I nodded. “What about Red?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey said, scratching his paltry beard. “Ask him.”

I nodded.

“I can’t find anyone who will talk about that night.”

“You see Theresa Donovan?”

“Sure,” I said. “Works at a convenience store near Columbus Park.”

“I told Mattie that Red didn’t do it,” he said. “That’s her own crazy idea. What did Theresa tell you?”

“She said she believed the police got the right man.”

“She fucking said that?”

I leaned back into my seat. I rolled my shoulder and took a breath. Talking to Mickey Green was not a pleasant experience. I kept the phone to my ear against my better judgment.

“I can’t believe that,” Mickey said, shaking his head to himself. “She fucking said I did it, and here I was trying to be a good guy and not pull her into this shit.”

I leaned forward. “Pull her into what?”

Mickey kept shaking his head with great disappointment. “Jesus Christ. Jesus. That bitch.”

“Pull her into what, Mickey?”

“Theresa left Four Green Fields that night with Julie,” he said. “She was fucking with her that night. What in the hell did she say?”

“Not much,” I said. “She said she stopped hanging out with Julie since she got hooked.”

“That bitch.”

“You already said that.”

“Well, I’ll say it fifty more times, shit.” Mickey shook his head. For good measure, he shook it some more. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck.”

At least he was trying to switch it up.

I raised my eyebrows at him. He shook his head. Mickey slammed the receiver down on the counter twice before him and called for the guard.

There was the buzz of a dial tone. The heavyset woman returned to lead him back to his cell. I hung up the phone.

I looked at the time. And to think I had planned the day so well.

37

I stopped off on Old Colony on my way back downtown. I checked in at the convenience store where Theresa Donovan worked to ask a few more questions. Instead, I found an old woman behind the register. She was short and fat, and wore a sparkly sweater vest. Her hair was white. The sweater vest featured a pair of teddy bears raking autumn leaves.

The woman said Theresa hadn’t shown up for the last week. She kept the long pauses alive by smacking gum.

I asked if she knew where Theresa lived.

She smacked her gum some more. She said she didn’t.

I didn’t believe her.

“Has she picked up her check?”

She frowned and told me to call the manager. I didn’t bother. I called a cute paralegal at Cone, Oaks who helped me out in such matters. Cute paralegals could not resist me.

It turned out a Theresa Donovan, a white female of that age and general neighborhood, lived up by Dorchester Heights. The paralegal called me back after a few minutes and confirmed it was the same Theresa Donovan who’d graduated from South Boston High School the same year Julie Sullivan graduated.

It was early afternoon when I parked my rental beside a hydrant. Rita had started the process of getting my car back from Buffalo. But I had grown used to the rental in the way a cowboy gets used to a new horse.

I got out of the car and stretched, looking down upon Carson Beach and Old Harbor. Dorchester Heights, as the name implied, was a long way up. A good place to watch if the British ever decided to invade again.

Theresa’s apartment was in a boxy, four-story brick building at the foot of Thomas Park. She lived on the first floor. I buzzed her apartment five times. She did not answer. I checked her mail slot. The bills were plentiful and crammed inside.

I walked back to my rental and drove around until I found a Subway. Properly equipped with a foot-long turkey sub on wheat and a cup of coffee, I returned and parked in a nice spot with a view of Theresa’s building and her apartment. If Theresa came home, I’d see her. If she walked in front of her windows, I’d see her.

The watching part of the job always made you feel like a pervert. Maybe eating a sandwich while watching windows made you less of a pervert. Or maybe it just made you a gluttonous pervert.

I ate and thought of such matters. I drank a little coffee. I listened to the news. In keeping with the spirit of perversion, I recalled great sexual adventures with Susan. I tried to control myself with thoughts of the 2004 Red Sox and Margaret Hamilton naked. I recalled more great sexual adventures with Susan. One in particular caused me to blush.

I ate the first half of the sandwich and wisely saved the next half for later. If I’d known I’d be on watch, I would have brought a thermos of coffee. Subway should not go into the coffee business.

But it was coffee and fully caffeinated. It would keep me focused.

I turned the radio to WICN. The Ray Brown Trio was playing “Bye, Bye, Blackbird.” This was followed by an upbeat Sonny Rollins tune, “Blues for Philly Joe.”

The hours passed. I recalled the great shows of the late Tony Cennamo. How I missed Tony.

I tapped the steering wheel. Soon it was time to pick up Mattie, and I pulled out and headed back to Gavin Middle School. I had gotten pretty good at the pickup process. The crossing guard smiled at me and waved me in front of the school. I smiled back and wheeled up.

I unlocked the passenger door.

She slung in her backpack and climbed aboard with a heavy sigh.

“Eighth grade is a bitch,” I said.

“You went to see Mickey Green,” she said.

“I did.”

“And didn’t take me.”

“I didn’t know I needed permission.”

I waited for the crossing guard to wave me into the flow of traffic.

“Mickey left me a message,” she said. “He was pissed.”

“Pissed at me?”

“Pissed at me,” she said. “Mickey said he didn’t want you coming around unless I was there.”

“Did I hurt his feelings?”

“He said you asked a bunch of useless questions,” she said. “Said you and Theresa Donovan wanted to make sure he was locked up for good.”

“You believe that?”

“Shit.” She hugged the backpack in her lap like a stuffed animal. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Does Mickey Green take you grocery shopping?”

“He’s a good guy,” she said. “He loved my ma.”

I shrugged. It was the best I could come up with at the moment. When in doubt, follow a trend.

“Where we going?” she said as we passed the Andrew T station, looping back down to the Mary Ellen McCormack.

“Home again, home again.”

Mattie didn’t speak for a while. She leaned into the door frame, head resting against the window.

“I can’t take you everywhere.”

“It’s not what you promised,” she said.

“I have been up front with you,” I said. “To do what I do best, sometimes I got to go at it alone.”

“Or with Hawk.”

“If the situation calls for it.”

“Does it call for it today?” Mattie asked.

“No.”

“Then why can’t I come?”

“You would find it very boring.”

“And I should wash behind my ears and do my homework?”

“Your ears look pretty clean,” I said.

I slowed on Kemp Street. Other children with backpacks were shuffling their way home from school. Some stopped to share a smoke in slanting shadows of the old brick buildings. Other kids walked alone down icy paths, letting themselves into their empty apartments. Many of the children reminded me of Mattie. Self-sufficient.

“This is bullshit.”

“So you have told me.”

“But you don’t care?” she asked.

“Take care of your sisters,” I said. “Your grandma.”

“You’re a real jerk.”

She blew out a long breath and opened the door in a hard, violent way. She stomped off down the path to her apartment. She left the car door open. The car chirped to alert me until I closed it.

At least I had half a sandwich.