Lifeguard - James Patterson [69]
TWO DAYS LATER I got permission to fly to Boston. But not for the reason I had hoped. Dave’s body had finally been released by the police. We were burying him, at our local church, St. Ann’s, in Brockton.
A federal marshal had to accompany me on the trip. A young guy just out of training named Hector Rodriguez. The funeral was out of state, therefore, out of my bail agreement. And I was a flight risk, of course. I already had. Hector was stapled to my side the whole way up.
We buried Dave in the plot next to my brother, John Michael. Everyone was huddled there, cheeks streaming with tears. I held my mom by the arm. It’s what they say about the Irish, right? We know how to bury people. We know how to hold up. We got used to losing people early in the Bush.
The priest asked if anyone had any last words. To my surprise, my father stepped forward. He asked for a moment alone.
He stepped up to the polished cherry casket and placed his hand on the lid. He muttered something softly. What could he be saying? I never wanted this to happen to you, son? Ned shouldn’t have gotten you involved?
I glanced at Father Donlan. He nodded. I stepped down to the gravesite and stood next to Frank. The rain started to pick up. A cold breeze blew in my face. We stood there for a moment. Frank ran his hand along the casket, never even glancing at me. He took a deep swallow.
“They needed a go-between, Ned,” my father said, and gritted his teeth. “They needed someone to organize a crew, to do the heist.”
I turned to him, but he kept staring straight ahead. “Who, Pop?”
“Not the wife, if that’s what you mean. Or that other chump they killed.”
I nodded. “I already knew that, Pop.”
He shut his eyes. “It was supposed to be a layup, Ned. No one was supposed to get hurt. You think I would put Mickey onto anything that was dirty? Bobby, Dee . . . Jesus, Ned, I’ve known her dad for thirty years. . . .”
He turned to me, and in the thinness of his face, I could see tears. I had never seen my father cry. He looked at me, almost angry. “You think for a second, son, I would’ve ever let them take you?”
Something cracked in me at that moment. In the pit of my chest. In the rain. With my brother lying there. Call it the loathing that had been building up. My resolve to see him as I did. I felt this powerful salty surge in my eyes. I didn’t know what to do. I reached out and wrapped my hand gently over his, on the casket. I could feel his bony fingers tremble, the terror in his heart. In that moment I felt what it must be like to be scared to die.
“I know what I’ve done,” he said, straightening, “and I’ll have to live with it. However long that is. Anyway, Neddie”—I saw a hint of a smile—“I’m glad you ended up okay.”
My voice cracked. “I’m not okay, Pop. Dave’s dead. I’m going to prison. Jesus, Dad, who?”
He tightened his fist into a hard ball. A breath slowly leaked out, as if he were fighting some oath or vow he’d kept for many years. “I knew him from years ago in Boston. He moved away, though. The move did him good. They needed a crew from out of town.”
“Who?”
My father told me the name.
I stood there for a moment, my chest tight. In a second, everything was clear to me.
“He wanted a crew from out of town,” my father said again, “and I had one, right?” He finally looked at me. “It was just a payout, Ned. Like going to the bank and they hand you a mil. Split aces, Ned. You know what I mean?”
He massaged his hand across the polished casket lid, slick with rain. “Even Davey would’ve understood.”
I moved close and put my hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, Pop, I know what you mean.”
Chapter 85
PALM BEACH Detective Carl Breen was sipping a Starbucks on a bench facing the marina across the bridge off Flagler Drive. Ellie turned to him. “I need you to help me, Carl.”
They stared at the fancy white yachts across the lake, beauties, crews in white uniforms hosing them down.
“Why me?” Breen asked. “Why not go to Lawson? You and he seem to be buddies.”
“Great friends, Carl. Stratton, too. That’s why I’m here.”
“Slip’s okay,” the Palm Beach