Double Homicide Read online

  “You tell me.”

  She noticed Marcus. Smiled prettily. “Are you from Boston Ferris?”

  “You got it half right,” McCain said. “He’s from Boston. Excuse me.”

  Finally spotting an empty car, McCain dragged Marcus over, flashed his gold shield, asked the uniform there if he could borrow the backseat. Liz Mantell dogged his ass, a video cameraman picking up her valiant attempt to get the Big Story.

  “Are you on the basketball team?”

  McCain didn’t let Marcus answer. He opened the back door to the cruiser, lowered the boy’s head, and pushed him inside.

  “Is he a suspect, Detective?”

  McCain didn’t answer and slid in next to Marcus.

  “A morgue van has just pulled up,” Mantell persisted. “How many fatalities were there?”

  McCain smiled and shut the door, almost taking off the reporter’s fingers. The interior was as dark and icy as a crypt. He stretched over the seat, managed to switch on the ignition. Cold air spilled out of the vents. Within a minute the air turned tepid.

  McCain turned to Marcus, who’d buried his face in his suede gloves. Finally, the boy looked up. “I’ll tell you what I told Mama. Nothing. ’Cause I didn’t see anything.”

  “You weren’t with Julius?”

  “No, I wasn’t with Julius. He was upstairs being butt-wiped by some shoe company conglomerate.”

  “Isn’t that against NCAA rules?”

  “Not if he didn’t take anything.”

  “You think he paid for his own drink?”

  Marcus frowned. “That is not the bling the board is concerned about.”

  “But if someone reported him, Marcus, he could get into trouble, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But who’s gonna report him?”

  “Someone from the opposition.”

  “No one from the opposition is going to report Julius for copping a couple of free drinks. You don’t get rid of a guy that way. That’s a chickenshit way.”

  “Killing him is better?”

  Marcus rubbed his temples. “Of course not. It’s horrible, it’s . . . I’m sick to my stomach. I play ball so I don’t have to deal with the bangers. I do my job and they leave me alone. They respect my game, man. I worked hard so they can respect my game. I can’t believe . . . Mick, I just want to go home. Please let me go home. I need to sleep.”

  “Just do me a favor. Tell me your version of what went down.”

  Marcus’s sigh was long and weary. “I was sitting near the dance floor. Just hanging, you know. Talking up this girl.”

  “A Ducaine girl?”

  “No, she was a local girl. I think she went to BU. Julius was hanging, too—making play with the ladies. I don’t know every girl that was hanging on him. There were lots of them, that much I could tell you. It pissed Pappy off. The girl attention wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that Julius humiliated Ducaine when he came back after being slammed. He and Pappy got into words.”

  “Who’s Pappy?”

  “Pappy is Patrick Delveccio. Ducaine’s power forward.”

  “Was he the one that took Julius down on the court?”

  “No, that was Mustafa Duran. He plays off the bench. He’s known as the enforcer—for playing rough. Hey, no big deal. That’s his job. But what happened last game went way beyond.”

  “What was he doing when Julius and Pappy got into words?”

  “Mustafa wasn’t at the club. He knew what would happen if he showed his face.”

  McCain stopped himself from pulling out his notebook. “What would happen?”

  “Man, you can’t do something like that on court without consequences.”

  “What kind of consequences?”

  Marcus frowned. “C’mon, Micky. You know what it’s like. If you don’t defend yourself out there, you get slammed. Guys’ll try all sorts of shit on you ’cause they think they can get away with it.”

  “So what kind of consequences are we talking about?”

  “Not a gun, if that’s what you think. I’m talking about on-court payback. You throw out an elbow when the refs aren’t looking. And even if they are looking, after a dirty foul like that . . . hey, no one’s gonna say anything.”

  “But we’re not talking on court, Marcus. We’re talking here. What do you think Julius would have done if Mustafa had showed up?”

  “Well, he didn’t show up, so the whole thing’s conjecture.”

  “Who started the fight, Marcus?”

  “No fight.” The kid looked up. “Just a few words.”

  “What kind of words?”

  “Julius was talking trash, okay? And Pappy was talking trash back. But there were lots more of us than there was of them. Things got a little heated. I think there was some pushing, but that’s it. Ducaine left. Then Julius took a couple of girls upstairs, and that was the last I saw of him.”

  “What he do once he got the girls upstairs?”

  Marcus looked puzzled. “Are you asking me if he did them at the club? That, I couldn’t tell you. As far as I know, they were just arm candy, so he could look good to the corporates.”

  McCain took out his notebook. “You know the names of the girls?”

  Marcus thought a moment. “No, not really.”

  McCain waited.

  “I think I heard someone call one of the girls Spring. They were tall—the girls. One was about my height. I think they might be ballplayers, but not from Boston Ferris. I know all the girls from Boston Ferris.”

  “Who else went upstairs with Julius?”

  “No one I knew.”

  “A bodyguard, maybe?”

  “Nah, no bodyguard. Who’d mess with Julius?”

  “He wasn’t worried about fans getting too wild?”

  “Julius wasn’t that big yet. He was headed for the NBA, sure, but a Final Four title would have really been a sweet deal for him. He really wanted this title before he declared eligibility.” Marcus shook his head. “This sucks! What a waste!”

  “So what happened after he went upstairs?”

  “I don’t know what Julius was doing. I do know that Pappy came back with a couple of his banger buddies.”

  “About how much time had passed between Pappy’s departure and Pappy’s return?”

  Marcus exhaled. “Maybe about a half hour, maybe a little longer. I wasn’t watching the clock. When Pappy came back, everyone knew it was gonna be bad. I was coming out of the john, and when I saw him, I was already thinking about making my exit. Then the shooting started. I hit the floor. I didn’t see no gun. I couldn’t even tell you if Pappy was packing. I just heard the pop and dived for cover.”

  “So the words that Pappy and Julius had weren’t over a girl?”

  “Nah, it was the game, man. It’s always the game. You cheated, you held me, you pushed me, you threw me an elbow, blah, blah, blah. It wasn’t anything about a girl.”

  “Maybe Julius put the move on the wrong lady.”

  “No, I don’t see that. He had his pick—anyone, anytime.”

  “Some guys get a thrill sticking it into other guys’ girls.”

  “Nah, not Julius. His only passion was ball. Girls were just something to do when he wasn’t playing ball. If he was going to square off with some guy seriously, it wouldn’t be over a girl.”

  “So where did that rumor come from?”

  “How should I know? If I was to guess, I’d blame Ducaine. Something to justify their actions. Everyone said that Pappy and his buds just gunned him down, Micky. Just mowed him down.”

  “But you didn’t see it.”

  “That didn’t mean it didn’t go down that way.” Marcus looked at McCain. “Who else would have shot him up?”

  “So you’re telling me that Van Beest hadn’t pissed off anyone else but Ducaine?”

  “No, Julius pissed off lots of people. I didn’t like him. But I can’t think of anyone who would have hated him enough to shoot him.”

  “Maybe you’re not thinking har
d enough.”

  “Maybe I need some sleep!” Marcus snapped back. “Maybe if I had some sleep, I could think better.” He paused, then threw his head back. “I’m so cold. I’m so tired.” He stared at McCain. “How do you guys do all-night stakeouts in this kind of weather?”

  “We get cold and tired, too.”

  “So have a little sympathy, Micky. Let me go home.”

  McCain nodded. “I’ll have a uniform drive you home.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll hitch a ride with a friend.”

  “No, son,” McCain told him. “An officer will take you home. Your mother wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  8

  Back Bay was landfill heaped into a dredged, stagnant bog, hence the name of its most famous landmark, Fenway Park. During the Victorian era, the bay had boasted some of the most fashionable houses in Boston. Scenic and charming, with cobblestone sidewalks and the breezes coming off the ocean, it was a heavily trod tourist spot during the warmer months. Throw in the ballpark and the clubs, and the area was a constant blur of action, as was most of D-4—the police district that patrolled it. McCain and Dorothy’s home base.

  At five in the morning, the shifts were changing. Detective Cory Wilde could have used a tag team, but it didn’t work that way. Breton and McCain were picking up a good deal of the scut work, so he had little reason to bitch, but he’d been up for over twenty hours and it was getting to him. He suspected that Pappy Delveccio knew it, because the bastard wasn’t giving him a damn thing. When he offered the kid a smoke, Pappy shook his head vehemently.

  “I don’t take that shit in my lungs. What you trying to do, man? Poison me?”

  If only . . .

  Wilde said, “Just trying to make you comfortable. You need a refill on water?”

  Pappy leaned forward and glared. “I need to get outta here. Book me or let me go home, man.”

  The kid was six-ten, two eighty. From the waist down, Patrick Luther Delveccio looked like a beanpole. That was the way it was for basketball players—skinny, long legs meant for running and jumping.

  From the waist up, it was a different story. The Ducaine star forward was carrying a heap of muscle around the arms and shoulders. His face was long and dark with fine features—almost Ethiopian.

  Delveccio. Had to be part Italian. Or not. Look at Shaquille O’Neal and Tracy McGrady. Wilde was sixty percent Irish, had once thought the world was a simple place.

  He faced Pappy again. Fancy boy, the hair all zigzagged in an intricate pattern, cornrows or whatever dripping down the nape of a long, muscled neck. Delveccio’s brow was thick, his eyes were dark slits, and his lips were curled in a sneer.

  Wilde tried not to sneer back. “You can speed it up by telling me the truth, Pappy.”

  The slits grew feral. “Have you been listenin’, man? I am telling you the truth.” His hands were inked with tattoos. Barely visible against the dark skin. Why bother?

  Probably his arms, too, but Wilde couldn’t see that. Pappy was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt. He’d taken off his olive-green silk suit jacket. It hung over his chair, smooth and gleaming. So long it puddled on the floor.

  “I’ve been listening.” Wilde shrugged. “But I don’t believe you. You know why I don’t believe you? Because you’re not credible.”

  “I didn’t shoot no one.” Delveccio crossed his arms over his chest.

  “See, there you go again with that truth problem. We tested your hands for gunpowder residue, Pappy. You fired a gun.”

  “I didn’t shoot no one at the club,” he amended. “I was fooling around with a gun yesterday.”

  It was all Wilde could do not to snort. “When yesterday?”

  “In the morning.”

  “And you haven’t washed your hands since you fired that gun?”

  “Matter of fact, I didn’t.”

  “Haven’t wiped your hands with a napkin after you’ve eaten?”

  “No.”

  Wilde stared at him.

  The kid retorted, “I’m a neat eater.”

  “You know, Pappy, last night’s game was televised. All that sweat on your face and hands, just dripping and dripping and dripping. Not only did I see you wiping down your face and hands with a towel about twenty times, so did everyone who was watching the game. You want to change your story?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “You lawyer up, Pap, but then I can’t work with you. Then we can’t work out a deal. And you know if you’re gonna get out of this, you’re gonna have to work up a deal.”

  Dorothy was watching from the other side of the interview room’s one-way mirror. She looked at D-4’s night captain. Phil O’Toole was beefy, florid, and white-haired, a third-generation Basic Irish Cop. He’d seen lots of changes in Back Bay: more immigrants, more drugs, more transients, and a lot more students. That meant more parties and more alcohol-related incidents. The upside was professionals coming back, fixing up old Victorian homes. No perps, those, just occasional victims.

  “A Ducaine lawyer will be here any minute,” she said. “How long do you think we can stall before the lawyer starts making demands to see the client?”

  “We can put it off for ten minutes at the most,” O’Toole replied. “What do we got on Delveccio—specifically?”

  “Witnesses that saw him pull out a gun.”

  “How many witnesses?”

  “Three or four and we’re still looking.”

  “What else?”

  “Residue on his hands. He obviously discharged a weapon, and it had to have been after the game.”

  “But you don’t have anyone who saw him fire, right?”

  “We’re still looking,” Dorothy repeated. “It’s hard to get witnesses to talk.”

  “So you’ll work on them.”

  “Of course.”

  O’Toole said, “Discharging a weapon . . . We have enough to keep him locked up until someone schedules an arraignment and makes bail. What’s that? Three hours?”

  “About.”

  They both regarded Wilde through the window. The detective rubbed his eyes and said, “Tell me about the shooting, Pappy. Tell me what happened. If it was self-defense, I want to know about it. The DA will want to know about it. Self-defense is a whole different thing.”

  The forward stared at Wilde, appearing to weigh his options. Then he said, “Your eyes are two different colors. What happen? Your mama bang two men at the same time?”

  Wilde smiled. “I’ll ask her the next time I see her.”

  “I’ve had enough.” O’Toole picked up the phone and called Wilde out of the interview room. As soon as Wilde emerged, he started to defend himself. But O’Toole interrupted. “He asked for his lawyer, Cory. We’re gonna have to book him based on what we have: witnesses to the fight, witnesses who saw him pullin’ out a weapon, the residue on his hands.”

  “Give me a few more minutes with him,” Wilde pleaded.

  O’Toole’s pink face turned the color of rare steak. “You deaf, Detective? He already asked for his lawyer. And some suit from Ducaine is on the way.”

  “So I’ll tell him that. I’ll tell him he don’t have to talk to me. But let me keep him company, okay?”

  O’Toole didn’t answer.

  “Just company,” said Wilde. “Nothing that’ll fuck up Miranda.” He crossed himself.

  “Fine,” said O’Toole. “Company. Just until the suit gets here.”

  At that moment, McCain walked into the room. The captain stared at him. “Where have you been?”

  “Talking to witnesses.”

  “And?”

  “After much cajoling and threatening, I got two young ladies to admit they saw Pappy pull out and discharge a weapon—a handgun.”

  “Hallelujah!” Wilde said.

  O’Toole said, “How reliable are they?”

  “As reliable as anyone at the club. Which means they’re shaky right now. We’re gonna have to babysit them for a while.”

  “Did
either one see Pappy point the gun in Julius’s direction?”

  “We’re still nailing down the details.”

  “Anyone see what kind of gun Pappy fired?”

  “No, sir, no one was paying that close attention. Too many people panicking when the bullets started flying. Everyone hit the floor.” McCain consulted his notes. “I’ve also got a lead on a woman who was possibly with Julius on the upper level when he was shot. Her name is Spring Mathers, and she lives with her parents in Roxbury.” McCain checked his watch. “It’s a little after five. I figure I’ll go over there in a few hours.”

  “No, you’ll go over there now and wake them up,” O’Toole said. “We need all the help we can get because our bad boy isn’t saying much.”

  The door to the interview room opened. Officer Rias Adajinian was young and cute except for the dark circles under her eyes. A newcomer, she had been assigned the graveyard shift. It didn’t agree with her biorhythm. “Someone from Ducaine University has arrived, demanding to speak with Mr. Delveccio. Also . . .” She sighed. “Ellen Van Beest is here, too.”

  O’Toole looked at Dorothy. Immediately, she said, “I know her. I’ll do it.” She looked at the young officer. “Where’d you set her up?”

  “Five.”

  “I’ll need a full pitcher of water, two glasses, and a big box of tissues.” Dorothy paused. “Make that two boxes of tissues. Tell her I’ll be there in just a second. I need a moment to myself.”

  “How did this happen?” Ellen grabbed Dorothy’s arm, squeezing her fingers until her knuckles blanched. She was shaking, her voice wet with tears and profound sadness. “How did this happen? How could . . .” She broke into sobs that would no longer allow speech.

  Tears in her own eyes, Dorothy reached out to embrace her, and the distraught woman permitted herself to take comfort. Like Dorothy, Ellen was a large woman—tall and heavy—but in grief, she was insubstantial.

  “How could this happen? How could this happen? How could it, Dorothy, how could it?”

  Water overflowed Dorothy’s eyes. “We’re going to find out everything, Ellen. I promise you, personally, I will not rest until we have the perpetrator behind bars.”

  “Just tell me this: Was it the pig who fouled my Julius? Did he take him down?”