to give up the court if I’m not there in five minutes. How about meeting me for a drink tonight.”
“Sorry. Prior engagement.”
“Oh.” I could hear her frown over the phone.
“I’ll be in Bonham early tomorrow morning. How about lunch?”
“Terrific. I’ll pack a picnic basket and we can go down to a great swimming beach, and we—”
“Slow down. You’re on vacation. I’m working.”
The frown-pause again. “Well, you still have to eat lunch, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Pick me up at my place. Seventeen Fordham Road, first floor. Eleven-thirty. I’ve got to run. Bring your trunks. ’Bye.”
“Val—”
Click.
Annoying woman.
Ten
I F F ATHER’S FIRST WERE located in a poorer neighborhood than Beacon Hill, it would be a dive. Being on Charles Street, it’s a charming institution. It’s dark, dingy, and jukeboxed, with a mixed bag of gays, MBTA motormen, nursing students from Mass General, and law students from Suffolk University. I spotted her near the corner. She was wearing a disguise, sort of.
I slid in next to her. “I like your fatigue jacket,” I said.
Nancy DeMarco looked down into her beer. “You realize that this could cost me a job I’ve worked toward for six years?”
I ordered a screwdriver. “If it makes you meet guys like me in places like this, it can’t be such a great job.”
DeMarco looked up, but her hands kept toying with her beer mug. “It’s not, really.” She reached into a big leather tote bag and withdrew a file folder. DeMarco passed it to me. “Read. No notes. No copying.”
It took me all of three minutes. “This is everything?”
“Yup.”
“After two weeks?”
Just a nod now.
“What’s going on, Ms. DeMarco?”
“Nancy, please,” she said, more I thought from anonymity than cordiality. She took a sip of beer and began. “The case came in through Perkins himself on the thirteenth, the day after Stephen disappeared. I was assigned right away. Perkins handed me the police reports, which he’d already had copies of. After I read them, he told me I’d be on my own because the judge wanted a quiet, accent quiet, investigation.”
“How can you find a fourteen-year-old under that kind of restriction?”
“You can’t. Look at the file. Initial police report. Five-minute call to the housekeeper. Follow-up police report. Alert calls to airport and train-station security. One leg visit to the bus stations. End present efforts.”
“Amateurish.”
DeMarco grimaced. “Like you said back in Perkins’ office, worse. Perkins himself has loaded me with other files. I’m not complaining, but I was the operative with the most cases pre-Stephen, and I’ve gotten more than my share since. Every time I try to do something on Stephen, Perkins boosts the priority of some other case I have. I’d be embarrassed to talk with the judge—assuming my boss would let me.”
I confirmed that Smollett’s signature was on both the initial and follow-up reports before I closed the file and passed it back to her. “What do you suppose your ‘boss’ is trying to tell you?”
DeMarco put down her beer. “He’s an uber -professional. Which means minimal effort is intentional. And that probably means pressure from the client to keep it that way.”
I took a sip of my screwdriver. “You know anything about the judge’s wife?”
DeMarco looked surprised. “Perkins told me she was dead.”
I nodded. “Years ago. It pushed Stephen off the deep end. I was wondering if something similar pushed him again.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But then, what I don’t know about this case could fill a mini-series.”
I smiled sympathetically. “It’s not your fault, you know. You’re a professional who’s being reined in.”
“Yeah.” DeMarco finished her beer and slid off the stool. “If you need to talk to me again, which I hope you won’t, telephone me at the office and identify yourself as ‘Mr. Pembroke.’ But don’t leave a
“Sorry. Prior engagement.”
“Oh.” I could hear her frown over the phone.
“I’ll be in Bonham early tomorrow morning. How about lunch?”
“Terrific. I’ll pack a picnic basket and we can go down to a great swimming beach, and we—”
“Slow down. You’re on vacation. I’m working.”
The frown-pause again. “Well, you still have to eat lunch, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Pick me up at my place. Seventeen Fordham Road, first floor. Eleven-thirty. I’ve got to run. Bring your trunks. ’Bye.”
“Val—”
Click.
Annoying woman.
Ten
I F F ATHER’S FIRST WERE located in a poorer neighborhood than Beacon Hill, it would be a dive. Being on Charles Street, it’s a charming institution. It’s dark, dingy, and jukeboxed, with a mixed bag of gays, MBTA motormen, nursing students from Mass General, and law students from Suffolk University. I spotted her near the corner. She was wearing a disguise, sort of.
I slid in next to her. “I like your fatigue jacket,” I said.
Nancy DeMarco looked down into her beer. “You realize that this could cost me a job I’ve worked toward for six years?”
I ordered a screwdriver. “If it makes you meet guys like me in places like this, it can’t be such a great job.”
DeMarco looked up, but her hands kept toying with her beer mug. “It’s not, really.” She reached into a big leather tote bag and withdrew a file folder. DeMarco passed it to me. “Read. No notes. No copying.”
It took me all of three minutes. “This is everything?”
“Yup.”
“After two weeks?”
Just a nod now.
“What’s going on, Ms. DeMarco?”
“Nancy, please,” she said, more I thought from anonymity than cordiality. She took a sip of beer and began. “The case came in through Perkins himself on the thirteenth, the day after Stephen disappeared. I was assigned right away. Perkins handed me the police reports, which he’d already had copies of. After I read them, he told me I’d be on my own because the judge wanted a quiet, accent quiet, investigation.”
“How can you find a fourteen-year-old under that kind of restriction?”
“You can’t. Look at the file. Initial police report. Five-minute call to the housekeeper. Follow-up police report. Alert calls to airport and train-station security. One leg visit to the bus stations. End present efforts.”
“Amateurish.”
DeMarco grimaced. “Like you said back in Perkins’ office, worse. Perkins himself has loaded me with other files. I’m not complaining, but I was the operative with the most cases pre-Stephen, and I’ve gotten more than my share since. Every time I try to do something on Stephen, Perkins boosts the priority of some other case I have. I’d be embarrassed to talk with the judge—assuming my boss would let me.”
I confirmed that Smollett’s signature was on both the initial and follow-up reports before I closed the file and passed it back to her. “What do you suppose your ‘boss’ is trying to tell you?”
DeMarco put down her beer. “He’s an uber -professional. Which means minimal effort is intentional. And that probably means pressure from the client to keep it that way.”
I took a sip of my screwdriver. “You know anything about the judge’s wife?”
DeMarco looked surprised. “Perkins told me she was dead.”
I nodded. “Years ago. It pushed Stephen off the deep end. I was wondering if something similar pushed him again.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But then, what I don’t know about this case could fill a mini-series.”
I smiled sympathetically. “It’s not your fault, you know. You’re a professional who’s being reined in.”
“Yeah.” DeMarco finished her beer and slid off the stool. “If you need to talk to me again, which I hope you won’t, telephone me at the office and identify yourself as ‘Mr. Pembroke.’ But don’t leave a
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