Ocean Park Read online

  Tolerance. Man, this is harder than I thought.

  McNulty ignored the hand.

  “Lisa, your husband is front page news,” he said, slapping the desk. “The media loves this shit. You just gave Diaz the lead. Guaranteed.”

  “Bill, slow down. I haven’t seen this.” She flattened the paper with her hands and started to read.

  McNulty snatched the front page from her and touched a different finger to his thumb for every phrase. “Well, let me be the first to inform you of the charges against Detective Conley. ‘Detective Edward Jackson testified Conley was drinking on the job, used force recklessly, compromised a murder scene, destroyed church property, and endangered an eight-year-old child.’ Your husband fucked up big time, and you’ll pay for it by losing this election. Guilt by association.” He jabbed his finger at her, inches away from her forehead. “That’s how the public sees it. You just blew your lead.”

  Anger. Dr. Larkin always reminded them—anger bred anger. McNulty’s was certainly stoking his.

  Conley spoke quietly, evenly. “Don’t talk to my wife like that.”

  Mandy stuck her head in the office door. “More coffee?”

  “Not now, Mandy,” Lisa called. “Close the door please, honey?”

  “Look,” McNulty continued, voice rising, mustache dancing. “I don’t need this shit, Lisa. I have other job offers if you’re not going to control him.”

  Conley came around the desk and flattened his hand against McNulty’s bony chest. “I said stop it. Now.”

  McNulty looked down and attempted to push the hand away. “This is actionable, Detective. It’s called assault. You sure you want to add this to all the shit you’re in?”

  Lisa gently pulled his hand away. She turned and touched the newspaper with her fingertips.

  “Matt, is this true? Did you do this?”

  Trust. Bingo. Trust—or the lack of it, had hung like a sword over the relationship ever since they’d met. The five-letter monster needed to be conquered if the marriage was to survive.

  And McNulty?—well, better face facts. Lisa wanted to be a politician. Better get used to her keeping company with assholes.

  Assholes.

  “No, Lisa, I didn’t. Too bad you had to even ask.”

  Conley shrugged into his jacket and headed back through the bullpen of giggling staffers. He didn’t answer his wife’s plea to come back, or Mandy’s happy goodbye as he stepped outside to the blast of honking horns sharpened by the cold crisp air.

  Chapter 5

  Conley sat between the two priests. Father Spinelli leaned toward Captain Stefanos, elbows sliding on the scarred conference table. Spinelli turned the back of his head to the others so no one would hear, and whispered, “Captain, we’ll need a copy of the police report—for the insurance company.”

  Father McCarrick heard, leaned toward his fellow priest and said, “Want him to sign it in blood, Frank?”

  Stefanos sighed, shuffling pages into a folder until they were as neat and aligned as everything on his person—a tie knot so perfect it looked like a clip-on, white shirt stretched across broad chest without a wrinkle, gray hair cropped like a drill instructor.

  He glanced toward the door.

  “Fathers, we’ll get you a copy of the report by Friday. The social worker’s waiting. Now remember,” he said, index finger raised, serious brown eyes threatening each priest in turn, “the crying statue is our secret. If the press finds out, they’ll turn the church into a circus.”

  Conley took notes.

  Crying statue equals circus.

  Stefanos, Conley’s new special assignment boss with the Massachusetts State Police, hadn’t discussed that with him. In fact, the state police captain forgot to do a lot of things—like invite Conley to the morning meetings. The list of surprise notes was growing. They needed to talk.

  The captain’s assistant sat across from him. Detective Lloyd Kendricks was black, as well-dressed as Stefanos, with bigger shoulders and a thicker middle. He had mismatched eyes—one brown, the other a disturbing cloudy cue ball whose color matched the light in the Bluetooth he wore.

  The priests scraped back their chairs on the green speckled tiles. They’d spent the past hour bickering in the windowless room at Ocean Park Police headquarters, questioning Stefanos more than he questioned them. Now Fathers McCarrick and Spinelli eyed each other like prizefighters, jockeyed to see who would be first out of the police conference room, and almost knocked into the woman and girl in the doorway.

  The young girl from the church—Channary—walked in. She surveyed the room, perhaps checking the contrasting shades of green above and below the chair rail. The light on the silver video camera in the corner blinked—green, of course.

  “Channary,” Stefanos said, bending at the waist and shaking her hand. “You have a beautiful name, Channary. Welcome.”

  He didn’t seem like a bad guy, but he was out of his league. A Marine buzz-cut and broad shoulders might impress people in Boston or Worcester, but it didn’t buy much in a place like Ocean Park. O-P ran on relationships and favors and tribal knowledge. The skin tags were the real power brokers, informants who got their nickname from the local cops. Ugly, useless appendages on humanity—skin tags—low-level pushers and punks who greased their businesses by selling information.

  In Ocean Park you just knew—knew that when a lot of Outlaws rode their Harleys around Dom’s Lounge, a major drug deal was going down.

  Knew that when the boosters jacked stereos and handbags from cars in the Walmart parking lot, they fenced the stuff at jewelry and pawn shops on Monroe Street.

  Knew that the hookers in City Hall Square used local cabs to conduct business, and always paid the hack drivers in trade.

  That’s how Ocean Park worked and it took years to learn the people and places. And the big black guy, Stefano’s quiet, sinister-looking assistant? He wasn’t going to help much either because quiet and shy didn’t work at all in O-P, no matter how bad you looked.

  Stefanos led the girl to a chair, produced lollipops from the pocket of his jacket, and spread them in front of her. She looked scared as a jackrabbit. She folded her arms and lowered her chin to her chest.

  The woman introduced herself as Sheila Thompson from Health and Human Services. Black Irish. Coal-colored hair and skin that looked like porcelain. A bit on the skinny side. She wore a gray pinstripe suit that might have made her look mannish if not for the gold triangle earrings that accentuated her long, slender neck.

  “Captain Stefanos,” she said, all business, “Channary’s been through a lot. She’s blocking the memory of that night in church.”

  “We need to try, Ms. Thompson.”

  Channary’s eyes flickered to Stefanos, then to Conley.

  “Sheila,” the captain said, “ask Channary why she was in church so late.”

  Thompson spoke in Khmer, graceful throat working, lips and tongue dancing, and the little girl’s eyes grew. Channary answered. Thompson translated.

  “Channary says it’s always good to be in a church.”

  “Who else was there?” Stefanos asked.

  More Cambodian, back and forth. Channary pointed to Conley.

  “Did she come to the church with Mr. Rodriguez?” Stefanos asked.

  Channary nodded.

  “What was her relationship—no, ask if she saw anyone other than Conley and Victor Rodriguez?”

  Channary listened and suddenly rattled off a burst of Cambodian with such melodious inflections that her sentences sounded like songs.

  Thompson paused a few seconds. “She’s talking about the statues, but she doesn’t know their names. The old man with the beard and book, the long-haired man standing on a serpent.”

  An intense hour later, not much had been learned. Channary spoke earnestly, seeking approval after every answer. Thompson hesitated.

  “Captain, we’re concerned Channary may be a victim of sex trafficking. Friends International in Cambodia is helping us track he
r family. The country’s infamous for orphan tourists, predators who pretend to help, but prey on the most vulnerable.” She smoothed the girl’s hair and continued, “I’ll stick with her, see what I can find out. I placed her with some Cambodian families on River Street for the time being. I’ll teach her some English and—”

  “No,” Stefanos said.

  “Oh?ˮ One equally graceful eyebrow arched. “Why not?”

  He leaned forward, poised to intimidate, and his face hardened. “Place her in a normal foster home. The Asian Boyz and the Latin Kings are fighting over the city’s drug trade. River Street’s a battleground. It’s unsafe. I won’t allow it. Put her in a normal foster situation.”

  Thompson shot back. “Channary’s an abandoned eight-year-old who doesn’t speak our language, Captain. Try finding foster parents who speak Khmer. Besides, the Cambodian ladies will keep her safe. Health and Human Services is making this call. Case closed.”

  Conley smiled. Sheila Thompson was a warrior. Kendricks turned and leveled that smoky malamute eye on him, just before touching his hand to his Bluetooth.

  “Captain, we got another customer.”

  “Where?”

  “The beach.”

  Stefanos gathered the folders from the table, threw them into his briefcase, and strode out of the room with Kendricks. With a roll of his eyes, Conley followed, past conference rooms, the front desk, and onto the concrete steps. Stefanos stood at the bottom as Kendricks retrieved their car. Stefanos turned and placed his open hand on Conley’s chest. Thick fingers. Calloused palm. Immovable arm.

  “Detective, why don’t you sit this one out? Get a copy of the report to the priests.”

  Conley fought his own urge to raise an eyebrow. “I can do that later, Captain.”

  Kendricks braked to a stop in front of them and rolled the window down.

  Stefanos’ gaze lifted from Conley’s knees to the general area of his face. “Tell you the truth, son, I don’t care if you do it now, later, or never. I said sit this one out.”

  “Captain, you could really use my help. Is there a problem?”

  Kendricks called from the driver’s seat. “Let me take this one, sir. Half of Ocean Park’s finest are known to be on gang payrolls, and you, Detective Conley, even topped that. You drank on duty, discharged a firearm for no good reason, and are a generally useless piece of dung. How’s that for a ‘problem’?” He turned to Stefanos. “Did I cover everything, Captain?”

  “The liquor wasn’t mine,” Conley said

  “Jackson says it was,” Kendricks shot back. “Also says you fired the gun, that’s why you had it when we showed up.”

  “My pal Eddie would blame the Pope if he thought it would protect his pension. Captain, I wasn’t drinking and I didn’t fire in the church. The internal investigation will prove that.”

  “Okay.”

  “I can help you.”

  “I can’t afford to deal with the Ocean Park force. The D.A. says they have a bribery problem.”

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Why’d you have your partner’s gun? You’re either guilty or stupid, Conley. Take your pick.”

  “Maybe they was sharing a pint, Captain,” Kendricks said. “Then he’d be only half to blame.”

  “Conley, you’re a question mark,” Stefanos said. “You bring nothing to the table.”

  He headed for the car. Conley followed.

  “Captain, you’re making a mistake. I can help. I’m asking you to reconsider.”

  You need me.

  Stefanos stopped and faced him. “I said no. Don’t take it personally, Detective. It’s just business. Maybe next time.”

  Something behind Conley caught Stefanosʼ eye. Conley turned to see Sheila Thompson and Channary at the top of the stairs. Beside him Stefanos eyed Thompson for three long seconds, then smiled at Channary as they descended the steps to cross the street. By the time Conley looked back at Stefanos, the captain had the car door open and was sliding inside.

  Before he closed the door, Conley heard him mutter to Kendricks, “Damned if I’m going to lose two pissing contests today, Lloyd.”

  ****

  Less than an hour later, Conley watched Stefanos and Kendricks leave the crime scene, then called to the tech still working it. The tech was dressed in a HAZMAT suit, waist-deep in a Dumpster behind the roast beef stand across from the beach. The body of a young Hispanic lay on the pile of garbage inside the green container.

  “Tommy ‘the Dog’ Lopez,” Conley said. “King of the Ocean Park drug trade.”

  The tech nodded and pointed at the bloody stumps where the corpse’s hands had been severed at the wrists. “No hands.”

  “They’re probably still dealing coke down on Union Street.”

  “Or at the high school maybe.”

  “Or the junior high.”

  The tech moved like an astronaut in his bulky gear. He lifted his leg, straddled Tommy Lopez, and inspected the twisted neck, flesh bunched like a wrung towel. The movement stirred the trash, piles of grease-stained paper bags, burnt French fries, rancid meat. Bottle flies buzzed, swarmed away, boomeranged back.

  “Two Hispanics in a week,” the tech said.

  “Not sure that means anything. They lived at opposite ends of the ʼRican solar system. One would think Tommy had a lot more opportunities to piss people off than Victor Rodriguez.”

  “One would think.”

  “‘Course Mr. Rodriguez might have said the business world ain’t always nice either.”

  “What about gangs?”

  “Tommy was involved for sure. A major player,” Conley said and pocketed his notebook. “I’ll check it out.”

  Chapter 6

  Later that afternoon, Conley climbed the peeling stairs to the front porch of a big colonial. An army of garden gnomes defended Simon O’Neil’s front lawn. The ceramic soldiers guarded birdbaths, gazing balls, wooden geese with windmill wings, plywood cutouts of bent-over, fat-assed ladies gardening. Wind socks and chimes crammed the space between rail and roof, a flapping, clanging curtain. He caught a splinter on the wooden rail and stopped to inspect his hand.

  A shrill voice called from the door. “You here for the cats?”

  A woman with a startling shock of white hair and a wrinkled face stood behind the screen. A faded pink housedress draped her skinny frame.

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “You gotta have a net or something.” She punched a fist in the air. “Tools. BB-guns.”

  He flashed his badge.

  “I’m Matt Conley, Mrs. O’Neil. Remember me? I went to school with your son William.”

  Another crop of white hair appeared behind her, this one shorter. Simon O’Neil.

  “Gracie, that’s the Conley boy. Billy’s friend, don’t you remember?”

  O’Neil eased his confused wife back into the darkness and returned, opened the screen door, and waved Conley in.

  “Matt, please come in. Of course we remember you.”

  Simon O’Neil adjusted his glasses—big, square-framed jobs that magnified his tired brown eyes. Conley edged by, the smells of cabbage and Mr. O’Neil’s stale, moth-bitten sweater joining to greet him. Mrs. O’Neil sat in a rocking chair and studied Conley with slatted eyes.

  O’Neil turned the television on for his wife.

  “He gonna catch those damn cats?” she asked urgently, head thrust forward, skinny rump perched precariously on the edge of the chair.

  “Stay there, Gracie,” her husband answered with a wag of his finger.

  He was glad Mr. O’Neil used the word “there”. She might not have given a care to be commanded like a dog, but Conley had long been conditioned to shoulder the misfortune of others. Irish Catholics liked to savor guilt in all its delicious forms.

  O’Neil led him through the ancient kitchen. White appliances looked diseased, pocked with black spots showing through chipped paint. Yellowed wallpaper repeated a pattern of a horse-drawn carriage traveling un
der lush oaks—about five hundred times. Blue linoleum had been worn away in front of the sink and stove to reveal rough subfloor.

  He followed Simon O’Neil, and when squeaky hinges closed the back door behind them, they stood in a yard of colossal neglect. Conley had been there years ago with William, when the two of them stole his father’s wine grapes from the vines. Mr. O’Neil caught them and they swore innocence, lying vehemently through purple lips plastered with grape skins.

  Bushes and small trees were winter bare, their brown, rotting leaves piled like fat aprons around roots. The lawn was a checkerboard of dirt spots and long clumps of straw-colored grass. Rusted metal tools lay in random places.

  O’Neil led him to a structure used to support grapevines. The rickety wooden arbor was gray with age, and bare, withered vines snaked through the trellis, a tangle of brittle brown thatch. The old man invited him to sit on a low stone bench covered with mold and moss, the only things that seemed to flourish in the yard.

  “Grace is suffering from dementia,” he said. “She sees cats everywhere. Thanks for coming, Matt. I was worried no one would care about my complaint.”

  “You were expecting me?”

  He put his hands under his haunches. “Matt, I complained to the police about that colored cop. Didn’t they tell you? Isn’t that why you came?”

  Kendricks.

  Kendricks must have already been there, surely because of Father McCarrick’s deposition about the old chicken-blood-on-the-statue prank. Conley hesitated, weighing the benefits of lying against the difficulty of what he needed to accomplish.

  “Yes,” he lied, removing notepad and pen from his inside pocket. “Headquarters sent me, Mr. O’Neil.”

  “Good. I was afraid they’d think I was a nuisance.”

  “No, sir. We are public servants, after all.”

  O’Neil smiled, revealing black and yellow teeth fighting for space.

  “That eye, Matt. The monstrous blue eye that colored boy had. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Birth defect?”

  O’Neil grunted. “No, son. I thought you were smarter than that. One brown eye, one blue means his mother was white. He’s an abomination, no mistaking it.” O’Neil pronounced abomination phonetically, as if he’d just invented the word.