“Who started the fight, Marcus?”

“No fight.” The kid looked up. “Just a few words.”

“What kind of words?”

“Julius was talking trash, okay? And Pappy was talking trash back. But there were lots more of us than there was of them. Things got a little heated. I think there was some pushing, but that’s it. Ducaine left. Then Julius took a couple of girls upstairs, and that was the last I saw of him.”

“What he do once he got the girls upstairs?”

Marcus looked puzzled. “Are you asking me if he did them at the club? That, I couldn’t tell you. As far as I know, they were just arm candy, so he could look good to the corporates.”

McCain took out his notebook. “You know the names of the girls?”

Marcus thought a moment. “No, not really.”

McCain waited.

“I think I heard someone call one of the girls Spring. They were tall-the girls. One was about my height. I think they might be ballplayers, but not from Boston Ferris. I know all the girls from Boston Ferris.”

“Who else went upstairs with Julius?”

“No one I knew.”

“A bodyguard, maybe?”

“Nah, no bodyguard. Who’d mess with Julius?”

“He wasn’t worried about fans getting too wild?”

“Julius wasn’t that big yet. He was headed for the NBA, sure, but a Final Four title would have really been a sweet deal for him. He really wanted this title before he declared eligibility.” Marcus shook his head. “This sucks! What a waste!”

“So what happened after he went upstairs?”

“I don’t know what Julius was doing. I do know that Pappy came back with a couple of his banger buddies.”

“About how much time had passed between Pappy’s departure and Pappy’s return?”

Marcus exhaled. “Maybe about a half hour, maybe a little longer. I wasn’t watching the clock. When Pappy came back, everyone knew it was gonna be bad. I was coming out of the john, and when I saw him, I was already thinking about making my exit. Then the shooting started. I hit the floor. I didn’t see no gun. I couldn’t even tell you if Pappy was packing. I just heard the pop and dived for cover.”

“So the words that Pappy and Julius had weren’t over a girl?”

“Nah, it was the game, man. It’s always the game. You cheated, you held me, you pushed me, you threw me an elbow, blah, blah, blah. It wasn’t anything about a girl.”

“Maybe Julius put the move on the wrong lady.”

“No, I don’t see that. He had his pick-anyone, anytime.”

“Some guys get a thrill sticking it into other guys’ girls.”

“Nah, not Julius. His only passion was ball. Girls were just something to do when he wasn’t playing ball. If he was going to square off with some guy seriously, it wouldn’t be over a girl.”

“So where did that rumor come from?”

“How should I know? If I was to guess, I’d blame Ducaine. Something to justify their actions. Everyone said that Pappy and his buds just gunned him down, Micky. Just mowed him down.”

“But you didn’t see it.”

“That didn’t mean it didn’t go down that way.” Marcus looked at McCain. “Who else would have shot him up?”

“So you’re telling me that Van Beest hadn’t pissed off anyone else but Ducaine?”

“No, Julius pissed off lots of people. I didn’t like him. But I can’t think of anyone who would have hated him enough to shoot him.”

“Maybe you’re not thinking hard enough.”

“Maybe I need some sleep!” Marcus snapped back. “Maybe if I had some sleep, I could think better.” He paused, then threw his head back. “I’m so cold. I’m so tired.” He stared at McCain. “How do you guys do all-night stakeouts in this kind of weather?”

“We get cold and tired, too.”

“So have a little sympathy, Micky. Let me go home.”

McCain nodded. “I’ll have a uniform drive you home.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll hitch a ride with a friend.”

“No, son,” McCain told him. “An officer will take you home. Your mother wouldn’t have it any other way.”

8

Back Bay was landfill heaped into a dredged, stagnant bog, hence the name of its most famous landmark, Fenway Park. During the Victorian era, the bay had boasted some of the most fashionable houses in Boston. Scenic and charming, with cobblestone sidewalks and the breezes coming off the ocean, it was a heavily trod tourist spot during the warmer months. Throw in the ballpark and the clubs, and the area was a constant blur of action, as was most of D-4-the police district that patrolled it. McCain and Dorothy’s home base.

At five in the morning, the shifts were changing. Detective Cory Wilde could have used a tag team, but it didn’t work that way. Breton and McCain were picking up a good deal of the scut work, so he had little reason to bitch, but he’d been up for over twenty hours and it was getting to him. He suspected that Pappy Delveccio knew it, because the bastard wasn’t giving him a damn thing. When he offered the kid a smoke, Pappy shook his head vehemently.

“I don’t take that shit in my lungs. What you trying to do, man? Poison me?”

If only…

Wilde said, “Just trying to make you comfortable. You need a refill on water?”

Pappy leaned forward and glared. “I need to get outta here. Book me or let me go home, man.”

The kid was six-ten, two eighty. From the waist down, Patrick Luther Delveccio looked like a beanpole. That was the way it was for basketball players-skinny, long legs meant for running and jumping.

From the waist up, it was a different story. The Ducaine star forward was carrying a heap of muscle around the arms and shoulders. His face was long and dark with fine features-almost Ethiopian.

Delveccio. Had to be part Italian. Or not. Look at Shaquille O’Neal and Tracy McGrady. Wilde was sixty percent Irish, had once thought the world was a simple place.

He faced Pappy again. Fancy boy, the hair all zigzagged in an intricate pattern, cornrows or whatever dripping down the nape of a long, muscled neck. Delveccio’s brow was thick, his eyes were dark slits, and his lips were curled in a sneer.

Wilde tried not to sneer back. “You can speed it up by telling me the truth, Pappy.”

The slits grew feral. “Have you been listenin‘, man? I am telling you the truth.” His hands were inked with tattoos. Barely visible against the dark skin. Why bother?

Probably his arms, too, but Wilde couldn’t see that. Pappy was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt. He’d taken off his olive-green silk suit jacket. It hung over his chair, smooth and gleaming. So long it puddled on the floor.

“I’ve been listening.” Wilde shrugged. “But I don’t believe you. You know why I don’t believe you? Because you’re not credible.”

“I didn’t shoot no one.” Delveccio crossed his arms over his chest.

“See, there you go again with that truth problem. We tested your hands for gunpowder residue, Pappy. You fired a gun.”

“I didn’t shoot no one at the club,” he amended. “I was fooling around with a gun yesterday.”

It was all Wilde could do not to snort. “When yesterday?”

“In the morning.”

“And you haven’t washed your hands since you fired that gun?”

“Matter of fact, I didn’t.”

“Haven’t wiped your hands with a napkin after you’ve eaten?”

“No.”

Wilde stared at him.

The kid retorted, “I’m a neat eater.”

“You know, Pappy, last night’s game was televised. All that sweat on your face and hands, just dripping and dripping and dripping. Not only did I see you wiping down your face and hands with a towel about twenty times, so did everyone who was watching the game. You want to change your story?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You lawyer up, Pap, but then I can’t work with you. Then we can’t work out a deal. And you know if you’re gonna get out of this, you’re gonna have to work up a deal.”

Dorothy was watching from the other side of the interview room’s one-way mirror. She looked at D-4’s night captain. Phil O’Toole was beefy, florid, and white-haired, a third-generation Basic Irish Cop. He’d seen lots of changes in Back Bay: more immigrants, more drugs, more transients, and a lot more students. That meant more parties and more alcohol-related incidents. The upside was professionals coming back, fixing up old Victorian homes. No perps, those, just occasional victims.