30

In the blind hope that it might make a difference, we decided to drive over to see Poole.

The New England Medical Center sprawls across two city blocks, its various buildings and skywalks occupying a linchpin spot between Chinatown, the theater district, and what remains, gasping and gulping, of the old Combat Zone.

On an early Sunday morning, it’s tough to find an open parking meter around New England Med: on a Thursday night, it’s impossible. The Schubert was playing its upteenth revival of Miss Saigon and the Wang was showing the latest bombastic Andrew Lloyd Webber or someone similar’s piece of sold-out, overwrought, overdone, singing dung extravaganza, and lower Tremont Street was teeming with taxis, limos, black ties, and blond fur, angry cops blowing whistles and waving traffic in a wide arc around the triple-parked throng.

We didn’t even bother circling the block, just turned into New England Med’s parking garage, took our ticket, and drove up six levels before we found a spot. After I’d exited the car, I held Angie’s door for her as she struggled onto her crutches, shut the door behind her as she worked her way out between the cars.

“Which way to the elevator?” she called back to me.

A young man with the tall, ropy build of a basketball player said, “That way,” and pointed to his left. He leaned against the hatch of a black Chevy Suburban and smoked a slim cigar with the red Cohiba label still wrapped around it near the base.

“Thanks,” Angie said, and we proffered stock-friendly smiles as we passed him.

He smiled back, gave a small wave with the cigar.

“He’s dead.”

We stopped, and I turned back and looked at the guy. He wore a navy-blue fleece jacket with a brown leather collar over a black V-neck and black jeans. His black cowboy boots were as weathered as a rodeo rider’s. He tapped some ash from the cigar, put it back in his mouth, and looked at me.

“This is the part where you say, ‘Who’s dead?’” He looked down at his boots.

“Who’s dead?” I said.

“Nick Raftopoulos,” he said.

Angie turned fully around on her crutches. “Excuse me?”

“That’s who you came to see, right?” He held out his hands, shrugged. “Well, you can’t, because he died an hour ago. Cardiac arrest due to massive trauma as a result of gunshot injuries incurred on Leon Trett’s front porch. Perfectly natural, given the circumstances.”

Angie swung her crutches and I took a few steps until we were both standing in front of the man.

He smiled. “Your next line is, ‘How do you know who we’re here to see?’” he said. “Take it, either one of you.”

“Who are you?” I said.

He slung his hand low in my direction. “Neal Ryerson. Call me Neal. Wish I had a cool nickname, but some of us aren’t so blessed. You’re Patrick Kenzie, and you’re Angela Gennaro. And I must say, ma’am, even with the cast and all, your picture doesn’t do you justice. You’re what my daddy’d call a looker.”

“Poole’s dead?” Angie said.

“Yes, ma’am. ’Fraid so. Say, Patrick, could you shake my hand? It’s a little tiring holding it out like this.”

I gave it a light squeeze, and he offered it to Angie. She leaned back on her crutches and ignored it, looked up into Neal Ryerson’s face. She shook her head.

He glanced at me. “Fear of cooties?”

He withdrew the hand and dug it into his inside coat pocket.

I reached behind my back.

“No fear, Mr. Kenzie. No fear.” He withdrew a slim wallet and flipped it open, showed us a silver badge and ID. “Special Agent Neal Ryerson,” he said, in a deep baritone. “Justice Department. Ta-da!” He closed the wallet, slipped it back in his jacket. “Organized Crime Division, if you need to know. Christ, you’re a chatty couple.”

“Why are you bothering us?” I said.

“Because, Mr. Kenzie, judging by what I saw at that football game this afternoon, you’re kinda short of friends. And I’m in the friend business.”

“I’m not looking for one.”

“You might not have a choice. I may have to be your friend whether you like it or not. I’m pretty good at it, too. I’ll listen to your war stories, watch baseball with you, generally pal around with you at all the hip watering holes.”

I looked at Angie, and we turned and started walking toward our car. I went to her side first, unlocked the door, and started to open it.

“Broussard will kill you,” Ryerson said.

We looked back at him. He took a puff of his Cohiba and came off the back of the Suburban, sauntered toward us with loose, long strides, as if he were walking off court at the end of a period.

“He’s real good at that, killing people. Usually doesn’t do it himself, but he plans it well. He’s a first-rate planner.”

I took Angie’s crutches from her and brushed Ryerson back with the rear door as I opened it to slide them in the backseat. “We’ll be fine, Special Agent Ryerson.”

“I’m sure that’s what Chris Mullen and Pharaoh Gutierrez thought.”

Angie leaned against her open door. “Was Pharaoh Gutierrez DEA?” She reached into her pocket, removed her cigarettes.

Ryerson shook his head. “Nope. Informant for the OCD.” He stepped past me and lit Angie’s cigarette with a black Zippo. “My informant. I turned him. I’d worked him for six and a half years. He was going to help me bring down Cheese, and Cheese’s organization was going to be next. After that, I was going after Cheese’s supplier, guy named Ngyun Tang.” He pointed at the east wall of the garage. “Chinatown bigwig.”

“But?”

“But”-he shrugged-“Pharaoh got hisself iced.”

“And you think Broussard did it?”

“I think Broussard planned it. He didn’t kill them himself because he was too busy pretending to get shot at up in the quarry.”

“So who killed Mullen and Gutierrez?”

Ryerson looked up at the garage ceiling. “Who took the money out of the hills? Who was the first person found in the vicinity of the victims?”

“Wait a sec,” Angie said. “Poole? You think Poole was the shooter?”

Ryerson leaned against the Audi parked beside our car, took a long puff off his cigar, and blew smoke rings up into the fluorescent lights.

“Nicholas Raftopoulos. Born in Swampscott, Massachusetts, 1948. Joined Boston Police Department in 1968, shortly after returning from Vietnam, where he was awarded the Silver Star and was, surprise, an expert-class marksman. His lieutenant in the field said Corporal Raftopoulos could, and I quote, ‘shoot the asshole ring out of a tse-tse fly from fifty yards.’” He shook his head. “Those military guys-they’re so vivid.”

“And you think-”

“I think, Mr. Kenzie, that the three of us need to talk.”

I took a step back from him. He was easily six-three, and his perfectly coiffed sandy hair, his easy bearing, and the cut of his clothes spoke of a man who’d come from money. I recognized him now: He’d been the spectator sitting alone at the far end of the stands in Harvard Stadium this afternoon, long legs hooked over the guardrail as he slouched low in his seat, baseball hat down over his eyes. I could see him at Yale trying to decide between law school and a job with the government. Either career held the promise of political office once the gray had blended in just right around his temples, but if he went with the government, he’d get to carry a gun. Outstanding. Yes, sir.

“Nice meeting you, Neal.” I walked around to the driver’s door.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said he’ll kill you.”

Angie chuckled. “And you’ll save us, I suppose.”

“I’m Justice Department.” He placed a palm to his chest. “Bulletproof.”

I looked over the roof of the Crown Victoria at him. “That’s because you’re always behind the people you’re supposed to be protecting, Neal.”

“Oooh.” His hand fluttered over his chest. “Good one, Pat.”

Angie climbed in the car, and I followed. As I started the engine, Neal Ryerson rapped his knuckles on Angie’s window. She frowned and looked at me. I shrugged. She rolled the pane down slowly, and Neal Ryerson dropped to his haunches, rested one arm on her windowsill.