31
Darby had been to Camilla Rose once, a few years back. Coop had taken her there for her birthday. Actually, he’d insisted on it, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Despite being a jeans-and-T-shirt guy, Coop harboured a secret love for haute cuisine and fancied himself as something of a foodie; and, although he would never admit to it, she suspected he liked getting dressed up. Darby, a lover of diners and burger joints and dive bars, never understood the point of dropping wads of cash on big fancy white plates that contained hardly any food, and dressed up only for weddings and funerals, and then only because it was mandatory.
Still, she agreed to go because she saw how it excited him, and because she relished any time she could spend alone with him.
Thinking about him now – how they hadn’t spoken in over a year, how they had drifted apart once she found out that he was engaged to be married – formed a knot in her heart. She had never put much stock in marriage until she’d met him. She’d never bought into the whole soul-mate notion either, until she’d met him. Jackson Cooper had changed her, and now he was lost to her, in love with another woman, and even after all this time it still hurt. Darby walked into the restaurant, a knot twisting in her heart.
When she stopped near the entrance to the dining room, with its high ceiling and artful lighting and expensive décor, she wasn’t surprised that she recognized many of the faces seated at the white linen tables – the current Massachusetts senator dining with a former mayor who had tried to run for president; the owner of the New England Patriots; a popular radio personality; and two former players for the Red Sox. Camilla Rose, one of Boston’s oldest and most expensive restaurants, was also one of the city’s de facto hot spots for power brokers.
The maître d’, an older gentleman himself, and wearing a three-piece suit, sidled up next to her. He glanced at her jeans and black leather jacket and said, ‘May I help you?’
Darby kept scanning the room. ‘Just looking for a friend. Don’t worry, I’m not staying for dinner.’
‘Be that as it may, our guests are required to wear –’
‘I’m here on police business,’ Darby said, and turned to him. ‘That a problem?’
He stiffened, swallowed. ‘No, it’s not a problem.’
Darby smiled. ‘Didn’t think so.’
‘But I would ask that you show some discretion. Our patrons –’
‘Ah, there he is. This will only take a moment. Thanks for your concern, Jeeves. Have a wonderful evening.’
Darby moved through the dining room, heading to the far right-hand corner where Father Cullen sat at a table with three other men. She recognized the fat one holding court: Stewart Worthington, one of the city’s most prominent trial lawyers. She had met him several times over the years, in court and at various social functions. Worthington fancied himself as Boston’s version of Brad Pitt, only he was Jabba the Hutt with a bad Boston accent and big, capped teeth as white as a toilet bowl.
Worthington was an odd dining partner for a priest, Darby thought. Or maybe not. Worthington, she remembered, had gained a lot of press and notoriety when he agreed to lend his services and those of his legal firm to the Boston Catholic Archdiocese during the sexual-abuse scandal.
Worthington saw her approaching and smiled expansively, flashing his enormous choppers. Father Cullen saw her too – was staring right at her with the flat, expressionless gaze she had seen time and time again in prisoners, recidivists and criminals-in-training – an empty look that said you weren’t worth their time or attention.
‘Well, look who it is, Boston’s celebrity sleuth,’ Worthington said, his eyes bright with alcohol. His voice was loud too, which told her he’d already pounded back a few. The table was packed with crystal highball and wine glasses and plates holding fancy, artfully arranged appetizers. ‘Long time, no see. How’s it hanging, Doc? What brings you by?’
Her eyes never left Cullen. ‘I’d like a word with Father Cullen.’
‘Pull up a chair and join us,’ Worthington said.
‘Another time, Stewie.’
‘Why do you always have to call me that?’ To the table: ‘Doctor D here loves breaking my balls, it’s a thing with her.’ Then, back to Darby: ‘Come on, sit down, take a load off. We’re all friends here.’
‘I’d like to speak with Father Cullen privately.’
Cullen didn’t move, but Worthington reached to his side and clamped his meaty hand on the priest’s forearm, to prevent him from getting up. ‘Any questions you want to ask Father Keith, you can ask in front of me.’
‘Why? Are you representing him?’
‘I am.’
‘Oh? Since when?’
‘Since now. You’ve got that crazy look in your eyes, the one that says you’re about to go postal.’
‘I wasn’t aware of Father Cullen having been accused of a crime.’
‘He hasn’t.’
‘So why would he need legal representation?’
‘He doesn’t. I’m being proactive here, making sure my friend’s reputation doesn’t get dragged through the mud.’ Worthington smiled, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
Darby kept her attention on Cullen. ‘I’ve left you several messages. Care to explain why you’re avoiding me?’
Worthington said, ‘The better question is, how’d you know he was here?’
‘I’ve got friends everywhere, Stewie.’
‘Friends are important. They keep us in check, prevent us from saying or doing stupid things. And I’m being a friend to you when I say you’re overstepping your bounds. You’re not a cop any more, which means you’re no longer allowed certain privileges – like stalking and harassing people.’
Darby dug her tongue into her back molar. ‘Is that what you told him, Father Cullen? That I’ve been stalking you?’
The priest didn’t answer. Worthington said, ‘So, Doc, before this escalates, maybe you should do the right thing and leave nice and quietly.’
Darby felt someone sidle up beside her. She turned, saw the maître d’. He’d brought two men along with him, middle-aged guys with faces that had been knocked out too many times in the boxing ring.
Almost everyone in the restaurant had turned to stare. The waiters watched. Cullen sipped his scotch. Worthington drummed his fingers against the table, waiting to see what she was going to do.
Darby sighed. She turned around, took a step forward and then stopped and addressed the diners.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for the disruption. I just stopped by here to ask Father Keith Cullen, from St Stephen’s parish in Belham, why he recorded confessions with his parishioners and shared them with Richard Byrne, a defrocked priest who molested and murdered three girls – the Snow Girls. I’m sure you’ve been reading all about them lately.’
Darby turned back to the table. Father Cullen stared down at the table, slack-jawed, his face as white as the dinner plates.
‘Enjoy your evening,’ Darby said.
Worthington shook his head, grinning. ‘You never disappoint, McCormick.’
Darby had almost reached Belham and was still on the phone with Kennedy, running down what had happened at the restaurant, when she got an incoming call. She glanced at her screen.
The caller was Danny Halloran. Had he remembered something else about the night Claire disappeared?
‘I’ve got to take this,’ she told Kennedy.
‘Keep me in the loop.’
‘You said I could call you if I needed something.’ Danny’s words were slurred and dulled either by booze or drugs, or a combination of both. It sounded like he was barely conscious.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Vic said I should call you. Said I had to call you.’
‘Vic?’
‘Victor. The guy I was with that morning at Flour.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m with him right now, at his place.’
‘What’s going on?’ she asked again.
He didn’t answer.
‘Danny?’
‘I need to …’ He took a sharp intake of air. Swallowed audibly. ‘I haven’t been entirely … truthful with you about what happened that night on the Hill. And some of the stuff that happened after. With Father Byrne.’
‘What happened with Father Byrne?’
‘Vic says I need to come clean. He says it’ll be the only way I’ll get clean, get off this shit.’
‘He’s right. Tell me what’s –’
‘I can’t live like this any more. I’ve got to put everything out on the table. Everything. You know, make amends, but I don’t know where to start.’
‘Start with me. Let me help you.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. Start at the beginning, okay? Start with that night on the Hill.’
‘I don’t want to do this over the phone. That’s the cowardly way out. Vic says I’ve got to do this face to face.’
‘Okay. Where do you want to meet?’
‘Can you come to Vic’s place? I’m not in any condition to drive, as you can probably tell already.’
‘Give me the address.’
He did, and told her she could park at the back of the building, in Space Number 6. Victor had his own parking spot – a rarity in Boston.
‘How far away are you?’ he asked.
‘Probably an hour. Let’s stay on the phone and –’
‘No. No, in person. And alone. Just you, me and Vic, okay? No other cops, or I’m not going to talk.’
‘Okay, Danny. Just relax, I’m on my way.’
‘No cops,’ he said again. ‘I got your word on that?’
‘You have my word. We’ll take this one step at a time.’
‘I might need, like, a lawyer.’
‘Let’s talk first. Remember, one step at a time.’
No matter what time of day, Boston traffic was always a nightmare. The maze of narrow streets was crowded with too many pedestrians. There were too many lights and too many cars and always too many roadworks. By the time she reached the South End and had parked behind Victor’s brownstone, in Rutland Square, almost two hours had passed.
Victor, Danny had told her, lived in the first-floor unit. Darby was walking through the lot, heading for the alley between the two buildings, when her phone rang again. The caller ID said UNKNOWN. She took it, turning her back to the wind so she could hear.
‘McCormick.’
‘I had nothing to do with those tapes,’ Cullen said, trembling with rage. ‘I didn’t even know they existed until a few days ago.’
She ducked into the alley. The wind stopped howling and she could see her breath steaming in the air in front of her. ‘How many does Byrne have?’
‘I will not let you or anyone else ruin my legacy because of that … that abomination. Watch where you step, Doctor, or we will destroy you.’
Cullen hung up. She stared at the phone for a moment, wondering what her next play should be and then shut down her thinking. She would deal with him later. First, Danny. Darby slid her phone back into her pocket, heard movement behind her. She turned and caught a glimpse of a man wearing a black ski mask, a black down jacket and dark jeans. He swung from his hip with the speed, agility and skill of a trained boxer, throwing his weight into the punch.