I’m tellin’ ya, the creep in the suit? Had to be Frank Flanagan. Had to be.”

Clemens was standing in the middle of Nora’s office, all fired up.

“Pressuring Monique the way he did,” he continued. “Feeding her that line: ‘I’ll never forget those eyes.’ Unbelievable.”

Clemens began pacing. Nora stood next to the dry-erase board, stroking her chin. After leaving Lola Catron’s apartment, we’d headed straight to the law office.

“This is great stuff,” Clemens declared. “Great stuff.”

“It’s okay,” Nora said. She tilted her head at the board. “But not great.”

In the column on the dry-erase board marked Monique, Nora wrote the word DEAD in big letters.

Clemens said, “Whaddya mean? The girl testifies at the trial Romero Taylor ran past her moments after Ruby Graham’s shot. Now we learn she was bullied into saying the guy with the gun was Romero. We learn she had no idea who the gunman was — until Richie Boyle and Frank Flanagan harass her, wave Romero’s photo in her face, and plant her a line about ‘those eyes’ that sounds like something out of a Hollywood movie. Plus, we learn Monique Catron was sick. Not only sick, but dying? C’mon, this is great stuff for the story.”

“Maybe for the story, but not so much for us in court,” Nora said.

“C’mon! Whaddya talkin’ about?” Clemens threw up his hands.

Nora said, “You can write pretty much what you want — thanks to the First Amendment. I get that.”

“So?”

“In court it’ll be different,” Nora said. “We question Flanagan and the police about this, Flanagan will deny it ever happened. That’s my prediction. He’ll flat-out deny Monique was ever mistreated. Remember who he is, the esteemed Frank Flanagan, crime-fighting district attorney running for mayor. Most folks are inclined to believe someone in his position — and we don’t have Monique to say otherwise. We don’t have Monique Catron to tell a judge and describe, firsthand, the bullying, the pressure tactics, how she was scared back then into lying.”

“Jeezus. What about Miss Lola?” Clemens said. “She was there.”

“Right. We have Miss Lola,” Nora said. “But what’s that get us? Her word against Flanagan’s. How’s that gonna play? She’s got no love for police. Makes that abundantly clear. She’s not what English teachers call a ‘reliable narrator.’ Most folks would probably be inclined not to believe her.”

“I believe her,” Clemens said.

“Not saying I don’t,” Nora said. “I’m just saying that if we get Romero’s case back into court, we need a lot more than Lola Catron facing off against the popular mayoral candidate Frank Flanagan. I’m saying it would be way more credible if instead of an angry, embittered, antipolice parent, we had Monique telling her own story.”

“But Monique’s dead,” Clemens said.

“Yes, Monique is dead,” Nora said. She saw that Clemens was deflated. “Listen, Lola’s info helps. It shows we’re on to something. We need more, is all.”

Clemens plopped onto the couch.

While air rushed from Clemens’s couch cushion, I turned my attention back to a thick manila file I’d pulled out of a box on the documents table. I’d been listening to everything Clemens and Nora were saying, but I’d gone directly to the war room looking for this particular file as soon as we’d arrived at Nora’s office. I was seated on the floor against one wall with the file in my lap.

It held records of Daddy’s criminal history.

The wooziness I’d felt when Miss Lola said those things about Daddy hadn’t gone away. Coming from Richie Boyle was one thing, but coming from someone who lives in the neighborhood was another. Miss Lola made everything seem more real. Like describing her nephew, the one who nearly died on stuff Daddy sold him.

While she was talking, the old police photo of Daddy even popped into my head. The mug shot I’d come across last year when I was first organizing Nora’s case files, taken when Daddy was twenty-two, showing him with a thin mustache and dark look that left me feeling so cold.

I’d stopped in my tracks when I first came across the photo. I did not want to look any further. Instead, I’d closed the file and put it in the box with other documents and police Form 26s. But after seeing Miss Lola, hearing her go after Daddy like she did, say Daddy is where he belongs, I felt I needed to dig deeper into the file for myself.

So I opened it up. The mug shot still sat atop a thick pile of police reports, Form 26s, and victim statements. Much of it was written using a kind of legal and police code, which by this time, and with Nora’s help, I’d learned to translate.

One of the earliest charges was dated March 3, 1985, when Daddy was seventeen. He was charged with “Larceny of M/V; Poss Burg Tools; Dist. B-4.” This meant he stole a car. I read the accompanying police report. It said Daddy, in the middle of the night, had used a screwdriver to break into a blue BMW parked outside a townhouse in the South End. It said he jump-started the car, drove away the wrong way down a one-way street, and was caught by a patrol car that happened to be around the corner.

The next case I read, Daddy was charged with “Poss. Cl. D. W/I/D; Dist. B-2.” Translation: possession of marijuana with intent to sell. The police report said Daddy, standing on the sidewalk on upper Blue Hill Avenue, had sold a little plastic bag of marijuana for forty dollars to a female police officer who was working undercover and dressed like a girl from the neighborhood. The report said Daddy was wearing a brand-new Adidas running suit with a gold chain necklace. He was standing on the street corner listening to a Walkman cassette player when he initiated the drug sale by saying to the officer walking toward him, “If you pass me by, you won’t get high.” That drug case was handled in the Dorchester District Court.

I next read that later the same year Daddy was charged with “Larc. Person; Assault, Simple; Dist. A-1.” Translation: purse snatching. The police report said Daddy had knocked down a woman at noontime right in Pemberton Square, in downtown Boston, and grabbed her purse. The report said the woman, aged sixty-two, began screaming as Daddy ran away across the redbrick square, and that a Good Samaritan body-blocked him. Other bystanders then helped to tackle and hold on to Daddy until police arrived. The old lady suffered cuts and bruises on her legs. Pemberton Square is located right outside the Boston Municipal Court, and from the papers, it looked like Daddy had stolen the woman’s purse right after leaving the courthouse, where he’d gone for a court hearing on one of his drug cases.

More papers in the file described other arrests over the next several years, for stealing cars, for break-ins, and for dealing drugs, including one involving Miss Lola’s nephew, a teenager named Stephen Catron, who bought a tiny vial of cocaine laced with rat poison. Daddy served five months in the Deer Island House of Correction for that, according to the records in the file. But usually Daddy just got probation for his crimes and had managed to avoid any serious jail time.

Until the Ruby Graham murder case.

I got to the end of the file and sat still on the floor. Clemens and Nora were across the room near the board, discussing what to do next, but their fading voices seemed miles away. I couldn’t hear what they were saying as I fell further into a funk. Fell deeper and deeper, through the floor, through the building’s foundation, through the subway tunnel beneath, out into Boston Harbor and to the bottom of the sea, falling under the weight of this terrible information about Daddy. Daddy the drug dealer with his own clever slogan: “If you pass me by, you won’t get high.”

This felt so different from the awfulness I felt when Nora had first started working on Daddy’s case and had made me go through the evidence that police and Frank Flanagan had used to convict Daddy of murder. Even though that evidence looked so bad, I knew — and always had — that Daddy didn’t do that. He was framed. But this crime file was different. It was real. Daddy was a drug dealer. Going through it, I began to understand why Miss Lola had said such angry things about Romero Taylor the drug dealer. The harm he’d done — he wasn’t someone anyone should like.

Saturday morning, I wouldn’t get up. I was stuck in the funk. I heard Ma rushing around in her bedroom, then in the kitchen, getting ready to go.

“C’mon, girl!” she yelled. “Five minutes, the van’s gonna be here.”

I stayed in bed. Didn’t say a word. Ma appeared at my door.

“What is wrong with you, Trell? Vinnie is not going to wait on us.”

“I’m not going,” I said.

“What?”

“Not going.”

“You’ve never not gone. You’re the one always rushing me.” Ma stood there, studying me. “You okay? Somethin’ happen?”

I was silent.

“Daddy’s expectin’ us, Trell. Give him the update how things are going.”

I turned away to the wall.

“I don’t have time for this,” Ma said. She was frustrated. “Vinnie leaves without me and nobody gonna be with Daddy.” She turned to leave. “This is not over.” She gave me the strangest, most disbelieving look I’d ever seen on her face.

I heard her pull the front door shut. The apartment went quiet. I turned back and faced the pile of books on my night table. I had no interest in any of them.

Ma was riding alone in Vinnie’s Van to see Daddy at Walpole. Thinking about Daddy, part of me felt like crying. But nothing came. I tried to picture him, but the only image that filled my mind was the grainy police mug shot from that file.

The funk. Not much feeling inside the funk, just a spooky kind of emptiness. Like I was lost.

I must have drifted off for a few minutes, because the next thing I heard was a pounding on the front door. I found Clemens standing on the stoop, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was dressed in baggy shorts, the T-shirt from his old school the Gunnery, and the running shoes I’d given him. His green Volvo was idling in the road.

“I was about to go for a run and your mother called,” he said.

He saw me looking him over, from top to bottom, from ponytail to running shoes. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I was going for a jog. After our outing — I won’t even call it a workout — I decided I gotta do something about being so pathetically out of shape.”

I still hadn’t said a word.

“What’s the deal? Your mother was upset, said you wouldn’t go to Walpole. We’re making progress here, Trell. Why aren’t you on Vinnie’s Van with your mother?”

I looked to each side of Clemens, then past him, but not at him. I noticed that in the empty lot down the street, a new big sign had gone up saying FLANAGAN FOR MAYOR. It made me realize signs for Frank Flanagan were everywhere now. I looked up and saw a clear blue sky, and thought it would be a good day for a run, a really long one. Finally I looked at Clemens, who was still rocking on his toes, and said, “That file.”

He squinted at me. “File? What file?”

I told Clemens about digging deep into Daddy’s crime file while he and Nora were talking. “I’d never really read it, but Miss Lola, after she said those things, I had to.” I told Clemens I felt all mixed up. I told him I couldn’t get the picture of Daddy in the mug shot out of my head. “Daddy, he hurt a lot of people. Things you do go to prison for.”

Clemens nodded, then rubbed his chin. “Okay, okay.” He looked at his car. “We still got plenty of time to make visiting hours. Get in the car.”

I hesitated.

“Trell, you gotta talk to your dad on this one. Not me. Him. Let’s go.”

Deep down I knew Clemens was right. I changed, pulled the front door shut, and trudged down the steps. Clemens had done some cleaning up in his car, gotten rid of the stacks of old newspapers. There was room for a passenger now. He shifted the gear stick, and the old Volvo made a grinding sound as it pulled away from the curb.

We were approaching the intersection when a shiny black Mercedes-Benz turned onto my street. The car slowed way down, and the front window opened as it crawled by. The man behind the wheel turned toward us. His face was tough and bony. He lowered his sunglasses to give us a hard glare. It was like in slo-mo.

I felt a chill run up my back and into my neck.

“Thumper,” I whispered.

When the Mercedes was nearly past, Thumper Parish turned away and floored the accelerator. The engine roared, and the car took off, practically popping a wheelie.

“What was that about?” I said.

“Dunno,” Clemens said, looking in the rearview mirror as Thumper disappeared. “Probably not a coincidence, though.”

When we got to Walpole there was still thirty minutes left for visitors. Clemens had made the drive a lot faster than Big Vinnie ever could in his wobbly, rocking minibus. He dropped me off and said he’d wait. I signed in, walked through the security checkpoint, and entered the visiting room. Ma and Daddy were sitting by the windows. They both looked up.

Ma stood when I reached them. “I’ll give you two some time,” she said.

“Okay, Shey-Shey,” Daddy said. “Next week.”

I felt nervous all over. I sat, but kept my head down.

Daddy started. “What’s wrong, girl?” he said.

My hands were clenched into fists in my lap.

“Trell?”

I looked up. “It’s just . . .” I began. “It’s just that I seen it. For the first time.”

“What do you mean?”

The words came out fast. “I seen it, Daddy. I seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“That file. The one in Nora’s office that starts screaming at you when you start reading all the information inside it: screaming through the reports and forms and police reports that Romero Taylor is not a nice person. That’s he’s not innocent.”

Daddy was startled. “What?”

“The big file,” I said. “The one with everything before Ruby Graham.”

Daddy shifted in his seat. He straightened up. He didn’t say anything for what seemed like a long time, and then he said, “You’re perfect?”

Daddy’s tone surprised me. It was firm. Made me look up and at him.

“You’re perfect?” he repeated. His eyes were fixed on me, steady. The tone in his voice stayed neutral. He rested his hands on the table. He seemed so calm.

“No, I’m not, but I would never . . .” The records began flashing in my mind, like pages flipping in a book. “Steal a car. Or sell pot in plastic bags to undercover police.” I charged ahead. “I would never knock down some old lady, steal her purse!

“You should have seen Miss Lola.” My voice got loud. “You should have been there, Daddy. Heard her tell me how back then you thought you were so cool, with your own hook: ‘If you pass me by.’ Miss Lola’s nephew. He almost died, Daddy, because of you.”

I felt like crying, but couldn’t.

Daddy stayed calm. “I did some terrible things,” he said.

“But how could you? How could you?”

“Listen, Van Trell.”

Daddy never called me that.

“Look at me.”

I did.

“You never made a mistake?” The question hung there. Daddy continued, “Remember a few years ago? You were nine, I think, and Ma took you shopping to Filene’s Basement for some school clothes. Remember? You wandered into the sports store nearby. Picked up a shiny mesh visor off a display table, put it on your head, and walked right out of the store. Remember?”

I couldn’t believe Daddy remembered. Not that it wasn’t a big deal. It was. Ma was out of her mind at the time. Made me return the visor and for the next month made me come right home after school and sit tight. No playing with friends. Like I was in prison. But Daddy, being in prison, only heard about it afterward.

“Why you steal that visor?” Daddy said.

I didn’t answer even though I knew why. I’d stolen it for three reasons: the running visor shaded my eyes, the top was open to catch a constant breeze, and the new mesh design was quick-drying. There was another reason, too. More style than technical — I loved its color, a lime green I hadn’t seen anywhere. So I stole it, which was a huge mistake, and I got into big trouble afterward. But I didn’t know what that had to do with anything, and I didn’t know how Daddy even remembered it, him not being around when it happened.

“There’s a big difference between a cap and cocaine,” I snapped back.

Daddy nodded. “No argument there,” he said. “No argument. But here’s the thing, Trell. You wanted the visor, is why you stole it. Well, I wanted my gear, clothes l liked, anything so long as it had a label. Ralph Lauren. Izod. Shirts. Jeans, an Adidas running suit, brand-new Adidas sneakers, whatever. I had no education, no real job, and easy money came from the drugs. So I did it. I was a drug dealer, Trell. I did the crimes you read about in the file, and then some.

“But here’s the thing — what I done was a mistake. Terrible mistake. I know that now. I’m not gonna run from it. I sold drugs, and hurt people doing it. I’m sorry I did, and I’m gonna have to live with it the rest of my life. But I never killed little Ruby Graham. You know that, Trell. I never killed her.”

“Oh, Daddy,” I said. “I know that. I’m not talking about her.”

I don’t know exactly where the words came from, but it was like the funk and mixed-up feelings from reading about crimes Daddy actually had committed sorted themselves out into some kind of order where suddenly I could explain why I was so mad. “It’s not Ruby Graham,” I said. “It’s not her. I know you didn’t do that. It’s you leaving me and Ma. That’s what I mean. Not being with us. Because maybe that doesn’t happen if you never did the crimes before. If you hadn’t made a name for yourself as some big-shot drug dealer stylin’ your way around the neighborhood, maybe you don’t become the person police are looking for when Ruby Graham is shot on Humboldt. And if that doesn’t happen, maybe you stay home. For Ma. For me. Instead of being a Saturday Dad, you’d be a stay-at-home, everyday Dad. If you hadn’t done all those other things, maybe that’s how it would have been.”

I was out of breath, like when I run a split. I welled up. I could feel things building. The tears that had been stuck the last couple of days began trickling out. I leaned into Daddy’s arms. “I wanted you home.” Daddy held me for a few minutes. Didn’t say a word. I opened my eyes and saw the guards at the door were stirring. The clock on the wall said there were just a few minutes left.

“I get it, and I’m sorry,” Daddy said. “It’s good you told me this. You been cheated, and I’m sorriest about that.” Daddy held me at arm’s length. “You grown up so fast.” He wiped the corner of his eye, then shook like he was trying to clear his head. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “Ma caught me up. Told me about Monique Catron. How Nora thinks the new information is only okay.”

I nodded. “Me and Clemens are going to be looking now for the other girl.”

“Juanda Tillery.”

“Yeah, her.”

“Before you leave,” Daddy said. He pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket. “For you and Clemens — the address for one of the kids I was with that night.”

I opened the slip. In Daddy’s handwriting it read:

Tracey Dailey

11 Geneva Avenue

Daddy said, “I been asking around for where she lives. Asking people in here to ask people. Asking anybody who might know her or someone in her family. Finally got this, from one of the guys works in the kitchen. Tracey’s his second cousin. She’s one of the kids I was with when Ruby got shot.”

“You, Tracey, and two more friends, right?”

Daddy smiled. “You know the file, Trell, that’s for sure. I asked around on the others, too. But no one’s heard anything for years. Seems they left Boston a long time ago. My guess is South Carolina somewhere. It’s where they all had family. So it’s a dead end on them. But Tracey, we find her, maybe she can help.”

The bell went off. The guards, led by Officer White, started moving through the big room, ushering visitors toward the exit.

I put the slip away. “Daddy, I’m gonna get you outta here.”

“Trolls, bells, and candy canes,” he said. “Just like always.”

It didn’t make any sense for Ma to ride home separately in Vinnie’s Van when Clemens had driven, so we headed home together in the green Volvo. Ma was relieved Daddy and I had been able to talk, and she thanked Clemens for bringing me.

“No sweat,” Clemens said. He tugged at his T-shirt. “Saved me from a real sweat.”

No one laughed at the lame joke.

And I said, “Still plenty of time for a run.”

Ma raised her hands. “Oh, Trell,” she said. “I completely forgot — that boy Paul called for you yesterday, when you were at Nora’s. Something about Water Country.”

Monday was the day Paul Parish said he was going to the water park in New Hampshire with a bunch of kids in Vinnie’s Van — paid for by his uncle Thumper. I couldn’t help thinking it’d be fun, especially with the weather forecast saying Monday was going to be clear and sunny. But Thumper Parish?

The rest of the ride, Clemens and Ma talked about Lola Catron and about the next move — tracking down Juanda Tillery, another of the young witnesses from Daddy’s trial. I mentioned Daddy had given me a lead for Tracey Dailey. “He thinks she’s living somewhere over on Geneva Avenue.”

“This is good,” Clemens said. “We’re startin’ to cook.”

Clemens began tapping the steering wheel. “I was also thinking — the cancer Miss Lola told us about. Cancer that killed Monique. Trell, what kind she say it was?”

I pulled out the notebook Clemens had given me and flipped pages until I found the right one. “Cerebral,” I said. “Not sure I can pronounce the rest.” I broke it down and tried. “Cerebral astro-cy-toma.”

Ma said, “Never heard of that. What is it?”

“We should find out,” Clemens said.