“Who?” Jefferson said.
“A woman named Elizabeth Waterman. I believe you arrested her boyfriend, Peter Moore, on the bridge last night for DUI and a bunch of other things. I believe he gave a statement to your officers corroborating the events on the tape, which you chose to discount because he’d failed a Breathalyzer.”
“This is bullshit,” Jefferson said and looked for support from the rest of his colleagues. When he didn’t get it, he gripped the tape so hard in his hand, I was sure it would shatter.
“The tape is a little blurry because of the rain and the videotaper’s excitement,” Cheswick said, “but most of the incident is on there.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said and laughed.
“Am I the coolest, or what?” Cheswick said.
28
At nine that night, we were released.
In the interim, a doctor had examined me at Bayshore Hospital, a pair of patrolmen standing ten feet away the whole time. He cleaned up my wounds and gave me antiseptic to ward off any further infections. His X ray revealed a clear fissure in my shoulder blade, but not a full break. He applied a fresh set of bandages, gave me a sling, and told me not to play football for at least three months.
When I asked him about the combination of the cracked scapula with the wounds my left hand had received from my battle with Gerry Glynn last year, he looked at the hand.
“Numb?”
“Completely,” I said.
“There’s nerve damage to the hand.”
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded. “Well, we don’t have to amputate the arm.”
“Nice to hear.”
He looked at me through small, icy glasses. “You’re taking a lot of years off the back end of your life, Mr. Kenzie.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
“You plan on having kids someday?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Start now,” he told me. “You might live to see them graduate college.”
As we walked down the steps of the police station, Cheswick said, “You messed with the wrong guy this time.”
“No kidding,” Angie said.
“Not only is there no record of Cushing or Clifton working for him, but that jet you told me you took? The only private jet to leave Logan Airport between nine in the morning and noon on the day in question was a Cessna, not a Gulfstream, and it was bound for Dayton, Ohio.”
“How do you silence an entire airport?” Angie said.
“Not just any airport, either,” Cheswick said. “Logan has the tightest, most admired security system in the country. And Trevor Stone has enough pull to bypass it.”
“Shit,” I said.
We stopped at the limousine Cheswick had hired. The chauffeur opened the door, but Cheswick shook his head and turned back to us.
“Come back with me?”
I shook my head and instantly regretted it. The majorettes were still practicing in there.
“We have a few loose ends down here to tie up,” Angie said. “We also have to figure out what to do about Trevor before we return.”
“Want my advice?” Cheswick tossed his briefcase into the back of the limo.
“Sure.”
“Stay away from him. Stay down here until he dies. Maybe he’ll leave you alone.”
“Can’t do it,” Angie said.
“I didn’t think so.” Cheswick sighed. “I heard a story once about Trevor Stone. Just a rumor. Gossip. Anyway, supposedly this union organizer was causing trouble down in El Salvador back in the early seventies, threatening Trevor Stone’s banana, pineapple, and coffee interests. So Trevor, according to legend, made a few phone calls. And one day the workers at one of his coffee bean processing plants are sifting through a vat of beans and they find a foot. And then an arm. And then a head.”
“The union organizer,” Angie said.
“No,” Cheswick said. “The union organizer’s six-year-old daughter.”
“Christ,” I said.
Cheswick patted the roof of the limo absently, looked out at the yellow street. “The union organizer and his wife, they never found them. They became part of ‘the disappeared’ down there. And nobody ever talked again about striking at one of Trevor Stone’s plants.”
We shook hands and he climbed into the limo.
“One last thing,” he said before the driver could shut the door.
We leaned in.
“Someone broke into the offices of Hamlyn and Kohl the night before last. They stole all the office equipment. I hear there’s a lot of money in hot fax machines and copiers.”
“Supposedly,” Angie agreed.
“I hope so. Because these thieves had to shoot Everett Hamlyn dead to get what they wanted.”
We stood silently as he climbed into the limo and it snaked up the street and turned right and headed for the expressway.
Angie’s hand found mine. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “About Everett, about Jay.”
I blinked at something in my eyes.
Angie tightened her grip on my hand.
I looked up at the sky, such a rich dark shade of blue it seemed artificial. That was something else I’d been noticing down here: This state—so ripe and lush and colorful—seemed fake in comparison with its uglier counterparts up north.
There’s something ugly about the flawless.
“They were good men,” Angie said softly.
I nodded. “They were beautiful.”
29
We walked over to Central Avenue and headed north toward a cabstand the duty officer had grudgingly told us about.
“Cheswick said they’re going to come back on us with gun charges, discharging firearms within city limits, shit like that.”
“But nothing that’ll stick,” she said.
“Probably not.”
We reached the cabstand, but it was empty. Central Avenue, or at least the section we were on, didn’t look like a real friendly place. Three winos fought over a bottle or a pipe in the garbage-strewn parking lot of a torched liquor store, and across the street, several mangy-looking teenagers eyed potential prey from a bench in front of a Burger King, passed a joint, and gave Angie a once-over. I was sure the bandage around my shoulder and the sling under my arm made me look a bit vulnerable, but then they took a closer look, and I locked one of them in a weary stare until he turned his head and concentrated on something else.
The cabstand was a Plexiglas lean-to and we sagged against the wall in the liquid heat for a moment.