Somewhere on my run, I’d picked up a tail. I first noticed the black sedan slowing at the Harvard Bridge. A clean-cut young man in a cold-weather jogging suit and ski hat passed me. He wore Oakley sunglasses and kept a gun under his right arm.

I noted a Bluetooth device over one ear.

I turned as he passed. Another young man in similar dress lagged behind me. Not that I am not stout of heart, but he was loafing it for an athletic guy in his twenties.

I slowed to a walk as I reached the Shell and placed my hands on top of my head. I had worked up a nice sweat under my grays. My breathing was labored but steady. I liked the way I felt after some road work.

My body seemed in balance.

I saw another sedan, or perhaps the same one, parked beyond the Shell toward the Longfellow Bridge. I don’t think the Feds were even trying to be covert. Connor wanted to send a message.

I followed the frozen river up to the Longfellow. The streetlamps along the bridge clicked on in the early night. The sedan drove off, and I turned back. I missed the rowers and kids playing Frisbee by the Shell. They were a lot more fun.

I took the footbridge over Storrow Drive toward the Public Garden. I watched for cloven footprints in the snow and ice. Over the thoroughfare, the bridge twisted up and under itself.

When I looped around the next curve, I saw a large man in a heavy overcoat leaning over a railing. He stood staring through Beacon Hill at the gold dome of the State House.

I reached under my sweatshirt for my pistol.

He turned. It was Connor.

He flicked the cigarette over the railing. “You keep in shape for an old fighter,” he said.

“Shucks,” I said.

We stood maybe six feet apart under the covered walkway. A cold wind blew off the river. The white and red lights of commuter traffic blurred into the gray afternoon.

“A couple of your guys seemed winded,” I said. “Don’t G-men have to pass a physical anymore?”

“It’s all computers,” Connor said with a shrug. He tucked another cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hand around a lighter. “It’s not the same as when we got into this.”

“What are we into?” I asked.

“The game,” Connor said. “You like the game same as me.”

“Games are more fun to play when you don’t cheat.”

Connor shrugged. He smoked.

“Have you brought my car back?” I asked.

“You’ll get it back,” Connor said, smiling. “We just have to put it back together first. Lot of shit gets lost when that happens.”

“I’ll inform my attorney.”

“She’s some piece of tail,” Connor said. Smoke leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Give me a redhead every time. The problem is getting them to shut up when you’re doing it.”

“You know, Epstein said you were a great asset to the Bureau, but I guess he could’ve been off a couple letters.”

“You’re a funny guy, Spenser,” Connor said. “Amazing you’ve lived this long.”

“I’m a people person,” I said. “Meeting guys like you makes it all worth it.”

Connor shrugged and smoked. “Just seems like you piss off the wrong people. I’ve checked into your past. Killed a lot of people, too. Some of the shootings seemed suspicious to me.”

“If you want to keep leaning on me, Connor, you mind if we set up an appointment?” I asked. “Jeopardy! comes on at seven.”

“You’re fucking up a beautiful investigation,” Connor said. “You shot down two key players in a big fucking syndicate. You’ve destroyed nearly three years of investigative work.”

“My condolences.”

“You’re a real prick,” Connor said. “You know that?”

I shrugged. I walked toward him.

Connor puffed up. I shouldered past him, artfully knocking him back a step.

He gripped my arm. I looked down at his fingers on my biceps.

Connor gritted his teeth. More cold wind scattered the snow and ice off the bridge’s ledge.

“I don’t like to lose,” Connor said.

“Federal agent or not, I will toss your ass off this bridge and down into rush hour if you don’t let go of my arm.”

Connor’s eyes shifted across my face. He let go. He snorted and smiled.

“You killed two government witnesses,” Connor said. “You’ve hoodwinked a couple drinking-buddy cops, but you’re fucked with us, pal.”

“‘To weep is to make less the depth of grief,’” I said. I kept walking.

“You’re fucked,” Connor said, yelling down the curving bridge. “You’re fucked.”

More cold wind blew off the river as I crossed the street to the Garden and then turned right onto Marlborough Street.

51

Agent Connor does not sound like a very nice man,” Susan said.

“No,” I said. “He’s not. He needs to first love himself in order to love others.”

“Do you think he’ll try to bring charges against you?”

“Yes.”

“But Rita will get them dropped?”

“She will.”

I nodded and drank some Ellie’s Brown Ale I’d stocked at her place. Susan and I were on the opposite ends of a large claw-foot bathtub. My legs were sore from the run. My ass was sore from all the sitting in cars. The warm water felt great.

“What will you do about the girl who saw the killing?” Susan asked.

“She’s safe.”

“But for how long?”

“Hawk is watching her.”

Susan nodded. “Who’s watching Mattie?”

“Boston PD,” I said. “Quirk made sure it happened.”

“Have you told Quirk what you know?”

I shook my head. I drank more beer. I had to lean up as I did. Some water sloshed out of the tub and onto Pearl, who lay on a bath mat.

Pearl wobbled onto her legs and shook her coat.

“I think she feels left out,” Susan said.

“Have to draw the line somewhere.”

“This is nice.”

“Thank you for not lighting any scented candles,” I said.

“A warm bath is good for the soul,” she said.

“Even better with a cold beer.”

“When will you tell Quirk about the witness?”

“I’m waiting to hear back from Rita,” I said. “I’ll bring her in tonight if everything lines up with the DA.”

“And then what?” Susan asked.

“Depends on Quirk.” I finished the beer. “Depends on Rita and the DA.”

It had grown very dark outside on Linnaean Street.

“Are you mad about your car?”

“I never liked it,” I said. “I’m thinking about getting another Jeep.”

“I liked your Jeep.”

“You never know when you’ll need four-wheel drive,” I said.

“Necking adventures?” Susan asked.

“The kids don’t call it ‘necking’ anymore,” I said. “It makes me sad.”

“What do they call it?” Susan asked.

“You would know better than me,” I said. “What do your young patients call it?”

“Lots of things. ‘Hooking up.’ ‘Doing it.’”

I nodded.

“I would like another cold beer, and then I propose that we ‘do it.’”

Susan nodded. She stood. I am not ashamed to admit that the bath had been filled with many bubbles. I am equally not ashamed to say they did not hide Susan’s nakedness.

Her body was very taut. Her dark hair had been wrapped up in a bun.

“Yowzah,” I said.

She stepped out from the bath and wrapped the towel around herself. “What if Rita calls you?”

“I may have to delay our plans. But only because I’m steadfast in my loyalties.”

“She hasn’t called yet.”

“Nope.”

“And you could be steadfast in other ways.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, goody.”

52

Early the next morning, Belson and I met at a boutique hotel across the street from Copley Place. Some local uniform guys joined us and waited outside in their prowl cars. We didn’t expect trouble. I had taken great care in hiding Theresa Donovan.