Among Thieves

Chapter Three

Back behind the wheel, Stone pulled out of the driveway to the Body Shop. “Where to, boss?” he asked Sanchez.

“Back to the station house,” she replied.

“What for?”

“I need to check something on a computer.” She looked out the passenger window as the Convention Center in South Boston drifted by, its huge front canopy hanging over the entranceway like some great homage to the 1960s television show The Flying Nun.

“Right. Check something out. Good idea. Me, too, I need to check something out, too. Maybe it’s the same thing.”

She turned to look at him. “I doubt it,” she said after a moment.

“Maybe not. Of course, there’s only one way to know, right?” He drove on, his frustration building through the silence. “So, are you gonna talk to me about that shit back there? We are partners, after all, right?”

She said nothing.

“Look, I know I’m the new guy, but how are you gonna know if I can contribute if you won’t even talk to me?”

“Fine,” she said, her tone challenging. “Why don’t you tell me about the scene back there?”

“Is this some sort of a test?”

“Yeah, it’s a test.”

“That’s fucked up. I don’t have to prove shit to you.”

“Suit yourself.” She lapsed back into silence.

He drove on, going over the scene in his head. He was determined not to give her the satisfaction of rising to her bait. Seventy-five percent clear rate or not, who the fuck was she? “McAfee was wrong about one thing,” he said after a while, trying to sound conversational.

She looked at him but said nothing.

“Whoever did that wasn’t just settling a score. It wasn’t some simple beef with the North End boys, or even with the Salvadorans in MS- 13.”

“What makes you so sure?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Too messy. Too involved. If the wops or a rival mick gang felt disrespected or was settling a score it would’ve been cleaner. They would’ve taken him out quickly and gotten the hell away. Double tap to the head-like they did to Bags-or maybe even a drive-by when he was out in the open. No way they’d spend the kind of time they needed to do the damage we saw back there. And if MS-13 wanted to make a point, they would have used machetes on him. It’s their thing.”

She shrugged, as though the observations were beneath acknowledgment.

“And Murphy knew the people who did it.”

“People? How do you know it was more than one?”

“Johnny Bags. It had to be more than one, and they had to know Murphy because of Bags.” He felt her lean toward him, and he continued. “Bags was Murphy’s bodyguard. That was his job for the past ten years. His only purpose in life. From what I hear he was no rocket scientist, but he was good at his job, and loyal to a fault. There’s no way someone gets that close to Murphy if they didn’t know him without Bags putting up one hell of a fight. Plus, whoever did this managed to get Johnny back into that corner of the garage voluntarily. The body wasn’t dragged-the blood pooled under his head where he fell, and there was no messy trail-so he died where he fell. He didn’t even get his gun out before he was shot. I can’t imagine Bags leaving Murphy alone and going back into that corner with someone he didn’t know. And once he was there, Murphy would have had time to run when he heard the gunshots, unless there was more than one guy there-so we know it wasn’t a single perp.”

“What’s that tell you about who did this?” Sanchez asked.

“Nothing for sure,” Stone admitted. “But I’d start by looking within Murphy’s own organization. Could either be someone above him who felt threatened for some reason-”

“Which could only mean Ballick,” she pointed out.

“Right, if the order came from above. But it could also be someone underneath him. Or maybe even someone on his level trying to move up. The organization’s been all fucked up for years. Ever since Bulger took off.”

“Why torture him, then?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe there was a personal aspect to it. Or maybe they were trying to make it look like something it wasn’t. I’m just guessin’, though.”

“And the message? ‘The Storm’? What’s your thought on that?”

“I got no idea. Maybe it’s just adolescent bullshit. Some of these guys never get past the comic book stage. But it’s taking a risk to leave something that distinctive behind. Seems like there should be a better reason. Guys who do shit like what we saw back there usually aren’t holding on to reason too tightly, though.”

She turned and looked out her window again. They had pulled past the Federal Courthouse down by the water and were crossing the Evelyn Moakley Bridge back into Boston, heading toward the Rose Kennedy Greenway, which wound through the city above the Big Dig. The bridge was named after the wife of Joe Moakley, a powerful congressman. The Greenway was named for Rose Kennedy, the mother of John, Bobby, and Teddy Kennedy. Only in Boston were public works named for the relatives of politicians. It said so much about the place.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “I think you’re just guessing.”

He shook his head bitterly. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

“Like you said, it was a test.”

“So, what’d I get, like a C?”

“It was pass/fail.”

“And?”

She hesitated before she answered. “I’ll get back to you.”

Special Agent Robert Hewitt sat in his car, watching the activity at the Body Shop from across the street. Things had quieted down, and now those who remained were loitering, mainly. They stood around, smoking cigarettes or leaning against their cars, cracking jokes as they waited for the bodies to be rolled out. He’d watched as the detectives pulled away, and he was tempted to go back in to get another good look. He was sure that no one who remained would have the balls to force him out without Sanchez there, but his presence would draw too much attention, and too many people on the force would start to ask questions. That would make his life more difficult.

He took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

“Yes,” the man answering the line said.

“It’s me.”

“And?”

“Murphy’s dead.”

“How?”

“How do you think?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. He was beaten. Badly.”

“Tortured?”

“That’s a reasonable conclusion based on what I saw. And there was a message written next to the body.”

“What was it?”

“‘The Storm.’”

“That’s our boy. Have there been any others yet?”

“Not that I know of. Murphy’s bodyguard was killed, but he’s not involved, and he wasn’t tortured. Maybe there won’t be any others at all.” As Hewitt spoke, the coroner’s assistants wheeled two gurneys out of the Body Shop. They were laughing as they slid the body bags into the van.

“There will be others. Otherwise, why send the message?”

“If so, then we don’t know who they are yet. I haven’t heard about anything else that matches what was done here, and I would have heard about it.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Stay on top of it. This is the break we’ve been looking for.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I think it’s time for me to be more involved. I’m coming to Boston.”