Brandon slept for six hours or so, woke up at three p.m. He lay in the berth for a while, the fan humming, the cries of the gulls wafting through the bow hatch. He could hear the faint rumble of passing boats and ships and could gauge the approach of the wake. Counting down from twenty, he’d say, “three, two, one,” and then feel the boat start to rock.

That one was the tug, headed for the outer harbor. It was out of sight when Brandon came up to the galley. A quick glance showed a few boats out, three couples hauling coolers up float No. 2 in dock carts.

Nothing pressing, nobody waiting for him, not like launching time, early in the season, when he barely slept, getting floats and boats in, messing with the rickety boat lift, cleaning up and heading off to the overnight shift at the PD.

They told you to get rest, that your judgment was off when you were tired and stressed. He’d survived it. He and Mia had, too. One thing about writers—they liked time alone, and she had plenty.

Brandon went to the refrigerator, took out sliced turkey, Swiss cheese, spicy mustard. He made a sandwich on fresh pumpernickel from Mia’s favorite bakery in the Old Port, poured a glass of milk. He ate it at the table, listening to the weather radio. It was clouding up, scudding from the south. The radio said low pressure moving in, rain by midnight, winds out of the southeast, 10 to 15, increasing to 20 knots late. Seas building, 4 to 8 by daybreak. They’d have to close up the boat before they left for dinner.

He finished his lunch, washed the dishes in the galley sink, dried them and put them away. Then he went below and showered, put on shorts and a Red Sox jersey, Jason Varitek. Tek was his kind of player: serious, hardworking, no melodrama. Thinking about Tek led him to Kat and her talk, him not letting people in. He soured, said aloud, “If she doesn’t like it, screw her,” but then regretted saying it, even to himself.

Back in the salon, he checked his phone. A call from City of Portland, aka Choo-Choo, the dispatcher. He called back, heard voices, radio chatter, reached over and turned up his scanner. A car accident, Forest Avenue, Johnny Fiola signing off there. Brandon waited.

“Okay, Brandon,” Choo-Choo said. “Chantelle Anthony, no warrants. Misdemeanor drug possession, one in ’09, three in 2008. DWI, 2007. Operating after suspension, same year. Lance McCabe, just out, as you know, did six months for possession of methamphetamine, burglar tools, assault. Record longer than both our arms and legs. Probation conditions: no drugs or alcohol, random checks of person and premises.”

“Address?” Brandon said.

“Last known, 233 Quebec Street, number 2.”

“Thanks. Can you e-mail me his face?”

“Thought you were off,” Choo-Choo said.

“I am.”

“Just a wild and crazy guy, huh?”

“That’s me,” Brandon said. “Hey, is O’Farrell on?”

“Until eighteen hundred,” Choo-Choo said, and rang off. Three-thirty; Mia would be home from the library by five. He had time.

Brandon put on running shoes, a black baseball cap. He went back below, unlocked the cabinet in the cabin, and took out his radio and off-duty carry gun, a Glock 26, downsized from his department issue 19. He snapped a clip in, slipped on his waistband holster, covered it with his shirt, and was on his way.

Quebec Street was on the west side of Congress on Munjoy Hill. The east side was swarming with Volvos and people like Mia: young, good-looking, had money themselves or rich parents for backup. The west side of the hill was a couple of blocks and a world away: beat-up tenements, scruffy people, streets where you had to watch your step after midnight or you’d get rolled.

Brandon crossed the bridge, looked out at the bay, white sails flecking the waters between the islands. Boats were headed in after a good cruise, a few million dollars’ worth of toys that soon would be tucked in for the night. He drove his pickup through the Old Port, the early birds flocking to the bars. A group of guys, already staggering, stepped in front of the truck on Middle Street. Brandon braked, waited, resting his head on his hand. One of the guys stopped and looked at him, shouted, “Red Sox suck!” and flipped him off.

Brandon took a deep breath. Fun for the night shift.

He drove across Cumberland, down North, took a right. Lance’s address was a big white apartment block, cars parked helter-skelter in the lot out front. There were six guys, a young woman, leaning on a Tahoe pulled up to the curb. They eyed Brandon when he went by. He circled the block, came back to the corner, and parked by the scrubby park on the edge of the projects.

He sat. Opened his e-mail on his iPhone, clicked through to Lance McCabe’s mug shot. Shaved head. Goatee. Tough, stoic Irish face, like somebody out of Southie, which he might have been. All kinds of dirtbags working their way north from Lawrence, Boston. In the photo, Lance looked bored, maybe a little irritated. The kind of guy where getting arrested was a hassle, not a disaster.

Brandon looked over at the apartment house. The guys and the girl were still there. One of the guys had put his arm around her, staking his claim. She was drinking from a soda bottle. Green. Mountain Dew. Another guy was on the phone.

They moved to the street, the guy and girl sitting on the curb. The guys stood on the sidewalk, looked up and down. They stepped into the road, one shoving the other as a car passed. He yelled something, shoved the other guy back.

At that moment, a guy came out of the side door of the apartment house, headed for the little square of backyard, an old van rotting there, tires flat. The guy disappeared from view and Brandon sat, waited. The group in the street had crossed to the opposite side. They started up the sidewalk, moving away. The guy from the side door popped out onto North Street a block up, crossed the street, started down the sidewalk toward Kennedy Park.

Brandon started the truck, followed.

He passed him, pulled over and stopped. In the side mirror, Lance was headed his way.

Lance walked past, smoking a cigarette, flicking it to the ground just ahead of the truck. He was wearing basketball shoes, baggy shorts hanging down, a tank top showing tattoos, prison blue. Brandon watched as a car passed, a low-cut Honda, throbbing exhaust. It pulled alongside Lance. He came around, got in.

Brandon put the truck in gear.

They cut over to Franklin Street, Brandon three cars back, then drove under the interstate, a quarter-mile out to the supermarket. The car pulled in, double-parked out front. Lance and a smaller guy went inside. They didn’t stop to get a cart.

Brandon pulled into a parking slot and waited.

Ten minutes later, the pair came back out. Lance had a thirty-pack of Bud. The smaller guy had a box of Pampers.

“Yes,” Brandon said.

The Honda circled the lot, leaving the way it had come in. Brandon followed, along the mudflats of Back Cove, the tide out. They drove back up Franklin, into the white-walled, graffiti-scrawled project, out the back side.

Brandon had the phone out, scrolled down the list. Called O’Farrell.

“Blake, what’s up?” O’Farrell answered.

“Tailing Chantelle’s boyfriend.”

“Talked to him this morning. Said he’d rather have hemorrhoids than a baby.”

“Him and some buddies just picked up beer. And a box of Pampers.”

“Where are you?”

“East on Fox.”

“Didn’t know you were working.”

“It’s not work,” Brandon said.

There was a pause.

“I’m on Washington. Come up behind you. You in your truck?”

“Roger that.”

The Honda cut across Washington, buzzed up Walnut, headed back toward Lance’s neighborhood. On Montreal Street it sped up, turned right. He gambled, drove to the end of the block, pulled into a driveway. Waited. The Honda reappeared, passed him coming the other way, pulled into the driveway of another big apartment block. Brandon watched in the rearview; they all got out, Lance carrying the diapers, the other guy the thirty-rack.

Brandon backed out, slalomed down the street, into the driveway, blocking the car. The last guy was headed back to the car. He saw Brandon get out of the truck, stopped in his tracks, turned and ran.

“Police,” Brandon shouted. “Stop right there.”

The kid hit the stairs, pounded up, Brandon ten steps back. He heard a door slam above him, had his gun out, held low. The door was closed. He heard shouting. Men’s voices. A baby started to cry.

“Portland PD!” Brandon shouted. “Open the door.”

Murmuring now, somebody saying, “Fucking Five-Oh,” the baby crying, somebody saying “Shut that kid up or I will.” Brandon took a step back, put his shoulder to the door. It shuddered open and he lunged in, saw the driver going out the window onto the fire escape. “Freeze,” Brandon shouted, but the guy kept going. Another door to the left, voices behind it. Brandon turned the knob, slammed it open. Lance, two other guys, just shadows, the room dark.

“On the floor,” Brandon screamed, gun out in front. “Show me your hands.”

“Fucking A,” Lance said, dropping to the floor. The other guys were behind him, one with his hands up. The third, smaller, started for the window and Brandon cut him off, put him on the floor.

“On the ground!” Brandon screamed at the guy still standing, and he dropped to his knees, then to his belly.

The baby was crying from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Brandon eased upright, stepped over the guys, Lance saying, “Fucking crazy cop.” There was a door across the room. Brandon went to it. The baby took a breath, let out a scream. Brandon opened the door, peered in.

Dim light, but a crib showed against the wall. A chair. A woman sitting in it, the baby on her shoulder. “Don’t hurt my baby,” she said. “Don’t you hurt him.”

She was young, a teenager. Black, hair braided neatly. The baby was black, too.

Brandon lowered his gun. Scanned the room.

“You live here?”

“Hell, yes.”

“What are these guys doing here?”

“Mario, he lives upstairs with Lisa. They were going to get beer. They got me some diapers. You break that door? ’Cause I can’t stay here if the door won’t lock, not in this neighborhood. Landlord’s gonna be pissed, but I’m telling him, Don’t complain to me. Cops did it. Smashing in here. Fucking crazy-ass cops.”

Brandon stepped out into the other room just as O’Farrell stepped in, the driver cuffed in front of him.

“Why’d you run?” Brandon said.

He looked at Brandon with cold hatred.

“Probation,” O’Farrell said. “No alcohol, no drugs.”

He looked around.

“There’s a baby?”

“Yeah,” Brandon said. “It’s in there.”

O’Farrell cuffed the driver to a chair, stepped through the door, stepped back out.

“I don’t think that’s him,” he said.

“Nope,” Brandon said.

“Let’s search these guys. See if we can salvage something outta this cluster.”