where those cheekbones came from? She always said her grandma on the tribe side told her, ‘Firewater and guns, they don’t mix.’ ”
One of the honking laughs before Vincennes Dufresne took out his master key and locked Michael Mantle’s door.
Chapter 4
T he boston homicide Unit is on D Street in Southie, a block off West Broadway. It has the second floor of the old District 6 police station, a two-story building of bricks soot-darkened to that dingy brown of dried blood. The windows show boxy air conditioners and green trim around them. White stones embedded in the brick arc above the main entrance, like the doorway to a chapel. However, the Stars and Stripes flaps overhead, a separate black-and-white pennant remembering POW’s and MIA’s just below the flag they were lost fighting for.
I stopped at the battered counter on the first floor and asked a woman from Warrants for Lieutenant Robert Murphy.
Hiking a thumb over her shoulder; she said, “I think he’s in the back, fuming some relic.”
The department had let the Homicide Unit turn a portion of the old station’s garage area into a fuming tent for spotting latents on vehicles suspected of being involved in homicides. Robert Murphy was standing safely away from two men working near the wooden frame covered with clear plastic, a low-slung Pontiac from the seventies getting the treatment inside.
About six feet and barrel-chested, Murphy was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and geometric tie, the gold wedding band on his left ring finger contrasting against his black skin as the hand did against the pale gray pants. There was a Glock 19 over his right hip because the commissioner doesn’t want plainclothes officers wearing their weapon for a cross-draw that could spray bullets at a civilian before the muzzle comes to bear on the righteous target. Murphy held a clipboard in his left hand, frowning at something he saw on it.
“Lieutenant.”
Murphy looked over. “Cuddy. Keep your distance, ‘less you want a fine layer of Crazy Glue on that suit.”
“Not exactly a dust-free environment.”
A smile. “Commissioner’s promising us this real fuming facility —bigger version of that room the M.E.’s got over at the new morgue? We just have to wait for ‘Headquarters Building 2000’ to go up.” Murphy turned to the men near the tent. “How you doing?”
“Nothing yet, Lieutenant.”
I looked toward them, too, but spoke quietly to Murphy. “That stuff really work?”
“If there’s anything there to find. This particular vehicle, I’m not so sure we’ll need it. Case it’s from might be a real bunny.”
“Meaning open-and-shut?”
A nod. “Three neighborhood civilians eyeballed a homeboy they knew from the time he was three empty his Tech-9 into two merry wanderers from a turf ten blocks away.”
“A Tech-9? That’s thirty-two bullets.”
“If the clip was full. Homeboys don’t always remember to reload, and the Crime Scene techs didn’t hope to recover all the slugs.”
“Motive?”
“Witnesses said it was because ‘they be down with his lady.’ He yelled it from the rear window as one of the other kids he hangs with obliged him as wheelman.” Murphy stuck the clipboard under his arm like a drill sergeant on parade. “If only they weren’t so stupid about it.” Then he seemed to remember I’d come to see him. “So, what are you wanting?”
“I’m on the Alan Spaeth case.”
Murphy’s face turned toward me slowly, the eyes giving me nothing, but the lips pursing some. “Steven Rothenberg.”
“He asked me to talk with his client over at Nashua Street . I did.”
“Not gonna make you many friends.”
“And I don’t want to trade on the ones I’ve already got.”
Murphy turned back to watch the progress on the Pontiac . “Meaning I should go over things for you without you asking right out.”
“You once told me how you hated asking for favors.”
Murphy nodded. “William Daniels.”
The case I’d
One of the honking laughs before Vincennes Dufresne took out his master key and locked Michael Mantle’s door.
Chapter 4
T he boston homicide Unit is on D Street in Southie, a block off West Broadway. It has the second floor of the old District 6 police station, a two-story building of bricks soot-darkened to that dingy brown of dried blood. The windows show boxy air conditioners and green trim around them. White stones embedded in the brick arc above the main entrance, like the doorway to a chapel. However, the Stars and Stripes flaps overhead, a separate black-and-white pennant remembering POW’s and MIA’s just below the flag they were lost fighting for.
I stopped at the battered counter on the first floor and asked a woman from Warrants for Lieutenant Robert Murphy.
Hiking a thumb over her shoulder; she said, “I think he’s in the back, fuming some relic.”
The department had let the Homicide Unit turn a portion of the old station’s garage area into a fuming tent for spotting latents on vehicles suspected of being involved in homicides. Robert Murphy was standing safely away from two men working near the wooden frame covered with clear plastic, a low-slung Pontiac from the seventies getting the treatment inside.
About six feet and barrel-chested, Murphy was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and geometric tie, the gold wedding band on his left ring finger contrasting against his black skin as the hand did against the pale gray pants. There was a Glock 19 over his right hip because the commissioner doesn’t want plainclothes officers wearing their weapon for a cross-draw that could spray bullets at a civilian before the muzzle comes to bear on the righteous target. Murphy held a clipboard in his left hand, frowning at something he saw on it.
“Lieutenant.”
Murphy looked over. “Cuddy. Keep your distance, ‘less you want a fine layer of Crazy Glue on that suit.”
“Not exactly a dust-free environment.”
A smile. “Commissioner’s promising us this real fuming facility —bigger version of that room the M.E.’s got over at the new morgue? We just have to wait for ‘Headquarters Building 2000’ to go up.” Murphy turned to the men near the tent. “How you doing?”
“Nothing yet, Lieutenant.”
I looked toward them, too, but spoke quietly to Murphy. “That stuff really work?”
“If there’s anything there to find. This particular vehicle, I’m not so sure we’ll need it. Case it’s from might be a real bunny.”
“Meaning open-and-shut?”
A nod. “Three neighborhood civilians eyeballed a homeboy they knew from the time he was three empty his Tech-9 into two merry wanderers from a turf ten blocks away.”
“A Tech-9? That’s thirty-two bullets.”
“If the clip was full. Homeboys don’t always remember to reload, and the Crime Scene techs didn’t hope to recover all the slugs.”
“Motive?”
“Witnesses said it was because ‘they be down with his lady.’ He yelled it from the rear window as one of the other kids he hangs with obliged him as wheelman.” Murphy stuck the clipboard under his arm like a drill sergeant on parade. “If only they weren’t so stupid about it.” Then he seemed to remember I’d come to see him. “So, what are you wanting?”
“I’m on the Alan Spaeth case.”
Murphy’s face turned toward me slowly, the eyes giving me nothing, but the lips pursing some. “Steven Rothenberg.”
“He asked me to talk with his client over at Nashua Street . I did.”
“Not gonna make you many friends.”
“And I don’t want to trade on the ones I’ve already got.”
Murphy turned back to watch the progress on the Pontiac . “Meaning I should go over things for you without you asking right out.”
“You once told me how you hated asking for favors.”
Murphy nodded. “William Daniels.”
The case I’d
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