The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

It worried Kelly too.

Ex-military/police was still listed at the top of the board.

Kelly couldn't help thinking that maybe somewhere, somehow, The Penitent One had a law enforcement connection or background. It wasn't too long ago that he'd seen the depth an undercover had gone to in order to cover his tracks when crossing over to the wrong side of the law.

The two ate and engaged in small talk, with the formality and their reason for meeting over.

As they got up to leave, Kelly saw a familiar but unwelcome face in the doorway.

"Great," he said under his breath.

"Problem?" Gray asked.

Connor Walsh stood at the hostess table, but not because he was waiting for a seat. No, that would be taken care of immediately for the crime lord and Dorchester native. He was busy flirting with the hostess, a girl who looked to be no more than twenty, more likely to be his granddaughter than of dating age for the older mob boss.

He caught Kelly approaching out of the corner of his eye and turned, giving his stained, yellow-toothed smile. A Tootsie Pop was tucked in the pocket of his cheek.

"You boys smell that? They must be cooking up some extra bacon in the back."

The overhanded and overused derogatory cop reference went unanswered by Kelly. But the two meatheads standing beside Walsh, his personal security detail, laughed loudly at the joke.

Kelly considered saying nothing to Walsh, but as he got closer to him, he turned and said, "You know, for somebody who prides himself on taking care of his town, looks like your protection isn't what it's cracked up to be."

The smile immediately evaporated from Walsh's face. A low rumble formed in his throat, like the growl of a dog protecting his food bowl. "What did you say to me?"

"I didn’t stutter.” Kelly stood inches from Walsh’s face. He smelled the cherry of the lollipop. “A priest gets killed in your church, and I haven't seen you lift a finger to help."

"I'm sorry. I thought solving crime was your job, sonny boy."

Kelly knew the reason he added the last part but didn't acknowledge it, knowing the others around him probably knew nothing of his biological connection to the mob boss. "It is, and don't worry, your day's coming too."

Kelly pushed through the two men who tried to edge their way in, cutting off his pathway to the door, a subtle gesture at intimidation that failed miserably. Kelly used enough force to knock them aside without making a scene.

"Funny company you're keeping. Can't solve it on your own? You've got to bring in the feds." Walsh spat the words as the door closed behind them.

Gray said nothing and followed Kelly out.

"How'd he know you’re a fed?" Kelly asked, looking at Gray.

He shrugged. "Wish I knew."

The statement bothered Kelly, but he couldn't quite place his finger on why.

Kelly and Gray got in their separate vehicles and headed to One Schroeder Plaza so Gray could clear out his space and officially pull back the FBI's support.

13

February 18

The rattle continued. In the fog of sleep, Kelly thought it was the radiator and fought to ignore it. The nighttime temperatures had consistently dipped below twenty degrees for the past week, and the house’s oil-based heating system was working overtime. The boiler pumped steam into the cold pipes, and the metal cried out as it expanded in the form of a banging clatter. This was a constant, but over the past ten days the incessant rattle had intensified to unbearable levels. Even so, Kelly normally slept through it, but for some reason, tonight his brain was unable to disregard the noise.

Kelly rubbed at his eyes, his vision blurring as he tried to look at the clock. It wasn’t so much the volume of the noise as much as the rhythm. The pulsing beat, drumming him to a semi-conscious state.

As the digital clock on his nightstand came into view, the glowing red numbers taunted him. 3:53 a.m. His world was coming into focus as the haze of the dream gave way to reality. He realized the rattle wasn't the radiator, but his cell phone’s ringtone set to vibrate.

Dazed, he wondered how long it had been ringing. Normally a light sleeper, Kelly was shocked when he looked down to see he had three missed calls. Two from Detective Sergeant Dale Sutherland and one from Kristen Barnes.

Not a good sign, when his unit was ringing him before daybreak. Their squad was up on rotation again, and he could only surmise, from the repeated attempts, that the reason for waking him was not good.

Kelly reached down, swiping open his phone’s home screen and preparing to call his supervisor back, when it vibrated in his hand. The fourth incoming call was from Sutherland. Kelly answered it immediately.

He put on his best attempt at alertness, though his voice was still groggy.

"Top of the morning to you, Sarge."

"Never thought I'd have to place this many calls to reach Michael Kelly," Sutherland said.

"I know. I don't know what happened to me. I guess these cold nights put me in hibernation."

"Well, sorry to wake you from your beauty sleep, but we got a fresh one for you. And our team's up at bat."

"Where do you need me?"

"Downtown Crossing. Washington and Milk Street. Across from The Old South Meeting House."

That was the thing about a city like Boston. Modern-day crime didn’t care much about historic landmarks. And this part of the country had plenty of both.

"Any details?" Kelly asked.

"Male vic. Multiple stab wounds. Patrol's got the scene locked down with a potential witness. Still trying to reach Mainelli. Spoke with Barnes. Start making your way there. She'll meet you, unless you two want to carpool," Sutherland chided.

Kelly took the comment in stride, partly because he was still shaking the cobwebs free from his brain after being pulled from sleep. But then, more importantly, Kelly was aware his supervisor had picked up on the fact he was dating Barnes. Although neither had openly admitted to