28

‘Homemade Molotov cocktail,’ Kennedy was saying. ‘A glass bottle hit the porch, turned the poor bastard into a human candle. Guy hurled himself off the back porch and started rolling around, what little good it did him.’

Mickey lifted his tool-box into the back of his truck.

They were standing in Margaret Van Buren’s driveway in Newton. It was Wednesday, a few minutes past one, Mickey wrapping up half a day of work.

‘Bodyguard wasn’t the target, though,’ he said, watching Mickey from behind a pair of tough-guy Oakley sunglasses. ‘Coat Nick Rossi had on? It was similar to Byrne’s, and the perpetrator couldn’t get a good look at who was standing on the back porch ’cause there weren’t any lights.’

Mickey dumped a box of tile samples on to the front seat.

‘So it’s dark out there, Rossi’s standing next to the walker – I mean, it could have been Byrne, should have been Byrne,’ Kennedy said. ‘If someone hadn’t unscrewed the bulbs from the pair of sensor lights out back, maybe Rossi wouldn’t be clinging to life inside a burns unit at Mass General.’

Mickey slammed the door shut. ‘Anything else?’

Kennedy sighed, his hands deep in his coat pockets. ‘You know what I’ve got to ask. Where were you last night?’

Mickey fished his keys out of his pocket. ‘What’s the deal with my daughter’s jacket?’

‘Still waiting for the lab results,’ Kennedy replied.

Mickey brushed past Kennedy and opened the door to his truck. He closed it as he climbed behind the wheel. He had started the truck when Kennedy appeared by the window, rapping a knuckle on the glass.

Mickey rolled down his window. ‘Problem?’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I’ve decided to take a page from Byrne’s rulebook. Talk to my lawyer.’

‘Mickey, all I need –’

‘Talk to my lawyer,’ Mickey said as he rolled up the window, wondering if Kennedy was going to bust out the cuffs and arrest him, drag him down to the station. The guy looked pissed enough to do it.

‘I’ll have a search warrant by the time you get home,’ Kennedy said.

‘There’s a key under the mat on the back porch. Knock yourself out, chief.’

WBZ news radio had the story in heavy rotation.

‘In what police are calling a deadly case of mistaken identity, Nicholas Rossi, one of two men hired to protect defrocked priest Richard Byrne, is listed in critical condition after suffering third-degree burns and inhalation injuries resulting from a fire-bombing attack during the early-morning hours. Richard Byrne, an alleged –’

Mickey shut off the radio, a barely suppressed scream rising in his throat. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles formed white half-moons.

Ever since he found out about what had happened to the bodyguard, Mickey’s thoughts had turned to one person: Sean. His old man was capable of doing such a thing, no question in his mind. But Sean’s specialty was making people disappear. Setting a guy on fire didn’t seem like his style; then again, when it came to his old man, what did Mickey actually know? Back in the day, Sean had shot people dead while they were sitting in their cars or standing next to a payphone or coming out of a store. He had kidnapped people and taken them to a beach in Southie and to parking lots and shot them in the head and left their bodies there. Maybe Sean had thrown that Molotov.

So why did it sit so wrong with him? Was it because it felt sloppy? Sean would have made sure it was Byrne standing on the back porch before he lit the match. And Sean, Mickey was pretty sure, would have broken into the house so he could have some special one-on-one time with Byrne, get him to talk about Claire.

His phone rang. He picked up his cell, saw that Darby was calling and put the phone back down. He’d been hoping it was Heather.

He had left her a message and sent a couple of texts, telling her about the discovery of Claire’s jacket, but Heather hadn’t texted or called back. He knew she was still in France and it was possible she hadn’t put an overseas calling option on her phone. But the news about Claire’s jacket being found – and Byrne being found lying twenty feet away from it – had made CNN, and USA Today had run the story on the bottom half of their front page.

The phone rang again. Darby. He ignored it, thinking of how hotels, at least in his experience, gave their guests complimentary copies of newspapers like USA Today. They had TVs and access to American cable channels like CNN and Fox.

Darby tried calling again.

And even if Heather wasn’t reading a paper or watching the news – things you didn’t necessarily do when you were travelling – she was still in touch with plenty of friends back home, and at least one of them had to have found out about the jacket and reached out to her. Everyone he knew checked their email at least once a day, and he was sure she had Facebook and Twitter. There was no way Heather could not know about Claire’s jacket, so why hadn’t she called and asked what was going on, looking for an update?

Mickey came to a stop at the light. Sweat had gathered beneath his clothes; a dry pasty coating lined his mouth. He was in downtown Newton, it was a bright and beautiful winter day, and everywhere he looked he saw families out and about doing errands or maybe grabbing a late breakfast or an early lunch, and for a reason he couldn’t explain he wanted to jump out of his truck and scream. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams and he didn’t know why and he wondered if he was having some sort of breakdown.

Then his gaze landed on a neon sign hanging above a pair of big, dark windows facing the street. The sign was for a beer garden and he found himself looking for a place to park when his phone rang – Darby again – and he took the call not because he wanted to talk to her but because he didn’t want to spend any time in his head thinking about hitting a bar and getting loaded.

Darby, being the blunt and brutal instrument she was, didn’t mince her words: ‘Have you lost your goddamn mind?’

‘You actually think I did that?’

‘Then what’s the shit about you getting lawyered up? Kennedy just told me he’s getting a search warrant.’

‘That asshole just came by my job site asking me where I was last night.’

‘Yeah. It’s called a police investigation. Given your past history with him, you’re what we call a prime suspect. You went after him once and nearly killed him, and you went after him the other day in the grocery store where, according to multiple witnesses, you threatened to burn him alive. You really need me to explain this shit to you?’

Mickey stepped on the gas, and when he drove by the bar he felt a sense of loss that shamed him. ‘I love how you people always expect me to drop whatever the fuck I’m doing and answer your questions, but when I’ve got one, you all turn blind, deaf and dumb.’

A long, frustrated sigh exploded on the other end of the line. ‘We’ve been over this,’ Darby said.

‘I asked Kennedy about the lab results on the jacket.’

Silence on the other end of the line.

‘I didn’t tell him about anything you told me,’ Mickey said. ‘I just wanted to see if he was going to come clean and –’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘Tell me the truth. As usual, he denied –’

‘You’ve got a serious hearing problem, Mickey, you know that?’

‘I’ve got rights here. You people keep forgetting that this is my daughter we’re talking about.’

‘You’re right, Mickey. We’re all a bunch of heartless pricks. That’s why Atkinson, before he died, kept you in the loop on everything. And how’d you repay him? By turning around and beating the living shit out of the main suspect because you felt the police weren’t doing their job.’

‘If you guys had done your job he’d be behind bars! At least I’d have that satisfaction! At least –’

‘Byrne didn’t hire bodyguards and install panic buttons all over his house because he’s scared of the police,’ Darby said, her voice exploding across the line. ‘You want to throw blame around, fine. Be my guest. But don’t play the perennial victim card with me. You’re the one who got drunk and went full Rambo on the guy. Not us; you. It’s time you start owning your shit.’

Blood slammed against his eardrums, Mickey feeling it pounding across his forehead and behind his eyes.

‘And Kennedy,’ Darby said, ‘being the heartless prick he is, went out to your job site so you wouldn’t have to make the trip down to the station and deal with the media shit storm. Guy’s trying to do you a favour, and, in typical Mickey Flynn fashion, you turn around and kick a two-by-four up his ass. You –’

‘I’d love to see what you’d do if the one person you loved more than anything was –’ His throat seized. He tried to clear it and felt his love for his daughter burning deep inside his chest, felt his hope rising and falling, rising and falling. He thought about her jacket on the cross and then he thought about how, if given the opportunity, he’d gladly cut off his arms, his limbs, anything, if that meant discovering what had happened to Claire. Because knowing whatever nightmare she had endured, alone, without him – knowing it, no matter how painful it would be, had to be better than this hell in which he found himself exiled right now.

He took a deep breath and tried to put his feelings into words.

‘Finding Claire’s jacket … it’s supposed to mean something. And I … I can’t walk around any more with this … this mountain on my chest. I can’t do it any more, okay?’

Mickey pulled the phone away and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, Claire still there in his chest, telling him no, he had to keep fighting.

‘Mickey?’ Darby said, her voice a bit softer but still clearly pissed. ‘Mickey, you there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just tell me where you were last night – and don’t bullshit me.’

And then, for a reason he couldn’t explain, he felt that need to fight for his daughter dry up.

‘Mickey?’

‘I swung by Big Jim’s house to drop off some stuff – some contracts.’

‘What time?’

‘Around seven,’ Mickey said. ‘I ended up staying the night.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I –’

‘You what? And don’t lie to me, Mickey. If you lie to me, I swear I’ll –’

‘I didn’t want to be alone,’ he said. ‘I was scared to be alone, okay?’

‘You have any idea who may have done this?’

I sure as hell do, Mickey thought. ‘Byrne has a list a mile long of people who want to see him burn alive,’ he said, hoping – praying – nothing in his tone gave him away. Heather had always told him he wasn’t a good liar, which explained why he never lasted long in poker. ‘I’m sure Kennedy has a list. Why are people constantly sticking it up my ass? Why don’t you –’

‘Where are you right now?’

‘On my way home.’

‘You know where Highland Auto Body is?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Meet me there. I’ll take you in and you can give your statement.’

‘I just told you where I was last night. Why do I have to go to the station?’

‘Kennedy just sent me a text,’ Darby said. ‘The bodyguard, Rossi, just died. We’re dealing with a homicide, and right now you’re the lead suspect.’