Silent Night

“I’m a private investigator. My name is Spenser. And this is Hawk,” I said.

Hawk nodded at the priest.

“May we have five minutes of your time?” I said.

“Of course. I’m Father Ahearn. Please, follow me.” He led us to a small office off the sacristy, then waved his arm in the direction of two guest chairs before sitting down behind a weathered wood desk.

“We were wondering if you know anything about the house on Curtis Street owned by a man named Alvarez. It’s used for a place called Street Business.”

“I know the property,” Father Ahearn said, “but I can’t say I know much about Street Business.” He poured us each coffee from a carafe on a side table and passed around a plate of Christmas cookies. They looked homemade, stars and trees covered with red and green sprinkles. I took one of each.

“We understand that somebody out there would prefer that Street Business be gone,” I said.

Father Ahearn smiled slightly. “Well, I might fall into that category,” he said.

I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging ma

“I mean no disrespect to Street Business, and I mean them no harm, you understand. It’s just that we have been looking to expand our ministry, and are looking for space to build low-income housing and a new elementary school.”

“And Street Business stands in the way of your plans?”

Father Ahearn shook his head. “No, not exactly. We had looked into purchasing several of the houses on that block of Curtis Street, including the Street Business building. There aren’t many options for expansion in the neighborhood. That location would suit our purposes nicely, and the buildings are in such a dilapidated condition that we thought the owners might be interested in selling. They appear to be sparsely and infrequently occupied. And, frankly, given the condition of the houses, we thought they might be available at an attractive price. We started by trying to approach the owners directly without intermediaries, feeling that often this is the best way to get things done. Right away we realized it was going to be difficult to find out exactly who the real owners were.”

“And how did you proceed?” I said.

He sighed. “Alas, when we tracked down the various owners, none of them appeared interested in selling. The properties each have different owners, various realty trusts and so forth, but according to our lawyers they are all ultimately owned in one fashion or another by a single family, named Alvarez.” Father Ahearn stopped and sipped his coffee. Hawk sat straight and motionless in the chair beside me.

“So why not go straight to Alvarez?” I said.

The priest shrugged. “We’ve decided to look elsewhere. There are other locations in Boston that will be satisfactory for our needs, just not as convenient.”

“I appreciate your subtlety, Father, but I’m just not that smart. How come you backed off Alvarez?”

Father Ahearn chuckled and almost spilled his coffee. Hawk shifted slightly in his chair.

“You strike me as quite astute, Mr. Spenser. Of course, the first thing we did was to approach one of the members of the Alvarez family,” Father Ahearn said. “Juan Alvarez, the family patriarch, is a generous benefactor to the parish, and to the Archbishop’s A

“Do you have any idea who might have a reason to try to force Street Business out of the neighborhood? Somebody who doesn’t care about the A

He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I can’t help you. This can be a tough neighborhood, which is why we are trying to expand our ministry here, to bring peace and civility through our work. There is crime, and gang tensions flare up from time to time. But I have not heard of any threats or problems with Street Business specifically.”

Hawk and I stood up, and Father Ahearn walked us back through the church. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said as the boys’ voices filled the nave. He shook our hands at the door. “Thank you for stopping by.”

As we went down the long stone steps, Father Ahearn called out, “Merry Christmas!”

I returned the greeting. Hawk was silent.

We sat in my car and looked at the church.

“Do you believe him?” I asked Hawk.

“Been a long time since I believed anything from a priest,” said Hawk, “especially concerning young boys.”

“Not all priests, Hawk,” I said. “Not even most priests. Most are trying to do good things, in places just like this and worse.”

“Yeah,” he said. He fell silent and stared off into the middle distance.

“I believe him,” he said finally. “No reason for the church to be beatin’ up kids so they can build a school. One thing don’t make sense, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why Alvarez want to hold on to houses that are run-down and uninhabited?”

“Maybe we should find out just how uninhabited those buildings really are. I hear looks can be deceiving.”

I DECIDED TO GO VISIT Street Business. It was in a big Victorian house on a quiet side street just beyond midtown Boston. The paint on the outside looked like a hippie’s dream: a faded mustard, with purple trim on the turrets and other extremities.

There was a patch of lawn covered with dirty snow. The steps up to the front door, also painted purple, were icy.

There was no bell. I had called Jackie that morning, and when I knocked he was at the door in seconds. “Hello, Spenser,” he welcomed me, flashing his disconcerting teeth. “Come in, come in.”

We entered a room where his thick hair gleamed in the ergonomic lighting. There were big overstuffed sofas and chairs scattered around a fifty-inch flat-screen television, and bookshelves filled with books along the walls. Boys’ stuff was strewn around, jackets and a basketball, a PlayStation console and a batch of game cartridges. A baseball bat and a catcher’s mitt. A couple of boys got to their feet. Well trained.

“Bobby and Sam, this is Mr. Spenser.” The boys stuck out their hands, and we shook. Jackie said, “Boys, why don’t you see about making yourselves some lunch.”

Bobby and Sam went off. “The rest of them are working,” Jackie said.

“How many live here?” I said.

“We’ve housed as many as twenty, but right now we have twelve. That includes a couple of Juan’s guys, who help out. You know, they round up jobs, make sure the kids keep the place tidy.” He took me into a small room where a man was working at a laptop. “Just talking about you,” Jackie said. “Spenser, this is Pablo.”

The man stood up. He was squat, with hair dyed the color of dark blue ink, wearing what looked like pale blue silk pajamas.

“Hello, Pablo,” I said.

“Hi there.” He gave me a smile that showed a lot of gold. “Jackie, I gotta talk to Juan. These books are a mess. You got to try to keep better records, kid.”