“Maybe later,” I said. “Right now, I just want to pick your brain. I haven’t seen a Fed this crazed since J. Edgar bought his first training bra.”

“So tell me about what you’re up to in Southie.”

“Apparently there’s a new crew working near the Old Colony projects run by Gerry Broz.”

“The kid.”

“The kid,” I said.

“Oy vey.”

“Just when I try to lift you from certain stereotypes, you throw me a fastball right down the center.”

“You know the old man Broz used to be only a few notches below Bin Laden on our most-wanted list.”

“And now he’s jumped a slot,” I said. “What an accomplishment.”

“Connor has been gunning for Joe Broz for decades,” Epstein said. “He’s obsessed. Nuts over it. He once had to meet with the Bureau shrink because it was interfering with other assignments.”

“I don’t like Joe Broz, either,” I said. “But I never lost much sleep over him.”

“Connor is the kind of guy who wants to be like that old sheriff in Gunsmoke. You know, what’s-his-name.”

“Matt Dillon.”

“Right, Matt Dillon,” Epstein said. “Jesus, he must have something solid to try and jam you up. Five-to-one, this is all about him finding Joe Broz.”

“I always figured Joe Broz for Miami,” I said.

“Maybe,” Epstein said. “Or South America or Europe or fucking China. We’ve been looking for the bastard for ten years.”

“Sorry if I get the feeling that Connor is dirty.”

“He may be an asshole, but he’s a good agent,” Epstein said. “If I thought different, I would have shit-canned his ass when I was SAC.”

“You coming back?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Epstein said. “I really miss the fucking sludge. Every time I see a girl in a bikini Rollerblade by my window.”

“But don’t you miss me?”

“I miss season tickets to Fenway.”

“You never asked me to join you.”

“Conflict of interest.”

“What conflict?”

“You being a Puerto Rican gangster and all,” he said. “I’ll make some calls.”

“Not necessary,” I said. “I can handle it.”

“I’ll make some calls.”

Epstein hung up.

I picked up my bourbon and sat in the darkness on my sofa. On the mantel, I had placed a half-finished block of cherry wood. I had started carving it years ago and had left it whittled down to the form of an unknown animal. I figured I was going to find the first Pearl the Wonder Dog in that hunk of wood. Or maybe it would be a horse. Or a lobster. I didn’t know, and so I’d left the block of wood on my mantel for years. Lots of dust had gathered.

My apartment was very quiet without Pearl or Susan. You could hear a car coming down Marlborough from a long way off. I walked to my window and looked down on the street. I saw no assassins.

I thought about Mattie and Julie Sullivan. Joe Broz and Gerry. Jumpin’ Jack Flynn.

I walked back to the mantel and found the block of wood and my carving knife. I pulled up a chair to the dull streetlamp glow that bled off Marlborough Street. I dug into the old wood, just chipping away a little nick at a time.

36

Neat, clean-shaven, and fresh as a daisy, I dropped Mattie at school and bought a tall coffee and a sack of corn muffins at a Dunkin’ Donuts. I felt vaguely domestic as I hopped the expressway south. I soon turned south on Interstate 95 toward Providence and took the exit to Walpole and the prison.

Walpole had a nice little brick downtown. The rep probably played hell with the folks from the chamber of commerce.

There was a sign for a seasonal farmers’ market, a quilting club, and a handful of fine-looking restaurants, including one called the Raven’s Nest. A sandwich board outside boasted a daily special of fish-and-chips with a side of Guinness. I made a mental note for lunch and downed the last of my coffee.

At Cedar Junction, I parked and went through the prison mechanizations I knew so well. My permit was shown, gun was taken, and I was ushered back to the visitors’ room to wait for Mickey Green.

I wondered if Mickey would note that I had shaved and brushed my teeth. Probably not. The Plexiglas between us was very thick.

After a few minutes, a heavyset female guard walked Mickey into his slot.

He picked up the phone.

I picked up my phone.

I smiled.

Mickey did not smile back.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Where the fuck is Mattie?”

“And to think I shaved so carefully.”

“I ain’t meeting without Mattie.”

“It’s Friday,” I said. “Mattie is in school.”

“Come back tomorrow,” he said. Mickey started to stand.

“Sit down.” My voice didn’t sound friendly.

“What?”

“That kid thinks you got a raw deal and that you’re a good guy,” I said. “Go against your instincts and be smart.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I have some questions, Mickey,” I said. “I’ve been slugged and threatened and arrested all over Southie on account of you. I’m pretty sure you’re sharing just a sliver of what you know with me.”

“If I knew who killed Julie, you think I wouldn’a said something?”

“You’re holding out.”

Mickey blew out his breath. I was glad there was Plexiglas. He did not look neat, clean, and shaven. He looked like he’d brushed his teeth with a toilet scrubber.

I reached into my leather jacket for a folded piece of yellow legal paper. I held it against the glass. Mickey turned his head to read it.

“What?”

“Say the names.”

“Theresa Donovan, Tiffany Royce, Touchie Kiley,” he said. “Moon and Red. Yeah, so what?”

“Who am I missing?”

“Missing from what?”

“Who goes into that list?”

“I dunno.”

“Gerry Broz?”

“Who’s that?”

He kept the same dumb expression. An expression he must have mastered long ago.

“Jack Flynn?”

“Nope.”

His eyes flicked away from mine and then scattered back. “What?”

“Everybody in Southie knows Jack Flynn,” I said.

“I mean, I know who he is, but I don’t know why you were asking.”

“No,” I said. “You said you didn’t recognize the name.”

He shrugged and slunked back into his hard plastic seat. He just looked at me, phone against his ear, and then studied his dirty fingernails.

“I don’t like you, Mickey,” I said.

“So.”

“I think Mattie Sullivan can do a hell of a lot better than wasting her time in your company,” I said. “But like it or not, you’re wrapped up in this. To find out who killed her mother, I might just have to get you freed. So if you have just a sliver of sense in your thick head, listen up and give me the truth.”

“I never met Jack Flynn.”

“What’s he have to do with Julie’s murder?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know shit about that.”

I studied his face as he tried to look tough. His cheeks had grown red. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists.

“Okay,” I said. “From the top. Did you see Julie that night?”

“I said I ran into her at the pub,” he said. “So fucking what?”

“At any time did you touch her?’

“Fuck, no.”

“Did she have any reason to scratch you?”

“Scratch me?” Mickey laughed. He leaned into the glass and said a firm “No.”

“I fired your lawyer for you,” I said.

“He was a turd.”

“Yep,” I said.

“Didn’t do jack crap.”

“I got you a new lawyer,” I said. “Better than you deserve. You’ll have to sign some paperwork, but she will make sure some DNA evidence is processed.”

“What evidence?”

I explained it. I had to go very slow to make sure he understood. I thought about explaining that DNA was a kind of science. Or maybe I should’ve just told him it was magic. He might’ve gotten the magic part easier.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time about Jack Flynn.”

“Jack Flynn wouldn’t know me,” he said. “I wasn’t nobody.”