A woman’s voice on the other end of the line said, “Tell your sister to send the old cop, the good-looking cop, and the two private detectives to the Granite Rail Quarry tomorrow night at eight o’clock. Tell them to approach from the Quincy side, up the old railway slope.”
“Excuse me. Who is this?”
“Tell them to bring what they found in Charlestown.”
“Ma’am, I’m not sure what—”
“Tell them what they found in Charlestown will be traded for what we found in Dorchester.” The woman’s voice, low and flat, lightened. “You got that, honey?”
“I’m not sure. Can I get a piece of paper?”
A throaty chuckle. “You’re a caution, honey. Really. It’s all on tape. For anyone who’s listening? If we see anyone but the four I mentioned at Granite Rail tomorrow night, that package from Dorchester goes over a cliff.”
“No one’s—”
“Bye-bye, honey. You stay sweet now. You hear?”
“No, wait—”
There was a click, followed by the harsh sound of Lionel’s breathing, followed by a dial tone.
Doyle turned the tape recorder off. He leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers, tapped it against his lower lip.
After a few minutes’ silence, he said, “What did you find in Charlestown, guys?”
No one said anything.
He swiveled his chair, looked at Poole and Broussard. “You want me to do the countdown thing again?”
Poole looked at Broussard. Broussard held out a hand, palm up, and swung it back in Poole’s direction.
“Thanks, sweetie.” Poole turned to Doyle. “We found two hundred thousand dollars in the backyard of David Martin and Kimmie Niehaus.”
“The bloaters in C-Town,” Doyle said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And this two hundred thousand—it’s been tagged as evidence, of course.”
Poole swung his hand in Broussard’s direction.
Broussard looked at his shoes. “Not exactly, sir.”
“Really.” Doyle picked up a pencil, jotted something in the notepad by his elbow. “And after I call Internal Affairs and you’re both summarily fired by this department, which security firm do you think you’ll work for?”
“Well, you see—”
“Or will it be a bar?” Doyle smiled broadly. “Civilians love that—knowing their bartender’s a former cop. Get to hear all those war stories.”
“Lieutenant,” Poole said, “with all due respect, we’d love to keep our jobs.”
“I’m sure you would.” Doyle wrote some more on the notepad. “Should have thought of that before you misappropriated evidence in a murder investigation. That’s a felony, gentlemen.” He picked up the phone, punched two numbers, waited. “Michael, get me the names of the investigating officers on the David Martin/Kimmie Niehaus homicides. I’ll hold.” He tucked the phone against his shoulder, tapped the pencil eraser against the desktop, and whistled lightly through his teeth. A small, tinny voice emanated from the receiver, and he leaned into the phone again. “Yeah. Got it.” He scribbled on the notepad and hung up. “Detectives Daniel Guden and Mark Leonard. Know ’em?”
“Vaguely,” Broussard said.
“I can assume then that you failed to let them know what you found in the backyard of their victims.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir, you let them know? Or yes, sir, you failed to let them know?’
“The latter,” Poole said.
Doyle placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair again. “Run it down for me now, gentlemen. If it doesn’t smell as bad as it does at the moment, maybe—and I mean only maybe—you’ll have jobs next week. But I promise you this: They won’t be with CAC. I want fucking cowboys, I’ll watch Rio Bravo.”
Poole told him everything, from the time Angie and I had spotted Chris Mullen on the newscast videos until now. The only thing he left out was the ransom note they’d found in Kimmie’s underwear, and once I replayed the tape of Lionel’s conversation with the woman in my head, I realized that without the note there was no hard evidence that Lionel’s caller was demanding money for a child. No evidence of kidnapping: no Feds.
“Where’s the money?” Doyle asked, when Poole finished.
“I have it,” I said.
“You do, do you?” he said, without glancing in my direction. “This is very good, Sergeant Poole. Two hundred thousand dollars in stolen money—and stolen evidence, I might add—in the hands of a private citizen whose name has been brought up over the years in connection with three unsolved homicides and—some say—the disappearance of Jack Rouse and Kevin Hurlihy.”
“Not me,” I said. “Must be confusing me with that other Patrick Kenzie guy.”
Angie kicked my ankle.
“Pat,” Doyle said, and leaned forward in his chair, looked at me.
“Patrick,” I said.
“’Scuse me,” Doyle said. “Patrick, I have you dead to rights on receiving stolen property, obstruction of justice, interfering in a capitol felony investigation, and tampering with evidence in the same. Care to fuck with me some more and see what I can dig up if I really don’t like you?”
I shifted in my chair.
“What’s that?” Doyle said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“No,” I said.
He put his hand behind his ear. “Again?”
“No,” I said. “Sir.”
He smiled, slapped the desk with his fingers. “Very good, son. Speak when spoken to. Otherwise, keep it zipped.” He nodded at Angie. “Like your partner there. Always heard you were the brains of the operation, ma’am. Seems to be holding true here.” He swiveled back toward Poole and Broussard. “So you two geniuses decided to play at Cheese Olamon’s level and swap the money for the kid.”
“Pretty much, sir.”
“And the reason I shouldn’t turn this over to the Feds is?” He held out his hands.
“Because there’s been no official ransom demand,” Broussard said.
Doyle glanced down at the tape recorder. “What did we just listen to, then?”
“Well, sir.” Poole leaned across the desk, pointed at the tape recorder. “If you listen to it again you’ll hear a woman suggesting a trade of ‘something’ found in Charlestown for ‘something’ found in Dorchester. That woman could be discussing the trade of stamps for baseball cards.”