Twelve

“Detective Triola,” I said.

“Hang on.”

The police department doesn’t try to soothe you with canned music while they keep you on hold. I appreciate that. Canned music makes me grind my teeth.

Joanne Triola and I went to the police academy together. She’s still a cop, and I admire her for sticking it out. If you met her on the street, with her round gentle face and cloud of softly permed hair, you’d pick her for a librarian or a social worker. If you tried to shoot it out with her, you’d be dead.

“Triola,” she said gruffly.

I said, “I’m looking for a cushy city job with short hours and long pay. A chance for a few bribes on the side. Have I got the right number?”

“What do you want, Carlyle?” she said. “Make it quick.” She’s good at recognizing voices.

“If you had your handbag snatched at Mass. Ave. and Boylston Street, kid took off toward Symphony Hall, where would you look for it?”

“You got your—”

“No gloating, Jo. Let’s keep this hypothetical. Where are the regular dumps?”

On the whole, purse snatchers are creatures of habit, not leather fetishists. They don’t collect handbags and wallets; they want money and credit cards. So when they get what they want, they dump the container as soon as possible, preferably in an unlighted alleyway or a convenient Dumpster.

“Hang on,” Jo said. “I’ll ask Rudy.”

“Okay, write this down,” Jo said when she got back on the line. She’d been gone so long I’d had to push five more dimes into the pay phone. “Alleyway behind the Amalfi. There’s a Dumpster. Hope it’s there.”

I didn’t like the way she said that. “Why?”

“Because the runner-up spot is the reflecting pool near the Mother Church.”

“No,” I said.

“Wear your rubber boots.”

“I am not going wading tonight.”

“Good. I wouldn’t recommend it. Let me put out the word, and when somebody finds it I’ll give you a call. Much cash?”

“Bastard didn’t even get ten.”

“Credit cards?”

“Harvard Coop. Visa. Period.”

“Poor thief’s sure sorry he picked you, lady.”

“I’ll grieve for him,” I said, “while I’m standing in a three-mile line at the Registry getting a replacement driver’s license. While I’m having new keys made.”

“Yeah, it’s a bitch,” Jo said.

“And one more thing.”

“Yeah?” Jo’s voice was wary. I must have sounded a little too casual.

“There’s a guy runs with the Gianellis. Mickey. Big Mickey something. I can’t remember his last name. Eighteen-inch neck. Looks like an ex-football player. You know who I mean?”

“Vague memory.”

“You know what line he’s into?”

“Like drugs, prostitution, gambling, etcetera?”

“Like that.”

“I’d have thought you’d be better placed to find out that sort of thing than I am.”

“Jo,” I said, “you ever call your boyfriend and ask him which of his dad’s hoodlums runs broads? It’s delicate.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Jo said with a sigh. “And keep your hands on your purse at all times.”

“Uh, Jo, could you do me a favor?”

“I thought that’s what I was doing. Two favors.”

“About the Gianelli thing?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ask Mooney.”