I looked out onto the empty field. “‘A robin hops along the bench.’”

DeVeiga looked to the field and then back to me. He exchanged glances with Hawk, who simply shook his head. “What you got to say, Jesus?” Hawk said, again pronouncing his name with a hard J.

“Wondering what you heard about Papa B,” he said.

“We know as much as you,” I said.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said.

“Don’t care if you did,” Hawk said. “Don’t care if you didn’t.”

DeVeiga nodded. “I been looking for him since he killed Lela,” he said. “Even checked NYC. But didn’t come up with nothing. I’m now hearing he was down there trying to trade out that cash.”

“So the bounty was paid,” I said.

The wind was very cold and very brisk and shot through the open field and the wide expanse of the park. I had on a peacoat and kept my hands deep in my pockets. Not only to keep warm but to find comfort in the .38 in my right hand.

“I know people,” DeVeiga said.

“Good to know people,” Hawk said.

“People I know in New York said Papa B traded out fifty grand for thirty-five clean.”

“That money wouldn’t have been marked,” I said.

“Yeah,” DeVeiga said. “Tell that to Papa. But why he only trade a little? I heard he got at least a million.”

“Maybe he squirreled it away,” I said.

DeVeiga shook his head. “Man wanted to split town,” he said. “Ain’t the type to plan a future. He’d been talking free and easy down there. If someone hadn’t shot him, I was coming up the next day to settle the shit.”

“So he had a partner,” I said.

“A partner who got most of the cash?” DeVeiga said. “That ain’t no partner. That’s a goddamn boss.”

Hawk leaned in from the stands. He had on a leather jacket with the collar flipped up over his ears and dark shades. “You said you got something to say,” Hawk said. “Say it.”

DeVeiga nodded. The two Outlaws had come into the stadium and were walking back and forth at the bottom of the stands. They strolled end to end and crossed paths in the center like sentries. Neither of them speaking or looking at each other.

“Papa B was a snitch.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Never trusted his ass,” DeVeiga said. “Didn’t like him around any of my boys. Any my boys talk with him and they gone, too.”

“I think it’s been firmly established that Papa B was of low moral character,” I said.

“Papa B wasn’t one of the kidnappers,” he said. “I know the boy was working with Victor Lima. And took the kid.”

I looked at him.

DeVeiga laughed. “For me to know.”

“But you still think Papa B killed Lela?” I said.

DeVeiga nodded. “And Lima,” he said. “He on the hunt for that money. But here’s the thing about Papa B. I think he got tipped. Man ain’t smart enough to track down Lima or Lela. He being played.”

“By whom?” I said.

DeVeiga stared at me, tilting his head.

“Man talks funny,” Hawk said. “Who’s the motherfucker put Papa B on this?”

“A cop,” DeVeiga said.

I widened my eyes. Hawk leaned in some more and rubbed his hands together a bit in the cold. He nodded, too.

“What kind of cop?” Hawk said.

“People down here say Papa B made his money from the Feds,” DeVeiga said. “He was a goddamn CI for them. How he got his groceries. I think they the ones that planted the seed in that dumb bastard’s brain.”

Hawk stood and looked to me.

“Hmm,” Hawk said.

“You said it.”

“We straight?” DeVeiga said, touching the upper part of his chest where he’d been shot.

Hawk nodded. DeVeiga nodded down to his boys. They stopped patrolling and waited for him at the foot of the steps. He gave Hawk a fist bump. He just looked at me and walked down the steps.

“I feel excluded,” I said.

“What’s that shit you said about a robin?”

“Thinking of empty ball fields.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Hawk said.

“Connor?”

“Fool me once,” Hawk said.

“Connor didn’t fool me,” I said. “Connor does for Connor.”

“Man learned from the best,” Hawk said. “Joe Broz and Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.”

“Hard to prove.”

“All but impossible,” Hawk said.

68

On Wednesday, Susan threatened to cook a turkey and invite Z and Henry to Thanksgiving dinner. We could have invited Hawk, but Hawk did not do Thanksgiving. I told Z of the invitation when I found him working the door at the Black Rose pub on State Street.

He was seated outside on a barstool, drinking coffee from a ceramic mug. Z listened to the news with great suspicion.

“Haven’t my people been through enough?” Z said.

“True,” I said. “But I promised to help. I may even buy the turkey from Verrill Farm in Concord. Already stuffed and cooked.”

Z nodded. He checked some IDs of some tourists and picked up his coffee.

“Say yes,” I said. “You can bring the corn.”

“And we exchange the tobacco after,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said. I patted him on the back.

We watched as two shapely women jogged past in matching black athletic attire. Z drank some coffee. I checked the time.

“Very nice for you to deliver the invitation in person.”

“I was taking a walk,” I said.

Z looked at me. I pointed toward Faneuil Hall and beyond.

“Government Center?” Z said.

I nodded. Z got off the stool, walked into the bar, and came back a moment later. We walked together side by side outside the Quincy Market and over North Street to Congress. The Custom House Tower loomed large and historic behind us.

I had the number in my phone and dialed Connor. I got voice mail and told him I had a gift for him courtesy of Papa B. I hung up. Within the shadow of the Federal Building, Z grinned.

We waited near the flagpoles in the expansive brick open space before what may be the ugliest building in all of Boston. The architecture seemed inspired by the bunkers of World War II. The flags flew and popped tightly in the wind. The day was very gray and the snow had started up again. Still spitting and fluttering, winter giving us what I considered a very poor effort.

Forty minutes later, Tom Connor crossed the open area. We stood firm by the steps, waiting for him to come to us. He wore a very large smile on his face. His black suit and yellow tie looked as if they’d been stolen from a corpse.

“Spenser,” Connor said, offering his hand.

I did not take it.

I handed him a legal-size manila envelope. He looked to and fro and then reached for it, peeking inside. “What the fuck is this?”

“Pasco Barros’s phone records from the last year,” I said. “You must have had him on speed dial.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“I had a tough time tracking your third phone,” I said. “But me being a master detective really paid off.”

“Who are you talking about?” he said. “I got an extensive network in this city. If you’re trying to say I’m involved with criminals because I deal with criminals, that’s libelous.”

“No,” I said. “It’s slanderous. Unless I put it in writing.”

He looked to Z. And then back to me. Z studied Connor as one would study a museum exhibit of an extinct animal.

“What do you want?” Connor said.

“You couldn’t resist,” I said.

“What?” he said.

“Kinjo’s bounty,” I said. “What are you buying with it, a boat? I bet it’s a boat.”

Connor’s tie flew away from his chest and he yanked it down and stuck it under his lapel. He looked around us again. “Shut the hell up.”

“Makes you miss Scollay Square,” I said. “The criminals were more honest.”

“I’m fucking tired of you, Spenser,” Connor said, his Irish face turning a bright pink. “I think you’ve gone fucking mental. I think you were mental over that whack-job whore who got killed in Southie and I think this kidnapping case has made you mental now.”