“Of course.”

“So what’s next?” she asked.

“We eat.”

“And then?”

“We drink.”

“And then?”

“And then I try to figure out why someone killed Julie Sullivan,” I said. “I don’t like any of the reasons I’ve been given. And I don’t like Mickey Green for it anymore. Moon and those men who tried to scare Mattie made sure of that.”

I lifted my glass to her. The ice rattled.

“You can’t be sure, though. Maybe Moon just doesn’t like other tough guys asking about him.”

“Those guys ran a fourteen-year-old girl off the road.”

“Mattie works like you,” Susan said. “She annoys people until they trip up.”

I nodded.

“And she’s as tough as old boots.”

“It’s an act,” Susan said.

“I’m not so sure.”

“It’s an act,” Susan said. “Her toughness is like a callus on your hand.”

“Calluses protect you.”

“As they should.”

“But not healthy for the psyche of a teenage girl?”

Susan shook her head. “She will seem much older and much younger to you at the same time.”

“I caught her playing princess with her sisters the other day,” I said. “It embarrassed her. But I think she was really enjoying it.”

“She’ll need more than revenge,” Susan said. “She’ll need a good shrink.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Maybe not Pearl.”

“I thought finding her mother’s killer would make it all better.”

“I’d love to tell you that it won’t,” she said. “But since it seems to be her compulsion, it would help some. It will get more complicated after that. She has to realize this is only part of her life story. From what you’ve told me, it’s all she thinks about.”

“What’s my compulsion?”

“Maybe lost kids.”

I nodded and took a deep breath. “She is completely unlike Paul, but somehow she makes me think of him. He had walled himself in complete apathy. Mattie has anything but apathy. She has the personality of a freight train.”

“But both showed potential. Both abandoned by their parents. And both ignored by adults.”

I finished the bourbon. The ice made empty rocky sounds in the bottom of the glass. I really had missed the bourbon.

“They’re both extremes,” Susan said. “You had to push Paul to engage, and you have to get Mattie to slow down.”

“Maybe I understand Mattie more,” I said. “She’s reckless. I used to be reckless.”

“And in other ways.”

“Growing up without a mother,” I said.

“You had your father and uncles,” she said. “They taught you everything about being self-sufficient. She has nothing, so she’s making up the rules as she goes along.”

I nodded. The nodding made me grimace.

“Are you sore?” Susan asked.

“Of course not.”

Susan smiled. She unwrapped the dress, placing a delicate hand on a hip. “Prove it.”

And I did.

15

If I was going to go up against an entire Southie crew, I figured I should keep in fighting shape. The morning was cold and gray, spitting sleet and rain, when I dressed in my sweats, watch cap, and running shoes. I walked over the footbridge to the Charles River, jogging all the way to the Boston University campus and back. The river was still frozen but not frozen enough that anyone dared to walk across. You could see the hardened clumps breaking up, open pockets of actual river that could swallow a man. I thought of spring concerts at the Shell, dogs frolicking in the Common, and women in summer dresses.

At my apartment, I showered and carefully shaved. I chose a black turtleneck; crisp, dark Levi’s; and my peacoat to conceal my .38. I decided on a knitted Sox cap to complete the look. Business casual.

Feeling like a fine example of the American male, I drove south to Roxbury.

Mike’s City Diner was on Washington Street, a couple miles from Boston Police headquarters. Although new, it boasted a retro look. There was an open stainless-steel kitchen fronting a long counter. The surrounding tables were covered in black-and-white gingham oilcloths. The waitresses wore little name tags.

“You Spenser?” asked a short black man.

“Most people say I resemble George Clooney.”

“Quirk told me you looked like an old fighter.”

“Quirk is jealous of my rugged good looks,” I said.

“Alden Reid,” he said.

Reid was neatly dressed in a silky black shirt and expensive-looking leather blazer. He had a thin trimmed mustache and close-cropped hair that showed a bit of gray at the temples. He had quick eyes, like most detectives I knew, and took in the room with discretion.

We shook hands and found a table looking out on Washington. There wasn’t much to see on Washington besides an old brick apartment building and recently restored storefronts. A mailman toting a heavy canvas satchel passed the window. He wore a big fur hat.

A waitress brought menus and coffee.

“You been with the drug unit long?”

“Eight years.”

“Like it?”

“Lots of job security,” Reid said. “Shit isn’t going away.”

“Here’s to crime.” I raised my mug.

“And retirement,” he said. “I have a time-share and a boat in Clearwater Beach.”

“You won’t miss shoveling snow?” I said. “My uncles said it built character.”

“I won’t miss shoveling shit,” he said. He studied the menu and put it down just as quickly. He then studied my face, with subtle attention on the purplish mouse under my eye.

“Would you believe a champagne cork?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Had a run-in with a guy named Moon Murphy last night,” I said. “Heard of him?”

“Sure,” Reid said. He grinned. “You must be good. He usually breaks some bones.”

“And his partner?”

“Red Cahill?” he said. “If you know the name, you know his rep.”

“Hold that thought,” I said. “Let’s not talk hoodlums on an empty stomach.”

I ordered the hash and eggs. Rye toast on the side. Reid ordered the Mike’s special, hand-carved ham and two over-easy eggs with toast.

“How’d you get to be a private cop?” Reid asked.

“I don’t play well with others.”

“Martin Quirk is first-class,” Reid said. “He said to help you out in any way. He must like you. And Marty Quirk likes no one.”

“What can I say?” I shrugged. “I make him laugh.”

“Red Cahill,” he said. Reid shook his head, deep in thought. “Small-time punk gone big-time. Lucked out now that heroin is back in style.”

“Bell-bottoms and wide ties are next,” I said.

“Heroin’s rough, man,” Reid said. “Junkies love that slow suicide. That’s what it’s all about. It’s no fun if it don’t kill you.”

“Big business?”

“On Christmas Eve, we arrested two of Red’s boys with six pounds of the shit.”

I gave a low whistle.

“Street value of three million.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost,” I said.

The waitress stopped and refilled our cups. She wore the classic waitress uniform, complete with a white apron and saddle shoes. Her hair was the color of cotton candy.

“What do you know about Cahill and Murphy working with Gerry Broz?” I asked.

“What I know and can prove are two different things.”

“Story of my life.”

“Last year, we had a hell of a case on Red,” Reid said. “We got warrants to wiretap a garage where these guys hung out. It was a foreign-car place, fixed Porsches and Beemers, shit like that. This place was over on Old Colony, and for maybe four months, we saw these guys heading in and out of there like it was a beehive.”

“What happened?”

“When we got the warrant, the activity stopped,” he said. “You know Gerry Broz’s old man?”

“We have a history.”

“That garage was owned by him.”

“He’s been gone longer than that. Ten years.”

“Yeah,” Reid said. He nodded. “Him taking off is a whole other story. We figure he’s got friends in the DA’s office or with the Feds. They were coming for him when he decided to take an extended vacation.”