“When was this?”
“About…” I couldn’t recall the exact date, but I remembered the general date, and said, “maybe three weeks ago.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And…?”
“It was a birthday gift for my father. Lisa wanted me to include it with my gift.” She glanced at her watch and said, “Look, I need to keep my mind on one problem at a time. Let’s discuss it later.”
“If there is a later.” I added, “Remember, run; if you can’t, fall down.”
She nodded and returned to the kitchen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Monsignors Spinelli and Drummond walked out aunt Ethel’s front door, climbed into their beat-up Honda Civic, and departed. We drove four blocks, parked by an intersection, then backtracked two blocks.
Spinelli then led me to two unmarked cars and three Boston detectives who were loitering outside a barbershop, blending into their surroundings, though I thought they looked like sore thumbs.
We approached on foot and one of the detectives, a freckly, red-haired kid, beamed at us and said, “Good morning, Fathers.”
Spinelli smiled back. “Up yours, dickhead.”
I believe I mentioned that Spinelli has sociability issues. Anyway, he then flashed his tin, and explained, “If I were the killer, you’d be dead as shit. Where’s yer fuckin’ radio?”
The young detective led Spinelli to his car, and they climbed in together. Spinelli spent a few moments communicating to the captain in charge of this operation, tying down details and loose ends and whatever.
I leaned against a lamp post. Having already scared the Morrow girls out of their shorts, I was now in the process of jerking the Boston PD through a major knothole. If I was wrong about the killer and his intentions, or he smelled a trap and disappeared, a bad day was going to become an incredibly shitty day. But, enough with happy thoughts; I switched to ruminations about the plan. In battle, you learn to think like the other guy, then use that to get one step ahead of him, even as he’s trying to think like you. The Army euphemistically calls this getting inside an enemy’s decision cycle. The one who gets a few synapses connections ahead of the other chokes on confetti at the victory parades; the other guy ships home in a body bag.
Our edge lay in the fact that we were trying to think like him. Because he wasn’t aware we knew he was out there, he wasn’t trying to think like us.
Anyway, while Spinelli wrapped up his explanation on the radio, I realized I was unarmed. So I attempted to sweet-talk the friendly, freckle-faced detective into loaning me a pistol. He informed me, somewhat frostily, that departmental policy strictly for-bade the issuance of police ordnance to private citizens. I might’ve felt more secure having a weapon, but the truth is, I’ve never been able to hit shit with a pistol. In fact, Janet’s chances of survival just went up a peg.
A few minutes later, an unmarked van pulled to the curb and another priest stepped out. Actually, the new priest was named Detective Sergeant Jack Pilcher, and he was the officer assigned by the Boston PD to escort Chief Warrant Spinelli, who lacked both jurisdiction and authority in this city.
In fact, his opening words to Spinelli were, “Listen up, soldier boy, this is my fucking city. You’re along for the ride. Don’t even think of using your weapon or trying to apprehend this butthole. We clear on this point?”
Despite his own sociability issues, Spinelli apparently knew to leave well enough alone. He replied, “You’re the boss.”
Then Pilcher noticed me, my priest’s garb, my eager poise, and said, “Is this a fucking convention? Who the fuck are you?”
“Drummond.”
“You CID, too?”
I overlooked that insult and said, “I’m a JAG officer.”
“Great. What are you doing here?”
“I’m part of this show.”
“The hell you are.”
I glanced at Spinelli, who, I suddenly noticed, had stepped back a few paces, and with a perfectly innocuous expression was staring at something across the street. Had my partner somehow failed to inform the Boston PD that I was an inseparable member of the team here? If so, surely it was just a simple oversight, or a memory lapse.
I informed Sergeant Pilcher, “Actually, Miss Morrow specified that she wouldn’t take a step out her front door unless I’m watching her ass.” I added, more loudly, “Mr. Spinelli heard her demand. Right?”
Spinelli apparently had his mind on other matters and failed to reply. To help him focus on this issue I grabbed his arm and repeated, “Right, Spinelli?”
He replied, reluctantly, “Uh…” Well, I squeezed a bit harder, until he said, “Yeah. She said that.”
“You see?” I informed Pilcher. “Hey, I’m not even armed.”
Well, Detective Sergeant Pilcher still did not like this, and even frisked me to be sure I was both weaponless and harmless. He then spent two minutes briefing me on my role, which could be neatly summarized as stay the fuck out of his way.
We then waited five minutes, too keyed up to speak, staring off into the distance. Pilcher had a miniature mobile radio unit under his cassock, with a mike pinned to his chest and a tiny receiver in his ear. He used the wait to test his commo with his ops center. It either worked or he enjoyed talking into his own chest and nodding his head. But Spinelli’s cell phone finally rang and he answered, “Yeah… Uh-huh… okay, good…” Then, “All right, we’re moving.”
Spinelli was conversing with Janet, and he didn’t punch off, because from this moment on, he and Janet would stay connected through their cell phones. Jerry-rigged operations make me nervous, and I briefly wondered what would happen if somebody’s battery died, or we ended up passing through one of those dead-space zones. Anyway, we began moving, Spinelli and Pilcher keeping their right hands tucked inside their cassocks, no doubt gripping their pistols. Pilcher moved down one side of the street. Spinelli and I cruised down the other, until we all ducked into doorways within sight of Aunt Ethel’s house.
Pilcher must’ve informed the ops center we were in position, while Spinelli informed Janet that it was time to start the gig, because Aunt Martha’s front door flew open and Janet stepped out. She hugged Aunt Ethel, kissed her sisters, and they all somehow managed to swallow their anxieties and make it appear like a natural parting scene.
Then Janet walked in our direction, her cell phone held to her ear with one hand, the other stuffed in her coat pocket, hopefully gripping a knife. I actually caught my breath. The day was cold and breezy, her hair was blowing behind her, framing her face, and she looked extraordinarily beautiful. Was I in lust, or what?
She passed Pilcher without a sideways glance and kept going. I looked around for anybody following her. Aunt Ethel’s house was three blocks off Harvard Square, and Janet moved in that direction, then took a right and headed toward the Charles River that divides the obscenely wealthy College of Harvard from the obnoxiously wealthy Business School.
We trailed a block behind her until the streets suddenly became thick with Harvard students and pedestrians and window-shoppers. We lost sight of Janet for a few scary seconds, so we sped up and closed the gap to half a block.
This was the riskiest leg of her journey. The killer could blend in with the pedestrians and slip a knife into her ribs as they passed.
We had discussed this possibility at length but finally theorized that he wouldn’t strike here because the street was too crowded. There’d been no witnesses in any of the other killings, making it fair to assume he took great care to avoid exposure. But the problem with assumptions and theories is they’re only right until they’re wrong.
Janet walked briskly past a large red-brick building. The sign by the road declared this to be the John F.
