“Oh, yeah,” she said. “With all my extra money. I got season tickets.”

“You know you’ve got to quit asking around about these guys without me,” I said. “That’s not a good idea right now. Not very safe.”

She shrugged.

“I’ll drive you to and from school,” I said. “Something happens at home, you call me and then you call nine-one-one. I’m going to try and work out something with a patrol officer I know.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“How are you feeling right now?”

“Fine.”

“You think we could stop by the local station house and look at some photos?” I asked. “Have you file a report?”

She nodded.

“After that, let’s do something about those clothes. I can run you back to your apartment to change.”

“Where we headed?”

“Field trip,” I said.

11

I had made many visits to Walpole and its lovely state prison. It had opened sometime back in the fifties and had that classic prison feel. Big concrete walls, concertina wire, heavy iron doors with brass handles. The entire place stank of funk and sweat. The Boston Strangler had once called it home. They still made license plates.

Mattie had been there, too. She knew the drill.

I’d arranged for us to meet with Mickey Green during visiting hours. I’d called while waiting outside Mattie’s apartment for her to change. We walked through metal detectors and a hand search. I checked my .38 at the door.

Mattie was impressed. The guard was not, and he asked for my permit.

“You carry that gun all the time?” she asked.

“I have a slight inferiority complex.”

A guard motioned for us to enter through another door into a long room lined with Plexiglas windows and telephone handsets. A thick-barred window had been opened a crack on the visitors’ side to let in fresh cold air.

I let Mattie take the seat. I stood behind her.

Mickey Green wasn’t much to look at. Average height and skinny, he wore some sparse blond hair on his face that some might describe as a beard. He eyed me with hooded, hawkish eyes and then sat in front of Mattie. He picked up the phone gingerly, as if it could be bugged.

He figured me for the fuzz.

I thought that word had gone out of fashion a long time ago. Mattie told him that I wasn’t. She explained the situation. Green began to relax, eyes flicking up to my face and nodding. Mattie asked him if he needed anything and if he was taking care of himself. Green smiled at Mattie. She smiled back. He looked up again at me and nodded his approval.

I switched places with her, and she moved to stand behind my right shoulder.

“Mattie says you got a raw deal,” I said.

“She knows I got fucked,” Green said, scratching his neck. “You gonna get me out of this shithole or what?”

“But Walpole is so beautiful this time of year.”

“Change seats with me.”

I shrugged. His eyes met mine, and he nodded back. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

“If you lie to me or lead me in the wrong direction, you’re only screwing yourself.”

Mickey Green nodded again. He looked earnest in his bright orange jumpsuit. It was tough to look earnest in orange.

“Were you with Julie Sullivan the night she died?”

“I’ve been through this.”

“Not with me. Were you with her?”

“Nope,” Mickey said. He leaned toward the glass as if it would amplify his voice. “I did not kill her. I loved Jules.”

“That’s why you helped out the family sometimes?”

“I did what I could, you know,” he said. “I’m good with my hands.”

There was a solid offering of a joke, especially sitting in prison, but I refrained. I only nodded and asked, “You sell her drugs?”

“No.”

“But you lived with two known drug dealers?”

He nodded.

“And you’ve told Mattie that those two men killed Julie?”

“Yes.”

“Moon and Red Cahill.”

He nodded again. “It’s complicated, man.”

“My mind is nimble,” I said. “Try me.”

“Huh?”

“How am I to believe you were not connected in their business endeavors?”

“I’m a fucking mechanic,” he said. “Red is my cousin. We split the rent.”

“But that’s where Julie got her drugs.”

“Well, sure.”

“And you didn’t stop that?”

“How was I gonna stop her when I couldn’t stop myself? I ain’t her fucking priest.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “The Suffolk County DA had a tight case on you.”

“Bullshit.”

“You were washing blood and hair off the car used to run her down.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned back to Mattie. I wish she’d stayed in the car. But Mickey obviously trusted her, and I didn’t know if he’d see me without her. She nodded to him. He stared at her, smirked, and shook his head.

“They listen on these things,” he said. “And I don’t like talking with my pants down.”

“Can you at least explain the car?”

“Red borrowed it that night.”

“And the next day, you just decided to give it a wash?”

“Red asked me to check the belts and get it cleaned,” he said. “I was sleeping one off, and he comes in and pitches me the keys and tells me to take care of the car.”

“Nice.”

“And he paid me fifty bucks.”

“You tell the cops this?”

Mickey Green rubbed his insignificant beard and blew out his breath. “No.”

“Because he’s your cousin?”

“Because he would’ve killed me.”

“That would be a deterrent,” I said. “And now?”

“Now I don’t give a shit,” he said. “I can’t do life in here.”

“I need names,” I said. “I need to know people who would’ve seen Julie that night.”

He nodded, meeting my eyes.

“If you want to protect Red,” I said, “that’s fine. But do you think he’d do the same for you? Has he ever come to visit?”

Mickey shook his head. “Only people come to visit are my sister and Mattie.”

“I think you need to start looking out for yourself,” I said.

Mickey looked as if he’d just tasted something sour, but the sourness passed, and something brightened his face that seemed like a decision. “You got a pen?” Mickey asked.

“Always prepared, that’s my motto.” I reached into my jacket.

“You better watch your fucking back,” Mickey said.

“Hold on, let me write that down.”

Mickey smirked. He leaned forward and lifted his eyes up to the glass.

“You ever hear Red mention the name Gerry Broz?” I asked.

“Broz, as in Joe Broz?” Mickey said.

“Yep.”

“Is he Broz’s son or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’.”

“Never mentioned him.”

“So Red and Moon worked alone back then?”

“Yep.”

“What’s Moon’s real name?” I asked.

“Leslie Murphy.”

“Not a very tough name.”

“You seen him?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Looks like a rhinoceros on steroids,” Mickey said. “He once sexually assaulted a guy who played for the Pats with a pool cue.”

“Ouch.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Mickey said. “I heard that guy didn’t shit straight for a month.”

“Names?” I asked. “People who knew Julie then, and people who saw you that night.”

“Like an alibi?”

“Yeah, Mickey,” I said. “Just like that.”

12

Tiffany Royce worked in a nail salon near Andrew Station in a long row of storefronts populated by a couple of pubs, a corner convenience store called the Cor-nah Store, and an auto-glass shop. If you looked north along Dorchester Avenue, you got a pretty good idea how far we were from downtown. Across the turnpike and channel, the late-afternoon sun warmed silver- and gold-mirrored windows. The cluster of office buildings looked like the Emerald City.

“So Mickey Green was your boyfriend?”