“I said, ‘Sit down.’”

I smiled. “Ask nicely.”

“What the fuck does it matter how I ask?”

“Ask nicely,” I said, dropping the smile. “It matters.”

“Please sit the fuck down so I can ask you some questions about your dope car.”

Connor looked up from the papers. His cheeks were full of ruddy bluster. His eyes simmered with violence as they roamed over my face. His hands stayed steady on the file as he took in a slow breath and said, “This don’t look good for you.”

“It doesn’t look good,” I said, sitting. “If you’re going to be an asshole, use good grammar.”

Connor tilted his thick head. “Pretty fucking stupid to throw in with these bad guys.”

“Me and Tito.”

He nodded and shook his head. Connor drummed his fingers on the report.

“You want to tell me how you got involved?”

I shrugged. “Well, it first started with a mambo and then developed into a salsa,” I said. “Before I knew it, I had engaged in an entire cha-cha.”

Connor nodded. He did not smile.

“Are you gonna charge me?” I said. “Because I’d kind of like to call my lawyer. She’d find the whole thing pretty funny at first, but then she might get kind of pissed about it. You don’t have a damn thing.”

“We have jail cells here,” he said. “You can rest up while we figure it out.”

“You have no cause,” I said. “If you wanted to scare me, you’re doing a shitty job.”

“I try to not take an offense at two-bit thugs who make a living out of staring into peepholes.”

“Is that Nat Pendleton or Ward Bond?”

Connor studied me. He shook his head in disgust.

“Let me recount how this will play out,” I said. “You know this is all crapola, but you’ll keep me here as long as humanly possible. I will call my ball-busting yet gorgeous personal attorney, and I’ll be drinking a cold beer by happy hour.”

Connor closed the file, leaned back into the office chair, and smiled. He was very pleased with himself.

“I will continue to investigate,” I said. “I don’t care if the people involved are the people you want to bust.”

“I can make your life hell.”

“You offered me coffee,” I said.

“Your car was full of dope.”

“And not the first stolen car to be used in a crime.”

He shrugged. “How much money you make staring into peepholes?”

“More than you get plugging your little pecker into them.”

Connor pushed back the chair and stood up fast. His face was the color of a fire engine. He breathed hard through his nose.

“Eek,” I said.

“We got a hell of a case.”

“I bet.”

“You’ll lose your license.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’ll lose your gun permit.”

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t know how you and Epstein worked things out,” Connor said. “But I ain’t Epstein.”

“No,” I said. “You’re not. He was much smarter. And had a better sense of style.”

Connor thundered to the door and slammed it shut. Touchy.

I stood and took in the view. I continued to watch the seagulls flutter and ride the cold wind, searching for morsels on the shore.

They looked like they were having a hell of a time.

32

How is it that you make friends so damn fast, Spenser?” Rita Fiore asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I am truly blessed.”

“You’re lucky I’m on good terms with the U.S. attorney.”

“Or maybe he just likes hearing your sexy voice.”

“I didn’t sound sexy when I called him,” she said. “They had absolutely no probable cause. I’ve never seen such a heinous arrest in my life. What the hell did you do to this agent? Screw his daughter?”

“If I were ever to step out on Susan, it would be with you, Rita.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Besides, if this guy had a daughter, she would resemble a gorilla.”

Rita and I walked down the big steps of Government Center in the late blustery afternoon. She had covered up a very formfitting emerald green belted dress with a winter-weight Burberry trench. She wore take-no-prisoners black boots that gave her impressive legs at least another four inches.

Rita Fiore was redheaded and built. Not only did she reek of distilled sexuality, she happened to be a pit bull in the courtroom.

“May I ask what you did to piss him off?”

“I’m looking into a couple street soldiers who work for Gerry Broz.”

“Joe’s son?”

“One and the same.”

“What’d they do?”

“My client thinks they killed her mother.”

“Any proof?”

“She saw them push her mother into a car a few hours before her death.”

“What are you going to do next?” Rita asked. A gust of cold wind shot down Congress Street and threw a slash of red hair across her eyes and mouth.

“Eat.”

“You always eat.”

“It helps me think,” I said. “Would you believe this is the second day in a row that I’ve skipped lunch?”

“No, I would not,” Rita said. “Would you like some company?”

“Will you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll buy.”

“Where?”

“Let’s walk over to Union Oyster House,” I said.

Union Oyster House was the oldest restaurant in Boston, the kind of place that bragged that they had routinely served Daniel Webster. It was in the section of original storefronts by the harbor and had that kind of touristy, nautical feel that was more pleasant than annoying.

Rita and I sat at the horseshoe bar facing Union. I ordered a large bowl of chowder and some Sam Adams Brick Red. They only served Brick Red at restaurants along the Freedom Trail. I always felt patriotic when I drank it.

Rita ordered a martini.

The bartender served her first, then poured my beer.

With the first sip, I was pretty sure I heard the sound of angels.

“So how have you been?” Rita asked. “Besides having your car stolen, packed with drugs, and being threatened by lawman and hood alike?”

I waffled my hand over the bar.

“I figured you would have cashed that check from the firm and taken Susan to someplace very sunny.”

“I like to work.”

“Who’s your client?”

“A fourteen-year-old kid from Southie.”

“Pro bono?”

“Nope,” said, sipping some beer. “I’m adequately paid.”

“Good for you,” she said. Rita turned on the barstool and crossed her legs. There was a lot of leg to cross. And so artfully done.

“Are you staring at my legs?” she asked.

“Didn’t you want me to?”

She offered a sly smile.

I told her about Mattie. I told her about Julie Sullivan. We talked about Red and Moon. Gerry Broz, too. Mainly I told her what I’d read in Mickey Green’s file earlier in the day.

“Who was his attorney?”

“Peter Contini,” I said. “Heard of him?”

“No,” she said. Rita removed an olive and popped it into her mouth. “And I hope I never do.”

A big steaming bowl of clam chowder arrived with a thick wedge of cornbread. The heavens opened up. The angels reappeared.

“Poor baby,” Rita said. “Didn’t they have a chow line in the big house?”

“They had Zagnut bars and cheese crackers in a vending machine.”

“Snob,” Rita said.

I shrugged.

“So let me guess,” she said. “You want me to call in a favor and have me file some motions for this poor schlub, Mr. Green?”

“You would be a credit to your profession.”

“If I got him off—”

“Poor choice of words.”

“If his case was tossed.”

“Even worse.”

“Eat your cornbread and be quiet,” Rita said.

I did.

“If what you say is true,” she said, eyeing me.

I listened. I kept quiet.

“Then we need a judge to grant us a hearing to test those nail clippings,” she said. “But the DNA could go either way for us. Do we really want to find out who she scratched that night?”

“I have a pretty good idea.”