Chapter 10. A Call to Arms
Clutching another bundle of folders to her chest, Mrs. Warren ambles down the long, tiled hallway toward Superintendent Grant's office. For weeks, she's rummaged through boxes of water-damaged case files and has yet to uncover anything meaningful for the Superintendent. She hopes he isn't disappointed with her performance. She hopes he doesn't ask Mrs. Dreisen, her supervisor, to replace her with someone younger, faster, and with sharper eyes. Hesitating outside of the office, she glances skyward for a moment, then walks inside.
"I have more files, Superintendent Grant," she says cheerily.
"Mhm," Fitz mumbles with head bowed and reading a document on the desk.
"Are we making progress?" Mrs. Warren asks, setting the latest batch of folders on top of the New stack.
Fitz' head snaps up at the word we. He stares at Mrs. Warren's kind face, realizing he hasn't told her much, if anything, about the project. She's obviously invested in the work and deserves to know why she's spending so much time in the basement.
"Over the past few months," he begins, "there have been a rash of crimes across the city — small —nothing major." Mrs. Warren stops setting folders on the desk and stares at him with keen interest in her eyes. "On the surface these crimes seem random and unconnected, but …"
"But what?" Mrs. Warren says eagerly.
"Well, the crimes bring to mind a case I believe I heard about while in law school. Perhaps it was just a story one of my law professors mentioned in passing. I can't remember the details."
Heart racing with excitement, Mrs. Warren sits down in one of the chairs situated in front of the desk. She leans forward and places her forearm on the desk.
"Did you Google it?" she asks quickly. Fitz smiles. He's surprised the woman knows about the internet.
"I did. I even researched Harvard's law library. It's the circumstances of the crimes that I don't like —the design of them. On the surface they look like random acts, but it feels like there may be a pattern to the randomness."
"What kind of pattern?" Mrs. Warren asks.
"I'm not sure. I have no firm data to support it— just gut 's like shining a flashlight down a dark alley. I guess it's where the light goes whether there's anything there or not."
"Facts are good, Superintendent Grant, but sometimes you must trust your shining that flashlight— you'll find what you're looking for."
"Thank you, Mrs. Warren. I appreciate all your help. It can't be pleasant going down into the basement."
"I'm fine, Superintendent," Mrs. Warren says, leaving the office feeling like a valued team member.
XXX
In the early years, Police Commissioner John Freeley established monthly meetings with his three superintendents and the mayor's communications director. Every third Tuesday at nine a.m. they discuss departmental challenges, successes, and future goals. The meeting leader, the person responsible for planning the meeting and keeping discussions on track, would change monthly. Fitz is leading this month's meeting.
For the past twenty minutes Fitz has stood at the lectern, running through the agenda items and answering questions from the attendees. As a guest, Olivia sits at the far end of the oval-shaped conference table quietly typing notes; she barely looks at him. All heads turn when the door swings open and Edison casually strolls into the conference room and plops down in the chair next to Olivia. He doesn't bother to explain or apologize for his tardiness. Instead, he leans over to Olivia, pressing his broad shoulder to hers, whispers in her ear, and then chuckles. She doesn't whisper back. Fitz stops his presentation mid-sentence when he hears Edison tittering. He turns and shoots Edison a withering look. Freeley, Mike, and Cyrus' eyes follow Fitz' cold, hard stare.
"Superintendent Davis, you arrive twenty minutes late for a regularly scheduled meeting. You further disrespect your colleagues by whispering to Dr. Pope and chuckling like you're in a high school music class. Would you like to share your thoughts with the rest of us or are they for Dr. Pope's ears only?"
Oh my God, Olivia thinks, he's invoked my name twice. Her eyes stay on the screen. Edison straightens in his chair and the two lawmen glare at each other. The tension is palpable.
Fitz continues. "Is there anything else you want to say to Dr. Pope before I get back to the business at hand?"
"As a matter of fact, I want to say something to you," Edison says, disrupting the tenor of the meeting. He stands from his seat and crosses his muscled forearms over his broad chest. "Why don't you tell everyone about the ghosts you're chasing? Tell our colleagues why you have a frail, elderly Black woman crawling around the dank basement of this building— scrounging for who knows what."
All eyes, including Olivia's, are on Fitz' crimson-colored face. Like spectators at a legendary Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier knock-down-drag-out boxing match, they sit in breathless silence, waiting for the fight to begin. Mike Shaughnessy shifts in his chair, preparing to spring into action and separate the two rivals, if necessary. Fitz looks squarely at Edison for a long moment and then responds.
"Superintendent Davis, I don't have to explain to you how I choose to run my department."
Olivia wonders why he's dodging the question.
"Isn't that what these meetings are supposed to be about —sharing information?" Edison smirks as he scans the tense faces for confirmation. "If you don't want to tell us, well, I'm sure certain members of the community would like to know that another Grant is abusing his authority to demean defenseless Black people."
Unperturbed by Edison's obvious race-baiting, Fitz slowly shakes his head, wondering when will the race crap end. Everyone knows this city, hell, this country, has a dark history when it comes to Black and white race matters.
Police Commissioner Freeley looks between the two nemeses glowering at each other and then breaks the stare-down.
"That's enough, Superintendent Davis. In the interest of time, let's add the topic to next month's agenda. And in the future, get here on time," he growls. "Move on to the next agenda item, Superintendent Grant."
Turning back to the projector screen, Fitz catches a glimpse of Edison conspiratorially whispering in Olivia's ear, again. Thirty-five minutes later he ends the meeting.
With a self-satisfied smile on his face, Edison is the first to leave the conference room. Cyrus leaves next. Mike shoots Fitz a disapproving look, then walks over to Olivia.
"Are you all right? Fitz shouldn't have put you in the middle of his fight with Edison. Those guys will never get along."
"I'm fine," she says with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
"Good. Take care, Olivia," Mike says, giving her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze before walking into the hall.
As she leaves the conference room, Olivia looks back at Fitz with a fresh level of disdain.
She's angry, Fitz thinks when he sees the expression on her face. He starts to follow her but Commissioner Freeley calls him.
"Hang back a minute, Grant. I want to talk to you."
XXX
Later that afternoon, Cyrus knocks on Fitz' office door, waiting to be invited inside. He frowns at the stacks of folders on the usually pristine desk and the familiar smell of mildew.
"What can I do for you, Cyrus?" Fitz says, flipping through a binder on the desk.
"What was that little dust-up between you and Edison earlier?" Cyrus says, irritation filling his voice. Fitz looks up from the binder and then leans back in the chair.
"Edison was being a disruptive ass."
"You were being an ass, too, sir." Fitz' face hardens. "Did that little exchange have anything to do with that so-called historian? Because what I saw looked liked two horny teenagers trying to impress the new girl on campus at Central High."
Fitz sighs with annoyance. He leans forward and reaches for the tin of mints.
"What do you want, Cyrus?"
"You need to keep your head in the game, sir. Freeley had his eyes on you the entire meeting. He seemed impressed. The mayor says Freeley wants to delegate more of his responsibilities— with retirement being around the corner. He may have you in mind to handle more of his work."
"He mentioned something like that after the meeting," Fitz says disinterestedly.
"That's good. Really good. Freeley can put in a good word for you with the mayor.
"What else, Cyrus?"
"What the hell did Davis mean by you chasing ghosts? And is there another Black woman running around here I don't know about?"
"I'm getting help with a project I'm working on."
"You don't have time for side projects or side chicks. Let one of your lieutenants handle whatever it is you're working on," Cyrus says, turning and storming from the office.
XXX
It's Friday, the last day of the school year, and the restless students are ready to start their summer vacation. With great anticipation, they stare at their phones, waiting for further instructions. For the past few days, an anonymous online organizer has posted messages promoting a big, fun-filled event. When the school bell rings, hundreds of kids burst through the doors of their respective schools. They invade the streets of Boston like a pack of wild animals, stopping traffic at major intersections to dance and perform stunts. Others run through Boston Common and other parts of the city dressed in costumes and being a general nuisance. As quickly as the chaos started, it ended, leaving behind frightened and annoyed citizens.
XXX
The next night, wearing a dowdy, pale blue nightgown, Mellie sits in bed with her back pressed against the wooden headboard and legs stretched in front of her. She's reading another one of her ever-present women's magazines as Fitz showers in the small bathroom a few steps away. She sighs heavily when the water stops running. With a towel wrapped around his waist and drying his hair with another towel, Fitz walks into the bedroom and searches through the drawer for pajamas. There was a time when he preferred sleeping in the nude. When the towel around his waist falls to the floor, Mellie turns a page, his nakedness is of no interest to her.
Fitz steps into a pair of plaid pajama pants, pulls a gray T-shirt over his head, and returns the damp towels to the bathroom. He comes back, checks his watch on the night table, plugs in his phone, and then climbs into bed. The bed is not large, but an ocean of space separates them.
"What was that raucous all about with those kids yesterday?" Mellie asks, still staring down at the magazine. "A bunch of them ran past the center when I was leaving work."
"It was nothing— just spoiled, bored children behaving badly," he says flatly.
"I hope Jerry and Karen never get involved in anything like that."
"Karen wants to buy new clothes while we're in New York," Fitz says.
"Talk about being spoiled," Mellie says half under her breath. Fitz turns his head and stares at her questioningly.
"Are you okay with that?"
"Whatever Karen wants," Mellie says in a clipped tone.
"She also wants to go to Coney Island. Did you decide if we have time?"
"I guess we'll have to make time for Karen."
"It's her birthday, Mellie."
"I said fine."
"Good night."
Fitz rolls onto his side and turns off the lamp. Mellie stays sitting up in bed, flipping through another magazine. Their marital bedroom is like a conference room— impersonal and all business. Intimacy is not on the agenda.
XXX
All weekend, Mrs. Warren thought about the information Superintendent Grant shared with her about their project. She couldn't wait for Monday morning so she could get down to BPD's basement and search through more boxes. She's up to the year 1983.
"Mrs. Warren?" The elderly woman jumps at the sound of the voice. She squints down the dimly lit aisle where she sees Lawrence, from the Maintenance Department, walking from the rear of the basement.
"Lawrence, you nearly scared me to death," she says, hand pressed against her chest and staring up at the large, powerfully built young man. "What on earth are you doing down here? I've never seen you down here."
"I don't come down every day. Just Mondays."
"Are you down here smoking? You know this is a smoke-free building."
"I don't smoke, ma'am. Why are you down here?"
"I'm doing research," she says proudly, holding the folders to her chest.
"You got a lot of folders to carry. Whatcha researching?"
"I can't talk about it— like I won't talk about you down here smoking and doing who knows what else."
"Wait right here, I got something for you," Lawrence says, turning and disappearing in the direction he came. Moments later he returns pushing an old steel cart.
"It ain't much but you can use it to wheel around your research," motioning his head toward the folders she's clutching like bars of gold.
Mrs. Warren's face lights up with delight. "Thank you, Lawrence. This is going to be a big help." She sets the folders on the cart and starts to leave but stops short as if she forgot something. "Remember, don't get caught doing something down here you ought not be doing. You lose your job and that girlfriend of yours won't hang around for long. I've seen her, she likes nice things."
A few minutes later, Cyrus Beene slithers from the rear of the basement, adjusting his belt.
"Who is she and why is she down here?" Cyrus asks bitterly.
"She works in the east tower. She's just getting some old files."
"Hmm. I'll see you next week," Cyrus says, patting the big man on his broad shoulder before walking from the basement.
XXX
The wheels are wobbly and loud, and rust is caked on the two shelves, but the old pushcart is a godsend for . Now she can quickly transport more files back and forth between the basement and third floor. She pushes open the office door with the front of the cart, scratching the paint. Fitz glances up from his laptop and rubs his chin, wondering where Mrs. Warren got the cart. He doesn't ask.
"Superintendent Grant, you have to do something about those miscreants."
"Miscreants?" he says, staring at the woman with raised eyebrows.
"Those juvenile delinquents. They nearly knocked me down on Friday while I was waiting for my bus. I guess they thought terrorizing old people was a good way to start their weekend."
"Mrs. Warren, I don't work with the Juvenile Division," he says, watching her replenish the stack of New folders.
"Well, you ought to. Somebody's gotta stop them. Who knows what they'll do next."
"Flash mobs pop up every now and then. They're generally harmless."
Mrs. Warren stares at him pointedly. "That's not true. Like falling dominoes, one bad act grows out of another—setting off a chain reaction."
"What do you have for me today?" he asks, ready to move on to more important business.
"Digging through those old boxes brings back a whole lot of memories," she says, setting folders from the Return stack onto the cart.
Fitz sighs softly. He feels another one of Mrs. Walker's long-winded stories coming.
"Do you remember I told you about that old manual typewriter I used when I started working here?"
Fitz nods his head respectfully as he glances back at the budget spreadsheet displayed on the laptop screen.
"It took me forever to type my reports on that machine. Some of those reports were thirty-forty pages long. Single-spaced."
Half listening, Fitz nods his head again as he stares at the screen.
"My supervisor back then, Mrs. Tobin, said I had to use that old manual typewriter. I hated that typewriter. She said working on that machine would help me become a better typist— get me ready for the real thing. The real thing, that's what she called those fancy electric typewriters. That woman drilled in us girls all the time the importance of practice."
Like a shot, Fitz sits up in the chair, staring anxiously at the elderly woman. "What did you say?"
She wrinkles her brow. "I didn't like that old manual typewriter?"
"No, after that," he says excitedly. Mrs. Warren looks up to the left, racking her brain.
"Umm… Mrs. Tobin drilled in our heads the importance of practice?"
"Yes. Practice. That's it, Mrs. Warren!"
Mrs. Warren smiles. She's not quite sure why the Superintendent is so animated.
"Mrs. Warren, find me everything you can on the Richard Davenport gang. Circa 1985."
"I remember that case."
"You do?" surprise filling his voice.
"You should've told me that's what you were looking for. That Richard Davenport was one smart crook. A meticulous planner."
"Mrs. Warren, sit down and tell me everything you know about the Davenport gang."
"Well, like I said, Richard Davenport was smart—had a high IQ. Too smart for his own good. He came from a wealthy family, but he couldn't get along with his father or anyone else for that matter."
"The case, Mrs. Warren," Fitz says, gingerly prodding the woman.
"That was a big case— a lot of investigators were assigned to it. They all did things differently—no system for interviewing witnesses and note taking. Each one used their own shorthand to take notes. They had the worst handwriting ever. I bet they didn't go to Catholic school. They teach good penmanship in Catholic school. Didn't you go to Catholic school? Your handwriting isn't too good, though."
Fitz covers his mouth with his hand, stifling a laugh. He waits patiently for Mrs. Warren to tell the story the way she wants to tell it.
"I finally got to use one of those fancy electric typewriters, and I was ready. Three or four of us girls were assigned to type up the investigators' notes for the Davenport case. We girls had to clarify with each investigator what we thought we read. That took a lot of time because sometimes the investigators couldn't read their own handwriting. After all that back and forth, us girls knew the case as well as they did."
"Can you find those reports?" Fitz says, sitting on the edge of his seat.
"That was a long time ago — but I believe I can," she adds quickly. "I remember those files were stored in different parts of the basement after the flood. It'll take me a while, but I'll find them."
"Do your best, Mrs. Warren," Fitz says, reaching across the desk and giving her hands a gentle squeeze.
"I'm on it, Superintendent," she says, feeling like they're getting close to something.
Fitz sits back in the chair thinking the pieces of the puzzle are slowly coming together. He chuckles softly, thinking Mrs. Warren is BPD's unsung historian. He wonders what other institutional knowledge is hidden in her memory.
XXX
Between one and three a.m. Sunday morning, the Boston Police Department Emergency 9-1-1 Center is flooded with calls from angry and frustrated citizens. Revving, high-performance engines and screeching tires are interrupting their slumber. Scores of so-called car enthusiasts are drag-racing and doing burnouts and donuts throughout the city; hundreds of drunken spectators cheer them on.
Half asleep, Fitz reaches for his ringing phone on the nightstand; Police Commissioner Freeley is calling. He's mad. Mrs. Freeley can't sleep because of the damn noise from all the cars. He wants something done about it. Now. Fitz showers quickly, brushes his teeth, and gets dressed. He whispers to Mellie that she will have to drive the children to church later this morning. This is the first time in years that he will miss Sunday Mass.
On the way to headquarters, all is quiet at 4:00 am. The drivers and spectators have dispersed, leaving behind streets marred with tire burn marks in the shape of circles. Beer bottles, red plastic cups, and half-eaten food are strewn across private properties and throughout The Common. When Fitz arrives at headquarters, he's immediately greeted in the garage by a bleary-eyed Cyrus, holding a cup of coffee in each hand.
"The mayor got to me first. Mike and Davis are already in the conference room," he says grimly. "I thought you could use this," handing Fitz a coffee.
"Thanks, Cy. What do we know so far?"
"Aside from the fact that the mayor's and commissioner's wives were awoken from their beauty sleep by a bunch of rough riders —not much else. You know meetups are common, but what went down tonight isn't. Officers on the scenes say they've never seen anything like it. Cars, motorcycles, dirt bikes were everywhere, not just down by the highway where they usually hang out."
XXX
Fitz and Cyrus walk into the conference room where an equally sleep-deprived Mike and Edison are slouched in their chairs. Fitz sets the coffee cup on the conference table and removes his jacket. Cyrus slides six packs of raw sugar from his pocket and sets them on the table next to Fitz' coffee cup.
"Good morning," Fitz says, tearing open packs of sugar, two at a time, and dumping them into the black coffee.
"Good of you to finally join us," Edison quips. "You didn't bring coffee for everyone?" Fitz ignores Edison sarcastic comments.
"What can you tell us, Mike?" Fitz asks, sitting down at the table across from Edison. He takes a sip of coffee.
Mike presses a button on the wall and the ceiling-mounted projector screen at the front of the room starts to lower. He connects his laptop to the projector to share his screen with the team. A large map of Greater Boston is displayed on the screen.
Mike begins. "Calls started coming into the 911 Call Center around one a.m. They came in every few minutes after that. The operators couldn't keep up. Each red pin on the map shows the approximate location for each meetup." Mike highlights the locations with the projector pointer.
"Damn," Edison says, leaning forward in his chair and squinting at the clusters of red pins on the map.
Propping his head up with his fist, Fitz stares intently at the map, and asks, "Is there a pattern?"
"Not really. As you can see the meetups were in almost every neighborhood. My team, however, uncovered talk in an obscure chat room where someone posted messages encouraging people to join the biggest meetup ever."
Fitz thinks about Mrs. Warren's admonishment: one bad act growing out of another. He thinks about Richard Davenport, the criminal who planned a series of small crimes in preparation for the major event. Random but not random. All the pieces of the puzzle are finally in place.
"We've been thinking about these events all wrong," Fitz says, still focused on the map. "None of this is random. This all started months ago with small, seemingly unrelated crimes."
"Here we go again," Edison says with a tired and bored expression on his face.
"Those minor crimes. The flash mobs last week. The meetups tonight. It's like a call to arms. Someone is orchestrating these events and using our citizens as pawns."
"I should've taken you more seriously, Fitz," Mike says glumly.
"Do you have any idea what this dark organizer is after?" Cyrus asks.
"I haven't a clue. Is Commissioner Freeley in the building?"
"Our fearless leader is late like you," Edison snarks again. Fitz pulls his phone from his pocket.
"Who are you calling?" Cyrus asks.
"The mayor." Edison scowls, envious that Fitz has a direct line to the mayor.
"Good morning, sir. Yes, I'm sure Mrs. Keegan was upset. … Many people were." Edison snickers as Fitz tries to mollify the mayor. "We need to meet with you as soon as possible, sir."
XXX
An hour later, the superintendents, Cyrus, and Police Commissioner Freeley meet with a tieless and angry Mayor Keegan in a large conference room in City Hall. Edison tries to stifle a yawn but it's like trying to put toothpaste back into the tube.
"Are we boring you, Superintendent Davis?" Keegan asks sourly.
No. It's just … I've been up before the crack of dawn."
"Haven't we all," the mayor growls. Cyrus smiles sneakily.
"What the hell is going on, Freeley? There's been nothing but chaos in this city for the past few weeks. Voters are calling my office every hour on the hour. They want this madness to end."
The clueless police commissioner looks over at Fitz for answers. Fitz begins.
"Mayor Keegan, I believe what we've been seeing is the work of an individual or group of individuals who are using these events as practice."
"Practice? What do you mean, practice?" Keegan growls, scowling at Fitz.
"I believe everything that has happened may be a precursor to something bigger."
"A precursor to what?" Keegan demands. His scowl deepening.
"I honestly don't know, but these events resonate with a similar case that my assistant and I uncovered recently." Cyrus bristles at the word assistant. "In 1985 Richard Davenport, a lifelong criminal, planned what he thought was the perfect crime. He and his gang staged dry-runs—committed small crimes to prepare for a more lucrative payday."
"What was this bigger payday?" Freeley asks, looking over at Fitz again.
"A five-million-dollar bank robbery."
"Bank robbery!" Mayor Keegan scoffs. "That's preposterous. Banks don't hold that kind of cash in vaults. Besides, five million dollars is pennies in today's world."
"I don't know what our modern-day mastermind wants, but whatever it is we need to be prepared. He's ratcheting up his game and may pull the trigger any day," Fitz says.
"It'll be like looking for a goddamn needle in a haystack. We don't know who we're looking for or what he wants," Mayor Keegan snarls.
"Richard Davenport was motivated by money, but he also wanted to prove how smart he was."
"So, we're dealing with a narcissist as well," Keegan grouses, now pacing around the room.
"We need to figure out what in Boston would satisfy both of his desires," Fitz says. Silence fills the air for a few moments.
"The Ming diamond," Edison says casually. All heads turn and stare at him with questioning eyes. "The International Geological Society is holding its annual conference at the Boston Convention and Exhibition Center. This year, China agreed to display the rarest and largest diamond in the world at the convention. It's never been out of China. Bringing it to America is a way for them to build trust with the American people."
"How do you know this?" Cyrus demands harshly.
"One, I'm the head of the Investigative Services Bureau— it's my job to know these things." Mayor Keegan nods his head with approval. Cyrus grimaces. "My team coordinated with convention center security and the Chinese government to secure the diamond. Two, I like jewelry," pushing up the cuff of his shirt sleeve to display a thick gold bracelet on his wrist.
"We don't know if this person is after this Ming diamond," Cyrus retorts, wanting to diminish Edison's theory in the eyes of the mayor. "We could be wasting valuable resources chasing a ghost."
"Do you have any better ideas what this person might be after?" Keegan says, eyeing Cyrus sternly.
"I just don't think we should put all our eggs in one basket, sir."
"I'm not worried about damned eggs, Cyrus. I'm concerned about protecting that diamond and getting re-elected in November!"
"Whoever is behind this isn't interested in a bunch of space rocks that have fallen from the sky," Edison says, "they want this."
"Fuck!" Fitz exclaims, his mouth hanging open as he stares at a picture of the Ming diamond on the screen. "That has to be worth — "
"It's priceless," Edison interjects. "It would be insulting to the Chinese people to put a price tag on it. For thousands of years—long before America the Beautiful was even a thing— Chinese dynasties have fought and died to protect this rare hunk of carbon. Losing it on American soil would be akin to starting War World III."
"I want this person apprehended before he can get a whiff of that diamond," Mayor Keegan barks. "Grant, I want you to lead this effort. Find out who the hell is behind this and put his ass under the jail. I'll make sure you have all the resources you need." Edison glowers at Fitz, but even he knows this isn't the time for envy.
"You'll need to have the Governor send in the National Guards and state troopers to blanket the convention center— inside and out," Fitz says. "Superintendent Davis' team and the other security over there won't be enough to protect the diamond." Edison grudgingly nods his head in agreement.
"Done," Keegan says, his phone already pressed to his ear.
"The convention started on Wednesday. It ends this evening at six o'clock," Edison adds, glancing down at the expensive watch on his wrist. "We have twelve hours to make sure the Ming diamond is on the next flight to China."
"Then we better get started," Fitz says.
"Wait," Edison says, "if this person is so smart, don't you think by now he knows we've figured out what he's up to? Don't you think he'll create another distraction, bigger than flash mobs and meetups, so he can pull off the heist?"
"We need to find that damn computer he's using," Mike says.
"Find the computer and we find the man behind all of this," Fitz says. "Mr. Mayor, we're going to need the FBI to track down that computer."
XXX
The FBI Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch (CCRSB) investigates various crimes, including cybercrimes— criminal activities that are carried out using digital devices and/or networks. Through an elaborate combination of GPS, wireless access points, cell towers, and IP addresses, a team of CCRSB analysts quickly tracked the computers used to dispatch the flash mob and car meetup participants. The computers were traced to a penthouse suite at the downtown Ritz-Carlton.
When the FBI and BPD SWAT raided the penthouse, they didn't find armed gangsters dressed in black clothing and finalizing plans to snatch the Ming diamond. What they found was astonishing to say the least. In the sitting area, was a disgusting amount of half-eaten food— enough to feed a small army. Beluga caviar and crackers, shrimp cocktail, Prime rib steaks, charcuterie boards loaded with assortments of cheeses, meats, fruits, and nuts covered several tables. Bottles of red and white wine sat open on the bar. Pastries of all sorts were lined on another table. On the table next to the pastries sat three laptops, recently purchased online from Amazon. The empty shipping boxes were stacked in a corner.
Law enforcement officers burst into the bathroom and found Nikola Djokovic luxuriating in a bubble bath and sipping Dom Perignon champagne from a fluted, crystal Baccarat glass. She was monitoring activities throughout the convention center and downtown Boston on a large television mounted on the wall across from the massive bathtub. In one hour, she planned to unleash thousands of people on the streets of Boston to create mayhem and destruction. While the police would struggle to control the unruly crowds, she would snatch the Ming diamond and casually disappear down the street to her other penthouse suite at the Four Seasons hotel on Boylston Street.
A twenty-year-old MIT drop-out, three laptop computers, and a television monitor comprised the gang that, for weeks, irritated and confounded Bostonians. Like Richard Davenport, Nikola Djokovic thought she was smart enough to get away with pulling off the perfect caper. Like Richard Davenport, she failed.
The BPD and its law enforcement partners saved the Ming diamond and possibly prevented World War III. Later that evening, they celebrate their success at DiMaggio's; drinking, eating, and laughing about the wannabe criminal mastermind who held the city hostage from a hotel room bathtub.
Boom!
The Old-World Italian restaurant shutters. Dishes on the tables rattle. Paintings on the wall crash to the floor. Police car sirens start to wail. The lawmen stop laughing. Wide eyed, Fitz stares at his partners, wondering earthquake or a bomb. Their phones start to ring.