Cross - James Patterson [81]
Monnie then told me that she’d used my notes and tracked down news about Sullivan’s wife through a mob soldier who was in the Witness Protection Program and now living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
“I followed the trail you set up, and you were right on. It led me to a guy who was at Sullivan’s wedding, which was small, as you might expect. The pal from Brooklyn you told me about, Anthony Mullino, he was there. Apparently, Sullivan didn’t want many people to know about his private life. His own mother wasn’t invited, and his father was dead, as you know.”
“Yeah, killed by his son and a couple of pals. What did you find out about Sullivan’s wife?”
“Well, it’s interesting stuff, not what you’d expect, either. She’s originally from Colts Neck, New Jersey, and she was a first-grade teacher before she met Sullivan. How about that? Salvatore Pistelli, the Witness Protection guy, said she was a sweet girl. Said Sullivan was looking for a good mother for his kids. Touching, huh, Alex? Our psycho hit man has a soft spot. The wife’s name was Caitlin Haney. Her family’s still living in Colts Neck.”
That same day, we had a tap set up on the phones of Caitlin Sullivan’s parents’ place. Also on a sister who lived in Toms River, New Jersey, and a brother who was a dentist in Ridgewood.
I had some hope again. Maybe we could close this case after all and bring down the Butcher.
Maybe I would see him again and take a little bow myself.
Chapter 106
MICHAEL SULLIVAN HAD BEEN USING the name Michael Morrissey since he’d been living in Massachusetts, Morrissey being a punk he’d more or less drawn and quartered in his early days as a hit man. Caitlin and the boys kept their first names but went under the surname Morrissey now too. The story they had learned by heart was that they had been living in Dublin for the past few years, where their father was a consultant to several Irish companies with business connections to America.
Now he was doing “consultant” work in Boston.
The latter part happened to be true, since the Butcher had just gotten a job through an old contact in South Boston. A job—a hit, a murder for hire.
He left the house overlooking the Hoosic River that morning at a very civilized nine o’clock. Then he drove west; he was headed to the Massachusetts Turnpike in his new Lexus. He had his work tools in the trunk—guns, a butcher saw, a nail gun.
He didn’t play any music on the first part of the trip, preferring to travel down memory lane instead. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about his early kills: about his father, of course; a couple of jobs for Maggione Sr.; and a Catholic priest named Francis X. Conley. Father Frank X had been messing around with boys in the parish for years. The rumors were all around the neighborhood, the stories laced with plenty of kinky, slimy detail. Sullivan couldn’t believe that some of the parents knew what was going on and hadn’t stepped up to do something to stop it.
When he was nineteen and already working for Maggione, he happened to spot the priest down at the docks, where Conley kept a little outboard for his fishing trips. Sometimes he would take one of the altar boys for an afternoon. A reward. A little sweet treat.
On this particular day in the spring, the good father had come down to the dock to prepare his boat for the season. He was working over the engine when Sullivan and Jimmy Hats stepped on board.
“Hey, Father Frankie,” Jimmy said, and beamed a crooked smile. “How ’bout we take a little boat trip today? Do some fishin’?”
The priest squinted up at the two young hoods, frowning when he recognized who it was. “I don’t think so, boys. Boat’s not ready for action yet.”
That brought a laugh from Hats, who repeated, “Ready for action—yeah, I get you.”
Then Sullivan stepped forward. “Yeah, it is ready, Fodder. We