Free The Thieves of Faith by Richard Doetsch Page B

the most popular guy in the station. Rookies and vets alike came to him for advice both personal and professional, the way it had been for twenty years. He, in fact, garnered more respect than Captain Delia. And so when Busch asked Joe Grasso to help him out, the sergeant had no problem looking the other way. He never questioned why Busch needed information on the owner of 22 Franklin Street in Boston as he tapped into the police department’s database, diving deep into the DMV, FBI, and LexisNexis files. The printout was short but surprising.
    Stephen Kelley was a fifty-eight-year-old attorney with a thriving practice. A former district attorney, he avoided the criminal defense arena, instead opting for mergers and acquisitions—Michael thought the man was still protecting criminals. His impoverished background was murky and contained several sealed police files from his youth. But after the age of twenty a man emerged from the south side of Boston and found it within himself to amass a net worth of over seventy-five million dollars.
    His philanthropic endeavors ran toward two areas: politics—with heavy contributions to politicians in South Boston, his place of birth—and children, the latter emphasizing foster care and adoption.
    Busch drove up into the Beacon Hill area, home of Boston’s elite, the movers and shakers of the capital of New England. The town homes were refined and timeless, many standing as they had for hundreds of years.
    “Jeannie’s going to be pissed when she finds out you’re playing detective, she’s going to think one thing will lead to another and you’ll be right back on the force.”
    “I thought we were just looking for your parents.”
    “We are. But you can’t tell me you’re not thinking of this as some legal puzzle to solve. You’re supposed to be retired.”
    “Come on, you know me; it’s hard for this tiger to change his stripes. You know what I mean?”
    And Michael did. Busch was a cop. Always was, always would be. The fact that he turned in his badge for a bar didn’t change who he was. Michael knew this better than anyone: Michael hadn’t done too well with his “retirement” either. Installing security just didn’t have the allure that compromising it had. “She’s still going to be pissed.”
    “She’s not pissed. She told me to help. After hearing about Mary’s letter, the bit about your parents, she thought it was a good idea I went along,” Busch said. “You think this guy knows who your parents are?”
    “That’s what I’m about to find out.”
    Busch turned down a cobblestone street and drove past 22 Franklin. The building was a single-family, double-wide town house, its bricks freshly pointed, its decorative marble frieze as white as on the day it was carved. The topiary bushes that framed the five steps leading to the mahogany front door were perfectly symmetrical, as if trimmed with a pair of hand scissors. Gas lanterns hung on either side of the door, echoing the days of the building’s life before electricity. This was an address of distinction on a street of obvious exclusivity; a trophy of the privileged, of the well-to-do, coming about through hard work or inheritance—and, from the LexisNexis report that Michael had just read, he knew Stephen’s wealth came from the former.
    “You want me to come with you?” Busch said as he turned the corner, pulling into a street-side parking space.
    “No offense, but you’ve got this intimidating air about you.”
    “What?” Busch was genuinely shocked.
    “Hey, if I saw some six-foot-four guy come knocking at my door, I don’t know how readily I would answer his questions.”
    “I am not intimidating,” Busch shot back.
    Michael smiled as he looked at his bear of a friend sitting behind the wheel of his Corvette. His seat was back as far as it would go, as his giant hands gripped the wheel. “Hey, your warm personality shines through, it’s just the first impression that puts people off.