It wasn’t that Spencer was surly or disrespectful. He didn’t interrupt, nor did he roll his eyes even once-a gesture made famous by Micky Junior. He nodded at the appropriate times, looked sufficiently grave. But it was clear to McCain that the message wasn’t getting through.

Spencer packed because he felt in danger, even though statistics were clear that the kid was more likely to shoot himself or an innocent bystander than get popped by a perp jamming a gun in his face.

“You gotta know what you’re doing, Spence,” McCain said. “Otherwise you freeze, then suddenly the perp’s got a weapon to use against you.”

A nod.

“You’d never forgive yourself if you killed someone by accident… even not by accident. You never get over that-taking someone else’s life even if it’s justified. You don’t want that hanging over your head. So it just ain’t worth the risk.”

Silence.

They were sitting at the dinette table, the Bretons’ Christmas tree a small affair tucked into a corner of a modest living room. It added a bit of sparkle to an otherwise solemn conversation.

Dorothy had put up a fresh pot of decaf when they got home. McCain had just about finished off the pot while the boy continued to nurse his single can of Coke. Dorothy had locked herself in her bedroom but probably sat with an ear to the door.

Finally, the boy spoke in a soft but passionless voice. “You’ve actually killed people, Micky?”

McCain hesitated, then nodded. “Twice. And the first time didn’t make the second time easier.”

Spencer nodded. “And it was real hard on you, right?”

“Hard doesn’t even describe it. It’s anguish.”

“But you get up every morning and go to work with a gun in your holster, knowing that it could happen again. Why?”

“Why?” McCain let out a small laugh. “It’s part of my job, Spencer. I’m an officer of the commonwealth. I’m required to carry a gun. Matter of fact, I’d be just as happy if I didn’t carry a gun. Not for what I do. Now, a uniform officer… That’s a different story. He’s gotta carry a piece.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause the uniforms are sent into some very dicey situations. Without a piece… pshhhh. It could really be bad, and before you talk, I know what you’re thinking. I’m not saying that the public schools are picnics, Spence. I understand your position. But you gotta play the odds. And the odds are much worse carrying than not.”

“Yeah, you go tell the odds to Frankie Goshad and Derek Trick. Only they won’t be hearing you from six feet under.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Derek more than Frankie, but that’s not the point. They weren’t doing nothing, just hanging and minding their own business, and some muhfuh cruises by, talking trash and waving an automatic. Next thing they’re both dead. If they woulda had a piece, they might’ve been able to protect themselves.”

“Or maybe not.”

“Then they woulda gone down like men instead of being exploded up like they was nothing but bonus points in a video game.”

“Ortheymighthave shot up akid or someone innocent before they got shot up themselves.” McCain shifted in the chair. “The thing is, Spence, that no matter how you try to rationalize it, it’s illegal. And you not only put yourself at risk, you also put your mom at risk.”

The boy’s eyes went up to the ceiling. He was saved from having to respond by the ringing of the phone.

Spencer’s eyebrows arched, and a puzzled look came over his face. “One of your buds?” McCain asked.

“No, I got my cell.” The teen got up slowly and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” His sleepy eyes suddenly widened. “What’s goin‘ on? You okay, bro?”

McCain could hear sirens over the line, a male voice screaming, “Go get Mom now!” He grabbed the phone from Spencer. “Marcus, it’s Micky. What’s wrong?”

“It’s bad, Mick!”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, but it’s bad. Someone shot up the place-”

“Oh my God!”

“Everyone’s screaming and crying. Blood all over the place. Cops have sealed off the doors.”

“Where are you, Marcus?” McCain’s heart was doing a steeplechase.

“I’m at a club in downtown Boston.”

“Where in downtown Boston?”

“In Lansdowne.”

“At the Avalon?”

“No, a new one… something Genie… Wait a sec… Yeah, it’s called Pharaoh’s Genie. It’s a couple blocks past Avalon.”

“I’ll grab your mother, we’ll be right down. You swear you’re not hiding anything? You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, I’m whole, Micky. But I’m telling you it’s real bad. Julius is dead.”

Black skies, poor visibility, and icy roads made travel slow and dangerous. The only redeeming factor was almost no traffic this late. McCain drove because he didn’t want Dorothy behind the wheel. Even in his sure hands, the car bobbed and slid through truncated streets and makeshift alleys and detours.

Downtown Boston was one big freaking detour, courtesy of the Big Dig, better known as the Big Boondoggle. Decades had passed, tens of millions of overbudget dollars kept being pumped into the project, and rush hour was still a bloody mess. A couple of major arteries had opened, but the planners had failed to take into account that the city and its environs would grow faster than they could handle. Just brilliant. Someone was getting rich off of it. As usual, it wasn’t him.

His partner of eight years sat in the passenger seat, her jaw clenched and posture rigid. She was swaddled in coat, gloves, and scarf, her forehead dripping tiny beads of sweat because the heat was blasting full force. McCain thought about making conversation but nixed the idea. What could he say anyway? With nothing to occupy his mind, he began to think about what to expect.

Marcus had been sketchy with the details: a shoot-up following some kind of loud altercation. Something about a girl dancing with the wrong guy, but there was a subtext. Members of Ducaine’s basketball team had exchanged nasty words with a couple of the Pirates. Maybe they shot at Julius, or maybe Van Beest had just been caught in the cross fire, this time his size working against him. As far as Marcus knew, Julius was the only fatality, but others had been hurt.

“I wonder who caught it,” Dorothy said. The sudden sound of her voice made McCain jump. “Did I startle you? Sorry.”

“Nah, I’m just a little spacey. Yeah, I was thinkin‘ the same thing. Probably Wilde and Gomes.”

“Probably.”

“They’re good.”

“Yeah, they’re good.” She paused a long time. “Not too territorial.”

“Don’t even think about it, Dorothy. You’re too close to the case to grab it.”

“It wasn’t my kid, Micky. Besides, I have something personal to offer. I know Ellen Van Beest. Not well, but better than they do.”

“That can work against you.”

She ignored him. “Do you think it was something personal against Julius?”

“Who knows?”

“Just seems odd that he was the only one who was killed.”

“Marcus doesn’t know all the facts. Could be more people died.”

“Lord, I hope not.”

McCain took a corner too fast, and the car skidded out on the ice. “Wow. Sorry about that!”

Dorothy turned down the fan on the heater. “I dunno, Michael. I keep waiting for this parenthood thing to get easier. I think I’d rather wait for that Godot fella.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

The car turned silent except for the steady swoosh of hot air coming off the Honda’s engine.

Pharaoh’s Genie sat on Lansdowne Avenue about a block and a half from the green-painted iron girders of Fenway Park, not far from Gold’s Gym. Wide street for Boston, fronted by old brick industrial buildings and warehouses, some of which had been renovated into clubs and bars. McCain couldn’t get near the address. The entire block was choked off with cruisers and unmarkeds, ambulances, and lab tech vehicles. Hot white spots overpowered the Christmas lights. Beyond the cordon, civilians milled, rubbing their hands together, stamping their feet. Willing to freeze in order to catch a glimpse of someone else’s misery.