“How old?”
“She’ll be twelve this year,” he said. “She was a real worker. Now she sticks to the office.”
“Good nose?”
“The best,” he said. “She could lead you right to any accelerant. Now it’s tough to get up these steps.”
I patted the dog’s head. We were kindred spirits. I’d needed a knee replacement last year. Now I’d regained the spring in my step.
“You’re a persistent man,” Cahill said. “You left ten messages. And then got Commissioner Foley on my ass.”
I smiled and sipped my coffee. “I guess I’m not easily deterred.”
“I wasn’t sure what to make of it,” he said. “You being a private snoop and all. But the commissioner said you were okay.”
“High praise?”
“From the commissioner?” he said. “You bet. But I have to wonder, what in the hell do you think you can do that we haven’t tried already? Jesus. This thing has been top priority. We’ve worked every damn angle. And when that wasn’t enough, we called in ATF.”
“And where did that get you?”
“Crap City.”
Galway lifted her head. She scratched at something inside her ear and then lay still.
“I’m not here to critique your work,” I said. “I only promised to look under a few rocks.”
“Heard you might have connections?”
“Some,” I said. “With bookies, leg breakers, and assorted low-lifes. The guards at Walpole and I are on a first-name basis.”
“It’ll take a snitch to lead us somewhere,” Cahill said. “All this high-tech crap we got: photographs, video, lab results. What it’ll really take is one crook turning on another. We weren’t left with much. It’s been tough. Tough on the department and tougher on the families. We all want to know what happened.”
I nodded.
“We’ve ruled a lot out.”
“Of course.”
“And to be honest, I don’t know what happened,” he said. “Some people, I know, have some theories. But all that shit is just talk. I need facts.”
“But there’s a tape?” I said. “Or a digital image? Or whatever you have these days of someone running from the alley by Holy Innocents.”
Cahill sighed and studied me. He was silent for a moment and reached for his coffee mug. Galway was in a gentle snooze, so comfortable she began to snore. Her rib cage expanded and fell with each breath. It had started to rain, a gentle patter on the windows. Thunder broke outside.
“I’d like to see it.”
“Where’d you hear about it?”
“A little bird flew in my office,” I said.
“Jack McGee is a big fucking bird.”
I shrugged. “You and I both know I work for Jack McGee,” I said. “But I do have other sources.”
“Commissioner didn’t want that out,” he said. “I don’t like it, either.”
“It didn’t come from Jack,” I said. “And I don’t work for The Globe. But a pair of fresh eyes on an old case never hurts.”
Cahill sipped some coffee. I sipped some coffee. The rain fell and Galway snored. She had a vigorous snore. He said, “The investigation is ongoing.”
“As it should be.”
“Any details stay within this fucking building,” he said.
“You bet.”
“If news was to get out—” he said. “With all the shit we been dealing with. You might have seen we’ve been pretty damn busy.”
“I understand. When I worked for the Middlesex DA, I learned to keep things to myself.”
I asked for some more coffee and Cahill stood and left the room. It was not only a stalling technique but also because I wanted more coffee. I patted Galway’s flank, thinking of Pearl aging, and waited until Cahill returned. “Do I have your word?” he said.
I nodded.
“Nobody,” he said. “I mean fucking nobody is supposed to know about this.”
“Sure.”
He reached for his phone, dialed up somebody, and told them to come into the room.
“How good is the image?” I said.
“Terrible.”
“How terrible?”
“It’s nothing but a freakin’ shadow,” he said. “What the hell can we do with that?”
18
An investigator by the name of Cappelletti leaned over his desk and scrolled through dozens of video thumbnails on his laptop. Cahill had walked me down the hall and introduced us. Cappelletti, who worked as unit photographer, seemed dubious about my intentions. He had buzzed brown hair and wore a red T-shirt with jeans. He kept sunglasses on a loop around his neck and chewed gum.
“You any relation to Gino?” I said.
“Who’s that?”
“Mr. Patriot?” I said.
“What’d I tell you?” Cahill said. “This generation doesn’t speak our language.”