All The Right Reasons: Purge - Matt Johansen Crime, #2

By Rob Parnell

A rich and beautiful start-up guru is found dead, her head cruelly bludgeoned by a computer hard drive at her office in central Boston. Newly promoted Detective Matt Johansen is on the trail of a vicious killer. But who in the website development company would want Sybil Tanner removed - and why? Matt struggles to find answers against a backdrop of greed, power, wealth, love and betrayal.

Meanwhile, Matt's father, recently released from being falsely imprisoned, is mowed down in the street by a speeding vehicle. Was it accidental? If not, who is responsible?

Along with the FBI, Matt is also trying to discover the truth behind Satan's Crew, a biker contingent known for their links to organized crime. Are they now in league with Boston council workers and Albanian terrorists - and committed to taking over the lucrative drug trade in Boston?

And who exactly is Mister Big - and how far will he go to protect his investments?

The work is cut out for Matt Johansen, maverick cop and accidental good guy.

But Matt has his own demons.

Can he remain in control of his life for long enough to be a father to his young son and a lover to Jude, his long suffering partner?

Will his ill-fated relationship with the murder victim's adolescent daughter undermine his job, his integrity, even his sanity?

This fast-paced crime story - from a master of suspense - twists and turns through the underworld of internet websites, wealth, urban corruption, drugs, murder, mayhem and modern law enforcement.

This tale will leave you gasping with excitement, begging for more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R&R Books Film Music
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223190318

Book preview

Prologue

October 8th, 6:10 a.m.

Dawn bloomed over the Boston financial district. Sybil Tanner barely noticed. Her gaze firmly glued to a huge flat screen monitor, she pounded at a keyboard on the thirty-eighth floor of One International Place.

It was late - or early - depending on how you wanted to look at it, but she’d been happy to work all night. She was determined to get the final proposal finished. She needed the entire document done before anyone got into the office. Later that week, she would present the papers to the board as a fait accompli, the only way forward for the company. She was tired of all the pussyfooting around and the general air of caution that was accompanying the FrendUp.com launch. Someone had to be decisive. Someone had to get the goddamn show on the road. And that someone, as per usual, was going to be her.

What the hell, it was her job. She was paid to make the tough calls.

As Sybil typed, a new thought struck her.

When she was focused on creating wealth, she was at her happiest.

Okay, the same phenomenon applied to many people. Most, in fact. But only some, the elite few, ever got to understand what making a lot of money was like. Most people just lived out their shabby, ineffectual lives and made do, never achieving much, never knowing what it was like to be truly wealthy and powerful. Not her, she’d been blessed with an obsession to make it for most of her life. To get rich. To live the high life. To be invited to the right parties. To be a big shot.

That was what life was all about.

Getting to be rich and famous. That’s what everyone wanted, deep down. People denied it of course. Nobody would admit they wanted the very things they couldn’t get, or didn’t have a hope of acquiring. People were hypocrites. Like the silly idealistic kids who did the programming for FrendUp and pretended they were doing it for the love of social media, for the sake of the common good.

Give me a break.

Like Gerald. Even Gerald, the numskull British CEO, who said money wasn’t everything. Of course it was. Gerald was kidding himself if he thought anyone gave a crap about honesty, transparency, and integrity in business. Especially online business. Caring about people? Yeah, right. That was just the narrative you spun for the marketplace. Deep down, everyone knew that creating any kind of successful business was about the money. Had to be. Nothing else, no other motivation worked.

Seriously.

Without ready cash as a benchmark, how could she know if she was progressing: moving onward and upward?

Progress meant acquiring money, big bucks, the green stuff, and lots of it. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that. She knew that for sure. To stop wanting prosperity - and the perks that went with it - was surely to deny life, growth, joy even. She was supposed to be happy, right? And if ‘happy’ meant being rich, she wanted, above all else, to be very happy.

Pale light crawled across the Harbor as the sun rose over Deer Island to the east. The office was warm - had been all night as she worked. Sybil leaned back and stretched her arms over her head. The muscles in her neck and shoulders tensed then relaxed. She smiled at the screen, tiny wrinkles corrupting the remains of the makeup on her face.

As far as she was concerned, the document on her screen represented cash in the bank. Sixty million dollars - at a rough estimate - that would turn their puny start up dot com into a web sensation overnight, if they got the timing and the momentum just right. Gerald Peterson might kick and scream a little during the process, phony idealist that he was, but not enough to stop the inevitable.

Sybil was thirty-seven, a graduate of Princeton with honors sixteen years prior. Since then she’d built and floated a dozen Internet businesses, married a jerk - to her dismay and unyielding regret - but thankfully given birth to Sophie, her smart and beautiful daughter. She had a right to feel proud of herself, she reasoned, especially as she’d gotten very wealthy in the process. Not bad for a farm girl from Franklin, Michigan. Yes, money could make a lot of difference.

That is, if you had a talent for spending it wisely.

And that she did.

Sybil sighed. She would head home, back to Andrew, a man she’d once loved with a fierce passion but who now bored her to tears. She found his devotion cloying, if not embarrassing. Lord knew she didn’t deserve his worship. She wasn’t exactly the faithful wife. A good mother perhaps, but not a loyal partner. Life was too short for that, she’d always thought. At first she’d been discreet with her affairs, of course, but now she didn’t bother. There didn't seem any point. She knew what she wanted - and had no qualms about getting it. To be frank, she couldn’t understand why Andrew put up with her. Sometimes she wished he’d overreact, scream and shout, show some balls, but he never did. He apparently accepted their life together, her frequent dalliances, and yet never got angry, only hurt. She hated that the most: seeing the disappointment in his eyes. Pained tolerance was far worse than recrimination, blame, or hostility. How could you love someone who forgave your every transgression? You couldn’t. It wasn’t natural.

The floor creaked behind her, some distance away. She glanced over her shoulder but saw nothing. Only the empty office and its maze of vacant cubicles. Maybe the sound was emanating from the janitor doing his early morning rounds. About the right time for that. She looked back at the screen and reread parts of her proposal, savoring the paragraphs she was most proud of.

A few moments later she yawned as a wave of tiredness finally settled over her limbs. Yes, she’d go back home after she’d emailed the document to Gerald. She’d get back to the apartment, avoid Andrew if at all possible, see Sophie safely off to college, then sleep for a few hours before heading over to Dominic for an afternoon booty call. Her loins tingled at the prospect.

Sybil clicked on Save as Attachment and found Gerald’s email. She pressed Send.

Her face hit the keyboard a split-second before she registered intense pain at the back of her skull. Her mind seemed suddenly empty, like silence after the loud tolling of a bell.

A heavy weight collided with her head a second time.

Bone cracked. Blood and gray matter sprayed across the desk onto the office window.

Then nothing.

Day One

Chapter One

October 8th, 2:17 a.m.

See, that’s your problem, right there. You’re always looking for reasons, Matt. You think everything’s gotta make sense. Only two reasons people commit crime in this city and that’s greed and stupidity. Only two ways cops catch the bad guys: questions and patience. In the real world nothing’s black and white, son. Nothing works out the way it’s supposed to. There’s not always a good reason why shit happens. Gotta get used to that or you’ll eat yourself alive trying to fix it. Take it from me, Matt, world’s too far gone for fixing.

Middle of the night, freezing cold, I sat in a beat-up Audi with Joey Le Bon, wondering why I ever thought being a cop was the life of my dreams. Funny how things work out. You think you want something. You do the right stuff, make the right noises, kiss the right asses, and you still end up with your life in the crapper wondering what went wrong and how it all happened so fast.

Le Bon was doing his best to create a toxic zone in the vehicle. I’d opened the car window earlier to let in some air. Damn chill came in too. Had to shut out the cold draft, make do with the fetid atmosphere and my partner’s constant ruminations on the nature of modern police work. Wouldn’t have minded so much but I’d run out of coffee about three hours before, never expecting the stakeout to take anywhere near this long. I was beginning to wonder if the alleged rendezvous was ever going to take place.

We’d gotten to Conley Terminal at about half past nine. Surprisingly, the gates were unlocked so we drove straight on to the ring road, looking for a spot to hide and watch the meet. We soon realized we wouldn’t be able to stay there. If we’d stopped by a container, we’d be the only car in the area and we’d stand out like a pork bagel at a bar-mitzvah. After some discussion, we retired to the parking lot outside the main gate. At least there we were partly camouflaged among a few other vehicles. Trouble was, the view we had of the wharf was now severely limited. There could be all kinds of stuff going down and we’d never know. Though it seemed unlikely.

Le Bon farted as he took another bite from his never ending salami sub. I swear he’d been eating that thing all night. According to Le Bon, there was some kind of ’bad scene’ going down tonight. He was sketchy on the details, as apparently was his CI. What we knew for sure was that council workers were allegedly going to pick up a cash bribe from some unsavory types around midnight. Something to do with biker pay-offs from an Albanian shipping line. We were here to witness the transaction, maybe snap a photo if we could. Our chief had made clear he didn’t need us to take any other direct action.

Ah well. If being here helped stem the tide of city corruption, I was happy to be of service.

Three suited guys appeared from around one of the containers, on the other side of the fence about fifty yards away. I picked up my binoculars and focused on the men. They paced nervously, snapping at each other. They looked out of place. Not like dock workers, more like young office types out of their depth on a cold night in June. The taller of them pulled out a cell, spoke briefly, and then put it away. He spoke into the night and nodded to his companions, who seemed happy with whatever the guy had said. Perhaps now stuff was going to happen.

Five minutes later, the guys had gone and we were still waiting.

I’m just saying, I said. I feel like I’m wasting my life sometimes, when I should be making a difference.

Le Bon laughed. Gotta get used to that, son. Ninety-nine percent of a cop’s life is waiting for shit to go down - and that’s the good part. We’re here to keep the peace, Matt. We’re just cops. We make folks feel safe. Catching bad guys is a fluke. There’s only so much we can do.

I thought putting criminals behind bars was what it was all about.

I guess. Le Bon belched. But we ain’t ever gonna catch ‘em all. That’s a fact.

I’d been working with Le Bon for almost two months and we’d not yet run out of these cyclical arguments that went nowhere. The forty-nine year old detective had spent his adult life forming a philosophy that was completely alien to me - and he knew it. Okay, I guess he meant well. He was trying to get me to accept reality - his reality - which didn’t fill me with much optimism for the future.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t given up alcohol so readily after the last homicide I’d worked on.

Maybe I should have given up police work instead.

I nearly did.

Catching the Duct Tape Killer, as the press came to call Boston’s most recent psychopath, had taken it out of me - physically and emotionally. The fact I almost drank myself to death during the investigation hadn’t helped. Neither had getting suspended for evidence tampering - albeit accidentally - and losing two of my closest friends to the killer. All that without actually being the official detective on the case. When the whole sordid business was finally over I took time out to seriously consider my options. Came up with zip. Luckily, or so I thought at the time, the Captain at Boston Metro, name of Lawrence Dawson, said there was an opening for a ride along partner with Detective Joey Le Bon.

Ever since I’d joined the BPD, back when I was nineteen, I’d wanted to be a bona fide detective, so the offer seemed like an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. The alternative would have been going back to BPHQ as a glorified filing clerk.

I knew one thing. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life at a desk. No way.

I wanted action.

Real police work.

Real life crime solving, out on the street.

Trouble was, I’d yet to do anything that felt like a cowboy in a white-hat. These last few weeks, most days Le Bon and I had investigated home invasions, retail burglaries, the odd violent domestic, a drunken stabbing, and in between report writing and interviews, we’d vainly tried to track down a gang of elusive thugs who beat up kids for nonpayment of their imaginary community toll fees. As far as I was concerned, I was no closer to real detective work than I had been before, back when I’d worked at BPHQ. Le Bon, of course, thought this a good thing. The last eventuality he wanted was to get involved with any nasty homicidal maniacs or, indeed, anything that might feel like real work.

I thought I heard thunder and looked at the sky through the windshield. The night was cold but I saw no cloud cover. The noise intensified until it was obvious the sound was mechanical: engines - a lot of them.

Shit, Le Bon said. He tossed his sub onto the back seat and ducked; pieces of lettuce and mayo flew past my shoulder. Looks like your prayer has been answered, Assistant Detective Johansen. Damn your goddamn death wish.

Like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, four Harley Davidson motorcycles with leather-clad riders burst past us and sped through the gates onto the dock. Bright headlights flared. Engine noise rumbled through my abdomen. I couldn’t help but feel a frisson of excitement, despite the knowledge this whole circumstance could mean nothing but trouble.

I got out of the car and ran through the open gate. Luckily, nobody took any notice of me as I raced across the road. I hid by a tall container so I could get a good view of Wharf Two without being seen.

The bikes doubled back, raced past my position and began to circle the bewildered suits. After a couple of rotations, the riders stopped but did not kill their motors. One of the bikers tore a backpack from over his shoulder and threw the bag to the ground. The shortest of the suited men picked up the bag to examine its contents.

The night released a loud burst of static.

Go, all units. Go, go, go!

A dozen 1500 watt arc lamps bathed the area with light. I squinted and covered my eyes. Through gaps in my forearms I saw SWAT operatives appear from all directions, toting semi automatics. A bullhorn shouted: Get down, get down, everybody get down on the ground!

Without thinking, I jumped onto the dockside, partly as a mad reflex, but mostly to witness the Hollywood-like spectacle. I noted that Le Bon, probably wisely, had not even tried to leave his vehicle.

Amid the confusion I spotted one of the riders pull out a canister from his inside pocket. He held the object aloft, for all to see. The SWAT team stopped moving forward as one, but the rider wasted no time. He threw down the canister. I looked away before it went off. It wasn’t a bomb, more an explosion of intense white light and pink smoke that burst in all directions at once. Turning back I saw the SWAT team members seemed stunned and confused, probably momentarily blinded.

I ran toward the melee, weaving through the SWAT team, adrenaline making me fearless. Bikes roared and flew past me, helping to clear the smoke. I saw one figure left standing and went for him. I caught him around his waist and forced his body down to the concrete. The man swore but I held on. Oddly, he didn’t fight back. Maybe he’d been winded. I pinned the man beneath my knees and grabbed his throat in a stranglehold. I held on until I became aware I was surrounded by guns, pointing at me.

Stand down! the amplified voice roared. I looked around, hoping for words of congratulation. None came. A dozen metal barrels remained trained on me. A senior officer pushed through the crowd. He was over fifty and his face was lined. He wore a SWAT cap and looked angry about something. I said stand down, men. The officer pointed at me. You, whoever you are, get off that man!

Okay, I said. We got one of them at least.

Stupid dumb ass idiot, the man on the ground hissed as he struggled to stand. He brushed dust off his jacket and pants. I wondered why nobody was arresting the guy.

The man stood level with me, looked me in the eye, then spoke through a sore larynx.

Listen, dick-brain. I’m a goddamn fucking federal agent.

Chapter Two

October 8th, 8:30 a.m.

The grilling I received from the Feds over the next couple hours left a sour taste in my mouth. Seemed crazy to me. There were violent bikers with access to hi-tech incendiaries, council office workers taking bribes out on the docks, dodgy Albanian hoods paying out money to grease the wheels of international trade, and yet all they were concerned about was why a lowly cop felt the need to assault one of their own. Accidentally at that. How was I supposed to know one of the suits was an undercover fed? I kept explaining that if I had been told anything pertinent about the operation beforehand, I wouldn’t have done what I thought was the right thing. Made no difference to the stone cold operatives questioning me. I was the enemy. They brought out a disturbingly large file on me and proceeded to rip my life and especially my recent past to shreds, like I was some kind of mindless criminal, or maybe a terrorist bent on societal anarchy. I came out of their office feeling dirty, thirsty, and hungry for something greasy and loaded with enough carbs to stop the buzzing in my head and gut.

I sucked down an Egg McMuffin and a Hash Brown. Maybe not surprisingly, I felt worse after.

I drove my '97 Toyota Corolla back to Chelsea. Did I mention I’m driving now? The suspension ran out a month back and I pulled together all the cash I could find for an old beater. Wasn’t much but at least my own wheels made me feel a little more independent. Using public transport is overrated in my humble opinion. Two many lowlifes travel by bus.

Daddy!

Ben fearlessly launched himself at me when I opened the door to Judith’s apartment. I only just caught him and prevented him from falling flat on his face. I lifted him high and he squealed as I spun him round, his legs flailing madly in the air. Then he hugged me like he was trying to break my neck. He always did that and, much as it pinched, I loved it.

I put Ben down and he ran back to his train set to gather up some cars. Judith stood at the sink, drying her hands, dressed in sweat pants and a baggy tee with her hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked at me for all the world like she loved me and this was some kind of happy domestic reunion in a crappy movie of the week. Anybody would think we were married, which to Judith I suspected we were in her mind, even though we’d only been living together for a little over a month. I still hadn’t gotten used to the idea. Not yet. Part of me still thought I lived upstairs in my old room, even though some Korean dude had recently taken up residence there. I wondered how long it would take to feel totally comfortable with this new relationship.

Tough night? Judith asked. She put down the towel and came to me.

You could say that. Spent two hours getting fried by a couple of Feds. They make IA look like Boy Scouts.

I wont ask. You look worn out. She touched my forehead mothers do, testing for a temperature. Want breakfast?

I already ate.

She frowned, half smiled. You should go to bed.

Ben was at my knees holding an armful of toy trains for my inspection.

Judith stroked Ben on his head. Daddy’s tired, Ben. He’ll play with you later, okay? He looked sullen for an instant. You get ready for school now. He nodded and drifted away, happy enough.

I had to admit Judith was good with him. Sometimes I wondered whether she loved him more than I did. For a woman who was barely twenty-four, she seemed unnaturally old to me. Maybe she saw us as two children under her care. Whatever, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be mothered, especially not this morning.

Maybe I had a problem facing up to responsibility. I’d been sober for nine weeks so far and I still missed the booze like hell... every day. At least now I had more money on me. I’d never realized before that being a budding alcoholic was expensive.

So the money aspect was good, especially because I was paying only half rent these days. But a part of me hadn’t accepted that I’d needed to give up alcohol in the first place. Besides, I hadn’t actually hit rock-bottom, so why was I acting like a full blown alcoholic? Surely the odd drink wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like I really had a problem. I was just a normal young guy who liked to get drunk every now and then. What was the real harm if I wasn’t hurting anyone?

I know. I didn’t drink like normal people. I drank to oblivion - Every. Time.-  At least a part of me knew that wasn’t healthy, mentally or physically. On the up side, I’d been better at my job recently, more alert in the mornings and more able to keep busy during the workday. But I supposed