Chapter 4 - The Shadow on the Wharf
Dawn on Beacon Hill came in shades of wet slate and bruised plum.
Down at Pier 44, the smell of diesel and rotting kelp was thick enough to chew. Frank Doyle stood by the side of a black Lincoln Navigator, his collar turned up against the drizzle, watching four men in heavy canvas jackets unload wooden crates from the back of an unbranded reefer truck.
The crates weren't marked with customs stamps. They were marked with red X's—the old signature of the South Boston freight handlers who didn't answer to the port authority or the city council.
A young man with a shaved head and a split lip jogged up the ramp from the water’s edge, holding a clipboard against his chest to keep the rain off the paper.
"Boss," the man said, breathing hard. "The shipment from Halifax is short three crates of the dry goods. The customs inspector at Gate 3 was asking questions about the registry number on the manifest."
Frank didn't turn around. He kept his eyes on the grey swell of the harbor where a tanker was sliding slowly toward the Mystic River bridge. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him it was medical equipment for the VA hospital in Jamaica Plain," the kid said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "He bought it. But Frank... word on the street is that the Italian crew from East Boston is sniffing around the warehouses on Congress Street. They know Michael’s been spending time at the house with that kid."
Frank turned slowly, his river-water eyes locking onto the kid’s face. The kid flinched, taking half a step back.
"What kid?" Frank’s voice was barely a hiss above the sound of the diesel engine.
"The maid's kid. The one Rosa brought in to cover her shifts. People are saying she’s not just cleaning tables, Frank. Word is she’s staying late. Real late. Down in the west wing."
Frank’s hand went inside his overcoat, resting against the cold grip of a Browning Hi-Power. For three years, Frank had been the second shadow in Michael Cain’s life—the man who kept the books, buried the mistakes, and made sure the empire didn't rot from the inside out. He had watched three different capos try to test Michael’s patience and end up in concrete overshoes near the outer harbor islands.
A girl with ink-stained fingers and a cheap sweater wasn't going to be the crack that sank the hull.
"Keep an eye on the East Boston crew," Frank said softly. "And get someone to follow the girl when she leaves the Beacon Hill house today. I want to know every grocery store she visits, every pharmacy she drops into, and every person she talks to about the house."
May you like
"And if she talks to the wrong person?" the kid asked, his hand hovering near his belt.
Frank looked back out at the grey water, where the tanker was disappearing into the fog. "Then we find out how much her brother’s heart valve is really worth to her."
