“What did you get from that?”

“Consider investing in a catcher’s mask?”

“From the exchange?”

I tilted my head. Lundquist burned down the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

“Look at the second wife.”

“Natural reaction from the first,” Lundquist said.

“Maybe.”

“You know some things?”

“Probably the same things as you.”

“If this goes the way it often goes, I’ll be living here for the next week.”

“I’ll chip in for some deodorant and mouthwash.”

“I could send some guys to check out those things we both might know,” Lundquist said.

“Or I could go to New York while you check out the second Mrs. Heywood.”

Lundquist nodded. He finished the cigarette and flicked the butt.

“Okay,” he said. “But call from New York if someone from that nightclub thing looks good.”

“Would I ever hold out on you?”

13

Don’t ask me to watch Pearl,” Hawk said. “A man of my talent must draw a line.”

“Is it the poop scooping that bothers you?”

“You want me to carry a bag of shit in a thousand-dollar jacket?”

Hawk wore a knee-length black leather trench over a designer black T-shirt and jeans. His cowboy boots were made of a crocodile’s belly. They were very nice.

“Susan will watch Pearl,” I said.

We sat at the counter of one of the five million Dunkin’ Donuts in the greater Boston metro area. I drank coffee and worked on an old-fashioned; another one waited on deck. Hawk abstained.

“And Z is sticking with Kinjo if he leaves the house,” I said. “His agent requested bodyguard services.”

“He ready?”

I nodded.

Hawk nodded.

“But if he needs help—”

Hawk nodded again.

“If the kidnappers call, I’ll come straight back.”

“No word?” Hawk said.

I shook my head. “Not a syllable.”

“How ’bout I gallivant over to Manhattan,” Hawk said. “And you stay here?”

“Because I’m the dedicated sleuth,” I said. “You’re the heavy.”

“And the brains and the shooter,” Hawk said. “The total package, babe.”

“Nice to be you.”

Hawk’s face showed no emotion. Dull fluorescent light beamed off his bald head. “This one of those deals where we work for free?”

“Nope.”

Hawk’s mouth moved a millimeter into perhaps a smile.

“Our client happens to be loaded,” I said. “You will be compensated for your time and considerable talents.”

“Fucked up to take a kid.”

“Yep.”

“You trust the staties?”

“Lundquist is on it,” I said. “Remember Wheaton?”

Hawk was definitely smiling now.

“So you call me out for donuts at midnight to tell me to stay put?”

“I do not wish to have you gallivanting off to Miami or L.A. or Southeast Asia or wherever else you sometimes go,” I said. “Consider the donuts to be a retainer.”

Hawk nodded. He reached over for the second donut and headed for the door.

I watched the lights punch the night from his Jaguar and the car slide into the dark.

I finished the coffee and drove back to Marlborough Street to pack.

14

The next morning, I took the eight a.m. Acela to Penn Station. I read the Globe and drank coffee as we slowed into New London and raced on to Manhattan.

One of the many advantages of train travel was that I could stash my .38 into my clean underwear along with a couple boxes of ammo. I did not pack much else besides two changes of clothing and a nice blazer in the unlikely event the case called for an elegant meal. I had already left a message for Corsetti, and Corsetti, being Corsetti, would be overjoyed to see me. I told him I had questions on the nightclub shooting from two years ago.

I arrived at Penn Station at eleven-forty-five and took a cab up Eighth Avenue to the Parker Meridien. I unpacked my blazer and underwear. I wore the gun. It went well with my work ensemble of navy T-shirt, A-2 jacket, jeans, and New Balance sneakers. Fifteen minutes later, I found Eugene Corsetti sitting at his desk, about to attack a forlorn Twinkie. A nameplate stated he was a detective, first grade.

“Jeez, is everyone getting a promotion?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Nope,” I said. “Just me.”

“Jesus.”

“With the promotion, can’t you eat any better?”

Corsetti stood, which did little, since he stood only about five-foot-six or -seven. It was more his girth that filled the room. Corsetti was built like a bowling ball.

“I’ll buy you lunch.”

He dropped the Twinkie in the wastebasket and we shook hands.

“Sure, I remember the case,” he said. “Pats player involved in a first-class clusterfuck.”

“I need a few more details than that.”

“Didn’t you pull the file?”

“I got the face sheet and the initial report,” I said. “But no transcripts. I need the transcripts.”

“Of course you do,” he said. “Can we make it quick, sir? You know, I do work other cases between our meetings.”

He reached for a satin Yankees warm-up jacket. Despite his questionable wardrobe, we had remained friends for many years.

We walked around the corner to East 45th and a hot dog stand that also served gyros and falafel. I bought us each a dirty-water dog and a Coke.

“May I ask why a hotshot Boston gumshoe is interested in a two-year-old homicide?”

“Background.”

“Background?” Corsetti said. “Okay. Sure. Sure. Like I don’t read the freakin’ papers. Kinjo Heywood?”

He spilled some mustard on his blue satin jacket.

“I can replace that dud with something from Yawkey Way.”

“I’d rather set fire to my nuts,” he said.

“Dedication.”

He dotted away the mustard. I demonstrated the proper way to eat a hot dog, ending up with only some loose onion on my sleeve. I pinged them away with a flick of my index finger.

“Wasn’t my case,” Corsetti said. “But I did a few interviews for the lead. Not enough to go to the grand jury—.45 shell casings at the scene. We dusted the shit out of a Ford Escape with chrome rims that belonged to the deceased. No prints. No witnesses at the scene. Or at least no witnesses who would talk. No gun. Circumstantial with a capital C.”

“What about the victim?” I said. “Antonio Lima?”

“Young guy from some island somewhere.”

“Cape Verde.”

“If you say so,” he said. “I remember cars and faces.”

“And Mr. Lima gets into it with Mr. Heywood at Chrome.”

“Now, there’s a fucking place,” Corsetti said. “You been there yet?”

“Next on my list.”

“They got women in lingerie and angel wings who bring you cocktails.”

I drank some Coke. I finished the dog. “Everyone who brings me a cocktail is an angel.”

“I never talked to Kinjo Heywood,” he said. “I’ve seen him on TV and when they play the Jets. He’s the toughest linebacker since Dick Butkus or Ray Nitschke. I’ll get you his interview transcript if you really want it. But it’s probably a hundred pages of him lawyering up.”

I nodded. “And the victim?”

“Nice family, bad kid,” he said. “What can you say? Moved to the city from somewhere else. Mom’s an immigrant with two boys. Runs a little grocery. Can’t believe her son is a gangbanger, even though she’s bailed him out of trouble maybe fifteen times.”

Corsetti’s collared shirt was wide open. Corsetti needed an open collar; his neck was bigger than his head.

“So you have more suspects than Kinjo Heywood?”

“We liked him for it,” he said. “An hour or two before the shooting, Heywood and Lima got in a scuffle in the men’s room. We had witnesses at one time, but then they flaked. Some bullshit over a broad.”

“One of the lingerie angels?”