Devils in Exile

Reign’s End

Eleven total homicides, five inside, six outside.

A detective lieutenant of the Massachusetts State Police told Lash, “The homeowners came back a day early from a family wedding down in North Carolina. Found this.”

Lash looked out at the floating berries from the side of the porch, near the swing. “They don’t know these guys? These cars?”

“Only the stiff in the Saab. Their nephew. Saw him twice a year, Thanksgiving and Easter. Quite a shock. He had been invited to the wedding, but declined.”

“Borrowed their house instead.” Geese honked overhead, a phalanx of five flapping toward the trees. “So can you piece together any sort of timeline here?”

“Unofficially, it looks like the guys in the vehicles were done first. No armor on them, and only two pistols, both still with the guys in the van, neither one discharged. Body-armor guys, we’re still sorting that out. Robbery gone bad? Got pills in the back of the Honda, cash in the van.” The detective’s phone beeped, and he silenced it. “We got two guys in masks, the rest without. No ID on anyone. One thing I do know, that sticks out, is that the two down by the bog there, they were killed by different ammo than the others. Found shells there, in the grass, that don’t match any of the recovered weapons. Of which there are plenty.”

“High-action pieces,” said Lash.

“So, what do you think? These your guys?”

Lash looked out at the two staties in hip waders, doing a grid search of the bog. “Two in masks?”

“One upstairs, one downstairs.”

“Let’s take a look.”

Ballistics, Criminalistics, and Crime Scene Services officers were all over the inside. Lash viewed the faces of all the deceased, lingering over the two masked men.

One was a blond. The other Latino.

Neither one was Neal Maven.

Maybe the guy had been clean after all. Either way, this sure looked to Lash like the end of the Sugar Bandits’ reign.

He went back and checked the faces of the other armored corpses. It was speculation, but the haircuts and builds said military. “Bound to happen,” said Lash.

“You seem disappointed.”

“I wanted them for myself. When you run the prints, try military first.”

“You think?”

“These aren’t cons. These guys are soldiers.”

He parked outside Crassion’s gate, this time pressing the call button on the keypad. He pressed it a few times and got nothing back. So he went over the wall again.

He walked up the drive to the circular court, looking for the bodyguards. He reached the front door without being accosted. He tried the handle and the door opened.

Lash didn’t go inside at first. He brought out his cell and dialed 911. He identified himself to the dispatcher and asked to be put through to Milton PD. From them, he requested backup.

He drew his Browning Hi-Power 9 mm, readying the pistol with both hands. The foyer inside was empty and quiet. More than quiet. Lash listened, standing still.

A smell reached his nose. A tinge of cordite.

Then it was only a matter of finding the body. Which he did in the book-lined study where he had met with Crassion a few days before. The kingpin lay dead from a head shot that had blasted back part of his skull. The body wasn’t more than a day old.

Lash backed out and made his way through the house, room by room, door by door. No one else, and no sign of a struggle.

Crassion’s muscle had vanished. Lash wondered about that.

The Milton cops arrived and he badged himself and explained the situation. He then dialed the state police detective at the cranberry bog and told him to have his team grab lunch on the way over to Milton as soon as they were through.

Before he could hang up, he received a call from his office telling him of a shoot-out up in Fort Hill, at Broadhouse’s place. The news turned Lash’s chest cold.

Two Pins down, one to go.

Lockerty.

Whoever got the bandits didn’t seem all that interested in collecting their bounty.