“Cheers.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Tonight we dine courtesy of Cone, Oakes.”

She smiled as a glass of Chalk Hill was placed in front of her. The tune switched from Monk to Coltrane. The room was warm and pleasant. Our voices seemed to be absorbed into the old walls as we talked, waiting on our table. I had envisioned a filet, medium rare, with creamed spinach and mashed potatoes. Another martini. Maybe two.

“Wow,” I said, taking all of her in.

Susan wore a black sheath dress with sheer black stockings and high-heeled suede pumps. A chunky necklace of black onyx and small diamonds rested on her collarbone. I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of lavender and the promise of a long evening in good company.

“Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?”

“For this kind of dinner,” I said, “I’ll expect something spectacular.”

“Have you ever been disappointed?”

“Of course not.”

“Or exhausted?”

“Nope.”

“Then yes, cheers,” she said, toasting me.

I raised my glass in reply.

“Since when do you like olives?”

“You know me,” I said, taking a big sip. “I like to switch it up.”

“And drinking a bit faster than usual.”

“I made a promise to a kid that I cannot fulfill.”

“What was the promise?”

“I told her I would look into her mother’s murder.”

“What’s the problem?”

“There’s a man already serving life for the crime,” I said. “She believes him to be innocent.”

“Oh.”

“Quirk showed me the case file,” I said. “I’d have had a better chance of freeing Bruno Hauptmann.”

“But you only told her that you would look into it.”

“Semantics.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “You want to help her.”

Susan sipped her wine and studied me. Her black eyes were very large and luminous, framed by dark lashes and elegantly arched eyebrows. She gave me a crooked smile before taking another small sip.

“So tell me, how old is this girl?”

“Fourteen.”

“Quite young to be hiring her own detective. She come alone?”

I nodded. “Straight off the Red Line from Southie.”

“And can she pay you?”

“Sort of.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“We settled on a fair price.”

“How’d she find you?”

“Apparently I’m known in the best Southie circles as a toughie.”

“What happened to her mother?”

I told her.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Spoken like a true Jewish American Princess.”

“A parent’s death is always tough, but a violent death as seen by a ten-year-old would be seismic,” Susan said. “Is there a father?”

“Nope,” I said. “Dead mother was a single parent.”

“Who’s looking out for her now?”

“She’s pretty independent,” I said. “Lives with her grandmother, who’s largely absent. She takes care of her younger sisters and stays in school. It’s not Ozzie and Harriet, but what is?”

“She must be pretty strong-willed,” she said. “She wants to right things herself.”

“Even if they’re wrong.”

“You don’t believe that she really saw her mother forced into a car by those other men?”

“Yep,” I said. “I believe she saw it, but I’m not sure it proves anything. A woman with Julie Sullivan’s rap sheet doesn’t exactly run with the Brahmins.”

“Then you must see something in her story, or you wouldn’t have taken the case.”

“Not in the case,” I said. “In her. She needs someone to listen.”

“And you like her.”

“We bonded over donuts and the Sox.” I nodded. “So, yeah. She’s tough and smart. You meet a kid like that and think about all that’s in her way to succeed. You take the same kid and put her in another home. . . .”

“Loving parents and a nice colonial in Smithfield?”

“Something like that.”

Susan took another micro-sip. “Has she had contact with the convicted man?”

“I understand she visits him in prison,” I said.

“Stoking the fantasy.”

“What fantasy?”

“To become her mother’s savior.”

“Hold on, let me take some notes,” I said. “You shrinks and your fancy talk.”

Susan shrugged. I ordered another martini. Susan caught me studying the oil painting of the curvy nude woman. She smiled at me and nodded at the painting.

“Now, that’s a real woman,” Susan said. “Naked as a jaybird and fighting for liberty.”

Susan turned to me. She could tell I was barely listening.

“I just don’t want to get this girl’s hopes up.”

“Be honest with her,” Susan said. “If she’s clear about your intentions and what you can do, then you can’t hurt her.”

I put my glass down on the bar and leaned in to her ear. “You know,” I said, “you’re pretty smart for a Harvard Ph.D.”

4

I met Officer Bobby Barrett the next morning at Mul’s Diner on West Broadway in South Boston. Mul’s was a hash-and-eggs joint with a neon sign on the roof and walls made out of stainless steel. I ordered black coffee and took it outside to talk to Barrett, who was leaning into his prowl car to monitor the radio. The morning was crisp, hovering around thirty degrees. Our breath fogged as we talked.

“Mickey Green,” Barrett said. “What a piece of work.”

“You ever arrest him?”

“A few times,” Barrett said. “Chickenshit stuff, mostly. Lots of warnings. But you can bet when some shit was going down, Green was there. A neighborhood fuckup. The kind of guy who’d try and sell a Christmas tree in July.”

“A killer?”

“What do you think?” Barrett said. He looked about forty-five, with a shaved head and a significant belly.

“Seemed more like a thief.”

“Every man in jail says he’s innocent.”

“Quirk said you helped out in the investigation.”

“Someone dropped a dime on him.” Barrett shrugged. “We got a call from a pay phone; somebody said that Mickey Green killed that woman. Whatshername?”

“Julie Sullivan.”

“Sullivan, right,” he said. “I went out looking for Green, checked in at a few bars, and damn if I didn’t catch him at a car wash over by the circle. I mean, Christ. The guy was right there washing the blood off his Pontiac.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Big-time,” he said. “Makes you wish this state would reinstate the death penalty.”

“Motive?”

Barrett grinned a little and shook his head. “The vic was what is commonly known as a crack whore. The perp was a user, too. Mix those two together and you get a Southie dance party.”

“So it was all about drugs?”

“When your mind is fried, could be anything,” he said. “I once saw a guy kill another guy over a jar of fucking peanut butter.”

The inside of Mul’s Diner looked warm and peaceful, something out of a Hopper painting. People ate breakfast and drank coffee in vinyl booths. On the other side of the fogged windows, they read the paper or chatted on a slow Saturday morning. I turned and faced the empty brick storefronts that lined the street, marching in a steady, slow decay.

I lifted the collar on my leather jacket and took a sip of coffee from a paper cup.

“You ever hear of a couple guys named Moon and Pepper?”

“What is that, a rap group?”

“Drug dealers.”

“I could ask around.”

I handed him my card.

“I don’t think Julie Sullivan was top priority for the boys in homicide.”

“A Southie girl living the life never is,” he said. “I don’t even think it made it into the Globe.”

“It got a brief.”

“So why do you give a shit?”

“I’m handsomely paid by the deceased’s family.”

Barrett nodded. “Must be nice.”

“Not to mention, I’m bold and stout-hearted.”

“Quirk said you were a smart-ass but a real straight shooter.”

“That’s true.”

“He said you used to work for the Middlesex DA’s office but didn’t like to follow orders.”

“Also true,” I said.

“Maybe the reason I’m still on patrol at forty-five.”