We drove along Storrow Drive with the river on our right, took the Kenmore exit, went up over Commonwealth Avenue and onto Park Drive. On the right, apartment houses in red brick and yellow brick, most of them built probably before the war, some with courtyards, low buildings, no more than five stories. It was a neighborhood of graduate students and retired school teachers and middle-aged couples without children. On the left, following the curve of the muddy river, was the Fenway. In early fall it was still bright with flowers, the trees were still dominantly green, and the reeds along the river were higher than a man.
Whenever I passed them, I expected Marlin Perkins to jump out and sell me some insurance.
Number 136 was three quarters of the way down Park Drive, across from the football field. At that point the drive was divided by a broad grass safety island, and I pulled my car up onto it and parked.
Marge Bartlett said, “It’s not a bad neighborhood. Look, it’s across the street from the museum. And there’s a nice park.”
“Breeding shows,” I said. We went across the street and rang the bell marked Super. A fat middle-aged woman with no teeth and gray hair in loose disorganization around her head shuffled to the door. She was wearing fluffy pink slippers and a flowered housedress. When she opened the door, I showed her a badge that said “Suburban Security Service” on it and said in a mean vice-squad voice, “Where’s Apartment Three?”
She said, “Right there on the left, officer, first door.
What’s the trouble?”
“No trouble,” I said, “just routine.”
I knocked on the door with the Bartletts right behind me.
No answer, I knocked again then put my ear against the panel. Silence. “Open it,” I said to the super.
“I don’t know,” she said, “I mean the tenants get mad if…”
“Look, sweetheart,” I said, “if I have to come back here with a warrant, I might bring along someone from the Building Inspector’s office. And we might go over this roach farm very closely, you know.”
“Okay, okay, no need to get mad. Here.” She produced a key ring and opened the door. I went in with my hand on my gun. It was not a distinguished place. Two rooms, kitchen and bath off a central foyer that was painted a dull pink. The place was neat. The bed was made. There was a pound of frozen hamburg half-defrosted on the counter. In the bedroom there were twin beds. On each were some clothes.
Roger Bartlett looked at a pair of flared jeans and a pale blue polo shirt and said, “Those are Kevin’s.” On the other bed was a pair of Black Watch plaid trousers with deep cuffs, and a forest-green silk short-sleeved shirt with a button-down collar. A pair of stacked-heel black loafers was on the floor beside the bed. On the bureau there was a framed eight-by-ten color photo of Harroway and the boy.
Harroway had an arm draped over the boy’s shoulders, and they were both smiling.
Two spots of color showed on Roger Bartlett’s face as he looked at the picture.
“This the guy?” he said.
“That’s him.”
“He’s really quite nice-looking in a physical sort of way,” Marge Bartlett said. “The apartment is quite neat too.” Her husband looked at her, opened his mouth, and then closed it.
“Let’s go,” I said. And we trailed out. The super came last in line to make sure we didn’t lift anything and closed the door behind her. I said, “Okay for now. If you run into Mr. Harroway, say nothing. This is official business, and it’s to be kept still.” I thought about invoking national security, but she might get suspicious.
“What now?” Bartlett said when we got outside again.
“We wait,” I said. “Obviously they’ll be coming back.
Clothes laid out on the bed, hamburg defrosting for supper. We walked back toward my car when Marge Bartlett said, ”My God, it’s Kevin.“
Chapter 25
On the far side of the Fenway two figures were jogging.
One big man, one small one. Vic and Kevin. Harroway was taking it easy, and the boy was obviously straining to stay with him. Cross streets made a natural circle of that part of the Fenway, and one complete lap around it, without crossing any streets, was about a mile. If we stayed where we were, Harroway and the boy would run right up to us.
We walked across to the park and stood, partly shielded by a blue hydrangea, watching them. As they got closer, you could see Harroway talking, apparently encouragingly, to Kevin, who had his head down, jogging doggedly. Harroway had on a lavender net sleeveless shirt and blue sweat pants with zippers at the ankles and white stripes down the sides. Kevin had on a white T-shirt and gray sweat pants, a little big and obviously brand- new. The boy was breathing hard, and Harroway said, ”Just to the edge of the stands, Kev; that’s a mile. Then we’ll walk a bit. You can make it.
You’re doing terrific.“ Behind us, along the near sideline of the football field, cement stands descended maybe twenty feet below street level to the field.
Roger Bartlett stepped forward and said, ”Kevin.“ The boy saw him and without a word he veered left, jumped the low back of the grandstand, and ran down the cement stands. Bartlett went after him. Marge Bartlett began to scream after them, ”Kevin, you come back here. Kevin.“ I was watching Harroway. He looked at me a long ten seconds, then looked after the boy. Bartlett was gaining on his son rapidly. The boy was bushed from jogging. Bartlett caught the boy in midfield, and Harroway went after them. I said, ”Stay here,“ to Marge Bartlett and went after Harroway. Bartlett had Kevin by the arm, and the boy was struggling and punching at his father with his free hand.
”Let me go, you sonova bitchin’ bastard,“ Kevin said.
