[Chapter 4: Chapel]

The heavy double doors of St. Augustine's were propped open and parishioners climbed the steps in pairs or in families, some greeting each other, others preoccupied with wayward little ones or with hurrying to use the restroom before mass began. The air in the lobby was a familiar medley of damp carpet, aged wood, perfume and candle wax, and to Murphy it triggered almost the same sense of reverence as the colored light sparkling through the high stained glass. He unzipped his sweatshirt and pushed up the sleeves, waiting behind Mrs. Callaghan, whose gnarled fingers shook as she dipped them in holy water and crossed herself. As she turned to enter the sanctuary, her loose sweater snagged on the ceramic font and would have taken it down with her had Murphy not caught her by the elbow.

She gave the tattoo on his forearm a long look as she righted herself. "Well, bless my soul—is it you, Connor?"

"Don't be fooled, Georgia," Connor said, taking her other arm, "That there's Murphy. I'm the man you've been missing."

With great effort, she craned her neck to look up at each of them. "Missing, hah. You boys have been forsaking the assembly so long—if it weren't for those blue-haired old biddies at the dining hall asking about you, I'd have forgotten you altogether."

Murphy smiled because Mrs. Callaghan was by far the bluest haired of all the old biddies at the retirement home that provided visitors a free lunch on Sundays. "They still serving up that roast beef?"

"With soupy potatoes and lumpy gravy. Never changes."

"Oh, you're just spoiled," Connor told her. ""Twas always a fine meal I ate, with fine company."

"That being yourselves," Mrs. Callaghan said, managing to make the compliment sound like a dig. "If you could hear the way those old girls gossip on Sunday nights…of course, when you stopped coming by, so sudden, the talk was a little more...interesting."

"Is that so?" Connor asked, glancing at Murphy.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Callaghan said as they reached her usual seat, four pews from the front. Murphy cautiously let go of her but she didn't sit, her attention drawn far beyond them to the doorway to the west chapel. "Oh, dear," she sighed again, reaching for Murphy's arm. "Look at me, driven to distraction by the likes of you two. I've a prayer on my heart, and—well, frankly I'm afraid if I wait until after the Monsignor's sermon I won't remember to-"

"It's no trouble," Murphy said, helping her retrace their steps. "Might light a candle or two myself."

All the way up the increasingly crowded aisle, Murphy wondered what she'd meant by interesting. The banter that passed from table to table at the Westerly Adult Community was usually more far-fetched, and often more biased than anything he was likely to overhear at Doc's-and that was saying something. But the truth was that many of the elderly residents had sons and daughters and grandchildren whose lives kept them closely tied to the Southie community. It was in fact a distant nephew of Mrs. Callaghan's, a man they'd met over an Easter Ham one year, that had provided the essential tools that made the Saints' missions possible. And after Murphy's empty-handed escape Friday night, it was about time to pay Seamus another visit.

Connor stepped behind to let Murphy and Mrs. Callaghan through the doorway to the small chapel. It was unusually crowded, the altar ablaze with candles, though partially blocked from view by several parishioners taking turns praying and lighting the remaining votives. Connor's face grew solemn and Mrs. Callaghan's grip tighter as in front of them a space cleared, and a small, framed photograph came into view.

It was Martha Osborne, the woman he had not saved. He'd seen the very same picture on the front page of the Globe not more than an hour ago. He knew St. Augustine's had been her home church. And yet somehow he'd been wholly unprepared.

"Did you know her?" Mrs. Callaghan asked, with a lilt of surprise.

He must have said the name aloud.

No. But I watched her die. "I didn't have that good fortune," Murphy said.

"I did," Mrs. Callaghan sighed. "She had a quiet way about her, but she was the most wonderful seamstress. Always made the costumes for the children's Christmas pageant, did you know that?"

Murphy shook his head, hoping she wouldn't go on. He didn't want to know any more. The candle flames were hot on his eyes. He took a small step back and bumped Connor, who put a hand on his shoulder.

The room began to clear out: mass was about to start. Mrs. Callaghan, to her credit, tried as best she could to keep her hands steady enough to light a votive, but in the end Connor had to help her.

She didn't cry, Mrs. Callaghan. She just stood there with her hands clasped, shaking her head as if to say, what a shame. Murphy stared into the flames, watching the unstoppable replay: the explosion of gunfire, the sudden silence. The numbing fear that Connor had been shot. The rush of relief at the sight of Buffone and the crumpled green raincoat. Then of course, the crushing guilt.

A black-robed figure appeared in the chapel doorway.

"Mrs. Callaghan?" Sister Margaret said, "May I help you to your seat?"

Murphy looked up, surprised to see they were now nearly alone. Mrs. Callaghan gave Murphy's hand a squeeze, and then nodded.

Sister Margaret offered her arm, her sharp eyes assessing both Murphy and Connor before they turned to go. Murphy expected a reminder about the time, but she only said quietly, "Take as long as you like."

But Murphy was through. Wallowing accomplished nothing, other than to color his nightmares, which were hardly in need of fresh fuel. He lit a candle stiffly, emptying his mind of everything but the physical task.

He'd already started for the door when Connor smacked him on the arm.

"What?" he snapped. Let Connor stay if he wanted. They weren't attached at the hip.

But Connor nodded toward the short line of pews. In the front row sat two women clasping rosaries, and in the back a man sat alone, head bowed in prayer. Even from the relative distance, Murphy could see the man was sharply dressed in a black suit, and there was something very familiar about his shiny brown hair.

"Fuckin' A," Connor whispered. "C'mon."

They slid into the last pew, stopping directly behind the man in the suit, who had yet to look up from his prayer.

"Dear Lord," Connor prayed in a stage whisper. "I'm so very lonely. Please bring me a man, a big strong man with a great big-"

The man turned his head. "Jesus fucking Christ," he said irritably, but there was no mistaking his grin. "God, it's good to see you guys again," he said, rubbing his neck. "About time you showed up, I'm about to throw a disk here. I don't how you people can pray so friggin' long."

"You gotta start slow, Smecker," Murphy said. "How long you been waiting here?"

The agent checked his watch. "Long enough. Figured I might run into you here."

"So this isn't just a happy coincidence?" Connor asked. "No plans to convert?"

"Yeah right," Smecker muttered, turning fully around after the two women exited the chapel. "So how the hell have you been? You don't write, you don't call…"

"Sorry, Paul. We thought it'd be best for everyone."

"Can't help but notice the hole in the holy trinity – where's your old man?"

Connor blew out a breath. "Heart troubles a few months ago, had to send him home."

Smecker's eyebrows rose. "To the motherland? I'm sorry to hear it. Must have cost you big."

"Plane ticket, passport, new clothes…new identity. Everything has its price. This particular price is going to have us back at Noland's meatpacking in another week."

"Back to work already?"

There was no doubting the question he was really asking. "Come on now, Paul," Murphy said. "Are you going to tell us there's another reason you're here in the Lord's house?"

"Perhaps another confession for Father Tim?" Connor asked.

"I had a gut feeling. But I don't like to get my hopes up without reason," Smecker admitted. "I needed to see for myself."

"Well, we had some unfinished business to take care of."

"About time," Smecker said.

"How about yourself?" Murphy asked, realizing he'd actually missed the man.

"Aye, we caught your act on the telly," Connor said. "Office gettin' a bit crowded?"

"Not nearly as crowded as yours, apparently. Although I'm guessing Leo Buffone wasn't a new recruit."

Connor scoffed. "That'd be the fucking day."

Murphy could tell from the way Connor chewed his cheek that his brother had no more desire to tell this story than he did. Where to even start?

It was so quiet he could hear Smecker suck in a breath and hold it. "Well, fill me in anytime you want. It's only been the longest two days of my fucking life—but you know, whenever you're ready. Take your time."

"Thought you'd have it all worked out by now," Connor said, stalling. "With charts and diagrams."

"And reenactments."

"Give me a break, guys. I've got one upstanding witness who's lying her ass off to me, two guys that deserved to die, and one old lady that sure as hell didn't."

Involuntarily Murphy's eyes fell on the prayer shrine for Martha. "Scuderi was the target," he said. "When the ambulance showed up, we were going to bail, but then Buffone and his partner busted in to make a fucking hash of it all."

"We were only trying to save the medics at that point," Connor said. "The old woman – Martha – came out the dry cleaner's and started screaming. Buffone shot her before we could stop him."

"I'm guessing he didn't last long after that?"

Connor smiled without humor. "Evil man, dead man."

"Scuderi was next. But the hooded fucker got away."

Smecker pulled a small notebook from his suit jacket and flipped to a paper-clipped page. "Witness described the vehicle as a brown and tan early-eighties sedan," he said, "possibly a Buick or Oldsmobile Cutlass, with multiple dents along the passenger side and a broken rear window."

"Aye, the window'd be a recent development," Murphy said. "Courtesy of Connor."

"Anything to add?" Smecker asked.

"Other than a few bullets holes to the trunk, I'd say that's mighty fucking accurate. What else do you have from the, ah, witnesses?"

A crease that was almost a smile grew on Smecker's face. "Two masked gunmen. The fat one shoots Martha, the tall one shoots the fat one, then Scuderi. No official theory yet on how he managed to ventilate Scuderi from both sides simultaneously."

"She lied to protect us," Murphy said. "That going to be an issue for you?"

"Makes things interesting," Smecker said. "But we'll deal with it."

Connor chewed his cheek again. "What have you got on the fatty?" he asked.

"Leonardo Buffone. Dumb muscle, pure and simple. Dolly and Duffy are working through his known associates. He used to collect for Yakavetta, but since June he's been taking jobs for whoever's paying, usually Papa Joe's cousin Carmen Mancini. We're running Buffone's cell phone to check his recent calls."

"You don't sound too hopeful."

Smecker shook his head slightly. "Scuderi was scum, but he was high-profile scum. I don't think whoever's behind this would leave a trail."

"Scud's been scum for years. If he was so high-profile, how come the Feds never took him down?"

"The Bureau let him slide around the law, convinced he'd slip up and give them a way to take down Papa Joe. Scud was a big fish, but Papa Joe was a whale."

"Aren't you working the Organized Crime bit? Don't tell me it was your deal."

Smecker scratched an eyebrow. "By way of inheritance, yes. My predecessor was more of a watch and wait type, although to be fair, the approach has worked in a number of cases. Most of the time, people screw up."

Murphy thought of the sheer number of victims the Feds' approach left unprotected. "So while you're sitting around listening to wire taps, Yakavetta was taking out entire families to pad his profit margins."

"Easy there, Murph," Connor said. "Paul's born again, remember?"

Faint footsteps approached on the carpeted corridor beyond the chapel's open doorway. Sister Margaret tipped her head in. Gritting his teeth, Murphy bowed his head until she padded away.

Smecker gave Murphy a half-smile and continued, "The problem with Scuderi was that he never screwed up. He was Johnnie Cochran in the courthouse, Martha Stewart in the office. You never saw bullshit spelled out with such a clean and precise hand. A neurotic list maker, probably OCD, never missed a detail." Smecker picked a speck of lint from his lapel. "His testimony was going to be a fucking goldmine."

Connor's head tilted. "You mean-"

"He was going to turn state's evidence – Monday morning, eight a.m. We were supposed to send a car for him. Instead we sent the wagon."

"Oh, Jesus," Murphy breathed.

"Family business was getting pretty volatile in the wake of Papa Joe's…passing. Eugene felt it was a good time to retire and haul ass to Barbados."

"Guess it's good then we already took out half the men he'd have squealed on, then," Connor said. "Hell, by the time it's said and done, you'll never have needed Scuderi at all."

"I wish it were that simple," Smecker said, frowning. "It wasn't just the Yakavettas –taking down the rest of the family's just a perk. What we really wanted were his private files on everyone else."

A little red flag waved in Murphy's brain and he looked at Connor. "His files."

Smecker waved a hand impatiently. "Files, list, collection, whatever. Of contacts, wheel greasers, people who made life easier for Papa Joe and his thugs. The organization behind the organized crime – it can't operate in a vacuum."

"The guy," Connor said, "the one that got away-he asked Scuderi about some files."

"Really?" Smecker said. "My witness didn't mention that."

"You sure?" Murphy asked.

"That doesn't make sense," Connor said. "Even if she's trying to protect us – she'd want the real killer caught."

Smecker looked thoughtful. "Maybe she thought you two were after the same thing."

"God this is complicated," Connor said, rubbing his temples. "How's this work with that Beckman lad when you can't tell him how you got the intel?"

"Honestly, it's not going to be easy. He's sharp - he was the first one trying to pin this on the Saints. I had to put the kibash on his plans for a block-to-block man hunt."

"What?" Connor's eyebrows shot up. "News didn't mention anything about the police suspecting—I thought that was just the media spinning the story."

"Yes, well, this was before our trustworthy eyewitness swore on record that there were only two men involved Friday night. And the two-hundred-and-fifty pound meathead in the morgue doesn't fit one inch of the – pardon the terminology – serial killer profile…"

Murphy stiffened. You are a serial killer, he reminded himself, but it was like throwing stones against a brick wall. Something inside him wouldn't allow the label to stick.

"So she put him off the scent?" Connor asked.

"Not exactly. Now Beckman's convinced the paramedic's a liar. And he's not wrong. Her record up 'til now's immaculate, so you must have made quite an impression."

"I wasn't trying to make a fucking impression. I was trying to keep her alive."

"Tell us about this file of Scuderi's," Murphy said. "Business was booming for these fuckers. If Scuderi really kept a list, I'd imagine there's hell of a lot of names."

Smecker's voice dropped. "Businessmen, city council members, contractors, judges. We're not talking shmucks who got roped into paying protection, we're talking powerful people – people who stood to lose more than an aging defense attorney did. Scuderi was going to be under twenty-four hour protection once he came in."

"What went wrong?"

"Besides your ill-timed wrath of God? No fucking idea. The lid was airtight on this one. Nobody was going to take the chance of losing our best break in three decades."

"Fuck," Connor swore. "Jesus, man. Fuck. I wish we would have known – I mean, don't get me wrong, we still would've off'd him, but hell, we'd have let him go another week."

"Something tells me your new friends wouldn't have been so flexible. We'll have to downplay the fact they were after more than his wallet, hoping he'll give it another shot and we can nab him, and with any luck, get a hold of the files ourselves. Lord help us if this list gets into the wrong hands."

Suddenly the church organ began to play. Murphy couldn't keep his eyes from scanning the doorway to the sanctuary, expecting Sister Margaret to return at any moment.

Connor checked his watch. "This seems kind of obvious, but can't you just search Scud's office?"

"We're working on it. Defense attorneys – any law office, for that matter, but especially defense attorneys, get especially touchy on the subject of privacy laws and attorney-client privilege. Since his office isn't technically part of the crime scene, getting a warrant – which is critical if we want it admissible in court – is going to be a monumental pain in the ass." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "In the meantime, the more important focus is the one that got away."

The rumble of knees meeting prayer kneelers carried into the chapel from the sanctuary.

Murphy's eyes darted to the door. "We've got to wrap this up."

Smecker sighed. "I know. I guess my play-by-play can wait til next time." He got to his feet reluctantly. "Before I go, is there anything else you remember about the killer? Nearly half of Boston proper meets our current description."

"He's white for sure," Murphy told him, remembering the flash of pale skin when he'd hiked the guy's jacket up. "Fucking whiter than me. And he's got a tattoo. Not sure of what, but there's this tail that comes around the side onto his chest."

Smecker's eyes narrowed. "Perfect. I'll run it through the database. If he's done time, it might be in the system. Color or black ink?"

"Black. Right side. Like a devil's tail, but not exactly."

"Draw it for me."

All three glanced around for something to write on. Finding none, Smecker plucked a bible from the back of a pew and tore a page from the back.

Connor and Murphy stared at him.

"What? God understands."

"Sister Margaret won't," Murphy said, eyes darting to the arched doorway - mercifully still empty.

Smecker did have a pen, and Murphy took it, biting his lip as he tried to recall exactly what it was that had looked so strange and at the same time, so incredibly familiar.

He sketched the swirl of tail in long, smooth strokes, slowing when he reached the tip. Smecker and Connor leaned close over his shoulder as he hesitated. "Something was different here, something about the shape. Damn." He handed the pen back to Smecker. "It'll come to me, I know it will."

"Don't worry about it. If it gets any hits, we'll pull files, see if there's any photo documentation you can look at. For now, this is better than nothing."

Smecker pulled out his cell phone, hit a speed dial. "Greenly. I need you to…" Smecker held his phone away in disgust, "Are you in the friggin' john? …I don't give a flying fuck how much coffee you drank. Wipe your ass and listen to me… Yeah, it's about the triple." His eyes lifted to Murphy. "A hunch, just came to me. Divine inspiration…" He smiled a little, and ducked his head. "No, I'm not jerkin' your chain," he said quietly, "It's the real deal."

He'd have paid money to see Greenly's reaction. The Saints are back, he'd say, probably with a few expletives added. Murphy fought a strange urge to clap his hand over the mouthpiece.

"You ready?" Smecker was saying. "Query 'devil'…Try 'dragon' as well. One more thing – get me addresses for every tattoo parlor in the greater Boston area… No, just a list for now…is Beckman there? Make sure he stays out of it, got me?... Call me when it's done."

"Server's on the blink," Smecker explained, shrugging on his overcoat. "Could be a while before anything turns up."

"I know we've said it before, Paul," Connor said, shoving his hands his pockets. "But I'm saying it again, just so it's clear – you're under no obligation to take this any further - you or the others. We'll work with you to find this guy, but after that—if you want to walk away…"

"Nobody's walking. We chose this – each of us, remember that. Don't you go thinking for one minute that anybody's doing anything against their God-given free will. It's an honor, got that? An honor." He looked at each of them, hard, and Murphy felt a pang in his chest, and for some reason wished his father had been there to hear the words.

Connor cleared his throat. "What are you planning to do with the list of tattoo parlors?"

"For the moment, nothing. We'll see what the boys dig up about Buffone, and if this database search spits out anything. If it comes to it, we'll make the rounds. It'll be a bitch, since we'll have to go in unofficial, but I'm guessing most of these tattoo artists keep photos of their finished work."

Murphy's mind caught, grasping for a thought that flickered at the edge of his brain.

Connor was nodding. "The ones I know do. If this guy got it locally – it's a long shot, but it's possible we could find him. Original designs sometimes get marked with initials or a signature symbol – even if the photo's anonymous, we can talk to the artist."

And just like that, the clouds parted. Murphy smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Don't bother with the list. I know the artist. I'm a fucking idiot."

He grabbed the paper and pen and drew in the tip of the tail, rounding out the barbs then shading it all in to form a perfect black spade.

Connor took the paper from him. "Jake? As in One-Eyed-Jake's? You gotta be shittin' me." He handed the drawing to Smecker. "Jake Wheeler. Has a shop, down on Dorchester. Good man, phenomenal artist. The spade's his signature mark."

Murphy pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, ran his finger over the tiny spade tucked in the corner of the cross on his forearm. How in God's name had he missed it?

"I'll be damned," Smecker said, studying Murphy's mark closely. "It's beautiful work. This Wheeler a friend of yours?"

"Sort of," Murphy said, pulling his sleeve down. "We haven't spoken for a while."

"Bit of a falling out," Connor said, his eyes on Murphy. "Nothing that can't be mended."

"Well, get to mending," Smecker said. "If the man trusts you, you're already a step ahead."