“Vinnie, you mind me asking what ever happened to your previous employer?”

“You mean like where’d Joe go? Is he still alive? Is he still active in the life?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That.”

Vinnie grinned and tucked his umbrella under one arm. He put his index finger to his lips and smiled.

30

I returned to my second-floor office, opened the blinds, and kicked my feet up on my desk. I pulled out the file on Mickey Green I’d gotten from his tireless attorney. It was thick and daunting. But I had a tall cup of coffee and blueberry scones. I would prevail.

Today called for cold rain, not snow, and the first signs of it began to tap at my glass. Coffee and scones just tasted better on a cold day. While I ate, I made a few notes on a yellow legal pad.

I noted Mickey Green had spent the night of the killing with Tiffany Royce. Royce was never interviewed by the cops or by Green’s attorney. Tiffany was also an addict at the time and might not have been the most reliable witness. Mattie Sullivan saw her mother that same night with Red and Moon. But that fact wasn’t in the case file, despite Mattie telling the detectives. Legally, she wasn’t reliable, either—she was ten.

Of course, Red Cahill said he was only selling Julie drugs. Red’s word not exactly the gold standard.

Touchie Kiley said Julie Sullivan had a new man in her life. An older guy. The jealous type who’d tried to toss Touchie onto his caboose for chatting Julie up at the pub and scared the piss out of everyone else.

Now there was an older thug in the picture. Still, it seemed like Touchie would’ve recognized a guy as known as Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.

Or maybe all the oil in Touchie’s hair had impaired his brain.

I circled Flynn’s name.

I wondered if he’d been in or out of the pokey four years ago. I wondered if he worked for Gerry Broz or if Gerry Broz worked for him. I wondered why they’d aced five guys in Dorchester last month. I wondered if I’d just walked into a new gang war that didn’t have jack to do with the death of a twenty-six-year-old mother of three four years ago.

I picked up the phone to call a woman I knew in the Department of Correction. She was there, and we chatted for a moment. She said she’d fax me what she had.

I thanked her and hung up.

I ate some more scone. I read several more pages of the report, careful not to leave grease prints on the documents.

There was the standard page after page of preliminary hearings and motions. All cases generate a lot of paperwork. And a murder case generates more than most.

A fat third of the way into the file, I spotted a list of evidence. I tilted my chair forward.

Prints and blood taken off Mickey Green’s car. Crime scene photographs and castings of tire tracks taken at the crime scene. Julie Sullivan’s torn and bloodied clothes. And nail clippings taken from the deceased.

“Oh, ho,” I said.

“Oh, ho” usually signaled a discovery. I read on.

I read through another scone, and the rest of my coffee.

“That son of a bitch never requested lab results on the nail clippings,” I said.

I wished someone had been there in the office to hear my discovery. I think it would have merited applause. Even Pearl would have at least lapped at my hand. If Julie Sullivan had time to fight back, the nail clippings could produce DNA.

I stacked the papers and tucked them back into the file. I stood and placed the file in one of my two cabinets and walked back to my window.

This was something.

Just as I was feeling pretty damn good about myself, a black SUV parked next to a hydrant on Berkeley.

Two men in dark suits got out and stepped onto the curb. Both men were white and youngish, with identically cropped hair. Their ugly ties flapped in the wind and rain. The wind knocked open one of their suit jackets, and I clearly spotted a gun and holster.

One of the men reached into the SUV for a couple of Windbreakers. As they slid into them, I noted the brand name on the jacket. FBI.

“Yikes.”

I left my office door open and sat down at my desk to wait.

I heard their shoes in my hallway. I leaned back in my chair.

The two young men stepped inside.

“You Mr. Spenser?”

“If not, I should fire the guy who painted the name on the door.”

“We’d like you to come with us.”

I stood up. I was wearing a gun. My jacket hung on the tree by the door.

“To whom do I owe the honor?”

“Your vehicle was impounded in Buffalo last night,” one of the men said. They were hard to tell apart, sort of like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

“Goody,” I said. “How I love Buffalo.”

“A couple pounds of heroin were discovered in the trunk,” Tweedledum said.

“Ouch.”

“You mind leaving the weapon?” Tweedledee said.

“I have a permit.”

“Not for long,” Tweedledum said. He grinned.

“You do realize my vehicle was reported stolen several days ago?”

The agents did not respond.

“And you do realize I am a respected Bostonian with numerous law enforcement contacts who can vouch for my stellar reputation?”

“Tell your attorney,” Tweedledee said. “We got you on interstate trafficking.”

“Wonderful,” I said. I slipped into my leather jacket and followed them out.

31

Tom Connor had a whole different hairstyle than his brethren. He went more for the big-hair, helmet-head look. Obviously, he spent a lot of time with it, the thick salt-and-pepper swept back from his florid Irish face. He wore a double-breasted pin-striped suit that had a light sheen to it. And an honest-to-God ruby pinkie ring.

“Pinkie ring,” I said. “Nice touch. Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

Connor did not respond.

He walked through the interview room on the sixth floor of Government Center. The small room had a nice view of the North End and the waterfront. If it had been a hotel, they could’ve charged a hefty price.

As I sat, Connor made a big show of taking off his slick suit coat and hanging it on a hanger by the door. He flattened a black-and-silver tie over his protruding belly and took a seat at the table. He opened a folder, took a deep breath, and flipped through several pages.

“You know, some people are able to read without moving their lips,” I said.

His eyes flicked up to mine and then down at the file. “Kind of cocky for a guy whose car was loaded with all that dope and impounded.”

“That car was stolen in the Mary Ellen McCormack Housing Projects on Tuesday,” I said. “Call the Boston police.”

“Smart guy like you would’ve reported it stolen just in case.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I called the cops before heading up to Buffalo to score some heroin.”

“Your vehicle was picked up as part of an ongoing drug investigation of a Puerto Rican drug syndicate.”

“Okay,” I said. I spread my palms wide. “You got me. I’m a member of the Tito Puente cartel.”

Connor continued to read, slowly flipping through the pages. The pages sounded crisp and loud in the small white room.

“Are you charging me with anything?” I asked. “Because if not, there’s a sale at Filene’s Basement.”

“I’m getting to that.”

“You know about the sale, too?”

“The goddamn report.”

I nodded. I stood up and looked down at the waterfront. I stared out at all the moored and covered boats in the bright morning. Large broken sheets of ice drifted toward the shore. Seagulls rode waves of brisk wind. I started to whistle “I’ve Heard That Song Before.”

“Sit down,” he said.

“I asked if you were going to charge me.”