that stand. He doesn't cut a lot of corners.'
'How is he on race?' Healy shrugged.
'No worse than most,' he said. 'Your guy black?'
'Yeah.'
'You think he got railroaded because of that?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'Everywhere I go I keep hearing nigger nigger. And everywhere I go people stonewall me.'
Healy nodded slowly. He was in shirt sleeves, sitting back in his chair, with one foot propped on the edge of his desk.
'Well, it could be,' Healy said. 'I'm a white Irish guy, been a cop thirty-five years. Heard a lot of nigger nigger. Sometimes it's because you're dealing with a bunch of ignorant racist assholes, and sometimes it's because the black guy has done something bad and everyone's mad at him. But they're not mad at him because he's black, you unnerstand? They're mad at him because he did the bad thing, and `nigger's' a convenient thing to call him. I don't know about Miller. But what I do know is that race matters less to most cops than the media likes to make out. You know? You arrest some black guy with a rap sheet three and a half yards long, and the media questions you. Is it because he's black? No, it's because he's got a rap sheet three and a half yards long. For a similar crime. It's like the Stuart thing awhile back. The cops' information is that a black guy shot a white guy and his wife at the fringe of the black ghetto. They're supposed to start shaking people down at Brae Burn Country Club?'
'I would have suspected at once,' I said, 'that he murdered his wife and wounded himself badly to cover it up.'
'Yeah,' Healy said, 'happens all the time.'
'Would Miller frame a guy?'
'Hey,' Healy said, 'the guy works for me.'
'Would he?'
'Lotta cops would. Most of them wouldn't frame an innocent guy,' Healy said. 'But a lot of them might help the evidence a little if they figured they had Mr. Right.'
'If Mr. Right were black…?'
Healy shook his head.
'I don't know,' he said. 'It wouldn't make it less likely.'
I thought about that while I got up and had a drink of spring water from the jug on top of Healy's file cabinet.
'I'm going to have to talk with Miller,' I said.
'He's off today,' Healy said. 'I'll ask him to stop by your office tomorrow.'
'Thank you.'
'Don't let him scare you.'
'I'll keep reminding him I know you,' I said.
'I'd rather you didn't shame me in front of my men,' Healy said.
'Self-defense,' I said.
Chapter 10
I MET SUSAN at the bar at Rialto, after her last appointment. The thank-God-it's-evening crowd was still thin and we got a couple of stools at one end of the bar. Susan had a glass of Merlot. I ordered beer. Outside the big picture window behind us, the courtyard at Charles Square was gussied up for a band concert, and fall tourists were sitting around. the outdoor cafe guzzling large pink drinks, waiting for it to start.
'How is it going?' Susan said. 'The Pemberton murder case?'
She drank a micro sip of wine.
'Everyone I talk to tells me that they won't help me.'
'It's probably a pretty nasty wound for the people involved,' Susan said.
'Even Ellis is not helpful,' I said. 'Hawk said it's because a lifer can't allow himself to hope.'
'I wonder if Hawk has another life as a shrink,' Susan said.
'I'm not sure about Hawk's tolerance for bullshit,' I said.
'We don't call it that,' Susan said.
'What do you call it?' I said.
'Avoidance.'
'I don't think Hawk has too much tolerance for that either.'
'Maybe not.'
In the courtyard three musicians came and began to set up on the other side. People began to drift into the courtyard and stand around. It was still warm even though it was fall and most people were still coatless and shortsleeved.
