The Boyfriend Read online

  Moreland would have liked to do this job a different way. But there was only one way he could think of, and that was to reach out from so far away that the cops—even if they spotted him—would need several minutes to reach him. And if they fired at him, their rounds would fall hundreds of feet short. If he felt inclined to, he could even disable any police cars headed his way. The .50-caliber projectiles were made to pierce lightly armored vehicles in battle.

  Moreland had only a couple of days left before Luis Salazar would appear in Boston. There had been no public announcement that he was coming. Moreland hadn’t been surprised by that. Salazar was coming to speak to local officials in Boston, not with the general public, and he was a prosecutor who had made his reputation cracking down on Mexican drug cartels. But the published schedule of the mayor and the city council agenda were curiously light beginning at three p.m. on Thursday. The mayor’s office said he was taking no appointments, and the city council planned to be in session, but would consider nothing new.

  Joey had spent this afternoon in the office. He had leased the space under the name ProPlay Sports after he had arrived in town. He had spoken to the rental agent on the phone, and signed the lease by mail. Today he had brought his Barrett long-range .50-caliber rifle and ammunition. They were in the hard-sided case, which he had put inside a long, narrow cardboard carton and loaded onto a two-wheel dolly. They had looked to any observer like furnishings for the office.

  He had used the desk he’d rented to stand on and propped the gun case and ammunition above the false ceiling on the intersection of a set of pipes that held the fire sprinkler system. But since Kelly’s call, he knew he had some extra time to spare. He locked the door to his office, took down the gun, and removed it from its case. He put it on the desk and aimed it through the big window a few feet away.

  About a mile away he could see the entrance to City Hall at City Hall Plaza, a vast expanse of redbricks at Congress and North streets. He studied the building through the rifle scope. City Hall didn’t look like any of the graceful older buildings in the city. It looked squat and formidable, like an alien fortress. He studied the front of the building carefully and adjusted the scope as he looked. The only place he could be sure that Luis Salazar would be visible during his visit was the one he was looking at—the entrance to City Hall at Congress and North.

  When Moreland had gone to City Hall to look at the place and walk on the bricks he had needed to park in a lot four blocks away. There was no way to place a getaway car, nothing to hide behind to conceal his presence, no way to elude the police who would be on the plaza and around the building. He knew that the way he planned to do this was the only way that gave him a reasonable chance of survival. He was sure that if a government official from Mexico was shot in Boston, the police would automatically begin looking for a Hispanic with a gun. Nobody in Boston even knew who Salazar was, and certainly no one had anything against him. He was an expert on the methods of the drug cartels, coming to speak with other authorities. If anybody killed him, the police would assume it was another Mexican.

  Joey had repeatedly tested his route from this office to the apartment building in Woburn. On surface streets it was about ten miles, and he’d had little trouble getting there in thirty minutes. If he wished, he could take either I-93 or I-95, and reach Woburn in fifteen minutes.

  Moreland was going to do this job in a conservative suit and a tie. When it was done he would put the rifle in its case, put the case inside the cardboard carton, and wheel it to his car on the dolly. As a precaution, he would have his fake police badge with him and a Beretta 92F in a shoulder holster like a cop. In the confusion and chaos after the shooting, witnesses might report anything, but it was unlikely they’d complain because they’d seen a cop.

  16

  When Till arrived at the front door of the apartment building in Woburn he had already packed everything into his car. He had the two Ruger pistols—one in his pocket and one in the car under the driver’s seat. He had parked a block away on Main Street near the place where I-93 and I-95 met. This time what he was after was the girl, Kelly. Once she was safe, he would turn his attention to the Boyfriend.

  He pushed the button beside the door that said “K. Allen, Apt. 5,” heard the buzz, opened the door, and entered the lobby. He climbed the stairs and found himself in another hallway like the one downstairs; it had light blue walls and carpet, and doors painted dark blue. The first door on the left was apartment 5. He raised his left hand to knock, but the door opened partway.

  He recognized her face in the opening. She smiled at him and said quietly, “Jack?”

  He nodded, and she opened the door farther, staying behind it, and let him step in. She closed the door and leaned her back on it. She was wearing an outfit that was very similar to the one she had worn for the photographs in her ad—black thigh-high stockings, a garter belt, and a bustier that was cinched to accentuate her thin waist and the white skin of her hips.

  “You’re more beautiful than your pictures. I didn’t think that could happen.”

  “Thanks. Do you have something for me?”

  He reached into his inner coat pocket and produced an envelope. He watched her take it. She reached in, took the money between her thumb and forefinger, fanned it so she could see the denominations of the bills, then placed it in a desk that had a lock, and palmed the key.

  She led him down a short hallway to a bedroom. He could see another closed door farther down, which he decided must be her actual bedroom, where she slept with the Boyfriend. He pointed at it. “Are we alone, or is your boyfriend or somebody in there?”

  She smiled and made a small production of stepping to the second door and opening it so he could see. The room was very sedate and conventional, like the room of an older woman—a dark gray bedspread, a pile of about six pillows with very clean white pillowcases. There was a woman’s dresser with a big mirror, and a full-length mirror on the closet door. He saw nothing to indicate the presence of the Boyfriend, so he assumed his clothes were in the closed closet. “See? I told you before, if you’re looking for a big guy, you’ll have to bring him. I have a boyfriend, but you won’t see him.”

  It occurred to Till that all the mirrors must have been comforting to a girl who looked the way she did. No matter what else happened the mirrors never had any bad news for her. She shut the door firmly. They moved into the other bedroom, which was more like what he had expected. On a platform was a king-size bed, with bright blue satin sheets and matching satin pillowcases. There were two nightstands. One held a blue china bowl filled with condoms. Behind it was a row of plastic bottles and tubes.

  Kelly put her arms around him and said, “Just relax and give me a nice hug.”

  He complied, then sat on the bed. As he expected, she sat next to him. He said, “Can we just talk for a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Talking about boyfriends has got to be a turnoff, but I’ll bet you knew you’re not my first date, right? When we get to know each other we’ll get along fine.”

  “I paid to come and see you because I needed to talk to you, and to show you some things.”

  She was unperturbed, but confused. “Is this something special you like to do?”

  He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, where he’d had the money. “No.” He removed a sheaf of folded printouts, unfolded one, and handed it to her. “This is Catherine Hamilton, in Los Angeles.”

  “Wow. She looks a lot like me, doesn’t she? Do you always look for the same type of girl?”

  “No. Your boyfriend does.”

  She looked irritated. “What?”

  “He always seems to find a girl who has strawberry blond hair, very light skin, and blue or green eyes, between five feet seven and five ten, and thin.”

  “Why would you come here and tell me this?” she said angrily. “What are you?”
>
  He held the second picture of Catherine Hamilton he had printed. “See the necklace? The anklet?”

  She snatched the print and glared at it, then let it drop onto the bed.

  He handed her the next picture—another tall, thin girl with strawberry blond hair. “This is Rebecca Coleman.” She tossed that one aside, too, but he knew she had looked at it. He handed her another. While she held the picture she couldn’t help seeing the next one he held ready. She snatched it from his hand and threw it onto the bed with the others. He said, “All of these girls were working as escorts, and three were wearing that necklace.”

  She stood up. “You’re a creep. Get out.”

  “I’m here because they’re all dead.”

  “I told you to get out.”

  “Your boyfriend charmed them into letting him live with them, and when he was ready to move on, he killed them.”

  She raised her voice. “I asked you nicely, and now I’m going to scream for the police.”

  “Please,” he said. “Please listen to me. I’m trying to save your life. The way he’ll do it is wait until you’re looking the other way and put a gun to the back of your head, so you won’t see it coming. Then he’ll take everything you have—money, jewelry—and go to the next city.”

  “He doesn’t need my money,” she said. “He has plenty of his own.”

  “No, he doesn’t need your money. He’s got the money he stole from all of these girls after he killed them. But he’ll take yours too, because that makes it look like a john robbed you and killed you. Honestly, I don’t get anything for warning you. I just can’t stand by and wait for him to get you too.”

  She stood and scowled at him with her arms folded in front of her. “You could be trying to get me to leave with you so you can kill me yourself.”

  “I could be, but I’m not. I trailed your boyfriend from Los Angeles to Phoenix, and both those girls are dead. I trailed him to you, and this is your chance to save yourself. Right now, tonight, while he’s off somewhere, is the only chance you may get.”

  She had begun to look uncertain. “How can I believe you?”

  “Pick up the phone, get an operator, and ask to be connected with police headquarters in Los Angeles, then ask for Sergeant McCann in Vice. Tell him what I said and ask if it’s true. If you have the operator do it, I can’t be faking it.”

  She stared at him for a second, then seemed to realize he couldn’t be lying. “Oh my God. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Grab whatever is valuable to you, get in your own car, drive away, and don’t come back.”

  “I wouldn’t even know what to take.”

  “Take whatever occurs to you. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is worth your life. Just get out. If you want help, I’ll help. When is he coming home?”

  “A couple of hours. But he’ll come after me.”

  “If you don’t go, he won’t even have to come after you.” He waited, and saw her weakening. “Come on. Get dressed.”

  She opened the closet and took a pair of jeans. She took a sweatshirt and underwear from the dresser. She took off the lingerie, threw it onto the floor, put on the clothes, and tied her hair in a ponytail. He watched her go to the other bedroom. She was gone for a minute, and then returned carrying an overnight bag that looked stuffed. He followed her to the living room. She unlocked the desk drawer and put Till’s money into her purse.

  He said, “Are you all set?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

  “Yes.”

  Till opened the door for her, then stopped. “Do you have any pictures of him?”

  “No. He said he hates having his picture taken. I know his name.”

  “No you don’t,” said Till. “You know an alias.” He peered out the door and looked up and down the hall. “It looks clear. Walk behind me. If he appears, don’t stop and hide or something. Run the other way, and keep running.”

  “Okay.”

  Till said, “Are you parked in the lot?”

  “Yes. A blue Honda Civic.”

  “Okay.” He went out into the hall. She turned back to lock the door, but he stopped her. “Leave it unlocked. I’ll wait there for him.”

  “Oh God,” she muttered, but obeyed. They walked along the hallway. Till had his right hand in his coat pocket, gripping the Ruger LC9 pistol he had brought. The Boyfriend hadn’t come into the apartment, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t arrived at the apartment building. He could be waiting in the lot for Kelly’s customer to leave.

  Till stepped to the rear door of the apartment building. He pushed it open and scanned the lot. From here he could see the cars, and they all seemed to be empty. He said, “Stay here. I’ll go out to Main and be sure he isn’t parked out there waiting.”

  She didn’t answer, so he turned to look at her. She was holding her telephone in her right hand and staring at it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Texting my sister. I’ve got to have a place to go, and he doesn’t know about her.”

  “Don’t do it now. Just stay put.”

  She put the phone into her pocket. Till went out the door and into the parking lot. It was dark and summer-quiet. He could hear the steady swish of car tires beyond the building on Main, but the only other sound was his feet on the gravel: skitch, skitch, skitch.

  As he came to the end of the lot and turned toward the front door of the building, it flew open and light splashed on the steps and the sidewalk. The girl was tall and graceful, and she took the leap down the front steps like a greyhound and kept running. The car was a white Toyota. It sped up to the curb and stopped, and the passenger door flew open, bounced against its hinges once, and the girl was there. She ducked to throw herself onto the passenger seat, and the car took off. It accelerated down Main Street, away from the girl’s apartment in the direction of central Boston.

  For a second Till actually considered firing at the car, but the chances of hitting the Boyfriend were slim, rapidly diminishing to none. Even if he hit the Boyfriend, at this speed the girl would be killed when the car lost its driver. As he stared after the car, he felt his frustration and irritation being overwhelmed by sorrow. The girl was sure to die. Seeing her run like that had reminded him of how young she was.

  He looked in the opposite direction up Main Street, then went back inside and set the lock on the doorknob.

  He spent the next half hour in Kelly’s apartment searching every part of it to see if it held anything he didn’t know about the Boyfriend. While he searched, it occurred to Till that tonight he’d already seen the part about the Boyfriend that mattered most.

  A girl who was probably as wised-up as anybody could be in her mid-twenties had seen solid evidence that her boyfriend had killed his last five women. And the minute she’d had a chance to run back to him, she had been off—no hesitation. Probably at the last minute she’d told herself he would have an explanation as to why he was completely innocent.

  As Till searched, he found lots of female clothing, but nothing that he believed belonged to a man. Kelly had a few paperback books, most of them romance novels in which young girls went to big cities and prospered. She had an iPod with hundreds of songs on it and a laptop computer that she used to upload her online ads for her escort jobs. She had taken all her money and jewelry with her. The Boyfriend would appreciate that.

  Till drove into Boston and spent the rest of the night looking for the white Toyota Camry. At seven in the morning he heard a news report that told him where Kelly’s body had been found.

  17

  Joey Moreland awoke in his hotel bed in Boston at a few minutes before noon. He had slept deeply, partly because he had been exhausted by the time he’d gotten to bed, but also because he’d taken care of some of the things that had been w
orrying him. He had received Kelly’s text message when he was on his way to her apartment. He had told her exactly what to do. As soon as she heard his car approaching the apartment building, she should run for it.

  When he had pulled to the curb in front of the apartment she was already in the lobby starting her dash toward the front door. He could see her through the glass. Then she was in the car and he was making a rapid series of turns to end up on Interstate 95 and head south. It had taken him a few minutes to get Kelly to explain what had happened on her date. She kept crying, and that made her gasp whenever she talked. It was like the voice of a person falling downstairs—“Ah, ah, ah, ah”—until finally he could hardly stand to listen to it.

  The man who had come to see her had terrified her, but not because he was some kind of pervert. The man had been telling her about every girl Joey Moreland had been with in about three years, and how he had needed to leave each girl behind after a job. Who was this guy? If he had traced Moreland in three states and across the country, he could be the FBI.

  Moreland couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have Kelly, five feet ten, with fiery red hair two feet long, suddenly realize that the man couldn’t have pictures of all those dead girls unless they were real. All she’d have to do was start a loud argument and he was a dead man. She could change her mind and turn him in just by shouting for the cops. And he had to hang around Boston long enough to kill Salazar, or the people who had paid for Salazar’s life would take his instead.

  So, in the end, after he had thought about it, and thought about Kelly, he’d had to kill her. He’d driven along the highway south of the city listening to her telling him the outrageous lies the stranger had told her, and then he had stopped at the edge of a field near the harbor. He told her he had stopped on the way to pick up an emergency kit he had hidden in the field, so they could leave town together. He had expected to get her to rush ahead of him to get through the hole in the chain-link fence. She would feel that she was accomplishing something, that on the other side of this dark place there would be light and warmth and safety—a whole future full of it.