26

The silence—a mere twenty feet from the bar’s entrance—was eerie. The accordion player had called it quits for the night. I regarded the hulking elderly man beside me with misgiving.

“So what’s yer problem, girlie?” he said.

“No problem with me,” I shot back. “How’s your memory?”

“I reckon I remember more than you’ll ever know, girl.”

“If you want to keep calling me ‘girl’ and ‘girlie,’ I guess I could call you ‘Daddy.’ You like that?”

“Not particularly.”

“What do you like to be called?”

He stared up at the single string of wind-whipped red plastic flags that delineated the parking area. Made me think of salvage from a used-car lot, but his face relaxed into a grin, as if he were recalling other decorations, maybe the ceiling of the high school gym. Sock hop, Saturday night.

“Pretty ladies call me Mac,” he said.

Sweet daughter that I was, I smiled. “Mac, I’m Carlotta and I used to be a cop, too, but I didn’t make my twenty, and I had to go private. I’d appreciate your help.”

“Who tol’ ya where I live?”

Suspicion wiped the grin off his face.

“Head of Boston homicide.”

“An’ he’d be named?”

“Mooney. I worked for him. You want to call D street, he’ll tell you I’m a straight-shooter.”

“Ol’ bat across the street tol’ ya ’bout the bar, right? Like to use her fat head for target practice. Some con breaks outa the can—some punk I nailed thirty years ago—she’ll tell him where to find me, no trouble, day or night. Bitch.”

He stumbled and I caught him by the elbow and damned if he didn’t try the grab-ass bit again. I stepped on his toe. Hard.

“You really who ya say?” he asked.

“Yep. As I recall, your place is this way.” I wasn’t relishing the idea of a lengthy stroll with a drunk hanging on my arm, balancing his weight while compensating for pebbles and gravel in my sandals.

“Don’t ya have a car?”

“Left it parked near your house.”

“Damn, and I thought I’d be gettin’ a ride home. Arthritis in my knee, and all.”

“I can’t carry you,” I said. “Sorry.”

He didn’t take a step. Just stood in shadows smirking, pondering his next move.

“And which a my old triumphs did ya wanna discuss? What’s so vital that ya drive out here, track an old booze-hound to his lair?”

I played unconcerned. “Why would you think I’d be interested in your old cases?”

“Ya asked about my memory, girl. I can remember whatcha said not five minutes ago, girl.”

The last “girl” came out tough, a hurled insult.

I ignored it. My daughterly role was admiring and respectful. Not confrontational.

“You’re sharp,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it.” He sat on a rough-hewn bench, and patted the seat beside him. I took it, keeping a good five inches between us. The yellowish glow from the bar illuminated the right side of his face. I wondered if his buddies could see us parked on the bench, if I should prepare for some fumbling attempt at romance, something to tell the guys about.

I said, “I can see why you might get stuck with a hot potato like the Cameron girl’s disappearance. What I don’t understand is why you took over so soon, just weeks into the case. The investigation started in Dover, spread to Cambridge, Marblehead. It would seem that the state police—”

MacAvoy tossed me a disparaging look, then hawked and spat onto the parking lot. “Thea Dorothy fuckin’ Janis Almighty Cameron,” he said with the careful precision of the drunkard. “Goddamn all Camerons, ya should excuse my French. Don’t think I feel much like talkin’ about that one, thanks all the same.”

“But you’re the one who pulled it all together, Mac,” I said, spreading it on thick. “If it hadn’t been for you, Dorothy might never have been connected with Albert Albion. Don’t tell me you don’t remember him. A cop doesn’t get many chances to pin a big-time case on a serial killer. Have you been approached by any Hollywood types? Agents? You know, movie deals? Book offers?”

MacAvoy didn’t react to a word of it. Not Albert Albion’s name. Not the implicit offer of cash.

“Whole bunch of ’em should rot at the bottom of the sea,” he said quietly. “Who the hell do they think they are? They speak and the earth moves, mountains move, cops sure as hell better move. Get outa the way or get the hell steam-rollered.”

Seemed like he was talking about the Camerons—not cops, not serial killers.

“Some cases are like that,” I said, trying again to remind him that I’d been a cop, too, that we’d played for the same team. “You need to gentle them along, like unexploded landmines.”

“Right,” he said, giving a single nod, as if the matter were settled, once and for all. I could barely hear him between the flags and the ocean. To my dismay, the accordion started up again.

I said, “I’ve seen your case file.”

“Yeah?” His lack of concern seemed too elaborate, faked.

“It’s in great shape,” I told him. “What’s left of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Crossed-out pages, missing pages, wite-out, erasures—”

“The case is closed,” he said, shifting his weight. “What’s your beef?”

I thought about the gravel, the stones. I could grab a handful, toss them in his face, run.

“Just a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“Why were you put in charge?”

“Musta been my lucky day, girlie. Wanna know how lucky? If it hadn’t a been for the Camerons, I’da retired a captain, not a goddamn sergeant. You know the difference that woulda made on my pension?”

I could look it up. Public record.

“Did you ever see Beryl Cameron, much less interview her?”

He stared at the bench.

“How about the rest of the family? Franklin, Tessa—”

“The Dover police took statements.”

“The Dover police collected excuses, reasons the Camerons couldn’t be interviewed—”

“Really now, darlin’, does that surprise ya? The rich gettin’ treated different from the rest of us? No wonder ya quit. Or did ya get the boot?”

I ignored the scorn in his voice. “Do you recall the date of Albion’s confession?”

“No,” he said carelessly. “My memory seems to be goin’ after all. Ya have a cigarette on ya, darlin’? Smokin’ always helps me remember.”

“No,” I said. “I gave ’em up.”

He had a pack, almost full. He leaned against the rickety bench, fired the match on the small stretch of wood separating us. It seemed a deliberately threatening maneuver, a “stay clear” warning. In the flickering light, I caught a glimpse of an irregular five-pointed star tattooed on the back of his hand.

The tobacco smelled better than the stale beer and old vomit of the bench, I’ll say that for it.

“Do you recall a Dr. Manley, a psychiatrist who may have said that Beryl Cameron was too ill to testify?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Did Beryl Cameron attempt suicide during the investigation?”

“I’m sure I would have noted that in the file,” he said. “Darlin’.”

“How about this one? Do you think the CIA altered the files?” I asked.

“The what?” he said. “Didja say the blessed initials? Have ya been drinkin’, or have I been drinkin’, or is it the both of us gone mad?”

I took a deep breath of salt air. “Is there any chance Thea Janis is alive?”

“No,” he said. “Not unless you believe in that reincarnation balderdash.”

Hell with it, I thought, standing. It had been a nice ride.

“Who’re ya workin’ for?” MacAvoy asked suddenly. I made like I hadn’t heard him, started the trek back to my car.

“Are the Camerons paying you? Or that other guy who’s running for governor? If you’re trying to shovel up dirt—”

He lurched to his feet. He was awkward, but quick. I didn’t waste any time making tracks. I never broke into a run, but I stayed ready, listening, listening for footsteps.

On the drive home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was tailing me. Whenever I glanced in the rearview mirror there was nothing, or the usual run of indistinguishable headlamps. Once, the creepy feeling got so bad that I pulled to the side of the road, yanked open the glove compartment, and slapped my S&W 40 on the seat at my side, its metal cold against my thigh. I made sure the safety was on. Waited, humming softly under my breath.

Took me a while to recognize the song.

“Been on the job too long.”

Maybe I had.