Chapter Three
POLICE LIEUTENANT DETECTIVE Sam Weber shifted in his chair. After two hours sitting in the same spot, it was becoming really uncomfortable. His partner, Detective Frances Mancini, looked over.
‘Getting restless? You want another coffee?’ she asked, standing up and stretching.
‘Yeah; go on,’ Weber grunted. He stood up, stretched, and hitched his pants up. As Mancini walked down the hospital corridor to the vending machines, Weber tucked his shirt more into his pants. Strange, he thought: would have thought the more weight you put on, the tighter your clothes would get. Seemed to be the opposite with him. Maybe he should set about losing some weight. Last time he checked, he was 210 pounds; overweight according to the department medic. That’s the price you pay, he told the doc, when all you eat is fast food on stakeouts. And your wife leaves you for a twenty year old. And you give up smoking.
‘Why not eat healthier?’ the doctor had asked. ‘More salads for example?’
‘Doc, you gotta be kidding,’ Weber had replied. ‘If you think I’m sitting all night in the freezing rain and snow eating just a Caesar salad, you’re on a different planet.’
He watched Mancini as she walked back with two paper cups. Hell, she kept her figure. But then she was fifteen years younger than him, and probably got more exercise.
‘Here you go, Sam,’ she said, passing him a cup of black coffee. ‘Number six, is it?’
‘You forgot breakfast. Eight or nine,’ he grunted, swigging back some coffee.
‘Jeez, if I had that many in one day I’d be walking on the ceiling.’
Weber looked at his watch.
‘It’s just after eight now,’ he said. ‘Assuming she doesn’t wake up between now and nine, then we’re out of here.’
Weber and Mancini were in the Massachusetts General Hospital. Around midday they had taken a call about a mugging at the Brigham Circle T station. The attack had left the victim, a woman in her sixties, unconscious. The only two people who witnessed the attack, albeit from a distance, described the assailants as white youths wearing hoods. Both witnesses said the two ran down Huntingdon Avenue. Weber and Mancini drove around the Huntingdon area in case they saw anybody answering that description, but had no luck. It all happened out of range of any CCTV cameras, so Weber and Mancini’s best option was to wait for Ms Washington to regain consciousness.
The ambulance went direct to Massachusetts General, or MGH. The nearest hospital to the Brigham Circle was in fact the Beth Israel facility on Brookline, but since just before last Christmas had been partly closed for refurbishment, so the nearest was Mass General, a couple of miles further on. Weber and Mancini arrived just after the ambulance, at just before one o’clock. They had no option but to wait for Ms Washington to regain consciousness, but five hours later she had not done so. At seven they would be relieved by the night duty, unless she woke before then, in which case they would leave after they had taken her statement. They both had mixed feelings: keen to get away after a twelve hour shift, but determined to catch whoever had given this little old lady the head injuries she had sustained.
Whilst waiting, they had speculated on the motive for the attack. Quite early on, they had dismissed race as a motive, as the attack was quick, opportunistic, and her purse had been taken. Assuming she was carrying anything. Violent crime had been a problem in that part of the city for some time; in fact statistically a person had a 1 in 101 chance of being a victim in the past five years.
‘Eight forty.’ Weber stepped over to the door of the room where Ms Washington was lying. He peered through the small rectangular window. She was still in a coma.
‘Is it true,’ asked Mancini, ‘that the longer they’re unconscious for, the lower the chances of her waking up?’
Weber looked over at his partner. He shrugged.
‘Possibly. Possibly not.’
Mancini looked through the window.
‘She looks so sad, lying alone there.’
‘Eh?’
‘All alone, I mean. No relatives at her bedside.’
‘Well, until she wakes up, or somebody reports her missing, or somebody finds her purse with all her ID, she’ll only have us at her bedside.’
‘She must have been on her way to work,’ said Mancini. ‘Hence the name badge. She must be missed there.’
‘Or on her way home. Nobody at home to miss her. No wedding band, remember. No ID. Just a little blue badge,’ said Weber, looking through the glass again. ‘Celeste Washington,’ he muttered. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sam, it’s time,’ said Mancini. Weber looked round and saw Detectives Anderson and Troy walking down the corridor. The night shift.
‘Hey guys,’ said Troy. ‘No luck yet, I take it?’
‘Nah,’ said Weber. ‘Nothing yet.’
‘O’Riordan wants us to stay here for the duration if need be,’ Anderson said. ‘Says to catch these bastards is a priority.’
‘He wants you to stay here all night?’ asked Weber.
‘He figures the old lady probably won’t make it, so it’ll be a homicide. More pressure to clear that up. Says even if she comes round for a while, she might give us something to go on.’
Weber shrugged. ‘Guess we’ll leave you to it then. Relieve you here in the morning. Unless something happens in the meantime,’ he added.
‘Sure,’ said Troy as he and Anderson took their places on the orange plastic chairs.
‘I bet you twenty bucks,’ said Weber as he and Mancini walked back to their car, ‘that she won’t make it. She's been like that for too long.'
‘Then it’s murder.’
‘You got it in one.’
Just as they reached their car, Weber’s cell phone rang.
‘It’s O’Riordan,’ he said as he pressed the button to answer. Mancini sat in the car while her partner took the call.
‘What is it?’ she asked as he joined her in the car.
‘O’Riordan called to ask a favour.’
‘Which we can’t turn down.’
‘Mm. Anyway, a call’s come in about a reported missing person over in Beacon Hill.’
‘Not her back there?’
‘Unlikely. Did she look to you as if she came from Beacon Hill?’
‘Not really.’
‘No. Some guy’s wife three or four hours overdue from work. Asked if we could go over, take some details to pass over to the MPU.’
‘Why us? Surely he knows we’re on overtime now?’
‘He said we’re the nearest. Should only take half hour or so.’
‘Great,’ said Mancini, fastening her seat belt. ‘Another night when I don’t see my kids.’
Weber started the car and pulled away. Turned into Fruit Street then left into Charles. A couple of minutes later he pulled up outside the Charles/MGH T station.
‘What are you doing?’ Mancini asked.
‘Get the subway home,’ said Weber. ‘I can take care of this.’
‘You sure?’
‘Get out before I change my mind. Go kiss your kids goodnight.’
‘Will you be okay?’
‘It’s Beacon Hill. I should be all right,’ Weber said sarcastically.
‘Lieutenant, I owe you one.’
‘Tell me about it. Now get.’
After Mancini had left, Weber took the car along Cambridge, then down W Cedar. Pulled up outside the address he had been given. He got out of the car and looked around. With its red-brick Federalist townhouses and vintage gaslights, this street was typical of those in Beacon Hill, one of the most exclusive residential neighbourhoods of the city. Some months ago, he was involved in a case in an apartment building a few blocks away from here. The case involved the beneficiary of an elderly woman’s will trying to sell her apartment. Only thing is, the woman wasn’t dead yet. Weber remembered the place was on the market for close to half a million dollars; slightly underpriced according to the real estate agent. This house here - Weber assumed three bedrooms, maybe two bathrooms, a yard out back, a garage somewhere - must be close to a million, maybe more. He wondered if that was why O’Riordan wanted this guy interviewed tonight. Would have had to have waited till morning if it had been some other parts of the city.
Weber took a deep breath, climbed the four steps to the front door, and rang the doorbell.