The bartender set down her tequila. She drained half of it in one gulp.

I sipped the Harpoon.

“My nerves are shot,” she said.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “I don’t think Nicole would have shot you.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Crime-fighter intuition,” I said, tapping at my temple.

I drank some beer. I considered Hawk’s plan to see how things would evolve. At the very least, Nicole had proven herself to be a very good bad cop. The tequila might prove to be an even better cop.

“How could I have stopped them?” she said. “They blocked in my car. They put a gun in my face and took Akira.”

“You’ve had a lot of guns pointed at you lately.”

“Damn right,” she said. She drained the rest of the tequila. I lifted my index finger to the bartender. He salted the glass and poured her another, topped with a lime slice.

“She would’ve done the same,” Cristal said. “Nicole wouldn’t have let herself get shot.”

I nodded.

“I couldn’t have done anything.”

I sipped some beer.

“Why does she hate me?”

I shrugged.

“I mean, I’ve made some mistakes in my life,” she said. “But this is not my fault.”

“What can you tell me about your relationship with Kevin Murphy?”

“Oh, fuck,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Holy fuck,” she said.

“He was your boyfriend.”

“You’re doing it,” she said, drink held high. “You’re on her side.”

“I’m on Akira’s side.”

“Let me tell you something,” she said.

“Sure.”

She continued to hold the tequila high. She held the pose, as if it was something she’d seen once in a movie. “My life before Kinjo is none of your damn business.”

I nodded. I took another sip. Seeing that I sipped, she sipped. Cooperation. Cars zoomed by freely along Washington Street. As I waited for her statement to sink in, I ordered the house charcuterie plate with seasonal pickles.

“You understand?”

I nodded. Cristal stared at herself in the bar window. She shook her head, disgusted. “I look like a fucking raccoon.”

I was pretty sure raccoons did not have purple eyes. But I kept my mouth shut as she excused herself and I sat at the bar. Even at nearly midnight, the bar did a healthy business. Lots of couples talking among candlelight. Young professionals discussing matters of the young and professional. Cristal reemerged from the ladies’ room at the same time my charcuterie arrived from the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was a mess?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” She looked exactly the same as before but smelled of more cologne. It was not an unpleasant fragrance, only too much of it.

“We were talking about Kevin Murphy,” I said, adding some prosciutto to a slice of bread.

“No,” she said. “You were talking about Kevin Murphy.”

She gulped down the rest of the second double tequila. Cristal subtly turned the glass upside down and stared at the bartender until he took the empty glass.

“If Kevin is involved,” I said, “it doesn’t mean you are involved.”

“Kevin is not involved.”

I chewed my food. I swallowed and raised my eyebrows. Doing both at the same time took some skill.

“Why not?” Cristal said. “Because he’s a fucking dumbass. He loves doing what he does. He’s not about money, he’s into making himself famous.”

“As Mr. X?”

“Have you seen that shit?”

I shook my head. I tried a seasonal pickle. It went well with the prosciutto. “But my associate combed the archives.”

“Looking for me?”

I nodded.

“You won’t find it,” she said, ripping her third drink from the bartender’s hand. “That was from like four years ago. It’s old news.”

“Did Kinjo see it?”

“Hell, yes,” she said. “That’s how we met. He saw me in a movie and wanted to meet me. Fell in love with my body.”

“He told me he met you at a club in Chelsea.”

“He came to the club to watch me dance,” she said. “All the Pats hung out there. Some Bruins, too. I used to be into hockey players. But they’re all Canadian and crazy. You know, for a hotshot private detective, you really don’t know jack shit.”

I shrugged and tried a nice slice of hard cheese as consolation.

“Kinjo said you were only a waitress.”

“I did that, too,” she said. “I only made four movies, anyway. Kinjo has seen them. Sometimes I catch him watching them when he’s not watching that Japanese stuff.”

“Doesn’t bother him?” I said.

“He said it would bother him if I was with a man, but since it’s just with girls, he’s cool with it.”

“Ah,” I said. “And what about Mr. X?”

“Kevin didn’t start doing Mr. X until I was gone,” she said. “Back then, we used to have this fake sorority house where we made up stories. Pillow fights and all that crap. Sold a ton on DVD.”

I nodded. “Kind of a homemade Linda Lovelace.”

She looked confused and drank even more. I worked on the charcuterie plate. I offered a bite, but she turned up her nose. She seemed immune to her cocktails, talking without a noticeable change.

“So, your ex-boyfriend is a self-made pornographer and has several prior arrests.”

“Those arrests were nothing,” she said. “Drugs and all that. I think he beat up some girl one time because she laughed at his thingy.”

“Not impressive.”

“Hardly,” she said. She picked up one of my pickles and held it up as exhibit A. “I heard he uses a double for close shots.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” I said.

She looked up and tapped at her chin. Many of her movements were like that, practiced for effect. “A year?”

“Has he ever threatened you?” I said.

“Nope.”

“Has he ever come to your home?”

“Nope.”

“Has he ever approached Kinjo?”

“He tried,” she said. “But he got his ass kicked.”

“Has he ever asked you for money?” I said.

She again made the practiced tilt of the head. She tapped at her chin. And then she nodded. “Yeah.”

“How much?”

“He wanted fifty grand or said he’d make a big thing about my movies,” she said. “He wanted to package it like The Players’ Wives Club or some shit.”

“And what?”

“Kinjo and I laughed at him,” she said. “I think it just kind of fell through. Who cares if people know I did porn? You think I’m the only NFL wife with a sex tape? Big deal.”

I nodded. I pushed the plate away, although there was still some sausage and cheese left. I watched more cars pass by the big window facing the intersection of Washington and Beacon. I lifted my chin and tapped at it. I liked it.

“I think I’d very much like to talk to Kevin.”

“Are you not even listening to me?” she said. She stood up, mad, straight, and tall in her Roman sandals. She pointed hard at my chest.

Three drinks with no effect. If I had three double tequilas, I’d be singing José Feliciano tunes.

We all have our talents.

I paid the tab and drove her home.

39

I returned to relieve Z at four-thirty that morning.

To show my gratitude, I brought him two corn muffins and a large cup of coffee.

As I crawled into his Mustang, he peered into the bag and then up at me. “No donuts?”

“You’re an Indian,” I said. “Your people love corn.”

“For the record,” he said, “I prefer a Boston cream.”

“You’re officially off duty,” I said. “Get some sleep.”

“What about you?” he said. He reached into the bag for a corn muffin.

“Be good to switch it up,” I said. “New man. New vehicle. The spice of life.”

“I don’t think they’re paying attention to us,” Z said, nodding up to the second-floor window above the store. “I think they’re in production.”

“You spot Murphy?”

“Yep,” he said. “Came upstairs about an hour ago with a big white guy with a crew cut. Maybe thirty minutes ago, a young girl in a raincoat and rubber boots walked up the stairwell and knocked on the door. Big guy came out a little later and walked out to a van. Brought up C-stands and lighting rigs.”