Hidden Order

CHAPTER 51

It was going to be a long day and Harvath had no intention of fueling it with police coffee, so Cordero took him to Caffé Vittoria on Hanover Street. Billed as the first Italian café in Boston, they were not yet open at this early hour, but there were signs of life and Cordero told him not to worry. She tapped on the glass with her car key and caught the attention of an older man setting up inside.

He smiled when he saw her and came over, unlocked the door, and let them in. “The lovely Lara. So nice to see you,” he said as he welcomed them in.

“The lovely Lara?” Harvath repeated quietly.

“I’ve been here once or twice before.”

“Okay,” the man said as he stepped behind the counter, “what can I do for you, officers?”

“He’s not an off—” Cordero began, but then decided to let it go. “What do you have that’s hot and ready to go?”

With its tin ceiling, vintage espresso machines, antique grinders, and old black-and-white photographs, it was one of the most charming cafés Harvath had ever visited. If the character and ambiance were any indication, he was in for some pretty good coffee.

“Okay if I order for us?” Cordero asked.

Harvath nodded, and she placed the order. While the man behind the counter worked he asked about what had happened a couple of blocks away over on Garden Court. To her credit, she played it vague while still making the man feel like he had an inside connection with an important Boston homicide detective.

When the coffee was ready and paid for, the man told her to wait a minute and he slipped several pastries into a paper bag and handed them to her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

“For your partner.”

Harvath began to put his hands up to say no thank you, but the man behind the counter said, “Your other partner. The Italiano.”

“You mean Sal,” Cordero said with a smile.

“He only eats small children,” Harvath interjected.

The female detective shook her head and removed a ten-dollar bill. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate these. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Free. Free,” the man said.

“You were sweet to let us in early. Thank you, but I don’t need a discount, or anything for free. That’s not how we do things.”

The man didn’t know how to respond. Finally, he said, “Okay, eight dollars.”

Cordero handed him the ten and told him to keep the rest as a tip. He thanked her and showed them outside, then locked the door behind them and got back to setting up for the day.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Harvath said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m a little bit disappointed, though.”

“You haven’t even tried the coffee yet.”

He smiled at her. “Yesterday, you took me for breakfast where the Boston Strangler killed his last victim, and today it’s just a coffee bar.”

“Just a coffee bar,” she replied, shaking her head. “Shows what you know about Boston history, Mr. Expert. Trust me, you don’t want to know about this one.”

“I knew it,” said Harvath as he peeled the lid off his to-go cup and blew on his coffee. “You homicide cops can’t help yourselves. Like moths to a flame.”

“I’m telling you, we’re here for the coffee. Trust me.”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me to trust you. Why?”

“Because there is a story attached to this building and it’s horrible.”

“I’m a big boy,” he said, turning around to study the building’s brick faïade. “What’s the story?”

“Just remember,” she said, relenting. “You asked.”

“I take full responsibility.”

“Okay. Do you know what a baby farm is?”

He’d heard of a baby factory before, but something told him this was different. “No,” he replied. “I don’t think I know what that is. What are we talking about?”

“Back in the 1800s, women who got pregnant out of wedlock and who wanted to avoid the social stigma that came along with it would often place their infants in what was pejoratively called a baby farm. These baby farms could provide wet nurses and would take the child off the mother’s hands for a limited time or ‘adopt’ the child altogether if the price was right. The understanding was that the child would be cared for.”

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case in this instance.”

“There was a notorious baby farm right here in the late 1800s. The woman who ran it was named Mrs. Elwood and she abused many of the children quite severely and even murdered several of them.”

Harvath grimaced. The idea of babies being given up by their mothers was bad enough, but to think they were abused and even killed at the hands of people entrusted with their care turned his stomach. There was nothing lower in his book than someone who abused children or animals.

“The café’s owners,” she continued, “opened a cigar bar in the basement that everyone said was haunted. They brought in some paranormal researchers who found a disgusting syringe from the 1870s that one of the ghosts allegedly drew their attention to. Once the syringe was taken out of the building, the haunting stopped.”

“Do you believe in all that stuff?” Harvath asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Spirits? Ghosts? I don’t know. I’ve seen some absolutely horrific crime scenes in my time, the last two days included. I suppose I can understand why some souls are unable to cross over. I’d like to think that if I got murdered, I’d be pissed-off enough to stay around until the case got solved. But I’m stubborn like that. What about you?”

“If anyone tried to murder me, it wouldn’t be unsolved because I’d take them with me.”

“Tough guy, huh?” she said.

“No,” he replied. “Just stubborn like that. You know.”

Cordero smiled, and suggested that they get going. As they walked, she said, “It all makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“What people will say a hundred years from now when they pass the murder scenes we’re working.”

It was a good question. “Let’s hope they say it was a tough case, but you and I figured it out as quickly as we could and we stopped anyone else from being killed.”

“Agreed,” she said as they reached her car and she looked at her watch. “Let me tell you what I think we need to do.”