Read Online The Dead Soul by M. William Phelps - Free Book Online
Authors: M. William Phelps
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basement was now decked out in Red Sox memorabilia.
“That thing tell you who our killer is yet?” Dickie asked as Jake came off the bottom stair keying something into his iPhone.
“Close, but not yet. Don’t be such an obvious Luddite, Dick. Technology’s our friend.” Saying this, Jake realized he was speaking to a man who had a name for his basement. “You actually call this room in your house ‘The Zone,’ and you’re making fun of my phone.”
Dickie laughed. He gave Jake a quick tour, pointing out the new additions. “Got this from Yaz at a card show last year.” He held up a baseball with the slugger’s signature at twelve o’clock.
Jake shrugged off the memorabilia. “Come on, you know I could care less about this shit.”
“You see, Jake, this is what makes us so different.” Dickie threw the ball up in the air and caught it a few times. “I come down here to get away. Escape.”
Jake thought of the drives he liked to take alone along Cape Cod Bay in his Chevelle. His muscle car was his Zone. But how rare were those trips? Dickie was right. The guy couldn’t get away from the job. It consumed him.
“Any luck with that security guard lead?” Dickie asked. He shut off the lights.
“Naw. Nothing there.” They both knew it was going to be a dead end. “Something’s come up, though. That’s why I’m here. Let’s go. I’ll explain on the way.”
Outside on the front lawn, Dickie told Caroline he’d be back—“with any luck”— around six. She waved to Jake. “Give Dawn a kiss for me. If she ever wants to join me for yoga class, tell her to call.”
Jake cranked the ignition. Put the car in reverse, got out onto the open road.
“You want to talk about Mo?” Dickie asked. “I did some checking, heard some ‘things.’ Word is there is some tension brewing between you two.”
Jake gave his partner a look. “I’m dealing with that, Dick. Keep out of it.” Then: “How’s Maddox?” Maddox Shaughnessy was Dickie and Caroline’s twenty-three-year-old boy, stationed in Baghdad, E-Co. 1/329.th The kid had been a Marine for almost five years. He was born, Dickie liked to say, with that camouflage green and black war paint under his eyes.
Rambo Jr.
“He’s getting by. Should be home in about four months. But says his new tour starts two months later.”
Military , Jake thought. Huh . He stared at Dickie. Listening to him talk about his son, Jake could picture some Muslim teenager wearing a backpack full of explosives and nails walking into a café, setting it down, blowing up the place with Dickie’s boy inside. He wondered how Dickie lived with that fear day in, day out.
“What’a ya got, man?” Dickie wanted off the subject of the military.
Jake explained a call he had taken from a guy named John Branford. Branford worked out of the Danvers Police Department, an hour north of Boston, a small hamlet close to that fishing village made famous by Sebastian Junger’s Perfect Storm . The cop claimed to have valid information about what he called “that serial murder case.” Jake was skeptical, but knew cases got solved like this sometimes. One cop talking to another, both searching for the same answer. Old-school gumshoe police work.
As Jake explained it to Dickie, Captain Branford said he “saw an article in the Globe about the Boston Public Garden DB, and stated asking around. Wanted to know if it’s true that the Common case was connected to Quincy Market.”
“Might be,” Jake had told him. He pictured the cop twirling a toothpick in his mouth. Sitting back. Feet up on his desk. Enjoying the moment.
“I need to speak to you,” Branford said.
“I’m listening.”
“In person.”
The guy is willing to travel an hour. Must have something.
Jake drove by the T near Fenway Park. Dickie was scrolling through his voicemail message numbers to see who had called.
“So we’re heading over to meet him,” Jake said, parking near a meter on Boylston Street in
“That thing tell you who our killer is yet?” Dickie asked as Jake came off the bottom stair keying something into his iPhone.
“Close, but not yet. Don’t be such an obvious Luddite, Dick. Technology’s our friend.” Saying this, Jake realized he was speaking to a man who had a name for his basement. “You actually call this room in your house ‘The Zone,’ and you’re making fun of my phone.”
Dickie laughed. He gave Jake a quick tour, pointing out the new additions. “Got this from Yaz at a card show last year.” He held up a baseball with the slugger’s signature at twelve o’clock.
Jake shrugged off the memorabilia. “Come on, you know I could care less about this shit.”
“You see, Jake, this is what makes us so different.” Dickie threw the ball up in the air and caught it a few times. “I come down here to get away. Escape.”
Jake thought of the drives he liked to take alone along Cape Cod Bay in his Chevelle. His muscle car was his Zone. But how rare were those trips? Dickie was right. The guy couldn’t get away from the job. It consumed him.
“Any luck with that security guard lead?” Dickie asked. He shut off the lights.
“Naw. Nothing there.” They both knew it was going to be a dead end. “Something’s come up, though. That’s why I’m here. Let’s go. I’ll explain on the way.”
Outside on the front lawn, Dickie told Caroline he’d be back—“with any luck”— around six. She waved to Jake. “Give Dawn a kiss for me. If she ever wants to join me for yoga class, tell her to call.”
Jake cranked the ignition. Put the car in reverse, got out onto the open road.
“You want to talk about Mo?” Dickie asked. “I did some checking, heard some ‘things.’ Word is there is some tension brewing between you two.”
Jake gave his partner a look. “I’m dealing with that, Dick. Keep out of it.” Then: “How’s Maddox?” Maddox Shaughnessy was Dickie and Caroline’s twenty-three-year-old boy, stationed in Baghdad, E-Co. 1/329.th The kid had been a Marine for almost five years. He was born, Dickie liked to say, with that camouflage green and black war paint under his eyes.
Rambo Jr.
“He’s getting by. Should be home in about four months. But says his new tour starts two months later.”
Military , Jake thought. Huh . He stared at Dickie. Listening to him talk about his son, Jake could picture some Muslim teenager wearing a backpack full of explosives and nails walking into a café, setting it down, blowing up the place with Dickie’s boy inside. He wondered how Dickie lived with that fear day in, day out.
“What’a ya got, man?” Dickie wanted off the subject of the military.
Jake explained a call he had taken from a guy named John Branford. Branford worked out of the Danvers Police Department, an hour north of Boston, a small hamlet close to that fishing village made famous by Sebastian Junger’s Perfect Storm . The cop claimed to have valid information about what he called “that serial murder case.” Jake was skeptical, but knew cases got solved like this sometimes. One cop talking to another, both searching for the same answer. Old-school gumshoe police work.
As Jake explained it to Dickie, Captain Branford said he “saw an article in the Globe about the Boston Public Garden DB, and stated asking around. Wanted to know if it’s true that the Common case was connected to Quincy Market.”
“Might be,” Jake had told him. He pictured the cop twirling a toothpick in his mouth. Sitting back. Feet up on his desk. Enjoying the moment.
“I need to speak to you,” Branford said.
“I’m listening.”
“In person.”
The guy is willing to travel an hour. Must have something.
Jake drove by the T near Fenway Park. Dickie was scrolling through his voicemail message numbers to see who had called.
“So we’re heading over to meet him,” Jake said, parking near a meter on Boylston Street in
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