THE EVOLVING SNOW sculpture known as Freezing Man faces City Hall across the plaza. Today he’s wearing a tricorner plywood hat, and one arm is outstretched to give the mayor the finger. Along the edge of the plaza, food trucks dispense free meals to the growing crowd living in Freedom City. Broadcast trucks line Cambridge Street, capturing every moment of Rage Weekend, a galvanizing political protest, urban party, winter music festival—and the third and final act of the wanderers.
Harkness, Esther, and Patrick came up with Rage Weekend during a coffee-fueled brainstorming session pulled together to try to save their department—and get rid of O’Mara by any means necessary. Rage and radical action seemed like the only approach now that their days as detectives are numbered. So they borrowed a concept from the Weathermen. And they held the demonstration on a weekend, making it even more convenient for citizens to join the protests, swelling Freedom City to fill all of Government Center.
“Did you try the bison chili?” Patrick points to one of the food trucks. “Got to say, it’s awesome.”
“How can you eat at a time like this?” Esther says.
“How can you not? Heard of stress eating?”
“Just because there’s a name for something doesn’t mean you have to do it.” Esther zips up her BPD winter jacket with its fleece collar. Lattimore put Narco-Intel on crowd control, but what they’re really doing is waiting—for an impending snowstorm and for news from the city council meeting at the Old North Church. All the detectives on the plaza this afternoon—Fredette, Gray, DeFrancesco, Hendricks, Poole, Tims—are wondering whether they’ll have jobs on Monday morning. And looking to Harkness to make something happen. Anything.
They’re worried about more than their jobs. They’re monitoring drugs no one else in the BPD has even heard of—Retna, Swerve, Brainwash, Front Man, White Alice. They’ve been listening in on baggage handlers at the airport laundering drug money, tracking down an illusive Mattapan meth dealer, and gathering intel on an online drug mart run out of a Somerville triple-decker. The thought of these investigations and more suddenly going dark on Monday makes Harkness’s stomach drop.
Lattimore charges out of the front doors of City Hall, face flushed red, down-jacketed Stooges struggling to keep up with him. “Any word from Reed?”
Harkness looks at his watch. “The meeting just started.”
“So does he have the votes or not?”
“Can’t be sure,” Harkness says. “We’ve pulled in every favor and yanked every string. We’ve done things I can’t even tell you about, sir. In the end, all fourteen of them have to have the guts to vote for a bill of address to throw the mayor out. But they’re the city council.”
“Like a deck of wildcards.”
“Exactly.”
“Get this—the mayor’s about to declare a citywide public emergency,” Lattimore tells them. “Says there might be more than a foot of snow coming, and he has to keep the citizens safe.”
“Like he cares,” Esther says.
Patrick shakes his head slowly. “Just another excuse to force people to go home and shelter in place.” The mayor’s invoked his version of martial law twice already—once during Hurricane X, and once during the winter’s unrelenting snowstorms.
“Enough with Bossy McBoss Boss,” Esther says. “Everyone’s getting tired of being pushed around.”
Lattimore looks over at the People’s Pulpit, the low wooden platform that faces Freedom City. From MIT professors to singer-songwriters, everyone stands there to address the crowd. “He just ordered me to get up there and tell the crowd to disperse,” he says. “I still have to answer to him, at least until Monday morning, when none of us will be around anymore.”
Patrick sizes up the crowd. “Probably about ten thousand people here, sir. They’re not just going to leave and take the T home, even if you ask them nice-like. What do we do with the folks who stick around?”
“We’re supposed to move in and enforce the law. Billy clubs out, Tasers ready to go, busting heads and taking names.” Lattimore holds up a sheet of paper. “His lawyers put together a list of violations.”
The idea of a street battle against the citizens of Freedom City quiets everyone.
“I want to make one thing clear, people,” Lattimore says. “I am not going to be the Bull Connor of Freedom City.”
Harkness’s phone brips. “It’s Reed.” He reads the slap-typed message, misspelled and in all caps. “Malnati didn’t show up for the vote. They can’t do anything until he gets there—if he does.”
“Shit,” Lattimore says. “Thought you had him in your pocket.”
“So did I.” Harkness points at Patrick and Esther. “Follow me.” He turns and starts sprinting to where the Narco-Intel vehicles are parked on Tremont. Patrick and Esther trail after him.
“What am I supposed to do?” Lattimore shouts.
“Stall,” Harkness shouts. “Don’t let anyone leave.”
As they run across the enormous snowy plaza, they hear Lattimore’s voice booming from the People’s Pulpit megaphone. “Attention, please.” The megaphone gives out a wail of feedback. “I’m Boston Police Commissioner James Lattimore.”
The crowd gathered below turns to listen. The bonfire at the center of the plaza crackles and sends sparks into the dove-gray sky.
“Mayor Michael O’Mara has asked me to tell you that the City Hall Plaza is now closed to visitors due to a major snowstorm approaching the city. He’s asked me to shut down this illegally occupied city property, which is in violation of the fire code and other city ordinances.”
Major boos from across the plaza—low at first, then louder as the crowd senses a threat.
Lattimore just stares out into the crowd as the noise rises to a roar. Then he puts the megaphone back to his lips and steps forward. “But I’m not going to do that,” he shouts.
The crowd goes insane—shouting, whistling, throwing snow in the air.
“You have every right to be here. I will personally ensure that you are safe, warm, and protected. We’ll ride this storm out together, right here.”
The cheering rises even more.
As they climb in the brown Chevy, Harkness, Esther, and Patrick take one last look at Lattimore, arms stretched up to the sky, taking in the applause, shouts, adoration.
After all, how many chances does a police commissioner have to be loved by so many people?
They drive down Hanover Street toward Nicco Malnati’s apartment, the Chevy sliding down the snow-covered road. Ahead, the street’s clogged by a crowd parading a dollar-covered statue of a saint.
Harkness slows the Chevy.
“Cool.” Esther leans forward in the passenger seat to get a closer look, maybe a photo for her blog.
“A saint day? Right before a nor’easter?” Patrick’s in the back seat, laptop balanced on his knees. “Cut down this alley and we can avoid Saint Annoying As Fuck.”
Harkness swerves down the alley and guns it, sending trashcans flying.
“Left,” Patrick shouts after a few blocks.
Harkness cuts the wheel and skids back onto the street.
“Should be coming up on the right in about a block.”
As Harkness drives closer, he sees four black-vested security guards standing at the entrance of Malnati’s apartment building.
“Shit, Eddy.”
“Get down, both of you.” Esther and Patrick duck down. Harkness reaches over and pulls on the green knit cap that makes him look like a guy scalping Celts tickets on Canal Street.
They drive by the building and the guards don’t even look at them.
“What’re we going to do?” Patrick pulls himself back up.
“Check for someplace else Malnati might be,” Harkness says.
“He’s back in his apartment, Harky.”
Harkness shakes his head. “He’s not there.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do,” Harkness says. “The guards out front look like a setup. They just wanted us to waste time trying to get in that building when Malnati’s somewhere else.”
Patrick pounds away. “Magazine profile mentions a girlfriend, Alicia DeVarco. I got her living over on Parmenter Street.”
“What’s the cross street?”
“Salem.”
“Got it.”
Patrick looks up from his laptop. “Malnati’s got a pile of parking tickets on that block, including one from this morning.”
“Hold on.” Harkness cuts down another alley and races across the North End’s narrow ice-clogged streets, sending Patrick and Esther ducking again. They’re one patch of black ice away from the ER.
A gritty collage of takeout menus covers the black-and-white-tiled floor of the apartment building on Parmenter Street. It looks more like a home for students and restaurant line cooks, but DeVarco’s name is listed on one of the mailboxes inside the front door. Harkness buzzes the apartment but no one answers.
“You sure this is it?” Esther asks Patrick. “Looks too grubby for a politician’s girlfriend.”
“Really?” Patrick’s eyebrows drift up. “Would you want to date a city councilor?”
“No,” Esther says. “Hey, maybe he’s not even here. We should try his office.”
“No politician around here works the weekends,” Patrick says.
“He’s here.” Harkness points out at the street. There’s a black Audi parked illegally. Vanity plate says Dist1POL.
“That’s the one that’s been getting all the tickets,” Patrick says.
Esther looks concerned. “Are we really going to kick down the door or something?”
“We’ll just have to huff and puff.” Patrick holds up a rectangular metal device the size of a cell phone. “And barge our way in.” He presses a glowing green button, then twists a knob slowly until the door buzzes. Harkness pushes it open.
“You guys get all the cool toys,” Esther says.
Patrick slips the device back in his pocket and they climb the narrow stairs up to the third floor.
Harkness knocks on the door. “Mr. Malnati,” he says politely. “Detective Edward Harkness, Boston Police Department. We need to speak with you.” Harkness glances at his watch. The other councilors have been waiting for almost an hour now, if they’re even still there.
Nothing happens. They back away and huddle in the hallway.
“I know he’s in there,” Harkness says softly.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” Harkness gives Patrick a look that dispels any doubts. “You two walk the stairs. Make plenty of noise. Go out through both the doors and wait for me on the sidewalk.”
Harkness steps quietly back to Malnati’s girlfriend’s door. There’s no peephole or security camera. He presses against the wall next to the hinge side of the door.
Patrick and Esther clomp down the stairs and slam through the entryway doors. Harkness waits for a minute, then another. After what seems like an hour, he hears a click, and the door opens a sliver, then wider, as someone takes a look around. The door’s about to close again when Harkness swivels and forces the door open.
A man in a dark blue suit and white shirt stares at Harkness like he’s a Visigoth come to plunder the apartment. He’s terrified, his thin lips coming together then moving apart, but he’s not saying anything. Inside, the dim living room is all pink marble and watery green walls. It looks like an apartment where a salmon might live.
“Nicco Malnati?” Harkness says.
“How the fuck did you find me?”
Harkness steps inside. “You’re supposed to be at a meeting.”
“Yeah, Joey Ink explained that to me,” he says, walking deeper into the apartment. “But I’m just not feeling that well today, Detective. You know how that goes. You guys call it blue flu when you skip out on work, right?”
“No one calls it that,” Harkness says. “That’s from some eighties cop show or something. What we call it is being a dirtbag. How much is O’Mara paying you to skip the vote?”
Malnati picks up a pistachio from a bowl on the dining-room table, cracks it open and eats it, drops the shells in his suit-coat pocket. “Promised me fifty grand.”
“I’ll double it,” Harkness says without a millisecond of thought.
“Oh yeah? Where’s a cop going to get that kind of money?”
“I have generous friends.”
“I bet you do. But what’ll you give me as collateral?”
Harkness reaches over, unclips his badge, and tosses it on the dining-room table with a dead metallic click.
“Shit, man,” Malnati says. “You must want this vote bad.”
“Bad doesn’t begin to describe it,” Harkness says.
Malnati watches Harkness’s glimmering badge spinning on the table. “You really going to come up with a hundred thousand bucks? In cash, mind you?”
Harkness fixes him with his blue eyes. “Yes. And I’ll make sure you never get another parking ticket ever again.”
“What!” Malnati’s mouth opens wide and his eyes bug out. “Are you shitting me?”
“No.”
“Deal.” He tosses Harkness’s badge back to him. Harkness catches it and clips it back on. “You’ll rue the day you made this deal, friend. Because I’m like the fucking Koch brothers of parking tickets.”
Harkness smiles, wonders if Malnati’s next phone call will be to O’Mara’s team, trying to cut a better deal.
“You know, Joey told me you were crazy like a fox,” Malnati says. “But I already had an inkling.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I knew your father,” Malnati says.
“Of course you did.”
When they get to the Old North Church, Reed’s pacing on the snow-lined sidewalk next to Salem Street.
Harkness rolls down the window as Patrick and Esther escort Nicco Malnati to the side door of the church. “Special delivery,” he says. “One very influential, expensive politician.”
“How’d you get him?”
“How do you think? Money.”
“How much?”
“More than I have. We’ll have a bake sale, Sam. After you get the votes.”
Reed shakes his head slowly. “Ever see Twelve Angry Men?”
“Sure. All about one righteous man making a stand.”
“Well, I’ve got fourteen angry city councilors stalking around a basement getting jacked up on church coffee and doughnuts. And not a Henry Fonda among them. Wish me luck.”
“I’m not going to do that,” Harkness says. Snow falls steadily between them. “This vote isn’t about luck.”