Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Kickback"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

13

I awoke early Monday morning, fixed myself two semi-poached eggs, some corned-beef hash, and rye toast lathered in Irish butter. Showered and closely shaved, I tugged on a pair of Levi’s with a black cable-knit sweater, slipped a peacoat over the .38 on my hip, and drove north along I-93. At a quarter till nine, I knocked on the door of the late Judge Price. When the knocking didn’t work, I tried the bell. If I ever dropped sleuthing, I would be a dynamite employee for Avon.

After the third attempt, the door opened and an older woman with perfect grayish-black hair and exact makeup stood facing me.

I introduced myself. I told her I was working a case related to her husband.

She stared at me. She did not smile or even register if she understood me. When I finished, her eyes lingered and then wandered down to my Red Wing boots. She nodded a couple times and said, “All right then. I am Mary Price. You may come in for a moment, but I’m already running very late.”

I wiped my boots on a Christmas-themed welcome mat and walked into a still and dark house. The floors were wide-planked hardwoods. The walls were white and spare, with framed family photos and oil paintings of New England landscapes. She had a nice fire going in her family room, where she invited me to sit on a long brown leather couch. An old mantel clock over the hearth clicked off time in a steady and assured tick-tock.

“Would you like coffee?”

“I don’t want to make you any later.”

“You said you wish to talk about Jim.”

“Yes.”

“Then my appointments can wait,” she said. “If I acted rude, please excuse me. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“No apology necessary.”

“You’re the one who left the business card?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I was happy to invite you in,” she said. “But if you call me ‘ma’am’ again, I’ll strike you with a fire poker.”

“Yikes.”

There was a hint of a smile. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and charcoal slacks. We were of different generations but I couldn’t help but notice she was a very attractive woman. Thirty years ago, she must’ve been a knockout. I didn’t know a nice way of saying that, so I kept my mouth shut and waited for her to return with the coffee.

She had her chair, high-backed and well used, close to the fire, with a woven blanket folded over the back and a book in the seat. After a few minutes, she returned with two cups of coffee on a silver serving tray and set them down on a table. The fire popped and the logs hissed.

She removed the book and sat. Her hair was long for a woman her age, with a portion pinned back and most lying on her shoulders. She had prominent cheekbones and gray eyes that watched me as I added a little sugar. I’d recently stopped with the cream. Every little bit counts.

“I work for a woman whose son was sentenced to a juvenile camp by Judge Scali,” I said. “The sentencing was harsh and unfair. In the course of my work, I found out your late husband may have raised similar questions.”

“And where did you hear that?”

“From a woman named Iris Milford with The Star,” I said. “She told me your husband had been a source for her before he died.”

She had not added any milk or sugar to her coffee. The steam curled and dissipated off the mug while the fire glowed and popped. “I wish she hadn’t told you that.”

“She wouldn’t have, but knew it was important.”

“What did the young man do?”

“He made some jokes about his vice principal on the Internet,” I said. “They weren’t exactly high-brow. But they weren’t the kind of thing that needed the attention of a cop.”

She nodded, stared at me with her gray, hooded eyes, and bit the inside of her cheek. I downed some more coffee. I was pretty sure she was weighing the odds of shutting down altogether. The mantel clock ticked off more time.

“Joe Scali is an immoral, soulless bastard,” she said.

Hot damn. I tried not to show my excitement. I leaned forward on the sofa. The bright light from outside was blocked by a pair of heavy dark green curtains.

“As you know, Jim was appointed to family court,” she said. “He held that position for more than twenty years.”

“And his connection with Joe Scali?”

“The whole mess started by a very honest, straightforward inquiry,” she said. “Jim and Joe Scali shared the same budget. Three years ago, Jim was told he’d have to go to the county for more funding for his programs. He didn’t care to go hat in hand.”

“What kind of programs?”

“His budget included counseling for parents who didn’t want to lose their kids and for placement of kids into foster homes,” she said. “He’d never had to ask for additional funding. This was all new. The next year, the same thing happened. Some administrators made innuendos about Jim’s budget, which was laughable. These were all good and fair programs. Nothing had changed as far as the caseload.”

“Scali was eating it up.”

She nodded. “Jim found out that Joe Scali’s sentencing had increased tenfold.”

“Wow,” I said.

“One would think,” she said. “But Joe Scali came along at the right time, in the time of school shootings, to become the Zero Tolerance Judge. You know he liked to be on cable news shows and loved to give speeches to students. He became immersed in cultivating his own celebrity.”

“A real rah-rah guy.”

“Jim made complaints about the ethics of what Scali was doing,” she said. “He knew a lot of kids were being railroaded into a system where they had no business. Not to mention the children were being placed in new private facilities. Some might argue the private prisons were better for the kids, but the costs were astronomical.”

“To whom did he make the complaints?”

“The presiding district judge,” she said. “You know Gavin Callahan?”

“No.”

“He’s the top bastard,” she said. “If you’re looking for that kind of thing.”

“Top bastards are my business.”

“He and Joe Scali are lifelong friends,” he said. “Callahan is the one who first appointed Joe Scali, although Scali hadn’t been out of law school but a few years. This is a dirty town with a lot of dirty ways of doing business. No one even seemed to notice. Jim didn’t make a fuss until someone was tampering with his budget. He liked to help people. He believed in his work.”

She swallowed and sat a bit straighter to compose herself. She stood up quickly, grabbed my nearly empty cup, and walked back to the kitchen. For lack of anything better, I stood and poked at the fire a bit, sending embers up into the chimney and into the frigid air.

When she came back into the room she brought a framed photograph of a smallish man with a lot of gray hair, wearing big black glasses and dressed in a black robe. It was an official-looking portrait taken among a lot of law books.

“Have you ever lost anyone, Mr. Spenser?” she said. “Someone you loved dearly and without whom you could not imagine your life going on?”

“No,” I said, not wishing to linger on the thought.

“I would imagine an amputation may be more pleasant,” she said. “We have three boys. I have nine grandchildren. We weren’t always happy, but the final few years were very happy. Jim took care of himself. He did not smoke and drank in moderation. He ran two miles five days a week. He would not touch red meat, cheese, and processed food. What happened to him makes no sense.”

“He had a heart attack.”

“He was killed,” she said. “It may have come from a natural cause, but Scali and Callahan couldn’t be more pleased. As soon as Jim started asking questions, Callahan had him demoted to traffic court. It was a power play to make Jim quit. But Callahan underestimated Jim. He did not quit. He did not retire. He kept on the job. That should have been enough for them.”

The room was an enclosed pocket of silence with the draperies and the darkness and the crackling fire. I waited for her to finish.

“Callahan accused him of taking money in traffic court,” he said. “He cited two thousand dollars. Can you imagine something so petty? It was almost laughable. We fought it. Jim became obsessed with the machinations in this rotten town. He told me he had something on Callahan and Scali that would vindicate him.”

“And did he?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He went to work one morning, suffered a massive heart attack in chambers, and I never saw him again.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“I wish I could be of more help.”

“You’ve helped a great deal.”

We walked to the front door and out to the walkway. Everything was covered in a fine powder of snow, blinding white in the harsh morning light.

“There was a man in Boston he was speaking with,” she said. “He was with some kind of state agency that oversaw budgets for family courts. I don’t know his name or the agency.”

“Maybe I can find him.”

“These two are the worst,” she said. “No one questions them. No one wants to know more. They’ll ruin anyone who opposes them.”

I smiled. “I don’t scare easily.”

She smiled back. “You don’t appear to.”

14

I drove back to my office and spent the rest of the afternoon online, following the funding trail for the two judges and their programs. I learned that the old Office of Public Welfare was now defunct and had splintered into myriad state offices with fancy titles. Some of the work of Public Welfare, EBT cards and such, now went to the Department of Transitional Assistance, while the placement, care, and detention of kids went to the Department of Youth Services. All this sleuthing was exciting as hell. If only Bulldog Drummond had the Internet.

It took two minutes to find a contact list for the DYS staff in Boston. I centered on administration and finance, the most likely to call an audit, and picked up the phone to start the cold calls.

Instead, I decided to visit the office in person. Perhaps my charisma and charm might open doors. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I hadn’t eaten and it was past three p.m. and the offices were on Washington near Chinatown. Hawk had introduced me to a place that made the best dumplings this side of Taipei.

I drove the short distance from Boylston past the Common, up to Tremont, and then crossed over to Washington. The offices were on the fifth floor of the old Washington-Essex Building where Duke Ellington once played the RKO theater. I recalled the same theater showing a lot of kung-fu movies and porn before the neighborhood got cleaned up. The neighborhood always made me think of April Kyle.

The fifth floor was a rat’s maze of cubicles, with a receptionist stationed by the elevators. I had memorized a couple names from the DYS contact list. I dropped them. One was on vacation. Dave Nichols was on the phone. “Do you have an appointment?” an attractive young black woman said.

“Would Mr. Nichols handle audits?”

“It depends on the region,” she said. She had very big eyes and a wonderful mouth.

“Blackburn district, but this was two years ago,” I said.

“I believe that’s him. Let me check.”

I removed my Brooklyn Dodgers cap and told her how much I appreciated the assistance.

I watched her steel herself against my charms and make a couple calls. “Actually, that would have been John Blakeney.”

“Is he still with DYS?” I said, trying to imply I was in-the-know with my old pals.

“Let me check.”

Blakeney was two floors down with DTA. All the acronyms were starting to give me a headache. It seems that the old Department of Public Welfare hadn’t really moved, only rejiggered their flow chart. I again took the elevator.

Blakeney was on the phone, a coworker told me. I waited in a very small, very hard red plastic chair by the elevator. I checked my phone for messages and stared straight ahead at a framed print of a young girl backed into a corner clutching a teddy bear. A hotline number was listed at the bottom.

A chalk-thin young man, completely bald on top with the sides of his head shaved, came up to me. He wore a green-striped dress shirt with a dark green tie. He had small eyes and a prominent nose. He seemed harried, telling me that he was, indeed, John Blakeney.

“Did you handle an audit of the Blackburn juvenile courts two years ago?”

He looked as if he’d just swallowed a whole lemon. I nearly pounded him on the back with the flat of my hand.

“Who are you?”

I handed him the card. It was the one without the skull and crossbones, to soften my approach.

“And who do you work for?”

He looked behind me. He looked over his shoulder. He asked if I would like to follow him back to his office. His office was actually just another cubicle, but I didn’t argue. I sat down across from his desk in the cramped space. A lot of computer printouts of numbers had been tacked to the partition walls. He didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for me to say anything.

“I work for the family of a kid railroaded by Judge Scali,” I said. “I’ve heard he has the highest incarceration rate of minors in the state and you have the paper to prove it.”

Blakeney just stared at me, openmouthed. He wet his lips and picked up a pen and a paper.

“I’m no longer part of DYS,” he said, writing something down. “You’ll have to refer any inquires to my successor, Dave Nichols.”

He pushed across the paper: I can’t talk here.

I tilted my head, having a brilliant idea for multitasking. I picked up his pen and wrote Gourmet Dumpling House. Beach Street. It was right around the corner. Two birds. One stone.

He looked to me and nodded.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” he said.

“No problem,” I said, shaking his hand and walking out of the cubicle and back to the elevator. Only myself and Warner Oland could sleuth over a plate of scallion pancakes. I considered myself in elite company.

15

I sat at a window table at the Gourmet Dumpling House, working on my last soup dumpling, when John Blakeney walked in. The scallion pancakes were gone, as was the order of sautéed beef with green peppers. I had just mastered holding a dumpling with chopsticks and then making a small hole to suck out the soup.

“My technique has really improved.”

“I’ve been here before,” Blakeney said.

“Have you tried the soup dumplings?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re missing out,” I said. “It’s what they do best.”

I offered to buy him lunch, or by now dinner, but he refused. We were the only ones left in the restaurant and I ordered another hot pot of tea. The tea was very good on a full stomach, and I had no illusions that I’d be hungry an hour later. Out on Beach Street, brightly colored neon signs advertised the rows of import/export shops, pho restaurants, and small groceries. It was snowing in microspecks, which blew around in a twirling wind. Blakeney took off a blue ski hat and his gloves.

He laid a thick file on the table. “I would get fired for completing this audit.”

“Isn’t this what you do?”

“It used to be. Now I track use of EBT cards. I have to make sure people aren’t trying to counterfeit them or use them at liquor stores or strip clubs.”

“That sounds rewarding.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I go home each day knowing I’ve made a difference. I’m so glad I got a master’s.”

“The Blackburn audit caused the demotion?”

“They didn’t call it a demotion,” he said. “They called it a lateral move under the heading of Health and Human Services.”

“Got to love those lateral moves.”

“Yeah.” He reached for a napkin to dry his glasses. His ski hat was wet with melting snow.

“Who wanted you off the audit?”

“My supervisor, her supervisor, and it goes up from there,” he said. “To be honest, Mr. Spenser, I really don’t know who wanted to shut down my inquiries. All I know is that they must be connected to some powerful people in state government.”

“Who?”

“Judge Callahan and his monkey, Scali.”

“Any official reason given?”

“No.”

“Did you find out much in the time you had?”

“You said it,” Blakeney said. “Scali spends more money on sentencing kids to these facilities than anyone in the state.”

“Because he’s Mr. Zero Tolerance?”

“I’m not going to do your job for you,” he said. “My job wasn’t to find out the reasons. Only to find out how much money we were spending. You can interpret the reasons as you like.”

“But all of this started with Jim Price,” I said. “That’s how you got wind of this.”

He nodded. Both of his long hands rested on the file. He did not offer it to me, and I did not ask yet. The little specks of snow twirled and danced in the neon streetlights. Inside, several red-and-gold paper lanterns swung under the heating vents. An older Asian couple in heavy coats walked in the front door and spoke Chinese to the manager. He offered them a seat by the crab tank. I’d never been offered a seat by the crab tank. Had I been slighted?

“Judge Price and I became friends,” he said. “This whole thing is what made him sick. When they demoted him, he kind of went nuts. All he could talk about was Scali and Callahan and their unholy alliance. He would call me in the middle of the night. We would meet in the city and in Blackburn for coffee. He had ideas. Conspiracy theories about what they were up to. Some were crazy. Some of them made sense.”

“Which ones?”

“I think Judge Scali’s ego eclipsed any type of rational behavior,” he said. “I think the job of the Commonwealth is to help children and families, not to further Scali’s political and personal agenda.”

“What’s his personal agenda?”

“Like I said, I’m not doing your job for you.”

“What about Callahan?” I said. “What’s his role?”

“To protect Scali,” he said. “They’ve been friends since first grade. I don’t know if you knew that or not. Judge Price knew everything about them. He said Callahan is the one who made some calls to Beacon Hill and had me reassigned. He’s in tight with a lot of senators and congressmen. There’s rumors he’s pals with some Mob guys.”

“Like who?”

Blakeney patted the heavy stack of paper. “I have absolutely no idea,” he said. “Do I look like I know anyone in the Mob? All I know is that some people wanted this thing buried deep.”

“Even if you never finished.”

Blakeney smiled. He leaned back into his chair. He was quiet as the waiter returned to clear my empty plates. “That’s what they think,” he said. “I spent weekends for three months finishing what I started.”

“Did Price ever know?”

Blakeney shook his head. “Jim had died,” he said. “He knew what they were doing wasn’t right. I finished out of respect to him. I thought about giving it to a reporter, but they ask too many questions. I have a wife, three kids, and a mortgage. This job sucks. The people I work for do, too. But I have to pay the bills. Jobs aren’t easy to find.”

“Besides being a private snoop, I have few marketable skills.”

“You really think you can do something with this, Spenser?”

“I’m going to try.”

“This isn’t about Blackburn,” he said. “This is about backroom Boston and old families and old favors. A shit ton of money. No one likes to be embarrassed. They’ll come after you.”

“They always do,” I said. “But I’ve dealt with worse.”

“They got rid of the judge, they got rid of me. They sure as hell will do what needs to get done with you. You won’t see it coming.”

I touched the edge of the file as if it were a new and very exciting birthday present. Blakeney did not remove his hands, staring me in the eye. I stared back. I had a full stomach, an iron disposition, and a lot of time. Snow had started to fall in big flakes along Beach Street. It was very festive on the Asian neon signs. For a moment, it was hard to imagine we were in downtown Boston.

“I didn’t give this to you,” he said.

“Nope.”

“I don’t know you.”

“We never met,” I said.

He took his hands off the file, stood, and grabbed his hat and gloves. “Good luck,” he said. “But don’t ever come to my place of work again. I’m through with all this.”

They made you shower and use some kind of soap to kill lice. The boy had never had lice in his life and the shampoo smelled like kerosene, burning his eyes. After the shower, he was given two sets of clothes. A faded-out black top and a faded-out green top. The pants were the same, both green. When he put them on, he looked like he was wearing hospital scrubs. He was told to wear socks with a pair of plastic shower shoes. When he asked about his real shoes, a guard told him this is what he wore inside. “Outside,” he said, “you get work boots.”

All the boys with facial hair were forced to shave. Everyone got haircuts whether they needed them or not. As a wrestler, the boy always kept his hair cut short. But when the guards got finished with him, he looked nearly bald.

The guards handed out heavy navy coats and walked them through the cold night to the bunkhouse. Some of the boys were sent into Building A, others were marched into Building B. The boy’s name was called at C, cold air off the harbor freezing his face.

The building wasn’t like a jail at all. It was one story and wide open. The whole place smelled like a hospital, a harsh chemical smell covering up something really bad. A black man in a guard’s uniform told him to make his way to Group 4, where he’d get a bed.

Other boys dressed the same as him—black, white, Hispanic, and Asian—followed him with their eyes. Most just grouped around a flickering television watching an MMA match and yelling and screaming with each punch. He was handed clean linens for his bunk.

“What about my pillow?”

“Not now,” the guard said.

“What?” the boy said.

“You got to earn your pillow.”

The boy nodded, not understanding any of it. The guard left and the boy went to making his bed. He stowed the change of clothes in a footlocker, trying not to pay attention to the other kids watching. Some kid was lying heavy on the top of the bunk, then swung upside down to look at the boy as he made the bed.

“What’s your name?” the kid said.

The boy told him.

“This place sucks balls.”

“No shit,” the boy said.

“You get any personal shit sent to you, keep it to yourself,” he said. “Lock it away. Doesn’t matter what it is. Someone will steal it. You stay here long enough and you get candy bars or dirty magazines, someone will kill you for it.”

“Come on.”

“Okay,” the kid said, and disappeared on the top bunk.

The windows had thick wire in the glass, bars covering every slot. The walls were white and the floors were gray. A toilet flushed in a bathroom way down the hall.

The kids in the television room yelled some more. A guard blew a whistle hard and told them to shut the hell up. The boy heard the wind coming across again and again like hard continuous slaps.

Out in the harbor, the winter wind was killer, blowing so hard he wondered if the little buildings could stand it. Like maybe all the buildings would crumble and fall into the harbor. When a real good gust would hit the windows, the lights would flicker on and off. For a moment, all the power went off and the boys from the MMA fight yelled and then started to laugh. Someone shot off an air horn. More yelling from the guards. A few flashlights scattered across the room. A generator kicked on.

The boy from the top bunk appeared again. “So maybe they won’t kill you,” the kid said. “But they’ll fight you for anything you got.”

“Great.”

“Can you fight?”

“Sure.”

“I can’t,” the kid said. “I’m screwed. I just make fun of them until they quit messing on me. The guards. The Roxbury crew. Maybe they’ll be too tired tomorrow. Tomorrow is a workday. That horn will blow at five a.m., rain, sleet, or snow. It’s kind of like sleep-away camp here. Except it sucks balls.”

“You said that already.”

“Thought you might need reminding,” the kid said.

The boy had his hands behind his head. He didn’t look at the kid anymore, just stared at the bunk over him, the weight of the kid shifting and sagging through the mattress. The wind beat the hell out of the building some more like it had nothing better to do.

“Where you from?” the kid said. The two could not see each other.

“Blackburn.”

“No shit,” the kid said. “Me, too. Wait. I don’t know you.”

“Whatever,” the boy said. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dillon,” the kid said. “Dillon Yates.”

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