neighborhoods the way my mother used to walk Versailles.
Maybe it was the strange mood of those days, but I decided all at once that I did not like Boston. Something about the place — introverted, parochial, self-doubting — a fit capital for New Englanders, or so I told myself. I could not even appreciate the city’s obvious physical beauty. Of course, in hindsight I see the flaw was not in Boston. I’d been happy there once, even considered it a second home. But now everything was different, and I could never see the city the same way. I just could not put my bags down, not there. I was waiting, for what I did not know.
On Thursday night — day one of this idle, interstitial period — I could not sleep, and around midnight I found myself standing in my underwear before the window of my hotel room, thinking of home. Streetlights in the South End winked below. (I was staying at the Back Bay Sheraton, one of those modern concrete cubes dropped into the nineteenth-century Back Bay like spaceships that crash-landed.) Hungry for a familiar voice, I called the station in Versailles on the pretense of checking up on things.
‘V’says Peace.’
‘Maurice, what are you doing there?’
‘I’m talking on the phone.’
‘Well, I see that, but — They have you answering the phone now?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
I thought it over for a second. ‘That’s a good idea, Maurice. Whose idea was that?’
‘Dick.’
Dick Ginoux picked up the extension, and he caught me up on the news. Maurice had taken to hanging around the station, and it turned out he was a useful addition, answering phones, sweeping up, and so on. Diane Harned had stopped by that very afternoon to ask how I was doing. ‘I told her you were going to stay down there,’ Dick said. ‘Just about broke her heart.’ As for Dick himself, he had actually made an arrest on a DWI, which doesn’t happen often, since drunk drivers rarely crash into the stationhouse and Dick rarely leaves it.
I missed them all, more than I had expected to.
‘Dick, tell everyone I said hi and I’m doing fine, alright?’
‘Alrighty, Ben. You keep your head down. I’m sure The Chief is proud of you.’
‘Dick, I’m the chief.’
‘I know that, Ben. You know what I mean.’
‘Any word from the AG?’
‘Yessir. They identified Harold Braxton’s fingerprints all over the cabin. Eight different places, something like. I guess he’s your man. And one other thing. Red Caffrey called. Said he figured he ought to let us know, a couple weeks before the body turned up in that cabin, a black kid with a funny haircut pulled into Red’s Gulf station in a white Lexus with Massachusetts plates. The kid bought a map and a tank of gas. Red says he didn’t think nothing of it, except the kid didn’t seem to go with the car, you know? Black kid pulls up in a fifty-thousand-dollar car and… well, the kid didn’t even know what side of the car the tank was on. Red says he just got a bad feeling, figured maybe the car was stolen. But the ignition wasn’t popped. The kid had a whole key chain in there. Anyway, Red took down the plate: I dock.’
‘I dock?’
‘Yes, sir. I-D-O-C.’
‘Did you run the plate?’
‘Well, we can’t get Massachusetts registry records, but there’s no report that it’s stolen.’
‘That’s good, Dick. Do me a favor, go see Red Caffrey again and show him those mug shots. And ask around, see if anyone else saw that kid. And Dick, have you seen my dad?’
‘Haven’t seen him.’
‘Well, swing by the house, would you? He’s in a state, I think.’
It was also during this hiatus that I first met Andrew Lowery, Boston’s District Attorney. This was a command performance. Lowery sent word through Caroline that John Kelly and I were to appear at his office on Friday at nine A.M. Such meetings rarely come to any good, and this one was no exception.
We found Lowery at his desk in the Sussex County Courthouse. When we first glimpsed him, the District Attorney was leaning back in his desk chair, feet propped on an open drawer, absorbed in a television news report.
… police officers continue to comb the Dorchester, Mattapan, Mission Flats, and Roxbury neighborhoods today in search of the slayer of Assistant District Attorney…
Andrew Lowery was a slight but handsome African-American man with round wire-frame spectacles, in which at the moment the TV picture was reflected. He wore a blue candy-striped shirt with contrasting white cuffs and collar.
At the door, Kelly cleared his throat.
Lowery waved us in but continued to watch the screen. We waited two or three minutes more while the District Attorney monitored the New England Cable News channel for updates on his own case. (There were actually three televisions mounted in a console opposite Lowery’s desk, but only one of the sets was on.)
When the report was over, Lowery slipped on his suit coat for our meeting. It was, I think, the best-fitting suit I had ever seen, and while I am no expert on such things, I assumed it was custom-made.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he said when we’d sat down at a conference table. ‘I trust you’re getting all the support you need?’
The question was directed at Kelly, but Kelly deferred to me.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘we’re fine.’
‘Do you want coffee? Anything?’
‘No, thank you. We’re fine.’
The office was spare and formal, furnished with an expensive-looking Oriental carpet and Bauhaus furniture. Three Harvard diplomas hung on the wall, from the college, the law school, and the Kennedy School of Government. The only hint of the usual Government Office aesthetic was a framed seal of Sussex County, which showed the three mounds on which Boston was originally built by literal-minded pilgrims proclaiming a city on a hill.
‘I know you gentlemen are quite busy’ Lowery steepled his fingers. ‘So I won’t take much of your time. I have a friend I’m quite concerned about. I think you’ve met him: Julio Vega.’
Kelly and I exchanged a glance.
‘I’m told you’ve questioned Detective Vega.’
‘Told by who?’ Kelly asked.
‘A little bird.’
‘And what did your little bird tell you about our discussion?’
His expression unchanged, Lowery turned away from Kelly. Just ignored him. ‘Chief Truman, I hope you’ll understand. I’m going to ask you two to leave Vega alone. He’s not a well man.’
‘Not well in what sense?’
‘In every sense. His mental state — I don’t know what will happen if you two go out and stir up ghosts. I don’t want Vega to make things worse for himself.’
‘Forgive me for saying so,’ I remarked, ‘but it’s hard to imagine things getting much worse for Julio Vega.’
‘Not hard for me. I’m concerned Julio might hurt himself someday. He’s unstable. And anyway, I don’t see the point in all this. Do you mind if I ask what your interest is in the Arthur Trudell case?’
I informed Lowery that Danziger had been looking into it.
‘Bob Danziger must have had a hundred open cases. The question is, do you have anything to tie the two cases together? Is there a link?’
‘No, sir. Not yet.’
‘Well look, I’m simply asking you to treat Vega carefully. If you want to speak with him, we can arrange it. Otherwise, why don’t we let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘That seems to be a popular approach.’
‘Chief Truman — Benjamin — I have a wider responsibility than you do.’
‘You do, sir?’
He leaned forward, folded his hands on the table. ‘Yes. My job is not merely to enforce the law; it’s to keep
