'That kid shouldn't have a defense counsel I never heard of,' Rita said. 'But, I gather, at least he has you.'
'His grandmother took your recommendation.'
'Huh,' Rita said. 'That's who was asking. Everyone was so fucking discreet, I didn't know who the client was. How come they didn't hire me to help you or, actually, hire you to help me after they hired me?'
'Leeland was the kid's father's frat brother at Yale.'
'Oh, God,' Rita said.
'I know,' I said. 'Can you find out if he's any good?'
'Sure. I'll call the DAs office out there. What's in it for me.'
'Dinner?' I said.
'At my house?'
'Sure. You get a date, I'll bring Susan, it'll be swell.'
'You smarmy bastard,' Rita said.
'You can't get a date?' I said.
'I had other plans,' Rita said.
'I thought you were seeing that police chief from the North Shore,' I said.
'I was,' Rita said. 'But he loves his ex-wife. You. Him. Every winner I find is in love with somebody else.'
'Maybe that's not an accident,' I said.
'Fuck you, Sigmund,' Rita said.
'Or not,' I said. 'Susan's in North Carolina. I'll buy you dinner at Excelsior.'
'How easily I settle,' Rita said. 'I'll meet you there at seven.'
'Have your secretary make us a reservation,' I said.
'My secretary?'
'I don't have one,' I said.
Chapter 3
DOWLING IS WEST of Boston. High-priced country with a village store and a green, and a lot of big shade trees that arch over the streets. As I drove along the main street, I passed a young girl with long blond hair and breeches and high boots, riding a bay mare along the side of the street, and eating an ice cream cone. It might have been pistachio. I pulled into the little lot in front of the village store and parked beside an unmarked State Police car and went in. There was a counter and display case opposite the door, and a few tables. In the back of the store were shelves, and along two sides were glass-front freezers. Two women in hats were at one table with coffee. A young couple who looked like J. Crew models were having ice cream at another table. Alone at a third table was a stubby little guy with thick hands and thick glasses, wearing a tan poplin suit and a light-blue tie. I took a wild stab.
'Sergeant DiBella?' I said.
He nodded. I sat down across from him at the table.
'Healy called me,' he said. 'I used to work for him.'
There were a few crumbs on a paper plate in front of DiBella.
'Pie,' I said.
'Strawberry rhubarb. Counter girl told me they make it themselves.'
'I better have some,' I said. 'Don't want to offend them.'
'Make it two,' DiBella said.
The pie was all it should have been. DiBella ate his second piece just as if he hadn't eaten a first one. We both had coffee.
'I've read the press accounts,' I said, 'of the school shooting.'
'They're always on the money,' DiBella said.
'Sure,' I said. 'I just wanted to test you against them.'
A couple of local girls came in wearing cropped T-shirts and low-slung shorts, showing a lot of postpubescent abdomen. We watched them buy some sort of iced coffee drinks.
'Be glad when that fad is over,' DiBella said.
'I'll say.'
'You got kids?' DiBella said.
'No.'
'I got two daughters,' he said.
'So you'll be really glad,' I said.
The girls left.
