9

Houston and Bouchard were at Andy’s, one of their favorite restaurants from their time as cops. They sat by the window and hunched over the table, as Houston drank his second cup of coffee. He had been smoke-free for more than five years, but caffeine still made him crave nicotine. At that moment, he would have killed for a cigarette. He turned his attention to Anne. “This case bothers me.”

“It isn’t going to be easy telling Betty and Archie their granddaughter is a hooker.”

“And who knows what else.”

Houston glanced at his watch, 9:45 in the morning; he had always been an early riser, and while he didn’t like food when he first arose, around this time of day he was ready for breakfast. He had ordered coffee, ham, and eggs.

A black Lincoln Navigator pulled alongside the curb, and a skinny man of average height with an acne-scarred complexion stepped out of the vehicle. Houston immediately recognized Jimmy O’Leary. He was as dapper as Houston remembered him. Even when they were kids, O’Leary had been a slave to fashion. It hadn’t been a surprise to Houston when he returned from the Marines and learned that his childhood friend had become one of the leading mobsters in Boston. O’Leary walked through the door and stopped while searching the room for something or someone. He saw Houston and took the seat beside Bouchard.

“Mike, how are you?”

“Great. You’re looking good, Jimmy.”

He turned to Bouchard. “You still hanging around with this burnout?” His acne-scarred skin seemed to crease when he smiled.

She kissed him on the cheek. “And you still smell like an ashtray.”

Jimmy O laughed. “Trust her to put me in my place. I almost had a heart attack when you guys called. We ain’t talked since that situation in Maine last year.”

Houston smiled. “That’s bound to happen when people are on opposite ends of the same business.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I hear you’re lookin’ for Mel Del Vecchio.”

“We need to ask him some questions.”

“Want me to come along?”

“I think I can handle him,” Houston said.

“Never said you couldn’t, but Mel sees me, he’ll shit a soft stool. It may get you your answers a bit faster.”

The server warmed Houston’s coffee and gave O’Leary an approving look.

“What you having?” she asked.

O’Leary studied her tight-fitting uniform and leered. “For now, coffee would be nice,” he grinned. “Later we can discuss other options.”

Houston knew that she was an experienced waitress when she played along without a second’s hesitation. Her smile could have lit up the room when she said, “How you want your coffee—in you or on you?” Before he could reply, she spun around and walked toward the kitchen.

“God, I love a feisty woman,” O’Leary said.

“I’m going to take a pass on this one,” Bouchard said. “While you talk with the bottom-feeders, I’ll run over to police headquarters and see what I can dig up. Spending a morning with a pimp isn’t my idea of a fun time.”

“Say hello to Bill Dysart for me,” Houston said.

“When you want to go?” O’Leary asked Houston.

“As soon as I finish eating.”

The waitress returned and placed a mug of coffee in front of O’Leary. She scribbled something on the back of an unused order slip and placed it with the written side down in front of him. When she was gone, he turned the slip over and smiled at Houston. “Her phone number . . .”

_________________

Anne Bouchard walked to the new Boston Police Department headquarters in Roxbury Crossing; it was the first time she’d visited the BPD since her medical retirement. The officer at the desk immediately recognized her and greeted her with a smile. She placed her bag on the table beside the metal detector and said, “It’s been a long time, Harry.”

“Not all that long, Anne.”

“There’s no piece in the bag.”

The officer nodded and motioned for her to enter the detection gate. As she passed through, Bouchard asked, “Is Captain Dysart in?”

“He came in a couple of hours ago.”

Bouchard retrieved her bag and said, “Would you call ahead and announce me?”

“You betcha. It’s good seeing you.”

“You too.” Bouchard waved as she walked to the elevator.

When the elevator door opened, Captain Bill Dysart was waiting with a big smile on his face. “Anne, you look terrific!”

She returned his smile and followed him to his office. “Nice place,” she commented. “It’s much nicer than the old building.”

“Yeah, but the old building had its niceties. Like windows that opened.”

Bouchard laughed as she recalled his habit of opening his office window, taking one or two drags off a cigarette, and throwing it out. She noted that the windows in his new office were hermetically sealed. “These windows must really cramp your style.”

“Well, I’ve cut back on my smoking, and now that I’m not tossing three quarters of a cigarette away, it’s cheaper, too.”

He guided her to a chair and then sat behind his desk. “How’s Mike? I haven’t seen nor heard from him in almost a year.”

“Mike’s Mike. We’re doing some private work now.”

“You and Mike gone private? I never would have thought you’d do that.”

“Well, we’re selective about the cases we take on, which brings me to why we’re back in Boston.”

“You mean this isn’t a social visit?” Dysart grinned. “How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for a missing girl—woman is more accurate. We know she was attending a local diploma mill and started partying and may have started hooking. What do you know about a pimp named Mel Del Vecchio?”

“Let me bring in one of my detectives. She knows the vice scene more than I do.” He opened the door and called, “Tracy, you want to come in here for a minute?”

A young woman entered the office, and Dysart introduced her to Bouchard as Detective Nancy Tracy. After a brief description of Bouchard’s background, he sat back and let the two women carry on the discussion.

“My partner and I are looking for a missing young woman,” Bouchard said. “We believe that she’s been hooking for a pimp named Del Vecchio.”

Tracy was all business when she spoke without referring to any notes. “Melvin Del Vecchio is what you’d expect to find on the bottom of your shoe after walking through a dog kennel in the dark, but he’s an open book. Like all pimps, he preys on young women.” For a brief second her face lost its professional stoicism and her distaste showed. “He lives in Roslindale. His girls work what’s left of the Combat Zone near Chinatown.”

“I guess it could be worse,” Bouchard commented, “there are worse areas in the city.”

“Doesn’t matter which neighborhood it is . . . he’s still a bottom-feeder who runs a stable of alley-creepers.”

“You seem to know a lot about him considering he’s a small-timer,” Bouchard interjected.

“I’ve interacted with Del Vecchio on several occasions. My sources tell me the only reason he’s still in business is that his girls are loyal to him. They love the pus-bag.”

“You got anything on Cheryl Guerette, the girl we’re looking for?” Bouchard asked.

“Give me a minute.” Tracy walked out of the office, leaving Bouchard and Dysart alone.

“She seems to be good,” Anne said.

“Not as good as you,” Dysart replied. “But she’s new, and she’s a quick learner—like you were.”

Tracy returned with a handful of printed sheets. “We don’t know much more about her than what you already know. Del Vecchio turned in a missing persons report on July eighth.” She flipped through the stack, stopping when she found the sheet she wanted. “The investigating officer got a call from the Maine State Police about a week later and was told that an Archie Guerette filed a report, too.”

“Archie is her grandfather,” Bouchard said.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I mean, hell, you been around the block a time or two more than me. By now, I’m sure you’ve found out that she was a streetwalker, probably a junkie, too. . . . She probably took a powder, maybe got a jump on the cold and headed south.”

“I don’t know. Something about this smells sour. I’m afraid there’s more to it—something has happened to that girl,” Bouchard said.

“I’ll see if anything new has popped up.” Tracy took a cell phone out of her pocket and hit a speed-dial number. “Sergeant Weaver, please. . . . thanks.” She waited for a second and then said, “Charley? Nancy, how you doing? Me too. Listen were you able to find out anything on that missing person I asked about?”

She listened for a moment and thanked Weaver, then put the cell back in her pocket. “They have nothing.”

“Do you know if she was ever busted?”

“Who knows? You know as well as I do none of those girls use their real names.”

“Her street name may be Cheri,” Bouchard said.

“Her and fifty million others; these women change names as often as most people change socks. You got a picture? I’ll show it around, see if anyone knows her by another name.”

Bouchard and Houston had had several prints made of the picture Betty had given them, and she handed one to Tracy, who studied it for a few seconds. Her reaction was the same as Bouchard’s initial one. “She’s pretty. What in heaven’s name is she doing with a hairball like Mel Del Vecchio?”

“That’s an answer we hope to have by the end of the day. My partner is probably talking to Del Vecchio about it now.”