Chapter Two

The Beginning of the End -- 2007

There was something to be said for Boston in the spring time.

During the winter, snow may blanket the city in such depth that it is measured by feet and not inches…but all of that fades into a distant memory as spring spreads her skirts across the city. Everything was in bloom…tulips, daffodils, trees, bushes…everything that had roots was pushing up blossoms of some sort, or so it seemed.

It had been two years since the sniper shooting. And Woody still didn't take for granted the steps he took unhindered by a wheelchair, walker, or cane. Rehab had been the hardest work of his life. But eight months after he was admitted to Massachusetts General, he walked out of there on his own. It was with a cane, but he walked. Walked again when the doctors and all the odds in the medical world said he never would.

That was two years ago this April -- that spring he had spent inside the four walls of a hospital room and then a rehab center looking out. This spring found him back at the Boston shore, running, much like he had with Jordan before the sniper's attack.

He no longer ran with Jordan. As a matter of fact, they no longer did anything together, other than occasionally catch the same homicide calls. When he had thrown her out of his hospital room, he never saw her again, except on work-related issues.

It was over between them. They had both truly moved on. The great, unspoken, acutely anticipated, often high-risk betting odds romance was over. He was seeing a sweet nurse he had met in the hospital…Leighanne Hughes. And from what Woody could tell, Jordan was dating, too. He didn't know who, and really didn't care to. But he did have enough charity in his heart towards her that he fervently hoped she found someone she could admit to loving and mean it…not out of pity, but out of the depths of her heart.

He took a deep breath and pushed himself to go another mile, exulting in the feel of his legs pounding beneath him. Pausing to finally catch his breath, he grimaced when his cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he knew it was his office. "Hoyt," he said, into the receiver, knowing he sounded winded.

"Woody? What the hell is going on? You sound out of breath. Did I interrupt something?" It was Framus. Woody knew what was going through Roz's mind.

"You'd sound out of breath, too, if you would get off your lazy, out-of-shape ass and run six miles."

Framus laughed softly into the receiver, relieved she hadn't caught her partner in an intimate moment with Leighanne. "Well, I'm not much of a runner…I'll just stick to my weight lifting and pilates. Anyway, dude, we have shooting at Fifth and Vine. Can you take it?"

"Sure. I'm on my way. Tell me about it."

"Seems that the spring heat is already playing on some tempers. We have a shooter who decided to take out his dislike of the weather on two people in an alley way."

"At Fifth and Vine?"

"Yeah."

I'm there." Woody snapped his phone shut. Fifth and Vine…not the best section of Boston…kind of seedy … a little sinister. The atmosphere could actually be summed up in two words: Mob controlled.

Woody doubted that this was an ordinary shooting.

Donning his Kevlar and stepping out of his car, Woody quickly took in the chaotic scene. Bystanders…some shocked, some crying…three black and whites…assorted uniforms everywhere. Two bodies, already covered with morgue sheets. Thankfully, no sign of Jordan, but he recognized Nigel and Garret. Woody spoke briefly to the first officer on the scene, then turned his attention to the ME's. "Nigel…Garret…" he greeted them. "What do we have?"

"Small caliber…close range," said Nigel.

"Close range as in to the back of the head," Garret continued. He held Woody's steady gaze.

"A hit?" Woody asked, indicating a mob take down.

"It has all the signs," Nigel said, shaking his head at the repercussions this action could have on this section of mob-controlled Boston.

"Do we have any ID on the victims?" Woody asked, surveying the bullet wounds himself.

"They're clean…no ID…nothing. Their pockets were turned inside out," Nigel answered.

"To make it look like the robbery it probably isn't," said Woody, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Get them back to the morgue and see if you can get a name for me? Please?"

"Sure thing," Nigel answered, assisting Garret in loading the bodies. "I'll give you a call as soon as we know something."

"Hey, Detective Hoyt," called a uniform officer. "Just got a call from Unit 53. They believe they caught the shooter. They're bringing him in now for questioning."

For the first time that morning, Woody smiled. At least something was going right today.

"What's his name?" Woody asked Framus, as he walked into their offices.

"You mean the alleged shooter?"

"Yeah…"

"According to his own admission and the driver's license he's carrying, he's one Charles Campbell."

"Any priors?"

"A few…nothing violent like this, though. A few B&E's, a domestic disturbance or two, but nothing particularly violent…nothing that would make you think he was capable of this."

"Maybe he moved up the ranks in the mob…"

"You really think this shooting is mob connected, Hoyt?"

Woody shook his head. "It appears to be. I'll find out soon enough. I always do. What interrogation room is he in?"

"Number four."

Woody grabbed the file on Charles Campbell and entered the room. "So…Charles…it seems you've moved up in the world of mob activity. From a little B&E to a little wife beating to a little killing…care to tell me what this is all about?"

Charles remained silent, smoking a cigarette and ignoring Woody, hunched over the table, a dirty blue ball cap on his head and at least two days worth of beard on his face.

"Charles…it's in your best interest to talk to me now…and let me see what I can do with the DA."

"I don't want to talk."

"You're looking at a life sentence. You know that, don't you? We have eye witnesses that can put you at the scene."

Charles nodded. "I know."

"And you don't want to do anything to try to help yourself?'

Charles shook his head. "Look, Detective…you caught me…dead to rights. I admit it. So let's cut through the bullshit. You and I both know I can't say a word…or I won't make it before the judge to get a life sentence. I'll be six feet under before I walk out of this county jail." He flicked his cigarette ashes in the ash tray beside his arm and held Woody's gaze.

The man was speaking the truth. If he ratted out who commissioned the hit, the mob would have him killed one way or the other within days of his confession. Woody sighed. "So why did you do it, Charles…there's nothing in your record that screams mob hit man. A mob burglar, yes…but not a hit man."

Charles flicked his cigarette again and rubbed the stubble on his chin with his other hand. "Call it paying off a debt."

"And you won't tell me anything?"

"Nope."

Woody looked at the alleged perp for a long moment. "Okay, Charles. I'll take what you said to the DA…but she won't go easy on you …I warn you. Walcott can be a bitch."

He was nearly at the door when Charles spoke up again. "Detective…I can't give you the person behind this shooting…but what if I can give you the person behind a 14 year-old murder?"

Woody turned around and walked back to the table. Spinning a chair around backwards so he could straddle it, he leaned both arms on the table. "Okay…you've got my interest…I can't promise anything…that's an old case…but I will take what you tell me before Walcott and see if I can't get her to go easy on you…if this information pans out."

Charles took another long drag off his cigarette before grinding it out in the ash tray. "Good enough for me," he told Woody. "And I guaran-damn-tee it will pan out, Detective."

"Okay…what murder are we talking about?"

"Daniel and Claire Rosen."