Nantucket Grand by Steven Axelrod Read Free Book Online

actually looks like an arrowhead—the ones we saw at the museum last summer.”
    Tim just stared down at it quietly. I took a picture with my phone and sent it to my assistant chief, Haden Krakauer. He had served in the military, so I thought he might recognize the round.
    He did. The phone chimed when we were halfway back to the car. Haden sent a picture of a tall gleaming brass cartridge pointed at the tip like a miniature rocket, lying across two dollar-bills—maybe five, five and half, inches long. The kids clamored to look at it.
    â€œWhat is that?” Tim asked.
    â€œI’m not sure, but I think it’s what our bullet looked like before it was fired.”
    I read Haden’s e-mail quickly to myself. The bullet was an M82 series 0.50 caliber sniper’s round, probably fired from a Barrett M107 rifle. That’s a military grade weapon the Coast Guard uses to disable smugglers’ boats, shooting from a helicopter. It can take most vehicles out with one shot to the engine block. According to Haden, a typical sports rifle has a muzzle energy of two to three thousand foot pounds. This rifle’s muzzle energy measures between ten thousand and fifteen thousand—five times more powerful than the sport requires. So this was not a hunter’s gun—not a deer hunter’s, anyway,
    And Todd Macy’s death was not an accident.
    ***
    That night I got the call from State Attorney General David Carmichael. I had just put the kids to bed, reading them the long passage in Catcher in the Rye where Holden goes to see his sister Phoebe. Tim had calmed down—I think he was glad to see me working the case. That was the part Miranda never understood.
    It was a little after nine and I didn’t expect a call. Haden? Some problem at the station? Miranda? But it was a Boston number. I took the call out of curiosity.
    â€œKennis? It’s Dave Carmichael.”
    â€œDave? It’s kind of late to be calling.”
    â€œWe work late here. We have seventeen ongoing cases and six more pending. I’m preparing nine jury trials right now, I’m hip-deep in discovery and jury selection and opening arguments. I’m shorthanded and I need help.”
    â€œI know the feeling.”
    â€œNo, I don’t think you do. This is the real world and these cases matter. I have four RICO investigations ongoing, a couple of huge drug busts, and a corruption scandal on Beacon Hill. Big stuff. You’ve got some rich punk with an open-container violation.”
    I thought of the deformed sniper’s bullet I had just dig out of the ground. “I may have a murder on my hands.”
    â€œReally? Well, I have fifteen murder cases going right now, and I’m dead-ending on most of them. Leads are going cold because I don’t have the manpower to chase them down. But that’s not even the problem. Clues are falling through the cracks because my guys don’t have the brains to see what they’re looking at. I don’t even know what evidence I’m missing because I can’t add up what I can’t see . I know we’re falling behind, though, Henry. I can feel it.”
    â€œSo what can I do for you, Dave?”
    â€œWork for me. Quit that dead-end bullshit job and come to Boston. I have an opening for chief investigator and I want you to fill it. I know the way your brain works. You’re a chess master and you’re down there playing checkers with the day-trippers. It’s a waste.”
    Knee-jerk arguments twitched along my nerves as he spoke. We had big cases on the island—obviously. I’d first met Dave during the Preston Lomax murder investigation, and I knew he’d followed the bombings that had threatened the island last summer. But it was pointless to argue because I knew he was right.
    This was an extraordinary opportunity, the break I’d been looking for since I left Los Angeles. It was the difference between a job and a career.