Chapter Two

Dale Miller looked back at his partners sitting on opposite benches in the van, with the unconscious woman lying on the floor between them. Miller was a short, stocky man, with a broad, unhandsome face and a hairline that was receding at thirty. He was also a lieutenant in the Mazzimah, an organization purported to deal in quasi-legitimate businesses, but in fact, supported the needs of the Qedesh, the mysterious woman for whom all the Mazzimah businesses operated. Miller had never met the Qedesh, had never even seen her. Miller was just one step above the foot soldiers that carried out the day-to-day operations of the Mazzimah. He had recently been promoted when the lieutenant who managed the chain of pawnshops owned by the Qedesh was shot and killed during a holdup. As Miller had been the lieutenant’s right hand man, the captain of the Mazzimah had promoted Miller.

Miller had been surprised to learn that all of the Qedesh’s lieutenants participated, on a rotating basis, in the clandestine activity in which he now engaged. As low man on the totem pole, Miller was just the driver. The captain, a man whose real name was never used, had told Miller about this activity and what was involved. Miller had agreed, although he had never participated in anything more serious than holdups prior to joining the Mazzimah. Kidnapping was another game completely. Quit whining, asshole. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Pop always said. It’s no skin off my butt that the Qedesh wants this broad.

Miller got onto the 93 and headed toward the North End. He didn’t know where they were taking the woman, so he followed the directions provided by his accomplices, Turner and Franklin. Miller was still getting to know his fellow lieutenants, so he made sure his face was expressionless as they carried out this act. “Where we goin’ exactly?” he asked.

“Near Copp’s Hill,” replied Franklin.

Miller did as instructed, and as he drove the van just below the speed limit along the one-way street, he saw an opening appear in one of the old residential/retail buildings. It didn’t look like a garage from the outside—it looked more like a set of extra wide double doors with reflective windows. Okay, this is different.

Miller steered the van into a narrow, shallow garage. At the rear was enough room to pull the van to the left and park it, allowing a driver to turn around and exit the garage driving forward instead of backing up. Without directions, Miller pulled the van into the parking spot.

The three men exited the van. “You and Turner grab the woman; I’ll open the door,” said Franklin.

Turner pulled on the woman’s feet, so Miller grabbed the woman under the arms and hoisted her. They walked to the back wall, about five feet away. Miller couldn’t see a door, but he did see a keypad. Don’t look like there’s any way out of here except the garage door.

As Franklin finished entering a set of numbers on the keypad, the outline of a door appeared in the brick wall, and a reinforced steel door silently swung open. Hunh. Pretty cool.

Franklin gestured, and Turner and Miller carried the woman through the door into a dim tunnel. “Hey, this is one of those old smuggler’s tunnels, ain’t it?” Miller asked.

“Got it in one, sport,” replied Franklin.

Miller could see that the tunnel was old, but someone had put some serious money into modernizing it. They carried the woman through the doorway and entered a larger room. There were twenty seats arranged around the back of the room, theater-style. At the bottom of the room, the seats gave way to conference tables in the middle and computer equipment along the sides. Damn. Someone’s put one helluva lot of money into this old smuggler’s tunnel. The room was well-lit, comfortable, and cool.

“Place her here before me,” rang out a clear, contralto voice.

Turner moved so Miller could face forward as they carried the woman. At the bottom was a raised platform. Miller saw a dark haired, dark skinned woman with huge brown eyes seated upon a comfortable, high-backed chair in the center of the platform. She was quite beautiful and young, thirty at the most. She seemed of average height and wore a dark red and brown tunic, girdled by a gold belt. Holy crap. This must be the Qedesh.

Flanking the Qedesh were three men, two to the left, one to the right. Miller recognized the one to the right—it was his Captain, a tall, middle-aged, red-haired man dressed in a business suit. The other two men were much shorter—one was thin and dark skinned like the Qedesh in a dark red and brown tunic, but sporting a silver belt. The other man was a pale, rotund man with a sparse fringe of short white hair ringing his head. Pale blue eyes stared out from the recessed folds of the man’s face. Despite his girth, he wore an immaculate, tailored white suit, shirt and tie, and a white fedora with a dark brown band.

Miller and Turner laid the unconscious woman before the feet of the Qedesh. Then, as he noticed that Turner and Franklin were kneeling, Miller at once dropped to one knee. “Turner and Franklin I know well,” she said with a slight Mediterranean accent, “but I do not know this third man. You may rise,” she told the kneeling men with a dismissive wave of a fine boned hand.

“He is one of my men, Qedesh,” offered the Captain. “Dale Miller is his name. He replaced Art Montgomery as the lieutenant for the Mazzimah pawn shops.”

“Ah, I remember now,” said the woman. “Mister Montgomery met with an unfortunate accident, did he not?”

“Indeed. Occupational hazard.”

“Pity.” The Qedesh turned the full power of her penetrating gaze on Miller. He tried to return her gaze, looking at her shoulder length, jet black hair, her full mouth, her hazel eyes, but he could not bear up under that gaze and dropped his eyes after a couple of seconds. “You appear to be strong, Mister Miller.”

He returned his gaze to hers. “I believe I am, Qedesh.”

She laughed, a harsh, clipped sound that seemed incongruous coming from such a beautiful woman. “We shall soon see, Mister Miller. We shall soon see. Your captain has placed a great deal of trust in you by allowing you to participate in this ritual. Do not disappoint him,” she said, then adding after a lengthy pause, “or me. We do not suffer disappointments lightly.”

As the Qedesh stepped down before the unconscious woman, Miller noticed they had placed her at the center of a series of concentric circles made of dark red and black tiles. The black circles contained patterns—the outermost circle showed an ornate brown snake, stretching around the outer edge of the circle until its head met its tail. The next black circle contained dark red bees chasing each other around the arc. The third circle contained silver scorpions, also marching from end to end. Finally, the center’s black bull’s-eye contained a gorgeous, golden rampant lion. The intervening dark red tiles bore no designs.

The Qedesh raised her hands, and in a slow, melodic voice chanted in a language Miller did not recognize, her voice rising with each phrase. Miller thought the room darkened and the temperature rose with each phrase, until by the end, the room was pitch black and searing. The Qedesh alone could be seen, a halo of golden light about her head and upraised hands.

When the Qedesh had finished her chanting, she brought her hands together and knelt down beside the unconscious woman, the glow following her as she went. The Qedesh leaned forward, and Miller could see a metal ring around the ring finger on her left hand. He caught just a brief glimpse, but he thought the ring contained the same animal symbols as the circles upon the floor. The Qedesh turned the woman’s head to one side in an almost tender manner, reached out, and pressed the ring to the woman’s neck, crying out one final command.

The unconscious woman bucked beneath the Qedesh’s grip, but could not break free and sank back to the floor. The woman’s eyes snapped open, but Miller only saw pain and emptiness in them. The Qedesh repeated her last command. A pale, sparkling mist rose from the woman’s nose and mouth, and Miller thought he could hear a moan of deep anguish. At the Qedesh’s third cry, the mist exited the woman’s body, which shrunk in upon itself. The Qedesh inhaled the mist and as she did, Miller could swear that her skin became more lustrous, her gaze clearer and younger, and that if possible, she exuded even more power and radiance.

Dale Miller looked again at the woman he had helped kidnap, and despite the return of light and coolness to the room, he felt his sight dim and flushed as if he had a fever. The woman’s body had shrunk into a desiccated husk, worse than any ancient mummy he had seen on TV. A burn mark upon her neck showed an imprint of the Qedesh’s ring.

When the Qedesh rose to her feet, she commanded Miller’s gaze with her eyes. Miller felt weak in his knees and sick to his stomach. The Qedesh stared at him and after several awful seconds, she smiled. It was not a humorous smile. “Very good, Mister Miller,” she purred. “Others have fainted at this sight. You did not. You may indeed be as strong as you believe.”

Miller could not drop his gaze, but mumbled at last, “Thank you, Qedesh.”

The Qedesh returned to her chair. “You men may go now. Return this shell to the place from whence you took the living woman. Ensure that no one sees you.”

The return trip to the cemetery was a blur to Miller. He drove, but did not see beyond the memory of the ritual he had witnessed. After they had placed the woman’s corpse in the trees where they had taken her, they returned to one of the pawn shops where they had assembled earlier this morning.

“You okay, Miller?” asked Franklin, looking at him appraisingly.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Whatever you say, Miller. Whatever you say-we’ve been through that many times, and it still scares the shit out of me.”

Miller shook his head. “I don’t know what I think.”

As Dale Miller returned to his two-room apartment near the Back Bay Fens, he broke open a bottle of whiskey, sat on his sofa bed and, in a quick and thoughtful manner, got as drunk as possible.

* * * *

Jamie pulled up outside Cal Cushing’s luxury townhouse at Battery Wharf and waited, looking around in wonder as he did every time he came to Cal’s place. You couldn’t tell just by looking at him, but Cal came from big money. His family was an old, well-established, New England family, one of the “Boston Brahmins.” Cal had bought a three-bedroom condo at the ultra-exclusive Battery Wharf, which he admitted to Jamie that it cost him about $2 million. It gave him a nearby private dock for his luxury catamaran, a Perry PassageMaker. Cal slept there almost as often as his condo. While Cal was a full-time cop, he didn’t need the money from his salary. Cal had received full control over his trust fund at age 25 and then parlayed that into a large sum with shrewd investments. Despite that, Jamie never envied his partner. Cal’s material trappings were nice, but he was estranged from his family over his decision to attend the police academy rather than law school, and he was divorced from his wife, an “arranged” marriage that Cal had only mentioned once or twice. Cal’s got a lot of “stuff,” but no one to share it with.

Jamie saw his partner strolling out of his condo. At five feet, seven inches and weighing around 190 pounds, Cal Cushing just managed to meet minimum police standards. Cal worked out on an irregular basis and was more sturdy than stout. As usual, Cal was wearing a tailored Devore suit, expensive Italian shoes, and a John Player Gold Leaf cigarette dangling from his mouth. As he opened the car door and got in, Jamie said, “Good morning, Mister GQ.”

Cal narrowed his brown eyes at Jamie and spoke in his usual slow and measured manner, with a pronounced Boston accent. “Jealousy does not become you, Griffin.”

Jamie chuckled and pulled away from the curb. “So did you take your latest lady friend out on the boat out last night?”

Cal shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. She wanted to hit the clubs, so we started out at Enormous Room, and then wound up spending most of the night at Gypsy Bar.”

“You lead a rough life, Cushing.”

Cal smiled. “Well, as the saying goes, it’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.”

Jamie chuckled. “Hey, after we pick up those reports at the lab, we have to swing by the Cathedral.”

“Jamie, you know I’m not Catholic. Why would I attend services with you?”

“They’re called masses, as you well know, and we aren’t going to one. Eileen asked me to pick up some brochures and take them to Father O’Connor on our way back to the district.”

“As you well know, Saint Brendan’s is not on our way back to the station. Was this a request from your beautiful wife or an order?”

“Is there a difference?” asked Jamie. “Hey, if you want to call Eileen and tell her we can’t be bothered with this—”

“No, no. That’s quite alright. I’m not about to cross a woman as fierce as Eileen.”

“Wiser words were never spoken, boyo.”

Jamie and Cal wasted no time making their pickups at the crime lab and the Cathedral. Navigating Boston’s one-way streets was always a joy for Jamie. He’d lived and worked in Boston all his life, but downtown Boston was never a picnic given its notoriously impatient drivers.

It took them an hour and a half to run their “errands” then get to Saint Brendan’s, which was near Jamie’s house at the far south end of Dorchester. While no longer an incorporated municipality, the Dorchester neighborhood lay just south of Boston proper and still maintained a strong sense of community. Jamie could have risen through the ranks faster if he’d been willing to take assignments at other districts, but Jamie had been born and raised in Dorchester. Other than his stint at Notre Dame, he’d lived in Dorchester all his life.

“How’s Brigid doing at Notre Dame?” asked Cal as they made their way south.

“She’s settling into her new classes.”

“She still on the water polo team?

“Yeah. It’s a club sport, but it gets her in the pool, which gives her an outlet for her energy.”

“How about that boyfriend?”

“Carl? Still together, I think. Eileen would know far more about that than me. At this point, they both assure me it’s nothing serious.”

“Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. That is always a bad sign. I think you’re in denial.”

Jamie flipped his partner the “Vicky”: an insulting version of the V sign gesture—with the palm inwards, similar to “the finger.” “Yeah, I got your denial right here, laddie.”

They arrived at Saint Brendan’s, and Cal offered to stay with the car. “After all, these Catholic enclaves are dangerous,” he said with a smirk.

Jamie did not reply; he grabbed Eileen’s brochures and got out of the car. As he turned, Jamie stumbled and almost fell, which was unusual, as he had exceptional balance. Jamie heard Cal power down the window and call out, “Walk much, Jamie?” Jamie gave another “Vicky” to his partner and went into the parish office.

Jan, the parish administrative coordinator, was sitting at her desk and smiled when Jamie came in. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit, Detective Griffin?” Jan had known Jamie for almost thirty years, and they were friends.

Jamie held up the box of brochures. “I’m just a lowly errand boy today, Jan. Is himself in his office?”

“Yes. Go right in.”

Jamie walked into the pastor’s office. Father Anthony O’Connor was a large, beefy Irishman about Jamie’s age. He’d been the pastor at Saint Brendan’s for five years, and the parish was hoping the Bishop didn’t get any ideas about moving him around any time soon. “Jamie,” said O’Connor, rising to come around and shake Jamie’s hand. “A pleasure to see you. What brings you here during a work day?”

Jamie hefted the box and handed it to Father O’Connor. “Eileen browbeat me into picking these up for you down at the Cathedral this morning.”

“Lovely woman. I’ll make sure to thank her when I see her Sunday.”

They parted with warm words, and Jamie made his way back to the car.

When Jamie got back to the car, Cal had slid to the driver’s seat. “My driving that bad?” joked Jamie as he got in the passenger side. “Usually you don’t condescend to drive anything other than your BMW.”

“Just get in.” Cal looked at him in an appraising way as he pulled out of the church parking lot. “You feeling okay, partner?”

“Not really. Why?”

“All kidding aside, you seem unsteady on your feet and out of sorts.”

Jamie smiled. “The great detective. I can’t hide anything from my partner. Yeah, I’m feeling a little punk. Headache, my body aches, my stomach is upset, and as you noticed, I’m a little unsteady. Probably just the start of the flu.”

Cal made a warding gesture. “Don’t pass it along, buddy. That’s the last thing I need.”

They arrived at their district offices on Gibson Street a few minutes later. They grabbed a cup of coffee and headed for their desks.

“I suppose we’d better finish the paperwork on ‘Einstein’?” Jamie made a face.

“Indeed. It’s onerous, but the sooner started, the sooner done.”

“Cal, is your whole family as nose-to-the-grindstone as you?”

Cal gave Jamie his best Boston Brahmin look down his nose. “You know me, Griffin: I work hard and I play hard.”

Jamie shook his head and settled down to his portion of the paperwork on their latest bust. Cal had been driving their unmarked car down one of Dorchester’s main thoroughfares when Jamie noticed a young man with dark clothes and a black mask hanging around his neck. He was just standing outside a grocery store. Jamie had Cal go down a block and turn back. When they reached the store again, the young man had the mask pulled up over his face and had a gun in his right hand. Cal drove down a block, whipped a U-turn, and parked near the store.

After notifying dispatch of their location, they approached the store and saw the young man at the checkout counter with the gun pointed at the clerk. Cal had opened the door, and Jamie had darted through it, both men drawing their guns. They yelled, “Boston Police. Get down on the floor.” The suspect turned toward them and slipped the gun in his right front pocket before lying down on the floor as instructed. With Cal still covering him, Jamie handcuffed the suspect and took the gun, a loaded semi-automatic, from his right front pocket.

They Mirandized him on the way back to the station. Later, in the interview room, the suspect sat on the floor, and Jamie asked him if he was in the store to rob it. The suspect stated, “No.” Then Cal asked him if he entered the store to shoot the black males inside the store. The suspect looked at Cal and nodded his head up and down indicating a yes response. “Not a very bright one, is he?” Cal had asked as he and Jamie were leaving last night, having started their paperwork for the case.

With a deep sigh, Jamie began wading through the remaining paperwork. His mind drifted back to when he had entered the store. When they’d yelled at the suspect to get down, Jamie recalled his uncle’s death. Jamie‘s father and Uncle Jimmy, both cops, and 14 year old Jamie had walked into a convenience store one evening on their way home from a Red Sox game and interrupted a robbery. Jimmy Griffin was first through the door, and he was shot and killed before he could even draw his weapon. Frank Griffin bumped Jamie aside while drawing and killed the lone robber, but nothing that could be done for his uncle. Jamie had watched his Uncle Jimmy die. This event had led Jamie to a career in law enforcement, despite the objections of his mother.

Not for the first time, Jamie chided himself. It wasn’t your fault boyo. Jamie had pestered his dad and uncle to stop at the convenience store on the way home for a snack. It was just a random act of stupidity and violence.

Jamie turned his focus back to his paperwork, and they were almost finished when their commander, Robert Sullivan, called to them. “Griffin, Cushing—in my office, please.”

As they entered his office, Cal said, “We were just finishing the paperwork, honest, Sully.”

Sully flashed his trademark wicked grin. “Ah. I’d forgotten that you still owe me paperwork from last night, Cushing. Thanks for reminding me. I called you in here because your names are next in the rotation, and we just got a report of a 10-84 at Cedar Grove Cemetery.”

“Cedar Grove? Hell, that’s only a few blocks from my house. Who’s on the scene?”

“Frank Thompson, first responding—Suzie Boyle, patrol supervisor.”

Jamie nodded. “Good folks. They’ve got the scene secured?”

“Just waiting for me to send out detectives, and you two are it. Get moving. You’re now the investigators in charge. The rest of the paperwork for your other case can wait until you get back since I know you will finish it today before leaving.”

“Absolutely, Cap,” replied Jamie. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving it another day.”

“Yeah, yeah. Call me once you’ve looked over the scene, and let me know if I need to call the homicide unit.”

“Will do, Sully,” replied Cal.

Grabbing their coats and gear, they walked to their car. “I feel like a damn yo-yo,” Cal muttered. “Down to Saint Brendan’s, back to the district, and then back down to Cedar Grove.”

“Poor guy,” replied Jamie. “It’s a rough life you have.”

“Fuck you, Griffin.”

“And the horse you rode in on, Cushing.”

They arrived at Cedar Grove Cemetery minutes later. As they drove along the north edge of the cemetery, they could see crime scene tape around trees at the north edge of the cemetery. Exiting the car, Jamie caught sight of Thompson and Boyle, standing outside the bright, yellow tape. Jamie felt dizzy again, but managed to catch himself before stumbling. Jaysus, I really don’t need to come down with the feckin’ flu.

“Don’t you two have anything better to do than jerk us away from very important paperwork?” Cal called out. Jamie caught up to Cal without anyone noticing his unsteadiness.

Suzie Boyle flipped Cal off and replied, “Yeah, but instead I’ve gotta babysit bozos like you.”

“Now, now, children,” chided Jamie. “Play nice or Daddy will have to separate you.” Cal and Suzie both flipped off Jamie. “I am truly offended by such vulgarity,” said Jamie, giving them both the “Vicky.” “Run it down for us, folks.”

Frank Thompson, as the first responding officer, spoke. “Dispatch notified me of a report of a 10-84 here in the cemetery. The witness, Scott Hammond, was still here when I arrived.” Thompson pointed to a heavyset man in a jogging suit standing to one side. “I found the body, confirmed death, immediately set up the police line, and had dispatch call Suzie. I then got Hammond’s info and told him to stay until you guys got here. We had a few looky-loos, but nothing major. Here’s the log.” Thompson handed Jamie the chronological log he was required to set up, noting names, titles, and ID numbers of all authorized personnel entering the scene.

“Very thorough,” Jamie commented.

“Thank you, sir.”

Suzie spoke up next. “I agree—by the time I got here, there really wasn’t much for me to do. I had Dispatch contact the medical examiner and reviewed Frank’s actions. Thompson had taken care of everything per regs.”

“Okay. Cal, you talk to the witness. Frank and Suzie, come with me and let’s see what you found.”

Jamie raised the tape and made sure to maintain his balance as he entered the crime scene. Thompson and Boyle followed. In the midst of a dense patch of trees beside the cemetery road, Jamie could see a slender figure in a light blue jogging suit lying on the ground. Taking care to stand outside the area around the body, Jamie knelt down and got a closer look. “Caucasian female—I’d say what, about twenty-five?”

Suzie shook her head. “If you can determine that given the state of her body, you’re a better man than I am, Griffin.”

“Well, obviously, I am a better man,” Jamie quipped. As Boyle uttered an expletive, Jamie looked closer at the woman’s body. It was indeed difficult to be certain of the victim’s age due to the condition of the body. It looked shriveled, like a raisin, as if all of the body’s vital fluids had been sucked out of her body. “Damned if I’ve ever seen anything like this,” Jamie muttered.

“Same here,” agreed Thompson.

“Did you check for ID?” Jamie asked.

“Nope,” replied Boyle. “We were waiting for the big boys.”

“Good girl.”

“Call me girl, again, Griffin, and you’ll be singing soprano at church for a month.”

While Jamie enjoyed the good-natured banter, he became serious as he took a pen from his pocket and peeked in the outer pockets of the woman’s jogging suit. “Nothing. Hunh. Well, we’ll wait for the M.E. to get here and let them see if there’s any ID elsewhere on the body.”

Jamie stood and staggered backward. Frank Thompson caught hold of Jamie’s arm and kept him from falling. “Hey there, old man, be careful.”

Cal came back then and said, “According to Hammond, he was jogging along the road here in the cemetery, and when he reached this part about an hour ago, he noticed they body lying in the undergrowth. Claims he doesn’t know the woman, doesn’t know anything about this.”

“You believe him? Does he look like someone who jogs regularly?” asked Jamie.

“Nah, but he doesn’t seem like the type. I turned him loose, but we’ll keep a line on Mister Hammond.”

“Okay, then. Thompson, Boyle—we’re done with you here. Get us your reports, and be available if we have any questions.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” said Boyle, snapping to attention and saluting.

Before Jamie could retort, they heard a car door slam. The quartet turned to see another unmarked car, with two detectives getting out.

“Watch out.” called Cal. “The really big boys from Homicide are here. About time you got here, O’Neill.”

Timmy O’Neill, one of the two homicide detectives approaching the scene, was a good friend of Jamie and Cal. He was a tall, red-haired Irishman about their age—they’d gone through the academy together. His partner was a gorgeous African-American woman named Sally Martin. “Martin, can’t you do something about the way your partner dresses?” asked Cal.

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” asked O’Neill.

“Nothing,” replied Martin. “Not everyone can look like they walked out of a fashion magazine.”

Jamie stood back from the exchange rather than jumping in, as was his usual habit. His headache was much worse—it felt like someone was peeling off the top of his head with a can opener. Jamie stepped forward to shake O’Neill’s hand and staggered slightly.

“Whoa.” said O’Neill. “You been drinking already today, Griffin?”

“No more than you, ya gobshite.” They shook hands. “Just coming down with something, probably the flu.”

O’Neill jerked his hand back. “And you still shook my hand, you shit?”

Jamie managed a smile, but he felt clammy, like his whole body was being shaken in a paint mixer. “Ahh, you’re too damned mean to catch anything from me.”

O’Neill shook his head. “I dunno, man. You really look like shit.”

“I told him that earlier,” added Cal.

“Well, funny you comedians should mention that.” Jamie turned away from Cal and Timmy back toward the crime scene. His vision darkened, as if twilight was settling over the bright late summer morning. “I really feel like shit.”

Jamie took two staggering steps, and the whole world receded. He could hear faraway voices calling his name, but the roar of his racing pulse drowned them out. Reeling like he was indeed drunk, Jamie turned back to face his partner and the other cops.

“Wow. Really…like…shit.” Jamie’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the ground in a faint.