Think about the parents of all those young women. Don't they have a right to know the truth? Don't they deserve justice?
'Have you changed your mind, Mr Hale?'
You've been given an amazing gift, Daddy. God heard and answered your prayers. Are you going to refuse him?
Hale rubbed the whiskers along his face. 'Do it.'
'You are aware of the potential risks.'
'That's why I employ the best lawyers in the state,' Hale said. 'I want the son of a bitch to pay for what he did. I want him to suffer.'
53
Tim Bryson crunched a Rolaids between his teeth as traffic crawled past the Tobin Bridge tolls. Cliff Watts had the window down so he could smoke.
A battered plumber's van, complete with a ladder fixed to the top, was waiting in the left lane, two car lengths behind the Jag.
Bryson's phone rang. It was Lang, the man driving the plumbing van.
'I ran the plates. The car's registered to a man named Samuel Dingle from Saugus. I've got an address.'
Bryson felt a sick feeling crawling underneath his skin. 'Is it stolen?' he asked.
'If it is, nobody has reported it,' Lang said.
'Send someone over to the house. Call me back when you find out.'
The Jag drove fast across the new Zakim Bridge, heading for Boston's southeast expressway. So close, Bryson thought. Too close.
Fletcher merged onto Storrow Drive, heading west. A few minutes later he took the Kenmore exit.
The problems of tailing someone in a city without being spotted were numerous – the traffic lights, the maze of oneway streets and, in the case of Boston, the never-ending headaches of the Big Dig. If you didn't stick close to your mark, you could lose him.
Malcolm Fletcher wasn't acting like someone who knew he was being shadowed. No sudden turns down a narrow street, he didn't change direction – he wasn't doing any of the normal counter-surveillance manoeuvres to shake off a tail. The man stuck to the main roads and kept up with the flow of traffic.
Fenway Park was dark and deserted. Without the Red Sox playing, the place was dead. Traffic was light. Watts kept a good, safe distance.
Fletcher put on his blinker and turned left into a parking lot. Watts drove past him. Bryson turned in his seat, wondering if Fletcher had spotted the tail.
A guard rail lifted into the air. Fletcher pulled inside the parking lot.
Watts banged a U-turn at the lights and found an empty spot along the side of the street, in front of a fire hydrant. He killed the lights but not the engine. Bryson already had the binoculars in his hands.
The parking lot was well lit and, thankfully, there was no tree cover, just a chain-link fence. There. The Jag was parked in a corner on the far right.
Bryson looked past the Jag to Lansdowne Street. The dingy area – horse barns at the turn of the century that were later converted to warehouses – was now home to a string of popular bars and dance clubs set up inside brick buildings. Lines of young men and women stood behind velvet ropes in the freezing cold, waiting for the bouncers to usher them through.
'What the hell is he doing down here?' Watts asked.
Good question, Bryson thought. The Jag door opened.
Malcolm Fletcher was dressed in a dark wool overcoat. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked like a character from The Matrix. He didn't look around, just shut the door and jogged across the street.
The people in line stared at him, wondering if he was some sort of celebrity. He stepped up to a bouncer with a big, round head. The bouncer leaned forward to listen.
Bryson read the sign above the door: Instant Karma.
'I can't believe it,' Watts said. 'The son of a bitch is going dancing.'
Bryson's phone rang as he watched the bouncer pull back the velvet rope to let Fletcher pass.
'You think he spotted us?' Lang asked.
'If he did, the smart move would have been to try to shake us off,' Bryson said. 'He wouldn't lead us to a dance club. Have you ever been inside Instant Karma?'
'Hitting the clubs isn't my scene any more. I'm way too old.'
'We broke up an ecstasy ring about two years ago. The bottom level connects to other clubs. I'm going to head inside with Watts. I want you to coordinate the surveillance. Who else is with you?'
'Martinez and Washington,' Lang said. 'Tim, this guy attacked three federal agents.'
'He did it in the privacy of his own home, and he took his sweet time. Move your boys to the front. There's an alley around the back, near the fire exits. Park there. I'll escort Fletcher out through the alley.'
From the glove compartment Bryson pulled out a surveillance rig – an earpiece and lapel mike with encryption that allowed him to keep in constant communication with his team without the possibility of eavesdropping.
'I'll contact you once I'm inside,' Bryson said.
54
A small, portable Sony radio shaped like a bubble was set up on the floor. A cassette was playing, the reels going around and around as a woman screamed in pain.
Not wanting to disturb any fingerprints, Darby used the tip of her pen to press the player's stop button. The only sound she heard was the wind howling above her.
The remains resting against the debris were skeletonized; no muscle or skin. All that was left were bones inside women's clothing: jeans, a black shirt and a long winter jacket covered in dust. The jeans were bundled down around the ankles, the white underwear inside them stained black with dried blood.
Darby peeled back the jacket to reveal a lab coat with 'Sinclair Hospital' embroidered on the breast pocket.
A grey winter scarf was wrapped around the woman's neck. Strips of duct tape had been used to secure the wrists and ankles.
Behind the skull was a hair mat – long, blonde hair covered in dust. The skull, with its sharp eye orbits, tapered chin and smooth cranium, were that of a female. The vertical teeth confirmed that the woman was Caucasian.
There were no breaks on the skull to indicate a head injury. Hopefully Carter, the state's forensic anthropologist, would be able to determine a cause of death. That wasn't always the case with skeletal remains.
Darby found maggot husks scattered inside the remains. Entomology would use the husks to pinpoint the time of death. She wondered how long the remains had been here.
A red purse lay next to the body. Darby looked inside. The purse was empty. She checked the jean pockets. Empty.
Darby moved the beam of her tactical light around the area. It was impossible to tell what this place was. Mountains of debris covered crushed hallways and doors. There was no ceiling. Looking past the missing floors, all the way to the roof, she saw the night sky.
Malcolm Fletcher didn't crawl through the vent. He must have come through one of these doorways. To do that, he would have to be familiar with the layout of the basement.
Darby took out her cell phone, relieved when she got a signal.
Her first call was to Tim Bryson. When he didn't answer, she left a message and called Coop.
'I'm inside Sinclair – I'll explain everything when you get here,' Darby said. 'Have you met the two new guys who are working in ID?'
'Mackenzie and Phillips,' Coop said.
'Which one of them is slim and small?'
'That would be Phillips. He's very slim because he watches his girlish figure.'
'Tell him to dress warm and to wear old clothes. It's dirty as hell in here, and I ripped my coat. I'll tell the security people to expect you.'
Darby looked back to the remains. The fear was gone, swallowed by the exhilaration of this new discovery buried deep in the earth. The bouncer who let Fletcher bypass the waiting line had a young face – he was no older than twenty-five, Bryson guessed. Judging by the rolls under the young man's chin, most of the muscle had turned to fat.
Bryson flashed his badge and moved the young man away from the other bouncers.
'Don't be alarmed, you're not in trouble,' Bryson said. 'I just want talk to you alone for a moment. What's your name?'