Wrapping her legs around the limb, she hoisted herself up and straddled the limb. After a moment of wrangling with the straps, she stood and made her way to the trunk.
Climbing, she tested the weight of each limb. An occasional car whooshed by on the Blakely Road and in the distance she could hear branches snapping, Mark Alves’s deep voice shouting something to Randy Scott. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. She stopped climbing when she had a clear view of the neighbourhood.
Binoculars in hand, she searched the areas where the van would be able to see her car. She was surprised to find it parked on the corner of Walton and Cranmore, far away from the house and far from the news vans with their satellite feeds.
The van had Massachusetts plates. She scooped the pen from her shirt pocket and wrote the number on her forearm. Then she removed her phone from the belt clip and dialled the main number for Belham police.
‘This is Darby McCormick from Boston’s Criminal Investigative Unit. I’m working with Detective Sergeant Artie Pine on the homicide on Marshall Street. I need you to send a couple of squad cars to Walton Street to apprehend the driver of a brown van. Tell them to drive up Cranmore and park their vehicles so they block access to Walton – I’ll explain why when they get there. I also need them to run a plate for me.’
She gave the operator the plate and her mobile number, then switched to the camera and took several pictures of the van. The camera lens wasn’t powerful enough to focus on the front plate.
The door opened. The man who stepped out had a round, shaved head. She wondered if this was the same man she’d seen last night wearing the tactical vest and night-vision goggles.
The man buttoned his light grey suit jacket and started running. Darby snapped pictures, catching sight of the slight bulge from the handgun he wore on his belt.
Baldy shoved his way past the throng of reporters and cameramen, then grabbed the elbow of a TV cameraman dressed in jeans, sneakers and a white shirt. Sunglasses covered his eyes and he wore headphones over a baseball cap.
More pictures and then she quickly zoomed in on his face and managed to get a good, clear shot of Baldy speaking into the cameraman’s ear. The two pushed through the crowd and were off and running.
Darby kept taking pictures as the van backed on to Cranmore. A screech of rubber and someone slammed on their car horn. Watching the van’s tyres spinning with smoke, she wondered if Baldy had a police radio or a scanner in his car. Maybe someone had called to tip him off.
18
The East Boston address listed on Ben Masters’s licence belonged to an abandoned automotive garage called Delaney’s. The sign, with its faded red lettering on wood bleached from the sun, sat above a front door boarded up with plywood sheets. All the windows had also been boarded up and sprayed with graffiti. Two big padlocks secured the chains wrapped around the chain-linked gate for the car park. Weeds grew out of cracked asphalt.
Did the garage hold some sort of significance or value for Ben? Or had he simply chosen this site because it was abandoned? It was maddening to wonder.
She turned around and drove up a street of triple-decker houses. She would need to buy a pair of bolt cutters on the way home, and find a hammer and a crowbar. She could come back with them tonight.
The Charlestown house sitting on the corner of Old Rutherford Avenue and Ashmont Street was painted a robin’s-egg blue. Jamie did three drive-bys to check the windows. They were all dark. No vehicle was parked in the driveway.
Idling at the stop sign, she looked across the street to the white mail box spotted with rust. Gold decals for the number ‘16’ were taped to it. She didn’t see a name.
She pulled to the side and double-parked against the cars filling every empty spot along the narrow one-way street. She hit the button for the hazard lights, left the minivan running
Climbing, she tested the weight of each limb. An occasional car whooshed by on the Blakely Road and in the distance she could hear branches snapping, Mark Alves’s deep voice shouting something to Randy Scott. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. She stopped climbing when she had a clear view of the neighbourhood.
Binoculars in hand, she searched the areas where the van would be able to see her car. She was surprised to find it parked on the corner of Walton and Cranmore, far away from the house and far from the news vans with their satellite feeds.
The van had Massachusetts plates. She scooped the pen from her shirt pocket and wrote the number on her forearm. Then she removed her phone from the belt clip and dialled the main number for Belham police.
‘This is Darby McCormick from Boston’s Criminal Investigative Unit. I’m working with Detective Sergeant Artie Pine on the homicide on Marshall Street. I need you to send a couple of squad cars to Walton Street to apprehend the driver of a brown van. Tell them to drive up Cranmore and park their vehicles so they block access to Walton – I’ll explain why when they get there. I also need them to run a plate for me.’
She gave the operator the plate and her mobile number, then switched to the camera and took several pictures of the van. The camera lens wasn’t powerful enough to focus on the front plate.
The door opened. The man who stepped out had a round, shaved head. She wondered if this was the same man she’d seen last night wearing the tactical vest and night-vision goggles.
The man buttoned his light grey suit jacket and started running. Darby snapped pictures, catching sight of the slight bulge from the handgun he wore on his belt.
Baldy shoved his way past the throng of reporters and cameramen, then grabbed the elbow of a TV cameraman dressed in jeans, sneakers and a white shirt. Sunglasses covered his eyes and he wore headphones over a baseball cap.
More pictures and then she quickly zoomed in on his face and managed to get a good, clear shot of Baldy speaking into the cameraman’s ear. The two pushed through the crowd and were off and running.
Darby kept taking pictures as the van backed on to Cranmore. A screech of rubber and someone slammed on their car horn. Watching the van’s tyres spinning with smoke, she wondered if Baldy had a police radio or a scanner in his car. Maybe someone had called to tip him off.
18
The East Boston address listed on Ben Masters’s licence belonged to an abandoned automotive garage called Delaney’s. The sign, with its faded red lettering on wood bleached from the sun, sat above a front door boarded up with plywood sheets. All the windows had also been boarded up and sprayed with graffiti. Two big padlocks secured the chains wrapped around the chain-linked gate for the car park. Weeds grew out of cracked asphalt.
Did the garage hold some sort of significance or value for Ben? Or had he simply chosen this site because it was abandoned? It was maddening to wonder.
She turned around and drove up a street of triple-decker houses. She would need to buy a pair of bolt cutters on the way home, and find a hammer and a crowbar. She could come back with them tonight.
The Charlestown house sitting on the corner of Old Rutherford Avenue and Ashmont Street was painted a robin’s-egg blue. Jamie did three drive-bys to check the windows. They were all dark. No vehicle was parked in the driveway.
Idling at the stop sign, she looked across the street to the white mail box spotted with rust. Gold decals for the number ‘16’ were taped to it. She didn’t see a name.
She pulled to the side and double-parked against the cars filling every empty spot along the narrow one-way street. She hit the button for the hazard lights, left the minivan running
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