Chapter 11
Gwen felt Colin’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her around a large buckle in the sidewalk.
They parked Becky’s car several blocks away, the nearest spot they could find in the tightly woven neighborhood of houses that existed solely with on-street parking.
There were no front lawns here, with houses butting up against the sidewalk like storefronts on an old fashioned Main Street.
Gwen felt as though she was tromping directly through the family rooms of these people. She heard snippets of conversation, bits of television shows and the smell of something baking. “I wonder what it would be like to live here,” she said.
“Crowded.”
She clucked her tongue. “I think it’s lovely. Quaint, with a modern vibe.”
He looked around at the few people on the street. “We’re at least ten years older than most of the people living here.”
“Ah, but I am young at heart.” She winked at him. “You would stand out like a sore thumb.”
He glared at her, one side of his mouth hitched up into a grin.
She worked to keep pace with his long strides, the click of her high-heeled sandals tapping on the concrete.
Walking next to him like this, she could almost believe no time had passed, that they were teenagers again with the world at their feet and the future at their door, as if David and Rowan were just a step behind.
Instead of a lifetime away.
Gwen found herself mentally searching the air for her husband’s spirit, so longingly did she miss him in that moment. But there was no trace of him in her mind, only a memory that had grown tired of being remembered, and she sighed aloud.
Colin turned his head at the sound, opening his palm to her as they walked, and she placed her hand in his. It felt warm and solid, a strong hand to go with the strong man at her side.
They turned a corner, the change in direction blowing the scent of him right into her face. Was that cologne, or just the smell of him alone? It was both familiar and unnerving to smell a man so intimately.
“Are we almost there?” she asked.
“On the next corner.”
The area was splattered with more businesses, storefronts clamoring for their attention.
Chinese food. A diner. A dry cleaning shop.
Up ahead she could see a neon orange sign that read “Flynn’s” shining in the midday summer sun, and felt her stomach twirl with anxiety.
She turned to Colin and found him watching her.
“Just follow my lead,” he said, seeming to understand her reservation. They reached the bar and he pulled open the wooden door, holding it for her to enter first.
Gwen stopped short. “Do you want to sit at the bar?” she asked.
“Yes.”
There were three people sitting there already, each seemingly alone, and Gwen smiled graciously at each one as she passed. “Hi, there. Hello. How are you?” she asked, finally reaching two black barstools at the end of the bar and sitting gracefully on one.
The bartender put coasters down in front of them. “What can I get for you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’d like a black Russian, please,” said Gwen.
“And I’ll take a Glenlivet on the rocks.”
“I was thinking about a nice Scotch too, but the black Russian seemed more cloak and dagger.”
“Vodka martini. Now that’s cloak and dagger.”
“Bond,” she said in a deep voice.
“James Bond,” he finished. “I thought you wanted a pint?”
“Beer before liquor, never sicker.”
“Oh. Well, now it all makes sense.” Colin turned to the bartender. “So, this used to be a hangout for the Irish Mafia?”
“Sure was. This place controlled more of Boston than City Hall in the 70s.”
Gwen turned to take in the room. Its walls were covered in photographs and framed newspaper stories. A small spotlight illuminated a handgun in an acrylic box. An enormous map took up the entire wall opposite the bar.
“Oh my goodness, is that a painting?” asked Gwen, rising to her feet.
“Sure is. The whole city of Boston.”
She crossed to the map, climbing into a booth to get a closer view. The mural was large enough in scale to depict individual streets in the city, many labeled by name. But it was the detail that took her breath away. “Colin, come look at this!” she said.
He slid across the opposite seat. “Holy cow.”
Drawn on the map were what seemed like hundreds of images—a truck overturned, a building on fire—along with descriptions of events in the history of the mafia.
From notorious crimes to the men responsible for their commission, it was all detailed here in fine painting and the tiniest of brushstrokes.
Gwen’s arm shot up to point. “Michael “The Boxer” Gallente kills Town Councilman Berger!”
“Gwen, look at this one.” Colin pointed to a painted cameo next to a textbox in the middle of the ocean. “It’s Jerry.”
She scrambled out of the booth and moved to the next table over, reading, “Jerry Ahearn, trusted brother, cast out to sea after testifying against members of the organization.” Her eyes rested on the image of the man, so like her David. The resemblance sent a shiver to her core. “Oh, my goodness.”
“This is crazy,” said Colin. “It’s all here. Everything from the court documents.”
“And a lot more, I’d say,” said Gwen, sitting back on her haunches. Her eyes took in the enormity of the map as she sipped at her smooth drink.
Meet the in-laws.
The moment was surreal. David Beaumont was a good, decent man, but he was connected to this horror by blood and experience. It may have even killed him. The thought had cold awareness flooding her center. One of these people may have killed my husband.
Her eyes returned to the portrait of Jerry Ahearn. David’s father. She felt in her heart that they would find him, that this man’s introduction was in her future. Gwen realized with some surprise that her drink was empty. “I’m going to get another drink. Would you like one?”
Colin looked up from his examination of the map. “I’ll get it for you.”
She waved him off. “Not a problem. You go ahead.” She gestured to the mural and went back to the bar, ordering herself a pint of Guinness.
A voice in her ear made her jump. “Gwen!” She turned and looked down the bar to see who called her.
Three seats down, on an empty barstool, she imagined she could see her late husband.
He raised his own pint glass to her and sipped, then pointed wildly over the head of an old man sitting next to him.
Gwen looked to Colin, who was still absorbed in the map, then turned back to David.
He was gone.
Her eyes narrowed. It certainly wasn’t the first time she had imagined her husband’s ghost, but it was the first time he had tried to communicate something to her.
She observed the old man as he worked the coaster under his drink in a circle, spinning it absentmindedly as he watched the news on a muted television screen.
Gwen always enjoyed meeting someone new, and she saw no reason this introduction should be any different. She scooted onto the seat David had occupied and offered the man a big smile. “I’m Gwen,” she said warmly, extending her hand.
“Martin.” His eyes were watery and blue, their depths clearly expressing his joy at being joined by a beautiful woman. His fine white hair was neatly combed, his jacket identifying him as a member of the local freemason’s union.
“You’re a mason,” she said, impressed. “I have a great appreciation for artistry. Walls and stone walkways, strong brick buildings and stately concrete constructions.”
He smiled, revealing neatly polished teeth. “I been a mason for forty-two years.” He gestured out the front door of the bar. “I laid the foundation for the Waller Building with my bare hands and a trowel.”
“How interesting!” she said, picking up her pint and sipping the strong brew freely. “There is a barn on my property with a cobblestone foundation. The barn itself has been rebuilt twice that I know of, but that foundation’s still going strong. They don’t build them like they used to.”
“Where’s your property?”
She smiled generously. “In Vermont, about half an hour outside of Barre.”
“You didn’t sound like you was from around here.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not. But it’s a beautiful town. I might stay a while.”
“Your friend from Vermont, too?”
Gwen raised her eyebrows. “No, he’s from Cold Spring. Just north of New York City.”
His eyes widened. “Cold Spring?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Now, ain’t that a coincidence.”
“What?”
“I just ran into an old buddy of mine the other day, used to live in Cold Spring. I hadn’t seen him in years.”
“Oh, no?”
Martin shook his head. “He got himself in some trouble a while back. Did some time.”
She turned completely and faced Martin, wondering if this kind-hearted old man had information that could help her. “I’m looking for my father-in-law. His name is Jerry. Do you know him, Martin?”
Graham Walker was double-parked, the corner of his Grand Marquis closer to the bumper of a Jeep Cherokee than most people could manage without swapping paint. He wore dress slacks and a button-down shirt, having long ago ceased to be comfortable in clothes of a more casual nature.
Walker had been sitting behind a desk for more years than he cared to count, and believed on any given day he was able to accomplish more there than he could out in the field.
He was an administrator, through and through.
He followed the rules. He documented everything.
But he knew as he sat in his car outside of Flynn’s that today’s events would never be written down and filed away by him or anyone else.
This one was personal.
Through the window of the bar, he could see Colin Mitchell looking at something on the wall, and Walker wondered if the widow had accompanied Colin to Boston. It would be easier if she had. He put his palm over his mouth and pressed in his cheeks.
Hell, it would be easier if Mitchell hadn’t come at all.
A car honked its horn as it worked to maneuver around the Marquis.
Walker twirled his wedding band on his hand, forcing it over the knuckle and back again, oblivious to the other driver’s difficulty.
He wanted a cigarette, despite having given them up eighteen years earlier, and he desperately wanted a drink.
The man’s house blows up in the middle of the night, and he doesn’t even call me.
Colin Mitchell was like a son to Walker.
He even looked like Walker’s son, when the boy had been alive.
Tom Walker had been killed in a motorcycle accident when he was twenty-three, leaving his father to his job with the U.S.
Marshal’s Office and his mother to lose her mind.
June had never been able to recover from Tommy’s death, slowly slipping away to depression and alcoholism until she required constant care.
Mentoring Colin had filled a need in Walker’s spirit that had gone unmet since Tommy passed away. Walker was meant to be a teacher, an instructor. A leader of leaders. Colin was meant to be the next in command, a designation that Walker conferred as much as recognized.
He cut himself loose like a kite in the wind.
What did it mean, that Colin hadn’t called his trusted boss when someone tried to kill him as he slept in his bed?
He had no idea where to find Colin until Deputy Barr accessed the records on the Ahearn trials this morning.
Walker had put that case to bed himself, tramped the dirt down overtop when Ahearn got out of prison.
He sure as hell didn’t want anyone digging around in that graveyard without his permission.
That’s what burned him. Colin had permission.
He could have asked for the records again himself, and Walker would have given them. But Colin hadn’t done that. Instead, he ran off to Boston and had Barr pull the transcripts. There could be only one reason for that, and the reality was chafing at Walker’s collar.
He thinks I had something to do with it.
His thick fingers worked to twist his ring, popping it over the knuckle. A rap on his window and Walker turned his head. A uniformed police officer gestured for him to put the window down.
“You can’t park here, sir. Move along.”
Walker hesitated, the badge in his pocket heavy on his mind, his desire for anonymity winning out over expediency.
“Sorry, officer,” he said, putting the car into drive and flashing a harmless grin. He drove once around the block and returned to the bar, finding both the police officer—and Colin Mitchell—gone.