Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel Read online

  “The police believe the print belongs to the killer, and they are strongly speculating the accomplice is the killer.”

  “The killer doesn’t have a record,” I said. I remembered something that Barney D’Amico said about the yet-to-be-identified flyweight Juan, that he was covered with prison tattoos. “This bodes well for our case.”

  11

  I walked to the Navy Yard Bistro, a popular restaurant on the corner of Third Street and Second Avenue, to question the staff. Before I went in I called Cheyenne Starr. Her answering service kicked in and I left another message.

  The bistro is a brick-granite-slate structure that dates back to the early 1800s, when the Navy Yard was built. The bistro’s owner is John Moore, a lean man with a ready smile and a generous spirit. John is a big Bruins fan, and it is not unusual to see a bruised defenseman or a stitched-up winger sitting at the bar after a tough game. He was standing in the open kitchen area talking to the chef when I came in. He saw me and came out.

  “Dermot, how are you.” He clapped me on the back. “You’re a bit early for dinner, but the guys can throw something together for you if you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks, but I’m here on another matter. I’m investigating Gertrude Murray’s murder.”

  “Ah, Gert. I still can’t believe it.” He looked down at the floor and said, “I loved that lady, everyone did. I just saw her Monday evening. She came in for dinner.”

  “Was anyone with her?”

  “No, she was alone.”

  Gertrude was murdered Monday night.

  “Did you see anyone hanging around outside,” I said, “anyone who might have followed her home when she left?”

  “Nobody I noticed. Hey, wait here a second, Mandy might know something.” John went to the kitchen and returned a minute later, accompanied by a young woman with black spiky hair. He said, “Dermot, this is Mandy, the night manager. She worked Monday. Mandy, tell Dermot what you told me.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered as she talked. “I gave Gertrude a ride home after she ate. It looked like it might rain.”

  “What time was that roughly?” I asked.

  “Around six-thirty,” Mandy said. “I remember because the metered spaces were opening up. That happens at six-thirty, when people are leaving for home.”

  “And you dropped her at her building?” I said.

  “Yes, on O’Reilly Way.”

  “Did anyone go into the building after you dropped her off?” I asked.

  “Nobody followed her in, I’m sure of that,” Mandy said. “I waited until she got inside before I drove away.”

  “Was anyone hanging outside the building?”

  “I don’t think so.” She looked at John. “I wasn’t really paying attention. God, I wish I had been paying attention. I can’t believe someone killed her, I just can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I, Mandy.” John patted her arm. “I know this is hard to talk about it, but Dermot needs information. The more information he has, the quicker he’ll find the killer. Can you tell him anything else?”

  “I, ah, I’m not sure.” Her lips trembled.

  “Not sure about what, Mandy?” John asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Raoul came along for the ride,” she said, swallowing hard. “I always get nervous in the projects, so I asked Raoul to come with me.”

  “Who’s Raoul?” I asked.

  “He works here,” John said.

  “Is he a big guy?” I asked.

  “He’s about six-five, six-six.” John answered. “He played basket­ball in college.”

  “That’s why I asked Raoul to go with me,” Mandy said, “because he’s big and strong and protective, too.”

  “Did Raoul come back with you?” I asked Mandy.

  “Yes, he did.”

  I turned to John. “What time did Raoul leave work Monday night?”

  “He must have been here until closing,” John said. “We were busy Monday, in the weeds all night.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Sure, but he’s off today.”

  “What’s his full name?” I said.

  “Raoul Naulls.”

  I asked for Raoul’s address. Mandy went to the office to get it. I thanked them for their time and left the bistro.

  12

  I continued to canvass. I went to the 7-Eleven in Thompson Square, Jenny’s Pizza on Medford Street, the Grasshopper Café on Bunker Hill Street, McCarthy’s Liquors in Hayes Square, Zume’s Coffee House on Main, and Speedy Chen’s, formally Speedy Wong’s. I went to every business in Charlestown that had a cash register, and they all said the same thing, that they liked Gertrude Murray, that they set aside coins for her, and that they hoped I’d find her killer.

  At Old Sully’s, an original Charlestown taproom where real Townies drink, the patrons, all men, told me that if they found the bastard who killed Mrs. Murray, they’d hang him from the Zakim Bridge — no courtroom needed. From Old Sully’s I walked home. When I reached my front stairs, a car skidded to a stop and Bo Murray got out. He wasn’t happy.

  “Sparhawk! I told you to back off.”

  “Diaz didn’t kill her, Bo, but I’m going to find out who did.”

  “You’re not listening.” His face was gray and his arms were slack, as if the muscles had been drained out of them. “Back the fuck off!”

  “Don’t you want the truth?”

  “I know the truth, and so do you. Diaz broke into my mother’s house and robbed her. Whether he killed her, I don’t care.” Bo paused for air. “There’s something you don’t understand. I could kill you and Diaz and Louis, and it wouldn’t matter a damn to me. Prison don’t matter to me, understand?”

  “I understand this much,” I stepped closer to Bo. “If my mother got murdered, I’d want to know who did it.”

  “Watch your mouth, fuck brain.” Bo jammed a gun into my ribs. I never saw it in his hand. He put it away and walked back to his car, saying, “You’ve been warned, Sparhawk. Back the fuck off.”

  I went inside and rested on the couch. At seven o’clock my cell phone rang. It was Cheyenne Starr, and my attitude went from aloof to alert. We talked for a couple of minutes, mostly small talk, feeling each other out, and when I sensed an opening I asked her if she’d like to go out for coffee. She said yes and asked me to pick her up. Tonight? I asked. Yes, tonight, she said to my delight. After a rinse-off shower and quick shave, I drove to her apartment in Somerville.

  She answered the door wearing a sleeveless tie-dyed maxi dress, blotched with oblong patterns in navy blue and white. As we walked along Holland Street, I noticed young men gawking at her. I felt like I was escorting a movie star. In Davis Square we went into a hip café crowded with university students. They were loud and energetic and friendly, and they wore college garb from their respective schools. Tufts, Boston University, Harvard, MIT. They were the cream of a handpicked crop, the best and the brightest culled from the finest.

  Cheyenne ordered chai tea, I ordered coffee, and we sat at a small round table. I felt like a square, wearing a collared shirt and matching socks. Cheyenne’s tie-dyed attire was more in keeping with the student setting, while I felt like a professor.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  “Busy,” I said, stirring sugar into my coffee. “Yours?”

  “I spent most of it in class, cognitive behavior therapy in the morning, adult psychological trauma in the afternoon. Then I had a study group in psychosocial pathology. I like the classes, and the study group is awesome, so I had a good day. What can I say? I’m a nerd.” She laughed with her whole body. “What did you do?”

  I told her that I spent the day investigating a murder, not exactly first-date material, but I wanted to get it out there, and I didn’t want to sugarcoat it. As soon as I said it I thought: Was I trying to impress her or test her? I a
pparently accomplished neither. Her expression never changed. She remained seated, which was a good sign. I figured she’d run for the door.

  “So, you are not a nerd. How did you become a private investigator?” she asked.

  I rocked back in my seat. “Is there anything worse than a guy talking about himself?”

  “No, I’m fascinated, I really am. Tell me about the murder case you’re working on.”

  Damn, I liked her.

  “Okay, but tell me if you get bored. We’re representing a young man charged with felony murder. His name is Victor Diaz. He is accused of killing a woman named Gertrude Murray. I knew Gert growing up.”

  “That’s terrible. You knew her? Do you think he’s guilty?”

  “Yes, Gert was a great lady. And no, I don’t think Diaz killed her. He broke into Mrs. Murray’s apartment to rob her, and Diaz admitted to robbing her, but he insists he didn’t kill her.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I believe the evidence, and the evidence says he didn’t do it.”

  Cheyenne drank more tea and studied my face. “It must be hard for you to be objective, since you knew Mrs. Murray.”

  “It is hard at times, but my objective is to find Gert’s killer.” An image of Gert buying me an ice-cream cone came to me. We were at the Ice Creamsmith in Lower Mills. The sun was shining and Gert was smiling. And then an image of her dented head pushed away her smile. “I’m gonna nail the son of a bitch. I’m gonna put him in a goddamn cage.” My voice got loud, and I was getting intense. “Sorry, let’s talk about something else.”

  “Yes, let’s,” she said. She reached out and touched my hand. “Are you okay?”

  I told her I was fine, and the conversation took on a lighter note. We finished our drinks, and I walked her home. When we reached her building I said goodnight, but I didn’t try to kiss her. The murder talk had quashed the romantic mood. I drove home wondering if I blew it.

  13

  The next morning I kept at it, visiting retail stores, coffee shops, eateries, and pubs, all of which proved to be a waste of time. Needing a break from the tedium, I walked to Kormann & Schuhwerk’s Deli in the Navy Yard and ordered an egg bagel with Nova Scotia sturgeon and cream cheese. I felt as if I had finally accomplished something when I finished it. I sat at a harbor window at the end of the counter and mulled my next move, wondering how to proceed. I drank three more cups of coffee, mulled, mulled, mulled, and then got off my ass and headed to Terminal Street.

  The first place I went to was Avakian’s Market, a small grocery store that sold cigarettes, liquor, and other sundry items. I picked up a few things and took them to the cash register. The cashier, a young Hispanic woman with a tremendous build, rang in the order. I paid in cash, and she bagged the purchase. I told her that my name was Dermot Sparhawk, but she didn’t reply. With her looks, she was probably fed up with men introducing themselves to her. I showed her a picture of Gertrude Murray and asked, “Have you seen this woman?”

  “That’s Mrs. Murray, the poor lady. She came in almost every day.”

  “Was she in here last Monday?”

  “The day she was murdered?”

  “Yes, that day.”

  “She might have been.” She slid the bag across the counter to me. “I work sixty hours a week. The days run together after a while.”

  “Did you work the Monday she was murdered?”

  “That’s my scheduled day, so yes, I was working.”

  She sounded defensive. I asked, “What’s your name?”

  “How come you want to know?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Not a good enough reason,” she said.

  A man with thinning black hair, probably the owner judging by the way he comported himself, came out of the back room and walked toward us. He said to the cashier, “Bianca, can you work late today? Larry called in sick yet again. The guy is always sick — sick of working is what I think.”

  Bianca said that she could stay as long as he wanted, and then she said to him, “Will you get me two liters of Stolichnaya, Mr. Avakian? I can’t reach that high.”

  “No problem,” he said, and grabbed two liters by the neck with one hand and put them on the countertop. “Big order, Bianca?”

  “Pretty big, it’s the weekly delivery to the Halligan Club. Nick asked me to prep the package for him.”

  “Good job, Bianca,” he said, and started for the back room.

  “Excuse me,” I said to him.

  He looked at me. “Yes?”

  “I am investigating Gertrude Murray’s murder.”

  “Is that so?” Avakian wore chunky glasses with thick lenses. A milky film clouded one of his eyes. “I’ve seen you around the neighborhood. Did you know Gertrude Murray?”

  “I grew up in the same building,” I said. “We’ve never met.” I extended my right hand. “My name is Dermot Sparhawk.”

  “I’m Aram Avakian, and this is my store.” He crossed his long arms. “Avakian’s Market has been in Charlestown for sixty years, and Mrs. Murray has been coming here since my father opened the place in the late fifties.”

  “Avakian’s has a good name in the neighborhood,” I said. “What can you tell me bout Gertrude Murray? I heard she collected coins.”

  “You’re right,” Avakian answered. “I saved coins for her, just like my father did. Silver dimes, silver quarters, I set them aside for her, right Bianca?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Avakian,” Bianca said, as she organized lottery paraphernalia. “We put them in an ashtray.”

  “Because you can’t use ashtrays for ashes anymore, not in a public place,” he said. “I also gave her Indian Head pennies and buffalo nickels, at face value, no markup. These days you don’t see many silver coins. And she’d buy her lottery tickets and chewing gum and root beer. She was a nice person, Gertrude Murray, first class all the way. It pains me she’s gone. Tell me, what kind of an animal kills an old lady like that?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  A young man came out of the back room rolling a two-wheeler loaded with cases of wine. He said to Mr. Avakian, “I have a delivery in the Navy Yard, Pop. Then I’ll go from there to the Halligan Club.” He continued to a van out front.

  “That’s my son, Nick,” Mr. Avakian said. “He finished college three years ago and got a good job in finance, which shows he’s smart. But he didn’t like it. He decided to take the reins here when I retire. He’ll do right by the Avakian name.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I said. “Back to Mrs. Murray, did she come in last Monday?”

  “I can’t say for sure. Gert came here three or four times a week, sometimes more.” He turned to Bianca and asked, “Did Gert Murray come in on Monday?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said.

  “How could you? We’re open sixteen hours a day.” Avakian turned to me. “It’s hard to keep track of everyone. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  “I understand.” I handed Avakian my card. “If you remember anything, please call.”

  I also gave Bianca a card on my way out.

  14

  From Avakian’s Market I walked to the projects, found Mrs. Diaz’s building in Carney Court, and went inside. The hall windows were made of opaque glass that obscured the outside world from view. Strong smells of dead mice and urine pervaded the corridors, but the stench was sweetened by the aroma of marijuana, the project’s air freshener. The soles of my shoes stuck to linoleum like Velcro as I climbed the stairs to the second story. In the brick gulags of Charlestown, carpe diem translates to crappy day.

  I knocked on Mrs. Diaz’s door. A woman’s voice from inside asked who I was. I told her that I was Dermot Sparhawk, Buckley Louis’s investigator, and that I had visited her son Victor in jail. The lock clicked. A Latina woman with a proud posture let me in and invi
ted me to sit on a wooden chair. She sat in a chair next to me.

  “Victor is innocent,” she said in broken English. “He never hurt nobody.”

  “He might be innocent of murder, but he’s not innocent,” I said. “He robbed an old lady.”

  “But he no kill her.” Mrs. Diaz teared up. “He never hurt nobody. I tell you, he is not a murderer, not my boy.”

  “I don’t think he killed Mrs. Murray,” I said, “but I think he knows who did. He was there when it happened.”

  “He is innocent.” She slammed her fist on the table. “Innocent!”

  “I hope to prove it.” I tried to placate her with a smile, but it didn’t seem to work. “If Victor cooperates with the police, they might go easier on him.”

  “But he still go to jail?”

  I saw terror in her eyes, a look I’ve seen far too often from mothers in the projects, especially when the oldest child gets in trouble. When the trouble works its way down to the third or fourth child, the look of terror becomes a look of resignation. The mothers expect the worst, and more often than not, their expectations are realized.

  “I’ll work to get Victor the best deal possible.”

  “But he go to jail?”

  “Yeah, he’ll go to jail.”

  She mumbled in Spanish and prayed to Jesus, kissing the cross on her rosary beads and blessing herself over and over. When she settled down, I said, “Does Victor have a girlfriend?”

  “Nada, no girlfriend.”

  “Does he have friends, anyone he hung around with?”

  “Si, a boy named Juan, but he no live here.”

  I asked her where Juan lived, and she said Dorchester or Roxbury, maybe Mattapan. I asked her if she knew Juan’s last name but she didn’t.

  “What kind of guy is Juan?” I asked.

  “No good,” she answered.

  “Does Victor have any brothers or sisters?” The question sounded weird, so I recast it. “Do you have other children?”