‘Except that Danziger was digging it up.’
She shrugged, reluctant to concede the point. ‘So what is it you want to do?’
‘I want to talk to Julio Vega.’
‘I wouldn’t even know where to find him.’
‘Boston PD would know. Vega hung on long enough to draw a pension. They must have an address to send the checks to. You could ask them.’
‘Julio Vega.’
‘You can find him for me, Caroline. As a favor.’
She rolled her eyes a little. ‘Yeah, sure. What can it hurt?’
After Charlie was in bed, Caroline and I sat on her sofa drinking the rest of the wine. Caroline did not drink much, maybe two glasses, but a boozy flush came over her. She apologized for the mess and made a halfhearted attempt to straighten up.
‘Franny told me you’re divorced.’
‘Did he?’
‘Of course, he was half in the bag at the time.’
‘That sounds like Franny’
‘And your husband, was that how Charlie…?’
‘Yes, Ben, that’s where babies come from.’
‘So what happened?’
She sighed. ‘We were very young and very stupid. We were in law school together. I got pregnant. We thought that meant we were in love.’
‘There must have been more to it than that.’
‘We only lasted eighteen months, so I guess there wasn’t much more to it, was there?’
‘Do you see him anymore?’
‘When he picks up Charlie or drops him off. It’s not hostile or anything. It’s just, we have nothing in common anymore except Charlie. We’re like strangers shackled together.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He’s… he’s very ambitious.’
‘Do you ever see him in court?’
‘No, he gave up on law ages ago. You can only make so much money charging by the hour. You only have twenty-four to sell every day.’ She caught herself sliding into cynicism and she shook it away. ‘I shouldn’t — I don’t mean to sound like that. He’s not a bad guy.’
‘Maybe you’ll do it again someday.’
‘What, get married? Absolutely not. I did my eighteen months.’
‘What if Mister Right comes along?’
She snorted.
‘I mean it.’
‘Oh Ben, that’s sweet. Look, I hate to burst your bubble here but you might as well know: Mister Right is like the Easter bunny or Santa Claus. It’s something you grow out of.’
‘It’d be a shame if you were wrong, if your Mister Right was still out there somewhere.’
‘Ben, think about it: if there was a Mister Right for everybody… Well, I didn’t meet Mister Right, put it that way. Maybe I would have if I’d waited. I guess I’ll never know. You can’t look back.’
‘I think that’s right. You can’t look back.’
‘I thought you were a historian.’
I waved off the remark — waved off my whole former life. I didn’t care to think about it. In my mind the thought was germinating, very quietly, that all this retrospection was a waste — an irresistible waste, but a waste just the same. We move through time like a man in a rowboat, looking back even as we move forward.
‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘even historians shouldn’t look back.’
‘Agreed.’
She raised her glass for a toast, and I had the strongest urge to kiss her then. To put my hand behind her head and lean forward for a de luxe, don’t-look-back, CinemaScope sort of kiss. It was what she seemed to want.
But Caroline said, ‘It’s just a shame we can’t have little boys without men.’
‘Yes, it’s unfortunate,’ I said, emotions in full retreat.
‘Anyway… I already have my baby, so I guess I’m through with all that.’
‘Men are good for other things too, Caroline.’
She did not seem convinced.
20
The next morning, John Kelly and I were back together. I needled him for skipping out on the tedious chore of sorting Danziger’s files, but I did not ask him where he’d been.
The address Caroline provided, the last known residence of Detective Julio Vega, was a bungalow in Dorchester, a misplaced beach house dropped on a tiny lot in a run-down block. The front yard was sand with pimples of crabgrass sprouting here and there.
‘You speak to him, Ben Truman. I’ll have a look around back.’ Kelly held the nightstick behind his back and strolled around the side of the house.
I knocked on the door, then stepped down off the stoop to wait. Stiff shafts of crabgrass scratched my ankles. I knocked again, louder.
A man finally opened the door and stood there, behind the screen door. Heavyset Hispanic guy in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Bloated stomach. Pale skin, the color of concrete. This could not be the same guy I’d seen in the photo, the handsome Latino with the mustache. The guy looked me up and down but said nothing.
‘I’m looking for Julio Vega.’
‘What are you? A reporter?’
‘No, I’m a cop.’
‘You’re a cop? You don’t look like a cop.’
I raised my badge holder. The man opened the screen door, took it, and retreated back inside to examine it.
‘Are you Julio Vega?’
‘Lot of Julio Vegas, man.’
He was scrutinizing the badge, holding it close to his nose, his body swaying a little. ‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Ver- sales, Maine?’
It took everything I had to resist congratulating him on the correct pronunciation. Instead, I asked him again whether he was Julio Vega.
‘Who sent you here?’
‘Nobody sent me. I found your name in Robert Danziger’s files.’
He glanced around the yard, then opened the door and tossed the badge back to me. ‘I got nothing to say, Chief.’
‘Would it help if I came back with a subpoena?’ That sounded cool, I thought. A little stagy, maybe, but cool. ‘There’s a grand jury being empaneled. They might like to hear from y-’
He snorted and disappeared into the house. The door closed with a click.
I looked around the scrofulous little yard feeling foolish and self-conscious. It didn’t matter that there was no one there to see it — embarrassment is a reflex, evolved, encoded. It no longer requires an audience.
I knocked again.
This time the man opened the door with a clear drink in his hand. He scowled and rattled the ice cubes. ‘Now what are you gonna do, Joe Friday, break down the door?’ It was dawning on me — belatedly — the man was drunk.
