Double Homicide Part 4

Pharaoh's Genie sat on Lansdowne Avenue about a block and a half from the green-painted iron girders of Fenway Park, not far from Gold's Gym. Wide street for Boston, fronted by old brick industrial buildings and warehouses, some of which had been renovated into clubs and bars. McCain couldn't get near the address. The entire block was choked off with cruisers and unmarkeds, ambulances, and lab tech vehicles. Hot white spots overpowered the Christmas lights. Beyond the cordon, civilians milled, rubbing their hands together, stamping their feet. Willing to freeze in order to catch a glimpse of someone else's misery.

McCain parked, and the two of them got out and trudged toward the action. As soon as they got within shouting distance of the scene, a couple of uniformed officers tried to stave them off. The shorter of the duo, a young, redheaded Irishman named Grady, blinked several times, then recognized Dorothy. Even in layers of wool, her physique was hard to miss.

"Sorry, Detective Breton. I didn't realize it was you." He stepped aside to let her pa.s.s. "Where's your car?"

Southie accent. It came out "Wheahs yuh caah?" Then the guy noticed McCain, and his eyes got official all over again.

McCain wondered: What do I look like if not a cop? He showed his gold shield. "We had to park it down a ways. When did the call come through?"

"Maybe forty minutes ago." Grady bounced on his feet. "Someone from the fire department should close these places down. Nothing but problems."

"They'd just show up somewhere else." Dorothy pushed ahead. "I'm going to find Marcus."

McCain followed her.

The club had once been a warehouse, its exterior bricks painted matte black. The interior was accessed by a small steel door, making the s.p.a.ce a firetrap. As soon as McCain stepped inside, his face was slapped by hot air that stank of fresh blood and gunpowder. It was chaos, police personnel desperately trying to calm down horrified witnesses while EMTs tended to the wounded. A young black man was lying on the floor facedown, hands cuffed behind his back, guarded by four uniformed officers because the kid was a very big boy.

Dorothy quickly scanned the room, trying to spot Marcus, but the crowd was thick and the lighting was poor. The walls had also been painted black, with purple Day-Glo up lighting that provided spooky, fun-house illumination. There was some reflection from the long, mirror-backed bar that ran along the eastern wall, but it was more for atmosphere than clarity. The room was crammed with people, upturned tables, and lots of chairs. Two fifteen-foot-high aluminum Christmas trees framed the bandstand, twinkling Tivoli lights adding to the sense of the surreal. Some of the trees' elaborate ornaments had fallen and shattered on the dance floor. Paramedics had cleared open areas and were tending to the wounded and the shocked.

A VIP mezzanine ringed its way above the lower level. The elevated story had its own bars and its own waitresses. Instead of backless stools or wooden director's chairs, it had plush velvet couches and love seats. The tier was the site of intense tech activity. Even at this distance, McCain could spot a dangling arm.

He exchanged looks with his partner. Dorothy's eyes welled up with tears. "I dunno if I'm ready for it. You go up there. Let me find Marcus first."

"Good idea." McCain gave her shoulder a firm squeeze, then headed for the stairwell. The elevator had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape. As he approached the hub, his stomach started churning. The hot dog he'd eaten at the game laser-sliced through his gut. What was that that all about? He pushed through the crowd until he was afforded a clear view. Swallowing to keep from retching. all about? He pushed through the crowd until he was afforded a clear view. Swallowing to keep from retching.

Three hours ago, this boy had played the game of his life. Now the handsome face of Julius Van Beest was waxen and soulless.

Eyes without light, mouth open, rivulets of blood dripping down the left temple. The kid had taken hits to his head, right arm, right shoulder.

McCain felt someone touch his back, and he jumped, pivoting. Cory Wilde was holding an evidence bag, looking guarded.

Wilde was in his mid-thirties, a balding man with a bland face except for having one green eye and one brown eye. As a result, he seemed asymmetrical.

"What are you doin' here, Micky?"

"Keeping my partner company. Her kid's here. He called her up."

"No s.h.i.t! Who is he?"

"Marcus Breton, BF guard."

A shake of the head. "I've been busy up here."

"What happened?" McCain asked.

Wilde glanced at the body. "We got a shooter cuffed downstairs."

"I saw. What was the flash point?"

"Some argument about the game." Wilde rubbed his nose against his shoulder because his hands were latex-gloved. "You were at the game?"

"Me and Dorothy both."

"Somebody clobbered Julius on court?"

"Someone fouled him hard. He the shooter?"

"I dunno if it was him personally, 'cause I wasn't at the game. But it looks like the teams took it off the court. Lot of name-calling. Then when Julius made a move on a girl, there was a scuffle. The bouncers broke it up. The offending party left and everything was fine and peaceful, la-di-da. Then the OP comes back with a couple of buddies and, bam, bam, bullets start flying." bullets start flying."

"He came back looking for Julius?"

"Looks that way. If you see the way he fell down . . . C'mere." Wilde took McCain over to the body. He took his gloved hand and stuck his pinkie into an elongated bullet hole on Julius's shoulder. "You can feel the upward path of the trajectory. Now, anyone shooting towards the big guy's head would have to shoot upward. But this angle's pretty d.a.m.n steep." He took his finger out. "Wanna see for yourself?"

"I'll take your word for it."

"Has to be that the bullets came from below and were fired upward. And that isn't the picture we're getting from the witnesses."

McCain bent down and sniffed the wound. No strong odor of gunpowder leaked from the man's clothing-consistent with a long-range shot. "Julius the only fatality?"

"So far, yes. Paramedics have taken a couple of people who look to be in fairly serious condition, but they was talkin' on the gurneys-a good sign."

McCain nodded. "What's the name of the sweetheart who shot Julius?"

"B-baller named Delveccio. Guy's got a very hard att.i.tude, and he's not saying anything except for you know what."

"'I didn't do nothin'. nothin'.'"

"What else?" said Wilde. "When the bullets started, there was ma.s.s panic. a.s.shole claims he was just there, someone else did the shootings, the only reason he was singled out was because he was from Ducaine." Wilde frowned. "When we searched him, we didn't find a weapon."

"Find it anywhere else?"

"Hey," said Wilde. "You must be a detective. Yeah, that's the problem. We found weapons. As in plural. Lots of weapons." He shook his head. "It's like every idiot in the place was packing. Man, this one's gonna take up lots of time. It would sure make it easier if someone confessed."

McCain nodded. He knew the drill. Detectives would go through the confiscated firearms and try to pair each weapon to its owner using gun ID numbers-if they hadn't been filed or acid-burned off-state reg numbers, latent prints. But prints were often hard to pull from a fired weapon, because when a gun was discharged, hands jerked and slid and stuff got smudged. Even so, Ballistics would be required to discharge each recovered firearm into gelatin blocks to get the tool markings. Hopefully, one set of markings would line up with the fatal bullet. It was tedious, tedious business.

"I'll help if you want."

"That'd be a good thing." Wilde held up the paper evidence bag. "I'm gonna take these bullets over to the lab as soon as the ME's done. Gomes found some casings downstairs where we think the perp fired off his rounds. The angle looks good, but the shooting team will let us know for sure. Where's Dorothy's kid?"

"With the other witnesses."

"I'll go talk to him."

"Why don't you let me do it, Cory?"

Wilde looked at him. "You're a little close to this, Micky."

"I can get more out of him than you can."

Wilde snorted. Gave it some thought. "Not with Dorothy around."

He was right, but it was going to be a trick to separate Mama Lion from her cub.

"I got an idea, Wilde. Why don't you take the bullets over to Ballistics and get some shut-eye and Dorothy will wait for the ME. She'll bring you up to speed in the morning."

"That ain't protocol, Micky. What's she looking to get out of this?"

"She knows the mother-Ellen Van Beest."

Wilde considered that. "You're saying she definitely wants in?"

"I'm just making an educated guess about my partner."

"And you?"

"We're partners. Here's the deal: I'll help you mix and match weapons. And the sooner you get the rounds over to Ballistics, the sooner we'll have information on the type of weapon fired. It'll narrow down the search. Meanwhile, you can catch some shut-eye. You look like s.h.i.t."

Wilde glared. "Sure. Send her up here."

"You could do worse," said McCain. "Dorothy has a nose for reconstructing crime scenes."

"Well, we need something. Man, it's nothing but confusion." Wilde shook his head. "So either you or her will let me know what the ME says?"

"You bet."

McCain stared down at Julius Van Beest's lifeless body.

Like he needed a doc to tell him that the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been shot to death.

6.

Dorothy Breton was a big woman, but it took McCain over ten minutes to find her. Interspersed in the throng were much bigger people: the giants of college basketball. They loomed over Dorothy, making her appear average height. Still, she was a presence, and it was her voice that McCain homed in on.

She was sitting at the bar, a hand on Marcus's arm. A gesture of comfort, but it did little to calm the boy. His face was raw pain. He was shouting at her.

"I keep telling you I don't remember, Mama! Why do you keep going over it again and again?"

"Because every time we talk, you remember more than you think."

McCain elbowed his way through the crowd and took the seat next to his partner. "You're wanted upstairs," he told Dorothy. She threw him a puzzled look. "I told Wilde you'd be there when the ME came. No one's bagged the hands yet."

"You notice any powder residue?"

"Couldn't see a d.a.m.n thing in this lighting, but I didn't smell it. Still, we need to a.s.sume and make sure. If the shysters go for the self-defense angle, and no one checked his hands for powder, we're gonna look like a.s.ses."

"Did you find a discharged weapon near him?"

"No, but there was a couple of sh.e.l.ls in the area. Could be old ones, but we gotta check it all out."

"So there is a possibility that Van Beest shot back . . . or shot first."

"It's possible." McCain shrugged. "Anyway, Wilde just left to take the ammo down to Ballistics. The bad boys look like .32 caliber."

"How many?"

"Four, I think."

"Any other victims in that area other than Julius?"

"Not that I could tell," McCain said.

"So someone unloaded on him."

"We were told that there was conflict between Julius and one of the Ducaine players. The offending person left and returned later, spoiling for a battle. We don't know who shot first or if Julius shot at all. That's why we gotta go up there and bag the hands before the ME comes."

"Why didn't you do it?" Dorothy asked. "I'm busy."

"I'll take over what you're doing."

Dorothy glared. McCain shrugged her off. "I told Wilde that you got a nose for crime scenes. He said to send you upstairs and look around."

"I got a nose for bulls.h.i.t. Someone's trying to get rid of me."

McCain didn't answer. Dorothy frowned and got up from her seat. As she walked away, she looked over her shoulder at her son. "I'll deal with you later."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n!" Marcus swore out loud after his mother was gone. "What does she want from me? I didn't see anything!"

McCain put his hand on the young boy's shoulder. "Maternal concern."

"f.u.c.k, I'm concerned, too." The kid was yelling. "I'd help if I could, but I hit the ground just like everyone else after the shooting started." Marcus's eyes narrowed in defiance. "Can I go now?"

"Give me a few minutes."

The boy's eyes rolled to the back of his head.

"C'mon, indulge me, Marcus." McCain stood up. "Let's take a walk. Looks like you could use some air."

Marcus didn't respond. Then, abruptly, he shot to his feet and grabbed his overcoat. "Anything to get the h.e.l.l out of here."

The deputy medical examiner was a child, although in Dorothy's perception everyone under fifty was a child. But this one really was a baby with her fresh white face and her big, round "omigosh" blue eyes and her skinny body and little skinny wrists that were covered by latex gloves. Expensive coat, looked like cashmere or at least a blend.

Obviously a virgin, 'cause after you messed up a nice piece of threads on human body fluids, you learned.