laptop in the front seat of the rental with its wireless connection, he had Googled the district number from the car and was startled to learn that District C-11 was Dorchester, part of the city of Boston.
Why was a police car from Dorchester arresting someone who lived in the suburb of Weston, Massachusetts? It didn’t seem logical.
The desk sergeant from District C-11 came back on the line. “No paperwork here on a Thomas Galvin. What’s your name again?”
“John Ryan,” he said. “With Nutter McClennen.”
The sergeant probably didn’t even know that was the name of a real Boston law firm. He certainly didn’t ask Dr. Mendoza to prove he really was a defense attorney representing Thomas Galvin.
“Look, Mr., uh, Ryan, I got no Thomas Galvin brought in at all today at any time. Not for questioning, not booked for arrest, nothing.”
“Ah,” he said. “Very strange. My apologies.” If Galvin had been taken into custody, for some reason, by a police car from Dorchester, he’d have been booked at the Dorchester station house. How could they have no record of him?
Unless…
“Oh, one other thing, Sergeant. Mr. Galvin gave me the number of the squad car. It was number 536. That’s a District C-11 car, is it not?”
The desk sergeant sighed loudly. “Hold on.”
He came back on the line two minutes later. “You got that wrong, too. That car’s out for repair. Hasn’t been in service for almost a week.”
83
Tom Galvin set two duffle bags down on the pavement.
“Thank you, Leon,” Danny said.
“It was worth it just to find out my old uniform still fits,” Leon said. “Now, if you gentlemen are all set, I need to get this back to the garage before someone reports it missing. Then I got to head over to school. I’m working tonight-College Night, you know.”
“Sorry we’re not going to be there,” Galvin said.
Danny wondered whether Galvin had ever had occasion to speak to Leon before today. Maybe not. But not from snobbery, he knew. They were just two circles that never overlapped.
“Your family gonna be all right?” Leon asked Galvin. “Or are those Russians after just you?”
“Just me,” Galvin said. He took out his wallet.
Leon shook his head. “No need. Any friend of Danny’s is a friend of mine.”
Galvin pulled out a wad of bills and pressed them into Leon’s palm. Leon looked embarrassed, but he took the money. “You let me know if I can do anything else.” He shook Galvin’s hand, then Danny’s.
When Leon Chisholm had left, Galvin handed Danny one of the duffle bags. Danny zipped it open and quickly checked its contents. “Shoes?” he asked.
“Boat shoes. Sperry Top-Siders.”
“Sure, why not. Underwear?”