office in Miami.
“She recognized implements at the murder scene that could be used for prying open picture frames. Then she found numbers in the victims’ personal effects that matched Stratton’s alarm code. We located the stolen uniforms a short time later, stuffed in a bag in a car down the street.”
“Seems you finally put that art degree to some real use, Special Agent Shurtleff,” ADIC Cole said, beaming.
“It was just having access to both crime scenes,” Ellie said, a little nervous. This was the first time she had been in front of the ADIC for any reason.
“The victims were all acquainted, from the Boston area with minor rap sheets.” Moretti slid a copy of the preliminary report across his boss’s desk. “Nothing like a crime of this magnitude ever before. There’s another member of this group who lived down here who’s apparently missing.” He pushed a photo over. “One
Ned Kelly.
He didn’t show up for his shift at a local bar last night. Not surprising—since police up in South Carolina found an old Bonneville registered to him in some strip mall just off of I-95, four hundred miles north of here….”
“Good. This Kelly have a record?” the ADIC inquired.
“Juvie,” Moretti said, “expunged. But his father’s a different story. Three stints on everything from bookmaking to receiving stolen goods. As a matter of routine, we’re gonna flash the kid’s photo around that hotel in Palm Beach, where that other incident took place. You never know.”
“I actually took a look at that scene,” Ellie volunteered. She told her bosses that the times of death didn’t match up. Also, the Palm Beach police were treating the murder as a sex crime.
“Seems our agent here has designs on being a homicide detective as well,” Hank Cole said with a grin.
Ellie caught herself and took the dig, her cheeks coloring.
They wouldn’t be anywhere on this case without me.
“Anyway, why don’t we just leave something for the local authorities to clean up.” Cole smiled at her. “So it seems this Ned Kelly may have ripped off his old buddies, huh? Well, he’s sure graduated to the big time now. So whatya think, Special Agent,” he said, turning to Ellie, “you ready to fly up North and put yourself on this guy?”
“Of course,” Ellie said. Whether they were condescending or not, she loved the attention of being on the A team for once.
“Any ideas where he’d be headed?”
Moretti shrugged. He went over to a wall map. “He’s got family, roots up there. Maybe a fence, too.” He pushed in a red pin. “We figure Boston, sir.”
“Actually,” said Ellie, “Brockton.”
Chapter 26
KELTY’S, ON THE CORNER of Temple and Main in south Brockton, usually closed around midnight. After the Bruins’ postgame report or
Baseball Tonight,
or when Charlie, the owner, finally pushed the last jabbering regular away from his Budweiser.
Tonight, I was lucky. The lights dimmed at 11:35.
A few minutes afterward, a large guy with curly brown hair in a hooded Falmouth sweatshirt yelled, “Later, Charl,” and closed the door behind him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He started to head down Main, a knapsack over his shoulder, leaning into the early April chill.
I followed on the other side of the street, a safe distance behind. Everything had changed around there. The men’s store and the Supreme B Donut Shop where we used to hang out were now a grungy Laundromat and a low-end liquor store. The guy I was following had changed, too.
He was one of those thick, strong-shouldered dudes with a cocky smile who could break your wrist arm wrestling if he wanted to. His picture was up in the local high school. He’d once been district champ at 180 pounds for Brockton High.
You better plan how you’re going to do this, Ned.
He made a left on Nilsson, crossing over the tracks. I followed, maybe thirty yards behind. Once, he looked back, maybe hearing footsteps, and I huddled in the shadows. The
“She recognized implements at the murder scene that could be used for prying open picture frames. Then she found numbers in the victims’ personal effects that matched Stratton’s alarm code. We located the stolen uniforms a short time later, stuffed in a bag in a car down the street.”
“Seems you finally put that art degree to some real use, Special Agent Shurtleff,” ADIC Cole said, beaming.
“It was just having access to both crime scenes,” Ellie said, a little nervous. This was the first time she had been in front of the ADIC for any reason.
“The victims were all acquainted, from the Boston area with minor rap sheets.” Moretti slid a copy of the preliminary report across his boss’s desk. “Nothing like a crime of this magnitude ever before. There’s another member of this group who lived down here who’s apparently missing.” He pushed a photo over. “One
Ned Kelly.
He didn’t show up for his shift at a local bar last night. Not surprising—since police up in South Carolina found an old Bonneville registered to him in some strip mall just off of I-95, four hundred miles north of here….”
“Good. This Kelly have a record?” the ADIC inquired.
“Juvie,” Moretti said, “expunged. But his father’s a different story. Three stints on everything from bookmaking to receiving stolen goods. As a matter of routine, we’re gonna flash the kid’s photo around that hotel in Palm Beach, where that other incident took place. You never know.”
“I actually took a look at that scene,” Ellie volunteered. She told her bosses that the times of death didn’t match up. Also, the Palm Beach police were treating the murder as a sex crime.
“Seems our agent here has designs on being a homicide detective as well,” Hank Cole said with a grin.
Ellie caught herself and took the dig, her cheeks coloring.
They wouldn’t be anywhere on this case without me.
“Anyway, why don’t we just leave something for the local authorities to clean up.” Cole smiled at her. “So it seems this Ned Kelly may have ripped off his old buddies, huh? Well, he’s sure graduated to the big time now. So whatya think, Special Agent,” he said, turning to Ellie, “you ready to fly up North and put yourself on this guy?”
“Of course,” Ellie said. Whether they were condescending or not, she loved the attention of being on the A team for once.
“Any ideas where he’d be headed?”
Moretti shrugged. He went over to a wall map. “He’s got family, roots up there. Maybe a fence, too.” He pushed in a red pin. “We figure Boston, sir.”
“Actually,” said Ellie, “Brockton.”
Chapter 26
KELTY’S, ON THE CORNER of Temple and Main in south Brockton, usually closed around midnight. After the Bruins’ postgame report or
Baseball Tonight,
or when Charlie, the owner, finally pushed the last jabbering regular away from his Budweiser.
Tonight, I was lucky. The lights dimmed at 11:35.
A few minutes afterward, a large guy with curly brown hair in a hooded Falmouth sweatshirt yelled, “Later, Charl,” and closed the door behind him as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He started to head down Main, a knapsack over his shoulder, leaning into the early April chill.
I followed on the other side of the street, a safe distance behind. Everything had changed around there. The men’s store and the Supreme B Donut Shop where we used to hang out were now a grungy Laundromat and a low-end liquor store. The guy I was following had changed, too.
He was one of those thick, strong-shouldered dudes with a cocky smile who could break your wrist arm wrestling if he wanted to. His picture was up in the local high school. He’d once been district champ at 180 pounds for Brockton High.
You better plan how you’re going to do this, Ned.
He made a left on Nilsson, crossing over the tracks. I followed, maybe thirty yards behind. Once, he looked back, maybe hearing footsteps, and I huddled in the shadows. The
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