Risky Undertaking by Mark de Castrique Page B

heart.”
    I went to the cabinet beside the fireplace and pulled out a fifth that had been a Christmas present several seasons ago. I’m not much of a drinker. “How do you want it?”
    Kevin gulped down his wine and then pointed to the empty glass. “She can land right there.”
    I poured a couple of fingers and left the bottle on the table. He took a healthy swig, rolled it around his mouth, and then swallowed. “Ah. Aren’t your Southern Baptists going to be shocked when they find God’s got this on stock in heaven.”
    â€œFrancis Tyrell,” I prompted, pulling him back on topic. “What’s the connection to Boston?”
    He waved me to my chair. “Whitey Bulger. Know the name?”
    â€œWho doesn’t? We got coverage of the trial down here.” Whitey Bulger was a notorious Boston mobster who had been on the run for years until he was finally nabbed in California and brought to trial for multiple murders. I didn’t know the details, but I remembered the headlines and his alleged role as mastermind of the Winter Hill Gang, an Irish-American mob rooted in South Boston.
    â€œAnd I guarantee you Francis Tyrell’s name never appeared,” Kevin said. “He was Whitey’s society face.”
    â€œA lawyer?”
    â€œNo. A schmoozer. Like most sociopaths. I knew him as Frankie Tyrelli, a tough Italian kid surviving in an Irish neighborhood. He ran numbers in high school and Whitey tapped him as a sort of emissary to the New York families. You know, one of their own.”
    â€œIs he wanted for something?”
    Kevin leaned forward. “I want him for three murders. Of course, I’m only short in one area.” He swirled the Bushmills in his glass. “Evidence.”
    â€œSo, he’s a schmoozer and a hit man.”
    â€œI’m sure he smiles as he pulls the trigger. Over the last fifteen years, three potential witnesses against Whitey died of gunshot wounds to the head. Forensics leans toward a Walther P22.”
    â€œA ballistics match for all three?”
    â€œNo.” Kevin took a drink, and then replenished his glass from the bottle. “Frankie’s too smart for that. Yes, the slugs were recovered from the heads of the victims, but they weren’t from the same gun. All were contact shots behind the ear. Scalp burns suggest a suppressor for two that happened in hotel rooms. The third victim was discovered in a construction site on Route 128 about ten miles out of Boston. That’s where the high tech sector developed. The skin was singed enough to identify the barrel profile of a Walther.”
    â€œOver fifteen years,” I said. “That’s back when Whitey was still on the run.”
    â€œMy theory is the victims either tried to fill his vacuum prematurely, or they had information they could trade for immunity from prosecution. Whitey didn’t get where he did taking chances and leaving loose ends.”
    â€œWas Tyrell brought in for questioning?”
    Kevin shook his head. “Not enough to tag him for the hits. The targets worked the drug side of Winter Hill’s operations. A turf war runs off and on, especially after the Jamaicans moved in. The cases are still open, but most in the department think it was score-settling between the gangs. And good riddance.”
    â€œYou don’t?”
    â€œThe Walther P22 is a fine gun. Dependable, already threaded for a suppressor, and easy to conceal. Most of those Jamaican gangbangers pack Saturday Night Specials that are as likely to blow up in your hand as to fire properly. Frankie wouldn’t be caught dead with crap like that.”
    â€œI’m not a gun expert but there are a lot of other quality semiautomatic pistols out there.”
    â€œTrue,” Kevin conceded. “But a couple of months ago Frankie was stopped on a DUI. The officer found a Walther P22 in his glove compartment and Frankie was arrested for