One
Detective Sergeant Mark Roskov and I had just come off duty and were scraping snow from our boots in the foyer of the Tremont Pub when a shotgun blast from inside made us both jump. I glanced at Roskov. He already had his .38 out and cocked. I slipped mine out of the holster and hit the doors with my shoulder and found myself staring down the black bore of a12 gauge, my stomach turned to ice and dropping faster than an elevator with a broken cable.
I threw myself backward against Roskov and we both fell, sprawling, on the brown linolium squares of the foyer in the melting snow as the door disintegrated, showering us with glass and splintered wood. The shotgun kept on pumping and firing, pumping and firing. I rolled off of Roskov and, grabbing his collar in one hand, dragged him with me out onto the sidewalk. He shoved me against the wall and, edging to the doorway in a crouch, took a quick look in.
"Nothing."
I heard shrill screams start up inside the bar.
Gasping, I said: "The alley."
Roskov put my .38 in my hand. Until that moment, I hadn't realized I'd lost it. He took off in a crouching run. I followed him, it seemed across acres of whirling space although it was really only a half block. We turned the corner, covering the alley with our weapons.
A fire escape covered with snow. An overflowing dumpster.
"Ah. Jesus. Fuck me," Roskov screamed.
We were running back to the front door when the shooter came out. He was walking sideways and holding the shotgun at waist height as he pumped it. He fired.
I dropped to the sidewalk and squeezed off three shots, double action. Roskov was firing, too. My eardrums went crazy. Only when I saw the shooter stagger, drop the shotgun, and fall, did I roll over to check out the damage to Roskov. He was sitting against the wall holding the mess of blood and cartilege that had been his right knee.
"Go," he shouted through his clenched teeth. "I'm OK. Go."
I pushed myself to my feet with one hand and walked slowly over to the shooter. He was crawling away on his belly along the icy sidewalk. I crouched and jammed the barrel of my gun up under his chin.
"Freeze," I said. "Or die."
Twenty minutes later I watched as they picked up Roskov and put him into the back of the ambulance and two young paramedics bent over his leg. The doors were slammed shut and the ambulance pulled away from the curb, the siren whoop whooping.
There had been a lot of sirens. The call had gone out that two officers were in trouble. The place was crawling now with uniforms, and reporters were shouting questions as their cameramen tried to get every square inch of the site on video for the ten o'clock news.
The sidewalk where Roskov had been hit and where the shooter had fallen was being taped off with yellow tape. In the glaring camera lights, I saw spatters of blood on the snow in both places.
I followed MacLeavy and Pearson through the shattered doors of the Tremont Pub. There were tables and chairs tipped over and the floor was littered with broken glass.
"Are you sure you want to see this, Murphy?"
I looked at MacLeavy. He shrugged.
"OK by me. You just look a little wired is all."
He waved an arm at the bar. I looked at the rows of bottles. At chest height, almost a whole row had shattered, and there was dark blood splotched on the wall along with the liquor. I leaned over the bar to look behind it.
He was half sitting. His chest had been torn open by a shotgun blast. I saw a pistol next to his hand. It was the one he always kept under the cash register.
I turned to my colleagues.
"It's Tom."
"Tom what?"
"Tom Corgan."
MacLeavy flipped open a pad and scrawled the name.
"Wife?"
"No."
"Anybody at all to notify?"
"A father."
"You all right? You don't look so good. Dizzy?"
I nodded.
"Want a glass of water?"
I shook my head and sat.
"Looks like a robbery gone insane. We think this guy, this Tom Corgan, heroic bartender, pulled out a gun on the shotgun guy and that's why he got popped. Coincidence galore, you and Roskov are on your way in for a drink. The rest is tabloid news history."
"I don't think so."
"What?"
MacLeavy had been chewing gum. His jaws stopped working. He stared at me. So did Pearson.
"No," I said. "The shooter was standing here." I pointed. "Not at the bar. And look. The tables and chairs between here and the doorway -- they'd already been tossed aside, giving the shooter a clear line of fire. Tom, God bless him, that old bastard, he doesn't shout out to warn us. No, he knows the TV's on too loud in this place for us to hear any kind of warning in time to be able to react. So he goes for his .45. His old military service revolver."
I hit my head with a fist.
"Tom hadn't fired that fucking thing since Korea. And he probably lied to us about having done it then."
I looked up at them.
"The shooter was in here for a different reason than robbery. He was waiting for us to come off duty. Tom saved both our lives."
Pearson tightened his thin lips, then turned to MacLeavy. He said: "We had better get a couple of uniforms over to the hospital." MacLeavy hit himself on the head with his notepad and said, "Oh, God. Yes." He rushed out of the bar.
I shut my eyes and rubbed a hand over my face. When I felt Captain Pearson's hand on my shoulder. I looked up His expression was so solemn I thought he was going to offer me a handkerchief to blow my nose in. He seemed to be trying to find the words. Finally, he just cleared his throat and turned away as if to examine the debris scattered around the place.
I went over to the bar, careful not to look behind it, for a napkin. I wiped my face and blew my nose into it, then stuffed it into an overcoat pocket.
MacLeavy came in running through the shattered doors. Pearson turned to him.
He said,"I got a detail headed over to Brigham and Women's to keep an eye on Roskov. The shooter's critical. They're opening him up right now to try to get out the slugs. You two aces riddled the bastard. He'll be lucky to make it through the night."
"Got an ID?"
"Sure. It wasn't hard. I recognized the face right off from his mug shots. He's one of us , a boyo. Brendan Connor. Picked up and held on bail for pimping and drugs, but never yet put away. And get this. He's also rumored to have done hits for a fee here and in New York."
"Oh?" Pearson said. "How much does he get?"
"Dunno. The going rate I guess."
"Which is?"
They both looked at me.
I said, "I think about two thousand."
Pearson whistled. "I'm in the wrong racket." He turned back to me. "Can you think of anyone crazy or ticked off enough to go after two police officers in a town where the cops are known to stick together?"
"I don't know. No. Maybe. I'm not thinking very clearly right now."
"Somebody's got a hard on either for you or for Roskov. Think it over. I'd like to wrap up this thing before the Herald gets the story."
Pearson then turned to MacLeavy.
"Let's try to keep the witnesses and the press apart for at least a few days."
"OK," MacLeavy said. "Not that it'll be particularly easy."
I stepped away from the bar as the Crime Scene Trio walked in-- two officers wearing rubber gloves and plastic smocks over their street clothes and the other carrying a camera with a large flash attachment. They all nodded grimly at me. Biggs came in after them.
"The press wants a short statement from the hero cop who's still standing," he said to me.
I looked at Pearson, who tightened his lips to a thin line but nodded.
I lifted my shoulders.
"OK," I said.
We walked out onto the sidewalk and stood shoulder to shoulder in the blinding glare of the the news lights. A lady reporter -- I recognized her from Channel 5 Action News -- shouted out, "Detective Murphy, please, in your own words, would you tell us exactly what happened here tonight?"
I cleared my throat and said: "At approximately nine thirty this evening, I and my partner, Detective Mark Roskov, had just come off duty. We were about to enter the Tremont Pub when we heard a firearm being discharged within. We entered the premises with our weapons drawn and immediately came under fire from a suspect armed with a 12 gauge shotgun. We withdrew to the street, and he emerged a few moments later. In the rapid exchange of gunfire that ensued, my partner was wounded in the knee and our assailant was struck an, ah, undetermined number of times."
Someone shouted, "Detective Murphy, how many times did you fire your gun during the shootout?"
Pearson shouldered in front of me.
"Detective Murphy will not be taking any more questions at this time."
"Captain, can you give us any word on the suspect's present condition?"
"He's in critical condition and I understand is undergoing surgery as we speak."
"Is this event being investigated as a robbery?"
"At the present time, it is."
"Can you tell us the name of the deceased?"
"No. The Department will release that name to the press as soon as we have notified the next of kin. That's all," he said with a curt nod to the lady reporter -- a local celebrity of sorts, rumored to have a thing for cops. She beamed at him. He took my arm and I walked with Pearson across the icy sidewalk to a squad car parked at the curb, its blue lights turning and flashing. Biggs trailed us a few steps behind.
As we passed a group of uniforms they all turned to us whistling and clapping softly, and one even reached around Pearson to slap my shoulder.
"Hey, Detective, way to go."
Motherfuckin' OK corral."
"Murphy rules."
"Get lost, guys," Biggs said.
Pearson smiled a tight lipped smile at them as they dispersed.
We stopped at the open side door of the squad car. Biggs said, "Just a sec, Murphy. I need to eyeball your piece."
He held out his hand.
I unholstered my gun and put it in Bigg's hand. He checked the load as Pearson looked on.
"Yup, three rounds spent. It's official."
He clacked the magazine back into the pistol and gave it back to me butt first. I slid it back into its holster and fastened the thong.
"You and Roskov both will probably get a citation out of this craziness."
"Oh. Well"
"That was some damned fine work."
"Thanks."
Pearson put his arm around my shoulders and stared at Biggs.
"See how gone I am?" Biggs said.
He turned and strode smartly back to the crime scene.
Pearson glanced at Officer Wallace, standing straight and tall a few steps away, and said out of the corner of his mouth: "Officer, how about giving our Detective Murphy a lift home."
"I'd be thrilled and honored to do so, sir."
I took a few steps back. Pearson let go of my shoulders.
"Captain -- if you don't mind, I'd like to be the one to tell Mr. Corgan."
"Ah. I see."
"I think it's the least I can do."
"Sure."
He turned to Wallace.
"Get on the radio and call off Officers Velasquez and Chandler. They're on their way over to the Corgan place now. Tell them Detective Murphy wishes to personally notify the father of the, ah, deceased. "
"Sure thing, sir."
"Then take the address and get Detective Murphy down there, pronto."
"I'm on it, sir."
"I'll have my report on your desk in the morning," I told Pearson.
"Very good," he said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked off stiffly.
I turned to Wallace.
"Let's get this thing done."
Two
Paddy Corgan wouldn't let us over the threshold until he'd heard all of it. I told him that his son had saved the lives of two Boston police officers. He lowered his head and had a coughing fit that shook his emaciated frame. Then stepped back.
"Will you come in and have some tea?" he asked in a thin, wheezing voice.
"We'd be pleased," I told him.
Wallace sat on an armhair with his hat on his lap. I followed Paddy Corgan into his utility kitchen and watched him fill a kettle with water from the tap and set it by the stove. He lit a match on the side of the box and then held both the box and the burning match as if unsure of what to do with them. I was about to go to him when he put down the box and slowly turned the knob on the gas range. He touched the match to a front burner and the blue flame wooshed up. He shook out the match and dropped it in the sink with the milk cartons and empty pint bottles. Then he set the kettle on the flame.
He stood back, looking at the kettle, and said. "It won't be but a moment now."
He shut his eyes tightly so that all the tears were squeezed out of them at once and flowed down his sagging cheeks.
"Tom was a good boy," he moaned.
"Yes," I said. "He was a good friend, too.."
At about ten the next morning I went up to Brigham and Women's. I showed my badge to the police detail outside Roskov's room and went in. He was lying still, his eyes on the ceiling, the gauze wrapped leg up in a pulley.
He turned his head and blinked rapidly at me.
"Dan."
A nurse was puttering around by the window. She looked up at me, smiled brightly and left with the smile still on her face and her head lowered.
I picked up a stool and set it down beside Roskov's bed. He reached out a hand and I took it. He held mine in a firm grip.
"How are you doing?"
"I guess it could be worse."
"You sound parched."
"Yes. Would you mind pouring me a glass of water?"
He nodded at the carafe on the bedside table. I poured a glass full of water and tilted it to his lips. He shut his eyes as he drank in long swallows.
"Ah. Thanks."
I put the glass down beside the carafe and sat by his bed with my elbows on the rail.
"MacLeavy and Pearson were just here," he said.
"They're always on the job."
"Yeah."
"What's the word on your leg?"
"The doctors saved it. But there's still a risk of infection. They're going to have to go in again to make sure they got everything out the first time. And they've got to keep hosing it out every few hours with antibiotics."
I couldn't think of anything to say, so I reached out and patted his good leg.
"Did you hear about the shooter?" he asked.
"No. What?"
"Dead. This morning. On the operating table."
I shook my head.
"Why did he do it?" he asked with real wonder in his voice.
"I don't know."
"And who would be crazy enough to put out a contract hit on two cops? Dan, I can't get over the absurdity of this whole situation."
I squeezed his arm.
"Rest up. I'll stop by later on. Maybe we'll know something by then."
"Keep me informed, Dan."
"I will."
I stood.
"Dan."
"Yes."
"You saw him?"
"I saw him."
"And were you also the one who -- "
"I wouldn't let anyone else do it. Tom saved both our lives back there."
"We've got to get whoever's responsible."
"Don't worry. We'll get him."
I took the elevator the basement and followed the arrow on the sign that read: MORGUE.
"You're just in time," Jim Ferry told me. He was wearing a green smock with smears of blood on it. "The city morgue guys just called. They're on their way over to pick up the deceased."
He led me over to the aluminum table. The deceased was stretched out there -- long and pale, with dark hair that looked like he'd cut it himself the last time, and freckles on his shoulders.
"He was one real handsome kid," Jim said. "It looks like he took fine care of himself. Physically I mean. Weight lifter."
I stared at the incisions in his chest and abdomen.
"You guys chewed him up pretty bad," Jim said. "There was a lot of internal bleeding, damage to the liver and spleen. Not much of a chance of survival. The surgical staff sure gave it their damndest, though."
"Glad to hear it."
"Are you looking for anything in particular?"
I rubbed my face hard with both hands. The right hand still smelled like cordite.
"No," I said. "I just wanted to look at him. Maybe to get some little sense of what he was about."
"I could have saved you the trouble, Detective Murphy. We don't deal with human beings, just with the aftermath. We clean up the mess. If I didn't think that way I couldn't come in to work here every morning."
With that, he went to a sink against the cement wall and turned on the taps and began scrubbing his hands vigorously with a brush.
"If it had to be you or us, then I'm glad it was you," I told the body of Brendan Connor.
"What was that?" Jim called out over his shoulder.
"Nothing."
It had been bad enough when he'd only had a name. Now he had a face, too.
As I stepped out of the elevator, I saw MacLeavy chatting with the officer on watch outside Roskov's room. He shouted, "Hey!" and jogged over to me.
"We've got an address on the stiff."
I winced.
"You want it or not?"
"Sure."
He flipped open his notepad and tore off a page, which he pressed into my hand.
"I'll take my car," I said. "Would you call the precinct and get Officer Wallace over there to join me?"
"Hey, it's your show," MacLeavy said.
"Is it?"
"Yup. As per Pearson's decree. With whoever you like assigned to assist. You want Wallace, you got Wallace."
"Well, I want Wallace."
MacLeavy smiled.
"Then you got him."
As I walked off, he shouted after me: "Hey, tough guy. Did you see the Herald yet?"
"Not yet."
He rolled his eyes and intonedL"Back Bay Bloodbath! Hero Cops Take Out Shotgun-Toting Killer!"
Three
Officer Wallace was standing on the sidewalk outside the three decker on a side street in Dorchester when I drove up and parked in a cleared space between heaps of dirty snow. I stood beside him looking at the front of the three decker.
Wallace pointed. "That was his place. Third floor."
"Is the landlord in?"
"The landlady. Yup. She's watching us right now."
I looked over and saw a lace curtain being dropped back on a first floor window.
"Well, let's go.."
"Are we we don't want help on this?"
I yanked out of an overcoat pocket two pairs of latex gloves and handed one pair to Wallace.
"Absolutely."
Mrs. Leeds led us slowly up the steep, creaking staircase past the second floor apartment.
"Is this one occupied?" I asked her.
"Oh yes, dear, it is."
"Would the tenant be at home right now?" Wallace asked. "It might help us to have few quick words with him."
"Oh, I wouldn't want to bother Mr. Serra's sleep," she said. "He works the night shift, don't you know."
"Was he friendly with Mr. Connor?"
She stopped for a moment, shutting her eyes as she tried to recall.
"I don't think so, dear."
Mrs. Leeds stood by the open door to the apartment as I squatted on the floor of Brendan Connor's living room to read the titles of the paperbacks on a low shelf -- suspense novels by Elmore Leonard, Ed McBain, James Ellroy, etc. I glanced up at her when she tightened the sweater about her shoulders.
"Did he always keep it this cold?"
"Oh," she said. "I wouldn't know about that. I'm always cold. It's these aged bones, dear. My arthritis was giving me trouble since before you boys were born."
I turned to Wallace, who was flipping through magazines.
"What have you got?" I asked him.
He turned the magazine he was holding so that I saw the cover: The New Yorker.
"What else?"
He picked up a few more magazines and showed them to me: True Detective, Soldier of Fortune, GQ.
"Our boy was quite the autodidact," Wallace said.
"A what?" asked Mrs. Leeds in a quavering voice.
I went into the bedroom. There was a bare futon on the floor. Three open carboard boxes stood against the far wall. I saw sweaters in one, socks and underwear in another, and in a third more magazines, paperback books and newspapers. As I rummaged through these things, I could hear Wallace going through the cabinet in the small bathroom off the passage.
"Anything?" I shouted.
"Nothing. No, wait -- codeine. Prescription." I heard him putting bottles back in. "That's it."
I swung open the closet door. There were several dark suits hanging from wooden hangers. I pushed them aside and saw, on a shelf behind the suits, stacks of glossy European and Japanese porn magazines. I picked up and thumbed through one of the Japanese magazines with the English title: Bondage Nurses.
Nice.
There was pile of shoeboxes on the floor of the closet. I opened one of these and found, wrapped carefully in tissue, it a Glock 9mm and several extra ammunition clips. I kicked the other boxes one by one with the point of my shoe. Most were empty, but one rattled. In it I found half a dozen boxes of 12-gauge shotgun shells packed tightly, a large wad of hundred dollar bills, and a small glassein bag containing about six grams of white powder.
Wallace walked into the room. I showed him the bag.
"Ah," he said. "The big H."
"Maybe."
"Too bad he's too dead for us to bust him."
I sighed.
"Sorry."
"Forget it."
Wallace said. "So far no address book, no phone numbers."
"What about letters?"
"Do the ones from Ed McMann count?"
"What's in the kitchen trash bin?"
"Junk mail. Bills. Kitchen trash."
We went out to Mrs. Leeds.
"Did you ever see him bring women up here?" I asked her.
She shook her head.
"I don't recall any."
"To your knowledge, did he have a job?" Wallace asked.
"I recall him saying that he worked for an electrician.That was when he first moved in, you know. Last summer."
"How did he pay his rent -- with checks, or with cash?"
"He paid cash, always."
"Do you have a key to his mailbox?" I asked
She stared at me, grimacing so that her dentures showed.
"Mrs. Leeds."
"Yes, dear," she said.
I saw that her eyes were tearing.
She shook her head. "I was just thinking about him, it's such a shock."
"I am sorry."
She looked at me closely.
"You're the -- "
I said, "Yes. Last night's ten o'clock news."
"Oh."
She had been rubbing her hands together, but she let them fall.
"I have that key somewhere downstairs, where I don't rightly recall."
"Why don't you go look for it, and we'll meet you downstairs in a few minutes when we've finished up here."
"Dan, look at this," Wallace said after the landlady had gone. He picked up the flip phone and handed it over to me.
I took it and pushed the redial button. As the phone was picked up on the other end, a Boston number flashed on the screen. I showed it to Wallace. He took a notepad and ball point pen out of his breast pocket and jotted the number down quickly.
"Hello? Hello?" said a young woman's somewhat throaty voice. Then: "Is that you, Brendan? Hello?"
I said. "This is Detective Murphy of the Boston Police Department, Homicide Division. To whom am I speaking, please?"
I listened, and then turned to Wallace.
"She hung up."
Downstairs, we found Mrs. Leeds standing in the foyer. She handed me the key and I opened the brass mailbox labelled CONNOR # 3. From it slid a number of envelopes and some magazines. Wallace knelt to gather them up as Mrs. Lees looked on.
"Anything there?" I asked.
"No, not really."
I turned to Mrs. Leeds.
"Would you mind collecting his mail for the next few weeks?" I asked her. "Officer Wallace here will be coming by to sort through it. There could be something in there that will help us in our investigation. We're taking these items with us." I showed her the shoeboxes. "I'll send some officers to sort through the rest. After that you can get the place cleaned out and put it up for rent again."
"Thank you, dear."
"No. Thank you."
As I squeezed her hand goodbye, her eyes again filled up with tears.
Four
As I walked through the doors of the 8th Precinct, Briggs was chatting with the desk sergeant. He excused himself and came over to me.
"Murphy, glad you're back. They located the shooter's car."
"Where was it?"
"In a parking garage, a few streets over from the scene."
"Anybody have a go at it yet?"
"No, they just brought it into the yard."
"I'll go take a look. Thanks."
"Sure thing."
"It's a nice ride," the officer in charge said as he took down his clipboard and the keys from the wall. "Ford Mustang. He kept it up pretty well."
As we walked into the garage, he said, "I saw you last night on TV. You looked pretty calm, I mean for the crap you'd just been through."
"It takes a lot to get me excited," I said.
I slipped on latex gloves, opened the driver's side door, and crawled into the car, where I felt under the seats, both driver's and passenger's sides.
"You want I should get you flashlight?"
"No."
I clacked open the glove compartment.
"What have you got?"
I held up the box of shotgun shells I had just withdrawn from the depths of the glove compartment and shook it. There were some shells missing. I put it down on the seat and reached in again. Buried underneath the registration, a box of tissues and a tube of K-Y jelly with a crimped end was a large envelope. This I took out and opened.
In it were were a dozen or so photographs in black and white. The first showed a young woman with long, loose dark hair and eyes that slanted a little upward at the corners kneeling on a bed with her arms raised like a dancer. She was wearing nothing but a pair of black thong panties.
I scrutinized the others one by one. They were all of the same girl.
"Do you know who she is?" the officer said. He was looking in over my shoulder.
"No clue."
At the Precinct, I spread the photographs out on a desk in front of Wallace.
He shook his head.
"You think she's a prostitute?"
"More like an escort. Look at these suits she's wearing -- very high end. And what's she doing in most of these? Walking through the doorway of a club, sitting in a restaurant, climbing out of a stretch limousine."
"She is one hell of a good looking girl," he murmured. He was looking at the erotic poses.
I glanced at him. He frowned.
"Sorry," he said.
"Don't apologize. I felt it, too."
"What?"
"I don't know. Fascination. A kind of thrill."
He cleared his throat.
"OK," I said. "Let's get off that. Did you get an address on that phone number?"
"I did. Why? You think it's her?"
There was nothing bad looking about the young woman who opened the door on the chain and stared out at the two of us standing in the hall, but it wasn't the one in the photographs. This was a liberally freckled redhead wearing a Boston College T shirt over long, bare legs.
I showed her my badge.
"Detective Murphy," I said. "We spoke on the phone earlier. And this is Officer Wallace. We'd like to come in and speak with you."
"Do you have a warrant?"
"No, but since this is a murder investigation I could get one pretty fast."
She shut the door to take off the chain and opened it wide. "Come in," she said, walking ahead of us, barefoot, into the apartment and slumping onto the sofa.
There were no chairs. Wallace and I remained standing. I could hear the traffic outside alon Commonwealth Avenue.
As I looked the young woman in the eyes, her face softened.
"I saw it," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "After we spoke. I turned on the TV."
"You have my condolences," I said.
Her laugh was throaty with phlegm.
"Oh my God."
Wallace picked up a box of tissues from the windowsill and tossed it to me. I held it out to the girl. She took the box and placed it on her lap. I watched as she pulled tissue after tissue out of the box, blew her nose in them, and then crumpled and dropped the tissues onto the floor.
Wallace stood at the bay windows looking down.
"You've got a nice view from up here," he said.
She shook her head and laughed again.
I said, "You're not under arrest yet, so you don't have to talk to us if you don't want to. Will you talk?"
"Why not?"
"Your name is Fiona Kyle. Correct?"
"Yes."
"What was the nature of your relationship with Brendan Connor?"
"I think I loved him."
"Did he share those feelings?"
"I don't know. I never asked. And I sure as hell can't ask him now, can I?"
I paused to let her blow her nose again, then asked: "Do you have any idea of what he did for a living?"
"Oh, well. I knew that he dealt drugs, sometimes. And that he worked for an escort service, something called Blue Midnight."
I exchanged looks with Wallace.
"Is that what you do also?"
"No," she shook her head. "I'm an exotic dancer. At this club in the Combat Zone."
Wallace took out his notepad and flipped it open. He asked, "Which one?"
"The Naked I. Do you know it?"
I smiled. Wallace stiffened a little, but said, "Sure, I know it.."
Fiona Kyle looked up at me and her eyes suddenly focussed.
"You're not him."
"What do you mean?"
"You're not the one Brendan was going after."
"Who was he going after?"
"It must have been the other cop. Your partner."
"Detective Roskov?"
"Yes. The one with the drugs. I'll bet you didn't know about that, did you? A Narcotics Squad cop dealing in pure uncut H."
"You're mistaken."
"Are you sure? Or are you just saying that because you don't want to believe anything bad about your partner?"
"No, I'm saying it because Detective Roskov, isn't on the Narcotics Squad. He never has been. He's in Homicide, like me. Here. Take a look."
I pulled out my shield again and handed it to her. She flipped it open and studied it for a long moment, then her shoulders slumped. As I took it back from her limp hand Wallace said, "This cop with the heroin. The one your boyfriend, for whatever reason, was after. Can you describe what he looks like?"
"OK, I think I can do that." She shut her eyes. "He's tall. Dark haired. He has a thick moustache. He's pretty heavyset. He wears a gold chain."
"Where was it you saw him?"
"At the 22 Club. Brendan pointed him out."
"Well, how do you know this man Brendan pointed out to you at the club was a police officer, if he wasn't wearing a uniform?"
"Brendan said he was."
"How did he know?"
"It's complicated. He was totally obsessed with this woman that the cop was with that night. We broke up over it, in fact. Then he decided he wanted to get back together. He said he was over her. That he wasn't going to see her anymore. But she called him on his cell phone last week. I knew it was her by the way his face looked when he answered his phone. We had a bad fight about it. He said that he had something he had to go and do for her. A last thing. That as a friend he had to do this thing and then it would be all over."
"Why do you think that last thing was killing a cop?"
"Because he's dead. From being in a shootout with two cops."
"Can you give us the woman's name?"
"No. But I do know that she worked for the same escort service Brendan did."
Wallace flipped back a page and scribbled on his pad.
"Can you describe her to us?" I asked.
Fiona Kyle laughed.
"Sure. Tall. Younger than me and really good looking, with dark hair. Very elegant. Always wears suits"
I said, "Let's go back to something that confuses me. Why would this woman want your boyfriend to kill a police officer?"
Fiona Kyle shook her head.
"I don't know, really. But I had the impression she thought she was in some danger. Like she had been partners or something with him and then the relationship went bad."
Wallace said, "You're saying you think she was partners with the cop? Like in dealing heroin?"
"I think she was involved. I don't know how much, or what she did. Maybe she helped him make contacts. Or maybe she was just there to sweeten whatever deals got made. Like as a fringe benefit."
"But you don't really know any of this for sure, do you?"
"You're right. I don't."
I said, "I want to thank you for your candor. I do have one more question. It's this: Did Brendan leave anything with you? Did he give you anything to hold onto for him?"
Fiona looked up at me and I saw, in her eyes, a flash of doubt.
"Please help us," I said. "He went after the wrong cop. We'd like to find the right one. If that cop's dirty, if he's dealing heroin, you can help us get him."
She blew a stream of air out from between her pursed lips. Then she stood and went into the other room and came back holding up a small key, which she placed on the coffee table between us. I stood for a moment looking at the key, then I picked it up.
She said, "He left this for me last Tuesday. There was a note with it but I tore that up."
"Did he say what this was for?"
"No. He just wrote that he'd like me to keep it safe for him and that he'd see me soon. I'm pretty certain it has something to do with her."
Wallace came over to look at it.
"It looks like it goes to a locker in a club or a gym," he said.
I turned to Fiona Kyle.
"Where did Brendan go to lift weights?"
A little startled by my question, she cleared her throat before answering.
"I think he belonged to the YMCA."
"Any idea which one?"
"The big one, near Symphony Hall. On Huntington."
Five
We went to the front desk in the YMCA and I showed my badge. The clerk looked for the name Brendan Connor in the registration book.
"Yup," he said. "He's a member all right."
I showed him the key.
"We'd like to take a look in his gym locker."
"I don't know. Do you need a warrant for that?"
"Nope," Wallace said. "We don't."
"Are you sure?"
Wallace looked at me. I shrugged.
"Wait a second," the clerk said. "Hey, didn't I see you on TV last night? You were interviewed on the news about that shooting?"
"That's me."
"Does this have anything to do -- "
"Can we please just go in and take a look in the locker?" Wallace said.
"No problem, guys."
He buzzed us through the security doors.
Wallace opened the locker and took out a gym bag. I crouched to go through the contents.
"Nothing very interesting here," I said.
"Wait," Wallace said: "What's this?"
He pulled something from the top shelf and handed it to me. It was a VHS videotape.
"There's no label."
"Good. We might be getting our first break."
"Where are we going?" Wallace asked.
I had just turned off of Huntington onto Massachusetts Avenue.
"To my place," I said. "I live on Marlborough Street. It's small but really cozy. You'll like it."
"No I mean -- why aren't we headed back to the precinct?"
"Because we're going to watch a video. And we don't want anyone disturbing us while we do."
I popped in the tape and turned on the VCR with the remote. We both remained standing, with our overcoats and scarves on. There was a moment of static, then a clear image.
"It's her," Wallace said.
The video camera followed her across what looked like a hotel suite. She was naked and holding a glass of champagne. She sat on the edge of a bed and set down the glass on a bedside table, and a pair of arms reached for her. The video camera jolted to the side and took in a large man, his muscles going to fat, lying naked on the bed with an erection sticking up. He guided her head down with his hands and then held her shoulders lightly as she sucked most of his cock into her mouth. Another woman, a petite false blonde, walked into the frame and sat on the bed. As the large man fondled her breasts, she took turns sucking on his cock, pausing on occasion to kiss the mouth and the breasts of the woman in the pictures.
"I don't know about you," Wallace said, "but this shit is giving me a definite hard on."
I sat on the couch and watched for a moment, then picked up the remote and fast forwarded. In a rapid sequence of frames, the man had an orgasm, wiped himself off with a towel, and got up, leaving the two women to fondle and kiss one another. Then another man came into the frame, this one even more heavyset, wearing a thin gold chain around his neck.
I slowed the speed of the images.
"That's Roskov," I said.
I sped up again. There was little foreplay. He fucked the fake blonde from behind for a few seconds, then crouched over the other and fucked her in the mouth.
"Jesus," Wallace said. "Look at him go."
The video ended in a rush of static. I shut off the VCR with the remote, then went over and popped out the tape.
"Who was the first guy?" Wallace asked.
I looked at him.
"If I'm not mistaken, that was Lieutenant Thomas P. Deeley," I said. "Of the Narcotics Squad."
Six
"This is crazy," Wallace said. We were in my car on our way back to the 8th precinct. "I mean, I haven't got the slightest idea how to proceed from here. What do we do?"
"No, the question is more like, what do we have," I told him. I held up a hand and counted on my fingers.
"We have a seemingly unprovoked attack on two cops in which the shooter is killed. We have a DOA with a history of drug arrests who is rumored to have worked in the past as a paid killer. We have a story about the shooter being obsessed with this woman who's in some trouble having to do with a cop who's dealing pure heroin."
"OK. Where does all that leave us?"
"Let's assume that Fiona Kyle is telling the truth. She seems credible enough. This woman, we''ll call her Miss X, calls up the shooter with a request. Does she want him to kill a cop? I don't think so. I think he does that on his own. That's why he goes after the wrong cop. He's acting on the assumption that the cop he saw her with last week is the same one she's told him about, the one who's dealing the heroin.
"Lietenant Deeley?"
I nodded.
"It's Roskov he tails, trying to work out where the best place might be to do the job. He gets around, asks some questions. He's doing all this in a hurry, remember. Anyway, we know he's not a real professional. He's done some hits before, but only on crack dealers. He's never gone after a cop. He concludes that there are too many risks involved in trying to take Roskov out at home. But he's nosed out the interesting little fact that Detective Roskov hits the Tremont Pub for a drink with his partner every Wednesday night at about nine-thirty. It's not a perfect set up, but consider the advantages. Roskov and his partner are both likely to be bone weary. That first drink and the one after it are looking pretty good. Also, they're walking into a place they're comfortable with -- a place that feels like home. They're relaxed. So Brendan Connor gets to the Tremont a little early, wearing a long coat to conceal his weapon. He sits down at the bar, orders something to drink, and watches the clock. At about nine twenty-five or so, he pulls out the shotgun, announces that this is a robbery, and tells the few other customers to go stand with their faces to the wall. He then kicks aside a couple of the tables to get a clear line of fire at the doors, since he's decided he's going to take Roskov as soon as he sets foot over the threshold. Tom Corgan, the bartender, opens the cash drawer. He's going to clean out the till for this boy, since the contents aren't worth risking his or anyone else's life for. But something's wrong. The kid's not interested. He's not even looking at Tom. He's looking at the doors. Tom looks over as well and it's just then that Detectives Roskov and Murphy step inside. They're too busy kicking the snow off their shoes to look up and see that they are, in effect, already dead. It's then that Tom goes for the .45 he's got on a shelf under the register. The kid catches the movement in his peripheral vision, or maybe he hears a hammer sliding back, and he swings the shotgun around and blows Tom away. It was an act of self-defense."
Wallace kept quiet for a few moments after I'd finished talking, possibly out of respect for Tom Corgan. Then he licked his lips and said: "Detective Murphy, stop me if you think I'm speaking out of turn here, but how do you figure Roskov isn't deep into some sort of unholy alliance on this heroin thing with the other cop -- the one you're pegging as dirty?"
"Lietenant Deeley?"
"Sure. I mean, they seemed to work pretty well together on that videotape."
I smiled and shook my head
"Isn't it a possibility we've got to be prepared to confront if we plan to dig much deeper into this mess?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Then you have your doubts about Roskov? I mean, if you feel you can say anything on this subject without betraying your partner?"
"I think we'd better hold off on this discussion until after I've spoken to Roskov," I said.
"I'm sorry."
"It's OK. I'm not easily offended."
As we turned onto Boylston Street, Wallace looked out the passenger side window at a construction site. Five story tall cranes were moving slowly in a skeleton of steel girders.
"This city's really getting an overhaul," he said. "It seems like some huge new architectural wonder is going up every other week."
"Tell me about it," I said. "I remember when the tallest thing on the skyline was the Ritz Hotel."
He looked at me.
"I didn't think you were that old," he said.
I laughed.
We were silent for a few moments before he spoke again.
"Detective Murphy, are you sure that it's a good idea to let Roskov in on what we've turned up so far? I mean, if he is involved, couldn't it -- "
I held up a hand.
"OK, OK. You're the boss."
I parked across the street from the precinct.
"Here's where you get off," I said to Wallace.
"Aren't you coming in?"
"No, I''ve got to see Roskov."
"Are you going to show him the videotape?"
"No. I'm going to show him the photos first and take it from there."
"That sounds smart."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now you might want to get out your notebook, because there are some things I need from you, and I need them pretty quickly."
He took out his pad and flipped it open.
"To begin with, I need a complete run down on Lieutenant Thomas P. Deeley's activities over the past six months. I want to know as much detail as you can get me about the cases in which he's currently involved. I'd also like to know as much as possible about the man himself -- his family life, educational background, class standing in the Academy and professional record, including any and all decorations, citations and awards received in the course of his career with the PD. I even want to know whether he's a Rotarian, a Lion or a Shriner. And I want you get hold of all of this information without any murmers getting back to Deeley that someone's asking."
"How am I going to manage that?"
"Talk to Captain Pearson before you get going. Don't talk to anyone else. He'll probably be able to get hold of most of the material you'll need. You'll just have to sort through the crap for the good stuff."
"Okay," Wallace said. "What else?"
"I'll need some information on Blue Midnight Escorts. Who owns and runs it, how long they've been in business, if they've ever been shut down, etc."
"No problem."
"Lastly, I need to see Brendan Connor's rap sheet, including his juvenile record. We're looking for basic biographical information like who his parents were, names and whereabouts of any brothers or sisters, where he went to school and whether he ever did a stint in reform."
"Got it."
"Good. I'll call you in a few hours after I've spoken with Roskov and then we'll work out what to do next."
Seven
"Dan," Roskov said. "What's up?"
His hospital bed was an island in a sea of FTD bouquets and get well cards. He had the remote control in his hand. As I came into the room, he shut off the daytime talk show he’d been watching on the big TV fastened to the wall..
I held up the envelope.
"What's that?"
I walked over and dropped it in his lap, then pulled a stool to the bedside and sat down on it. He took out the photographs and looked at them one by one.
"I found these pictures in the glove compartment of the shooter's car. Do you know her?"
He frowned, shoved the photographs into the envelope, and handed it back to me.
"Yes."
"Dit me tutto, as they say in the North End."
"Do you by any small chance know a Lieutenant Deeley, works out of the 10th Precinct?"
"I know of him."
"Well, about a month ago I run into Deeley and Hartwell, that's another Narcotics cop, down at Harry's Gym. I take a break from the heavy bag to watch the two of them spar. They're not half bad. Eventually, Deeley notices me standing there and asks me do I want to go a few rounds against him. So I get gloved up and step into the ring. He's quick. Let me tell you. I got quite a work out. We end up in the sauna after Hartwell heads home to his wife and kids, and Deeley starts telling me about this girl he's met through an escort service, saying how sexy she is and how he's set up this double date with her and with another girl from the same service for he and Hartwell, but Hartwell backed out at the last minute pleading some kind of prior engagement. He says it's too late to call off the evening, and asks me am I interested in taking over Hartwell's place. I say, No problem. He says to meet up with him later at this chic club downtown. I go home and get suited up and show the club at the appointed hour, but Deeley's nowhere to be found. So I sit at the bar and have a couple of high priced drinks. Then this girl -- the one in the photographs, although she looks younger in person -- comes up to me and introduces herself as Katherine and says she's one of the escorts, and that we're going to meet Deeley over at a suite in the Sheraton. We stay at the club long enough to have a drink together, then we head over to the Sheraton."
"And?"
Roskov gave me a sheepish look.
"Deeley and this other girl, Sophie, had already started the party without us. They offered us some lines, I thought it was coke but it turned out to be heroin, and I did one or two and drank a lot of champagne, and then the girls put on a little sex show for us."
“Mark,” I said.
He looked in my eyes.
"I saw the videotape.”
"What?"
"The videotape you and Deeley made that night of yourselves and the girls. Brendan Connor had it. In a gym locker at the YMCA"
"Oh."
He blinked his eyes rapidly.
"You saw it?"
"This afternoon, with Officer Wallace."
I watched as a dark blush spread across Roskov's face and neck.
"Jesus, Dan. I'm sorry."
I shrugged.
"I would have told you, it's just -- "
"Don’t worry about it. Did the girls really put on a sex show first?"
"Yeah, for starters. Then the videocamera came out. By that time, Murphy, I'll tell you -- I was so whacked, I would have gone along with just about anything."
"Tell me about the coke you say was cut with heroin. How did you know it was heroin and not something else?"
"I knew."
"And the heroin -- was it of a particularly high grade?"
He looked at me.
"Yes. As a matter of fact. How the hell did you know that?"
"I think that Lieutenant Deeley set you up. He wanted Brendan Connor to see you with Katherine. That's why he sent you to the club and why he didn't show himself. He'd found out that Brendan Connor was tailing Katherine, even photographing her, and realized that the kid was looking to ID the heroin dealing cop he'd heard about. Deeley knew that he had to get rid of this kid if he was ever going to do any business in this town."
"Do you think Deeley knew the kid was going to try to kill this cop?"
"I don't know."
"And what about the girl? Was she in on it?"
"I don't know about that, either."
"So -- what's next?"
I picked up the envelope and stood.
"Do me a favor, Mark. For the time being, don't tell anyone about our little talk."
Eight
I went back to the Precinct. MacLeavy came up to me in the hall. He looked conspiratorily from side to side and placed his hand on my shoulder and said, out of the corner of his mouth: "Ahem. Detective Murphy. Exactly where is this thing going? I understand you've got Wallace conducting some real hush hush research into Lt. Thomas Deeley's past?"
I shrugged.
"We just want to cover all the angles."
MacLeavy laughed a deep, vulgar laugh right from the gut.
"You should go into politics."
"That's a fine idea. Maybe I will. Murphy for Mayor. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"Just let me know when you want to run. I'll quit the PD to work for your campaign."
"Sure. You can hand out the buttons."
He laughed again and walked off carrying his sheaf of papers -- a big man in shirtsleeves with a holster under his armpit, leaving in his wake an effluvium of sweat and aftershave.
I went in to see Pearson, who was smoking his pipe and gazing out the window. The late winter sunlight shone on the glass panes of the John Hancock tower. I stood looking out with him. Finally he wrenched himself away from the view and leaned over to tap out the pipe into a glass ashtray on his desk blotter.
"I really love this city," he said.
"Yeah. It's a great place."
"We seem to be seeing a lot more and messier kinds of homicides than in years past. MacLeavy says it's the crack dealers. It seems crack is going to be blamed for everything."
"Its the hot ticket. The War of Drugs can't do without a nefarious villain. I personally pine for the days of Fu Manchu and opium dens."
Pearson looked at me with an expression of something close to anguish.
"What's this nonsense about Lt. Deeley? I know him. I knew his father, too. He's a fine cop."
I explained briefly. Pearson sat back and closed his eyes, placing his fingertips on his eyelids, as he listened. When I finished, I stood there for a moment. Pearson took his fingers away from his eyelids and opened his eyes. They were bright blue and slightly watery from age.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news."
"Do you know what the Greeks used to do to those messengers?"
"Of course. They'd put them to death out of sheer spite."
Pearson said, "I've given Wallace everything I could find. He's got the files and he's going through them now in the basement."
"Good." I stood there for a moment longer, then cleared my throat and said, "Sir. There's nothing I'd like better than to find out that Deeley's as clean as I know Roskov is."
He waved his hand.
"OK, Sir," I said. "I'll check in later."
"Let me know soon as you've got something."
"Sure thing."
Nine
As soon as I walked through the door into Records I felt my sinuses start running -- I was allergic to dust and mold spores. Basically, I was allergic to books. Maybe that's why I didn't graduate at the top of my class in college, even though I came out with a respectable grade point average and a B.A. in Criminal Psychology.
Wallace was sitting at a desk poring over arrests for the past five years. The flourescent lights seemed to drain all the life from his long, somber face. I sat on the edge of the desk.
"What's up?"
He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and yawned between sentences while he brought me up to date. All was pretty much as I'd expected. Lt. Deeley was a highly decorated afficer and a Rotarian. He had excelled in the Academy and worked his way up through the ranks as a street cop until his promotion to Lt. six years ago.
I shut my eyes and seemed to see Deeley, not as the beefy sex gourmand of the videotape, but as a slim, sarcastic cop in crisp blues. Where did this image come from? Maybe I'd met him at a charity ball. I was in my early twenties, he must have been about thirty. I remembered his hard, dry handshake and the way his eyes followed everything that was happening around him.
"Murphy?"
"Yes."
"You're fading out on me a little. Didn't you get any sleep last night?"
I yawned.
"Last night -- Christ, it seems like about a thousand years ago."
"You'd better make it an early night tonight, then."
"Maybe. Tell me about Deeley’s family life.”
"That gets a bit complicated. Deeley's wife killed herself few years ago."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"She ate his service revolver. There was a quick informal investigation but he was cleared of any wrongdoing. The interview records say he appeared 'genuinely grief stricken'. Those are their words, verbatim."
"Fine. Any kids?"
"There's a stepdaughter. Fourteen years old when it happened"
"His wife's child."
"Yes."
"What happened to the girl?"
"She stayed on with Deeley after they buried her mom. She attended Boston Latin. Graduated at the top of her class and went on to -- " he flipped through some of the papers in the portfolio laid out on the desk. "I don't know where she went after that. That's the extent of the information we have on her."
"So she'd be -- how old now?"
"Nineteen."
Is there a biological father anywhere in the background?"
"Nope. Dead."
"A cop?"
"Yeah. How did you know?"
I shrugged.
"It's a well known sydrome. Widows of dead cops getting remarried to live ones."
Wallace said, "I also looked for recent heroin busts. There's nothing as big as a suitcase implicated in any of Deeley's arrests. It's all small time -- mostly crack dealers."
"Sure. I expected as much."
"But there is this file." Wallace pushed it over to me. I picked up the folder and flipped it open. Inside were several typewritten sheets. It was a record of the pursuit of a subject who had fired a barrage shots at Deeley and his partner in a stairwell of one of the Mission Hill projects and had managed in the end, in Deeley's somewhat florid prose, to "elude capture". Several precints had been involved in the night search of the Mission Hill and Fenway areas. The subject had fired an Uzzi -- a litter of spent cartridges was found on the cement floor of the landing, along with a pool of urine, human fecal matter, MacDonald's Restaurant wrappers, and crack vials. Deeley had returned fire, emptying his service revolver and three shells from his back up pistol. Net result: many bullet pocket concrete walls, but not a trace of blood.
I remembered the incident. A number of young men were rounded up and taken downtown, only to be released the next day when a half dozen Black ministers held a press conference and one after another, thundered out threats of a lawsuit against the City of Boston. It had been another low point in race relations for a city with an already abysmal record.
There was a typed list of the names of young men arrested. Some of the men had not given their names, or had given Muslim names in place of their: Malik, Mufasa, Kalhil, etc. But one name caught my eye: Monk E. Stiles, aka 'Monkey' Stiles."
I looked at Wallace.
"Do you know that name"
He shook his head and yawned.
"He's a suspected dealer. He was born here but he spent a few years in LA, where he got involved with the Crips. There's rumors that he's running the show up at the Mission Hill Projects."
"So what?" Wallace said.
"So what were Deeley and his partner doing there?"
"The record says they were meeting an informant."
"Look -- wouldn't it be brain dead stupid of a police snitch to invite Deeley to call on him where he and Deeley are both known?"
Wallace sat up straight.
"I see your point. It would be like, Hi, Monkey, these are my nice cop friends. And later on, blam."
"So what was Deeley doing there?"
"Isn't that obvious?" Wallace asked. "He was stealing himself a suitcase full of heroin."
I smiled.
"Let's not jump to any conclusions."
"Sorry," hee said, his face flushing.
"We need to get out of this basement," I told him. "My allergies are acting up."
"Sure. I'm finished here."
I took out a tissue and blew my nose into it as he watched.
Putting the crumpled wad of tissue into my pocket, I asked Wallace, "Did you get any of the info I wanted on Brendan Connor or on the escorts?"
He slapped his forehead.
"No. I apologize. I got so engrossed in the life and illustrious career of Thomas P. Deeley that I just -- ."
"It's OK," I said. "You can stay down here and work on that. It shouldn't take long. Look at his recent arrest records; we're going to need to talk to Pearson to open his juvenile file, if that becomes necessary. What I'm looking for is names and addresses of any living members of the kid's family."
"Any particular reason?"
"I'm just curious. That's all."
I stood.
"And one more thing," I said. "Don't worry about Blue Midnight Escort Service. I'll get that number myself and give them a call."
"Sure," Wallace said. "That's easy. Let your fingers do the walking."
"I'm going to go out for lunch," I said. "We can talk when I get back here in about an hour."
He was already gathering together Deeley's files. I sneezed as dust rose from the folders.
"See you later, then,' Wallace said.
"Ta ta."
Ten
I went to Sorley's and ordered a steak and fries. I was tempted to get a beer with lunch. I let the waiter stand there for a few moments while in my own mind I hemmed and hawed. Finally I thought, All right, what the hell, and I ordered a Rolling Rock. As waiter walked off with mincing steps, I opened the bundle of newspapers I'd bought at the kiosk outside Copley Square Station.
I went for the Boston Phoenix Classifieds first. It took me just a few seconds to find the quarter page ad for Blue Midnight Escort Service. A black and white photograph showed a young woman in a very tight and very small black dress climbing out of a stretch limousine.
I looked at this picture for a long time because the contrast between the lithe sexiness of the woman's body and the bored, almost contemptuous expression on her face fascinated me. Printed above the picture, in large type, were the words: When Blue Is the Only Mood For You. Blue Midnight Escorts, Inc. Beautiful,Young, Discreet.
I took out my notebook and jotted down the phone number listed at the bottom of the ad. The waiter brought over my beer. It was cold and beaded with moisture on the outside. I took a long swallow from the bottle, then went into the payphone to the rear of Sorley's.
An older woman with a trace of a Georgia -- or perhaps a North Carolina -- accent answered the phone on the third ring.
"Good afternoon, Blue Midnight Escort Services." "Hello," I said, making my voice thin and hesitant sounding. "Um. I was told by a friend of mine to call you up if I ever came into town and to ask for a pretty young lady by the name of, ah, Kathy."
"Do you require an escort for this evening, sir?"
"Sure," I said.
"We have many young ladies to choose from, any one of whom could offer you a discreet, tasteful, very pleasurable experience."
"Um," I said. "Maybe I called the wrong service I might have gotten the names mixed up. I'm from, ah, out of town."
"Welcome to Boston, sir," the woman said, enunciating precisely and carefully."I believe we can find some way to satisfy your needs. After all, we have a lady for just about every taste."
"You're saying there's no Kathy working there?"
"At the moment, I'm sorry to say, there is not. But, again, we have a number of young ladies on call who would be perfectly capable of --"
I hung up the phone and went back to my booth. The steak and fries had arrived. I sat gazing out onto Boylston Street as I ate.
