Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) by Brian Shea (novel books to read TXT) 📗

"Why's that?" Salinger joined the group.

Mills shared the photograph with the small cluster surrounding her, holding it up for all to see like a grade school teacher reading a picture book. It was taken from inside the café.

Kelly edged closer. "What are we supposed to be seeing?"

"This is a picture from the inside of the café where the bomb was detonated."

"I can see that. What are we looking at in particular?” Langston showed no amusement at the bomb lesson.

"See here?" She tapped a portion of the image showing a dark burn mark against the wall. "This is where the bomb detonated. It used to be one of those counters for sugar and cream. The bomber set the device beside the trash can."

"Could've got turned around when he dropped it, right?" Salinger offered. Langston silenced him with a look.

"Again, everything is a possibility, but I still think it was planned."

"All right. Let's say it was planned. Why would our bomber direct the blast inside?" Kelly asked.

"Every bomb has a purpose. The people who design these, especially one of this nature, are extremely meticulous. And with that, their targets are also chosen by design."

Kelly thought about the Attucks monument. "Maybe it was picked because of the historic significance of that area?"

"You can't walk ten feet in this city without stepping on some piece of history." Langston shot down Kelly's offering without effort.

"It's a possibility." Mills softened the blow. "But until we receive a claim or manifesto, we won't know for sure. In the interim, I think we need to be looking at the people inside that café, the ones who died."

"Why is that?" Salinger asked.

"Because if this person, this bomber, angled that device so that it faced out toward the glass and the street, we'd be looking at a totally different scenario. I think they angled it inward for a specific reason."

"And what's that?" Langston asked, fatigue in his eyes as he wiped a new bead of sweat making its way past his bristly mustache from the corner of his mouth.

"This may not be a political statement at all. I think we could be looking at an assassination."

"An assassination?"

"I've compiled the list of nine people killed in the blast. I think we can safely rule out the child, and most likely the mother."

"Unless the father had something to do with it," Langston said.

Kelly thought of the father he'd seen earlier. His brain could not make the leap. He'd been doing this job long enough, had met killers. Some who'd killed their spouses and children. He'd seen it all during his tenure. Yet his mind could not connect the dot that said the father he'd seen was capable of carrying out such a deed. Without any evidence to prove otherwise, he felt that the accusation was unjustly laid at the wrong feet. "I don't think that's our guy."

"Oh yeah, hotshot?"

"Yeah," Kelly said. "You didn't see him."

"You willing to stake your badge on that, hero?"

"No."

"I am," Barnes said.

"Oh. Isn't that cute," Langston offered. "All right. Let's humor our Boston friends here and temporarily take the mother and child off the table as potential targeted victims. Then what are we left with?"

"We've got a group of cyclists and a barista who were killed. All of them are worth looking into, but someone else stood out to me in particular. He was seated on the opposite wall from the trash can where the bomb went off. And in the direct line of fire to receive the full force of the blast."

"And who's that?" Langston asked.

"Patrick Adams."

"Am I supposed to know the name?" His beady eyes narrowed.

"No. Well, I don't know, but he's an international businessman with ties to both Ireland and the US. A little research shows he's politically connected to several candidates here in Massachusetts and is well known in the Boston area as a philanthropist."

"What kind of business did he run?" Kelly asked.

"He ran a successful chain of car dealerships between here and Rhode Island. I've done a little digging, but as of right now I'm not seeing anything on the business end that would raise any red flags. My thought was maybe it was tied to his political agenda. He was supporting the gubernatorial run of Caleb McLaughlin." Mills slid the photo back inside the file. "My biggest fear is that whoever's behind this is not done yet."

7

Gordy Simpson hated his job, but never more than he did today. He trailed behind his boss, Sean Jordan, real estate mogul and entrepreneur, who had just secured the biggest deal of their lives. A massive renovation plan scheduled to break ground in six months’ time. The leasing opportunities and land space were at the center of a bargaining war lasting the better part of the last two and a half years. And today they landed the contract of a lifetime. The deal would potentially net the business millions, if not hundreds of millions.

Simpson should've been celebrating. But he was frustrated. No, pissed off. He knew the deal’s success hinged on his efforts. If he hadn't put in eighty-plus hours a week on handling the details, it never would've been brokered. It wasn't the money. He was smart enough to know every successful person had to start somewhere. Simpson had been selective when it came to his choice in employers, accepting the sixty-seven thousand annual salary when some of his college buddies were starting at twice that. Simpson was in it for the long game, and Jordan was his ticket.

The low pay was a small, short-term loss with long-term gain. Making the real money, the life-changing kind of money, took a different kind of effort reserved for only the most elite. The reason he hated his job had nothing to do with the project, or his less-than-desirable salary. It had to do with respect. Everything came down to that one word. He should have earned it long ago. But with the deal, now all but sealed, Simpson thought he