“Hooray for Hollywood,” I said.

Z nodded. He drank some coffee and ate some of the corn muffin. We watched the upstairs window. The blinds were closed, with light burning bright behind them. I told him about the great Cheesecake Factory standoff and my later conversation with Cristal Heywood.

“Three tequilas?” he said.

“Yep.”

Z nodded as he listened. “What else do we know about Murphy?”

“Besides him being a creep?”

“Besides that.”

“He’s dealt drugs, sold stolen televisions, and got caught carrying a pistol without a permit. He has twice been convicted of domestic violence and once been charged with having sex with a minor.”

“How minor?” Z said.

“Does it matter?” I said.

Z shook his head. “I’ll head back to the gym, get cleaned up, and get some breakfast.”

“Sleep,” I said. “Get some rest. This might be a very long day.”

“And this creep?”

“I’ll stick here,” I said. “See if I detect anything interesting.”

“Maybe he’ll bring in some farm animals,” he said. “Maybe a chicken or a donkey.”

“That would be interesting for Dorchester.”

Z gave me a look as if he wasn’t too sure. I got out and walked back to the Explorer. He started the Mustang and headed north. I got in behind the wheel, where I’d left my own coffee, and watched the street for what seemed like a very long time.

A rusted train trestle loomed behind me and the storefronts stretched north toward Fields Corner. Along Dot Ave, some minor improvements had been made, a few new iron streetlamps lit up the road, a few trees had been planted. There were also plenty of places to cash your paycheck early, get your hair and nails done, and go for some Vietnamese or a slice of pizza.

The only vehicle close to the trestle was an old moving van parked in front of an insurance company. The rear door had been secured with a big padlock.

I sipped the coffee and sat in stillness. A cop passed me patrolling south, not even slowing. Two Asian kids wearing leather jackets and carrying brown bags of beer walked past the Explorer. They craned their heads to see inside and I gave them a polite two-finger wave. They kept walking and did not offer me any beer.

If I stayed here long enough, I’d get to see Murphy and his pals. And if I got to see Murphy and his pals, I still had nothing. I wondered if Lundquist had spoken to Murphy. I could call him and ask, but after the exchange at South Station and the entry of Connor and the Feds, he might not be so glad to hear from me. I probably could accomplish just as much sitting at my desk. But sitting at my desk did not offer such a fantastic view of Dorchester, and sitting at my desk wouldn’t tell me about the movements of Kevin Murphy and associates known and unknown.

Or maybe Murphy had turned over a new leaf and was working to help young wayward girls. Maybe he was up above the storefront right now taping a public service announcement about how to watch out for strangers and believe in yourself. Maybe Murphy was a complete turd but not the turd I was looking for. I still didn’t like the loose ends and what-ifs of the New York shooting. A payoff was temporary, but revenge was forever. I had the feeling that every person I’d spoken to about the murder was lying.

I still wanted to talk to Lela Lopes. I still needed to find out if there was a third man with Kinjo that night.

At first light, the big guy with the crew cut walked out onto the stairwell and smoked a cigarette. After a few minutes, another man joined him. I assumed it was Kevin Murphy, as Z had seen only one more guy. I didn’t have any binoculars with me but in my backseat had a Nikon with a pretty good zoom lens. I reached for it and zoomed in.

If it was Murphy, he in no way resembled the NBA player. This Kevin Murphy was white, pudgy, and very pale. He was shirtless, with a paunchy stomach that hung over his designer jeans. He had a wide, freckled face, jug ears, and brown hair swept back, with longish sideburns and a little tuft of hair below his lip. There was a big tattoo of some kind of animal on his back. It was hard to imagine anyone paying to see him naked.

He talked with the big guy. They pounded fists and he walked inside. Back to the salt mines.

The big guy flicked his cigarette away and walked down to the street and crossed over to the moving van. He climbed in, started the van, and disappeared for nearly an hour. When he returned and parked in the same spot by the insurance company, he had upgraded to a black Toyota 4Runner. At first I made no connection. But the car was dealership new and very out of place with the neighborhood. I took another sip of coffee and a few moments to recall Kinjo saying he’d been initially followed by a black Toyota 4Runner. This was not the same as saying you’d been followed by a silver 1921 Pierce-Arrow.

Still, it was a connection, however common.

The big guy crossed back over Dot Ave, lit a cigarette as he did so, and had finished it as he’d tramped up the steps and walked back inside.

I called Kinjo Heywood. He sounded as if he’d been asleep. But answered on the first ring.

“What was the car that followed you the first time?”

“Spenser?”

“Yep.”

“Whew,” Kinjo said. “Oh, man. It was a Toyota, I think.”

“I need you to think more,” I said. “What color?”

I recalled. But I wanted him to recall, too.

“Black,” he said. “New.”

“And the guy you pulled a gun on?”

“Man, we been through this before,” he said. “What’s up?”

“The driver,” I said. “What did he look like?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “White guy. Kinda fat and had a haircut like he’d been in the Army or something. What’s up?”

40

At six a.m., Hawk joined me.

We walked up to the convenience store in early light and then bounded up the steps. At the metal door, Hawk tested the doorknob, nodded, and we moved quickly inside without knocking.

We both carried our guns of choice. Hawk with his .44. I carried the Smith & Wesson auto I saved for special occasions.

Kevin Murphy was seated on a black leather couch in white-hot stage lights. A woman kneeled between his legs, practicing method acting.

The big guy ran the camera. When we entered, he stepped away from the camera, just a digital on a tripod, and said, “What the fuck, man?”

The girl discontinued performing Shakespeare in the Park and got to her feet. She had on a red G-string. The room was large and open, an old storage area with a wood floor and exposed brick walls. There were old desks and old chairs stacked against the far wall.

“You must be Moose,” I said to the big guy.

“And this motherfucker is Jughead,” Hawk said. “All ears, no brains.”

“What the fuck?” Murphy said. He was completely naked, wearing only what looked like a platinum bicycle chain around his neck.

“Moose already asked that,” I said.

Hawk stepped over to a chair and tossed the girl a pink robe. She was blond, petite, in her mid-twenties. She slid into the robe without a word.

“Archie know about you and Betty?” I said.

“If you aren’t cops,” Murphy said. “You two are dead.”

“Kevin, please sit down and shut up,” I said. “And please cover yourself before I get sick.”

I found a wadded-up pair of jeans and threw them at him.

“We don’t have any money here,” Murphy said. “Whoever sent you fucked up. We don’t keep cash laying around.”

“Why were you following Kinjo Heywood?” I said.

“What?” Murphy said. He wore a cocky, big-mouth grin until Hawk slapped him hard across the face.

Moose took a step forward. I simply shook my head. He stayed in place by the girl.

“I never followed him.”

“Mr. Heywood pulled a gun on Moose,” I said. “You recall that, Moose?”