Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Kickback"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

16

I drove back to my apartment and made a fire. I had bought a bundle of apple wood on a recent visit to Concord and used some small sticks for kindling. The fire was sweet and pleasant-smelling as I started to read through the files, leaving my Red Wings on the hearth to dry. Susan was having dinner with friends and so I made do with a block of feta, a half-pint of olives, and some Syrian flatbread from the East Lamjun Bakery. I set the food out on the coffee table on good plates, turned the Bruins match on mute, and opened my first Beck’s of the evening. There was no rule that you couldn’t enjoy yourself while you worked.

I made notes on a yellow legal pad as I read the report. The entire audit was about two hundred pages, most pages noting the expenditures from the Blackburn District family courts. Although not needed, Blakeney had left a summary of his findings. His name was nowhere to be found.

I got up and helped myself to a second Beck’s. I stared out the window over my sink at Marlborough Street. It was sleeting a bit, needles passing through the yellow blossoms of streetlamps. The street was empty. Some of the parked cars had this afternoon’s snow hiding their windshields.

I sipped some beer. I returned to my legal pad, making a few more notes. I continued to read. The Bruins were up by two goals. One of the players hip-checked another, starting a brawl. As if skating backward and precision with a stick weren’t enough, you had to be able to use your fists.

I got back to reading and drinking beer. I was so talented at my job, I could do both at the same time. I could even digest what I’d been reading. If there was one continuous theme to the report, it was payments to a company called MCC. Massachusetts Child Care, as noted in the summary. Monies for juvenile transportation, meals, detention. A lot of money. I stopped counting after four million.

I knew from the Blackburn teens that Scali would send kids to either a reform camp in Haverhill or Fortune Island in the harbor. From the audit, I found out that Scali was definitely in favor of the island facility. Nearly the entire budget for boys was spent on Fortune Island. Girls were sent to the place in Haverhill. Both facilities were run by MCC. And after two seconds of detective work on my phone, I learned that MCC was not state-owned. It was a private prison run by a corporation.

I said “aha” out loud and helped myself to a bit of flatbread topped with a wedge of feta and an olive. I drank some Beck’s.

The folks at MCC would certainly want Scali to keep up his commitment to Zero Tolerance. The company was his go-to kids’ jail. I didn’t have a law degree, but I smelled the start of an ethics violation.

Sheila Yates thought something hinky was going on in Blackburn. She was right. I think we had more than enough evidence for the good folks at Cone, Oakes to win their appeal for her son. Scali had screwed up. He’d denied Dillon his right to an attorney for a ridiculous charge. From other parents and kids, I found out this wasn’t an anomaly but his way of doing business. His breach of ethics in denying their rights to attorneys had helped MCC make a pile of cash.

If Dillon was released, I would write up a report and we could make a big stink with the state bar association. My client would be happy. Scali would have a lot to explain. And those behind his success would wring their hands.

I sipped some more beer. I had other cases to handle. Jobs that promised an actual payment. It had been months since the Heywood kidnapping. A lot of that fee had gone to flying to Paris with Susan. It cost a lot of money to eat well in the City of Lights.

An hour later, my phone rang.

“Oh, thank God you answered,” a young woman said.

“Most women say that.”

“It’s Beth.”

“Oh,” I said. “Hello, Beth.”

“I’m in jail,” she said. “My mom won’t answer her phone. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What happened?”

“I got pulled over,” she said. “They found drugs in my car. It’s not mine. I swear to Christ, Spenser. I swear.”

“Of course it’s not,” I said. “You’re being punished.”

“For what?”

“For talking to me,” I said. “For introducing your friends.”

“What do I do?” she said. “Oh my God. My mom is going to completely freak the fuck out.”

“That sounds bad,” I said. “Where are you?”

She told me. I turned off the hockey game, grabbed my coat and hat, and laced up my slightly dry but much warmer boots. I left my feast on the table and closed the doors to the fire. It had smelled so sweet.

17

Early the next morning, I sat in a booth across from Iris Milford at The Owl diner.

“That’s pretty messed up,” Iris said.

“You bet.”

“Jamming up a kid for talking to you?” she said. “When will she go before Scali?”

“Sometimes it can take a week or longer,” I said. “That’s too long to be in holding. I got her an attorney. It’s my fault she’s in the bind.”

Iris looked dynamite early that morning. Too dynamite for Blackburn and for The Owl. She’d hung up a black overcoat on a hook attached to the booth. She had on a slim-fitting black dress and black boots. A necklace made of faux Roman coins hung from her neck.

“I met Judge Price’s wife.”

She asked me how that went. I told her.

“And this audit actually happened?” she said. “Because that would be public record.”

“Yes and no.”

“How can it be both?’

“It happened after the auditor was relocated to a different department,” I said. “He and Price had become friends. He wanted to see it through.”

“Did he file it?”

“No,” I said. “But I have it.”

“Can I see it?”

“On one condition.”

“That I don’t print anything until you’ve worked out all the details.”

“Wow,” I said. “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”

Iris nodded. The waitress walked up to us and we ordered breakfast. I decided on the Greek omelet with wheat toast and an orange juice. The waitress refilled our coffees before she walked back to the kitchen.

“What did it say?”

“You ever heard of Massachusetts Child Care Inc.?”

“Of course,” she said. “They got the contract when the old Fourth Street center closed. We did a whole series of articles about it. The place was more than a hundred years old. It was the original city jail and then became the juvie facility in the seventies. It was pretty awful. Place was falling apart. It had roaches and rats running around. Not the kind of place you wanted to put kids.”

“Did you cover the bidding process?”

“I don’t know if there were other bids,” she said. “A lot of people campaigned to have Fourth Street shut down. The Star was part of all that. We supported the closing and the state contracting with a licensed provider.”

I nodded.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But you didn’t see this place. It was best for the community to find other options. This place was like something out of Dickens.”

I drank some coffee. The diner smelled of bacon cooking and coffee brewing. Silverware clattered, guys in coveralls told jokes, and old men talked about the weather.

“Do you know how much money the county has been paying MCC?”

“We were getting to that when Judge Price died,” she said. “He thought the facility was costing too much. But we ran the numbers and did some interviews. MCC offered a fair rate for what they do.”

“How much?”

“I think it was like two hundred and fifty dollars a day per kid and about ninety thousand a year.”

“For two hundred and fifty a day, I could get them a good deal at the Taj.”

“Part of the cost involves schooling and rehabilitation.”

“Someone is getting rich.”

“Oh, hell, yes, it’s wrong. All of it’s wrong as hell. But so is this country’s entire prison system. You want me to run down some numbers of young black males stuck in prisons across this country?”

I nodded. I drank some more coffee. A guy named Mel walked into the diner. Everyone seemed to know Mel and wished him a good morning. The short-order cook rang the bell several times in his honor.

“What do you know about MCC?” I said.

“Not much,” she said. “It’s a Boston company that runs correctional facilities throughout the state. Corporate prisons are a thing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You know who owns it?”

“I have all that information back at the newsroom,” she said. “What are you getting at, Spenser?”

“I just would like to know who’s profiting from Scali banging his gavel,” I said. “Judge Price might have been onto something.”

“Jim Price was a sweet man,” she said. “But he was a weird old white man. He saw conspiracies everywhere. He hated Scali’s guts. He hated Callahan’s even more.”

“His wife said that’s what killed him,” I said. “The stress.”

“I think she’s right.”

The waitress brought out our breakfast. My omelet had spinach, tomatoes, and feta. The bacon on the side was a quarter-inch thick. Iris had some wheat toast and one scrambled egg. Heart healthy.

She pointed her fork at me to emphasize things as we spoke. “I can run down the board of directors and that sort of thing,” she said. “I think Scali is a hothead and a media hound. But it’s a long jump to corrupt. Profiting from sending kids off. You’d have to prove a lot.”

“What kind of man denies attorneys in his courtroom?”

“Is that proven?”

“Nine out of ten teens I’ve met say so.”

Iris nodded. She ate some toast and picked at the egg the way Susan would. Maybe they weren’t slow eaters, only trying to make the food go further. Up at the diner counter, Mel told a joke. When he hit the punch line, everyone laughed. Ol’ Mel. What a card.

“I’ll make copies of the audit,” I said. “And send them to your office.”

“So that’s what we’re doing here?” she said. “A little quid pro quo.”

“I only speak pig Latin.”

“Tit for tat.”

“More my speed.”

“Well, sure,” she said, taking the last bite of egg. “I’m in. Just let me know before something explodes. Will you?”

I crossed my heart before eating more bacon.

“Feels good,” she said. “Reminds me that I used to actually work for a real newspaper.”

“I feel bad for the kid.”

“Which one?” she said.

“Both of them,” I said. “They wouldn’t let me see Beth. She can’t make bail until tomorrow.”

“You know who arrested her?”

“Same cop who rousted me after I left the high school.”

“Hmm.”

“I know,” I said. “Small world.”

18

I met Megan Mullen at the Blackburn courthouse shortly after four o’clock.

I’d been waiting on a wooden bench on the first floor for the last hour, watching cops, plaintiffs, and legal eagles pass by. I liked courthouses. I’d spent a lot of time in them, both as a witness and as an investigator for the DA. This one was so old it still had a bank of phone booths by the restrooms. I half expected to see Clark Gable rush into one and tell his editor to go suck an egg.

Megan bounded down the marble steps. She carried a smart leather satchel. As she approached, she smiled, which I took to be a good sign.

“Your pal Beth will be out within the hour,” she said.

“I doubt she’s my pal anymore,” I said. “Being arrested puts a damper on one’s relationship.”

“ADA didn’t want to argue against the merits of keeping a first-time offender in school. I had to make some concessions, but ultimately they backed down.”

“Did you threaten them?” I said.

“Why not,” Megan said. “Never hurts.”

“When all else fails.”

“Kick ’em in the balls.”

“I take it the ADA was a man.”

“Was that a sexist remark?” she said.

“And appropriate.”

Megan looked at least six months older today in a two-button black wool blazer over a knee-length black dress. She wore black-framed glasses, her brown hair stylish and loose across her shoulders. She took a seat next to me, clutching her satchel and glancing down at her phone.

“To be honest,” she said, scrolling through messages, “it didn’t take much to argue Beth’s not a flight risk or a danger to others.”

“What were the charges?”

“Originally?” she said. “They had her with possession with intent to sell. I got the intent dropped. She will have to go before Scali, but she can be at home until her court date.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“You ever heard of molly?”

“As in ‘Good Golly’?”

“As in the club drug.”

“I’ve been off the club scene lately,” I said. “Since I quit the DJ gig.”

Megan eyed me with just a hint of suspicion. “Just what does Rita see in you?”

I offered her my biceps and flexed. Megan looked at me and widened her eyes behind her smart glasses. She declined to squeeze. “I don’t like these people, Spenser,” she said. “The clerk seemed completely ill-equipped to deal with a juvenile with counsel, as if having an attorney is unheard of.”

“You should meet the public defender,” I said. “He’s a real hoot after a few drinks.”

“From what you told me,” she said, “ick.”

“Yep, Mr. Ick. That’s him.”

Two Blackburn uniform cops passed and eyed me with a bit of suspicion. Maybe the word had gotten out. Or maybe I’d just grown paranoid. They might have very well been jealous of my Dodgers cap or my vintage leather bomber jacket. Maybe they wanted to sit down and join us. Talk a little about Duke Snider and the ’59 series.

“What sucks is how dismissive they are here,” she said. “A senior partner had to call and ream out the DA.”

“Yowzer,” I said.

There was talk and laughter up on the marble landing, and as we both looked up, a short man with thin black hair and purple-tinted glasses descended the staircase. He wore civilian garb, a gray suit with wide lapels and padded shoulders, set off with a wide and bright silver tie. The last time I’d seen a suit like that was right before Dynasty went off the air.

Joe Scali walked with two men who looked to be cops. They wore street clothes and each displayed a shield and a gun on their belts. Scali did not break stride as he passed our little wooden bench. But the talk and laughter stopped and there was a slight beat of hesitation, a slight turn of his head, eye contact, and then he moved on.

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

“That’s him?” Megan said.

“I know,” I said. “I thought he’d be taller, too.”

“No, that’s not it,” she said. “I didn’t think he’d be so—”

“Sharply dressed?”

“Oily.”

The few people milling about the halls were called back into one of the courtrooms. The ancient twin doors opened onto the street and Scali and his pals left the building. A cold wind shot through the entrance and down through the halls. I sunk my hands into my jacket. “Thanks,” I said.

Megan smiled. “I only wish I could do more for Dillon Yates.”

“You filed an appeal,” I said. “Now we wait.”

“I do wish his mother had contacted us first,” she said. “After working for the firm, she should have known better. He would have never been sentenced to that island.”

“You know much about Massachusetts Child Care?”

“No,” she said. “Most of my clients are over eighteen.”

“They own Dillon’s digs on Fortune Island,” I said. “They get two hundred and fifty bucks a day to keep him there.”

“What can you do while we wait?” she said.

“Follow Scali around,” I said. “See how the judicial set lives.”

I took off my Dodgers cap, rolled the bill, and set it back on my head.

“Good luck,” she said. We walked out of the old courthouse together and shook hands before going different ways.

19

A car, or even an SUV in my case, was only comfortable for so long. I once drove a ’68 Chevy convertible with bucket seats. For a while I had a Subaru Outback with seats designed for Billy Barty. Sometimes I borrowed Susan’s MG and later her Bronco. But I liked the Explorer. It was comfortable, innocuous in traffic. Good gas mileage for the size. It had seat warmers and Bluetooth technology. Sometimes when the tech gods were with me, I could talk dirty to Susan while keeping both hands on the wheel.

But my Ford was little match for Scali’s gunmetal-gray Cadillac ELR. The car had jeweled brake lights, glowing with a lot of style at stoplights, and bright chrome wheels. I hung back as I followed him. I knew his address. I just wanted to see if he made any other stops on the way home.

I listened to an Artie Shaw CD as I drove through Blackburn.

He drove in the opposite direction of his Belleview home. He jetted along the Merrimack River to an exit off I-93 and parked in the lot of an International House of Pancakes. I knew that he’d seen my face. What a shame I’d miss a chance to dine at an IHOP. Maybe the old Bickford’s cafeteria. But I drew the line at IHOP.

I waited inside my car with Artie. When I’m calling you / Will you answer, too?

Scali was gracious enough to take a seat by the picture window. He was seated alone, with a very large menu. About twenty minutes later, a beefy-looking gray-headed man in a tan overcoat joined him. Scali didn’t stand or shake hands. The beefy man took a seat, and the waitress dropped off a menu. So many culinary choices, so little time. They both snapped their menus shut at about the same time. The sign outside advertised SIGNATURE FAVORITES. And the all-new Blue Cheese and Bacon Sirloin. Mario Batali, take note.

I checked my e-mail. I checked my voice mail. I checked my profile for any stray hairs I missed while shaving. Late afternoon turned later. It got dark very early. It seemed even later in Blackburn. Susan would be finishing with her last client about now. She would be taking Pearl out for a long walk along Linnaean Street. Inventive cocktails were being poured in Harvard Square. Bistros along Newbury Street had opened for dinner. I had two dry-aged filets in my refrigerator.

I had three other cases to be stoked.

There was more dry apple wood in the cellar of my apartment building. And according to my phone, TCM was running Monte Walsh.

After an hour and sixteen minutes, Scali and the beefy man walked out together. Scali had on a long black overcoat and swiveled a toothpick in his mouth. The pancakes must’ve been something else.

The men separated with a handshake. I wrote down the tag number on the beefy man’s big black Mercedes and gave Scali a two-minute start. I followed him back up the Merrimack and back into the center of town. There was something obsessively cold and dark about February in Massachusetts. The dull burn of streetlamps, the dirty snowbanks, the long, meandering stretch of a half-frozen river.

Scali’s house was about a quarter-mile away from Judge Price’s house in Belleview. Christmas decorations still adorned Scali’s house. I thought about walking straight up to the door and regaling him with some carols. Any man who loved Christmas so much he wanted to celebrate it two months later couldn’t be all bad. Multicolored lights ran up and down the V’s of the roofline. A snowman made of LED lights glittered on the snow-covered lawn. I parked a few houses down the street. I removed my Dodgers cap, although I needed it, turned up the collar on my jacket, and went out for a stroll. This was in equal parts surveillance and a way of loosening my stiff knee.

I had already received two texts from Susan reminding me of my rehab. I walked for nearly a half-mile, trying to get a feel for the upper-middle-class neighborhood. I learned a lot of people liked to celebrate Christmas well into the next year. The houses were a mix of mid-century modern and neo-Colonial. I had my hands in my jacket pockets, my breath coming in clouds. I missed the jogging. I liked the rhythm and feel of pounding the pavement.

I turned back and walked past Scali’s house. The curtains were closed and the Cadillac safely stowed away in his garage. The house was big, a three-story Colonial painted gray with white trim. A wrought-iron fence encircled the property. I gave up the idea of knocking on the door and singing carols and returned to my SUV. I plugged in the address to a realty website for an estimate of how much the good judge had paid for the house.

Being a master detective with a smartphone, I learned he’d bought the property only two years ago for $750,000. He paid about nine grand a year in property taxes. Ouch.

I didn’t know how much a juvenile court judge made, but I could easily find out.

I waited for a couple minutes for Scali to run from the house and confess his sins. When this didn’t happen, I started the Explorer and drove back to Boston. It was late, so I’d only cook one of the steaks and open a nice bottle of Cabernet.

I didn’t even slow down when I passed the IHOP.

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