HAMMURABI'S CODE
by
CHARLES KENNEY


HAMMURABI'S CODE

CHARLES KENNEY

SIMON & SCHUSTER New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore
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this BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. names, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND

INCIDENTS ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR'S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED

FICTITIOUSLY. any

RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS OR LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD,  IS

ENTIRELY

COINCIDENTAL.

copyright 1995 BY charles kenney all RIGHTS RESERVED,

INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM

WHATSOEVER.

simon & schuster AND COLOPHON ARE REGISTERED TRADEMARKS OF simon &  schuster
inc.

designed BY pei loi koay manufactured IN THE united states OF america  library
OF congress cataloging-in-publication data IS AVAILABLE.

ISBN 0-671-89697-0
this BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER, anne L. kenney
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to a number of people who read my manuscript with a  critical eye:

Dayton Duncan, Jody Hotchkiss, Richard Kletter, Scot Lehigh, Lisa  Driscoll
Tuite, and Robert L. Turner. I am grateful, as well, to Sean  Mullin.

For their support I thank my father as well as my brothers Michael,  Thomas,
Patrick, John, and Timothy.

My wife, Anne, read the manuscript in numerous stages and gave me much  good
advice and encouragement. I received loving support from my  children, Charlie
and Elizabeth.

I feel particularly blessed by my association with the two people who  gave life
to this novel: Laurie Bernstein, my superb editor at Simon  and Schuster, and
Flip Brophy, my wonderful agent at Sterling Lord  Literistic. I am unable to
convey to either how grateful I am.
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into  the
past."

--the great gatsby, F. scott fitzgerald
On a warm summer night, a man seeking vengeance set out to kill the  most
beloved individual in the city of Boston. Councillor Philip P.  Stewart was
reclining in a padded lounge chair on his porch listening  to a Red Sox game and
smoking a Pall Mall while a man approached  Stewart's home with the intent of
shooting him through the heart.

The man, who concealed a pistol in the pocket of a light windbreaker he  wore
over a T-shirt, walked along a quiet residential street toward the  councillor's
home in the Moss Hill neighborhood of Boston. A soft  summer rain fell, a
cleansing rain whose drops glistened on the leaves  of lilac bushes that lined
the street. The rich, earthy fragrances of  summer hung thick and heavy in the
air. The man approached Councillor  Stewart's house from the rear of the
property, which bordered a  dead-end street and was marked by an eight-foot
privet hedge that gave  Stewart's small backyard a country feel. As the man with
the gun cut  through the hedge he could hear the faint sound of Red Sox
announcer  Joe Castiglione coming from the radio. The man with the gun paused
for  a moment and peered carefully through the trees and shrubs bordering  the
Stewart property on either side.

He was not acting on impulse. He had considered this act carefully.  This would
not be a moment of insanity triggered by a flash of madness.  The man felt
deeply aggrieved by Stewart, yet powerless to resolve his  anger in any legally
appropriate way. And so, without any legitimate
outlet, his anger had grown and brought him to this time, to this  place--on a
mission of vengeance. Over time, during the many months in  which he had
considered the action he was about to take, the man had  grown increasingly
comfortable with the idea. In planning for this  moment, there were many
considerations, not the least of which was the  question of whether he could get
away with it. The man who stood in  the shadow of the hedge working to calm the
sound of his own galloping  heart believed that he could. That he would.

He brushed against the hedge, soaking one side of his shirt. He peered  across
the yard at the Stewart home, a gray, Cape Cod-style structure  with white
shutters. The house was small but more than sufficient for  the needs of a
single man living alone. Peering through the leaves of  a sturdy elm, the man
saw yellow light spilling from the porch onto a  small flagstone terrace. With a
quick swipe at the sweat on his brow  and a gasp for breath, he pushed away from
the hedge and crossed the  yard toward the house, smelling the sweet fragrance
of a Pall Mall as  he reached the terrace. To avoid startling the councillor,
the man  spoke in a soft voice.

"Clemens pitching?" he asked.

Stewart was startled, but only momentarily, for it was not unheard of  for him
to receive unannounced visitors at home. The "poor souls," as  he called them,
who constituted his political flock--alcoholics, the  mentally ill, the
homeless--had often visited through the years. Though  most had come to his City
Hall office, some had appeared at his home  seeking food, medical care, a warm
coat. Some he ministered to  personally, others he took to a hospital, clinic,
or shelter.

Legend had it that he had never, in all the years, turned anyone  away.

Stewart did not recognize the voice out of the darkness. His tired  eyes were
not what they had once been. He squinted against the glare  of the porch light,
looking up and seeing the form of his visitor come  through the screen door.

"We're leading in the bottom of the eighth," said Stewart.

"Clemens went six and two-thirds. Pretty sharp." He looked up from  his seat,
squinting and holding his hand up to shield his eyes against  the porch light as
he studied his visitor.

"Sit down,"
Stewart said with as much cheer as he could muster.

The man did so, moving out of the shadows and into the light, and it  was then
that Stewart saw the man, saw the face that was familiar to  him. Stewart felt a
knifelike fear slice through his chest. He tried  not to betray it.

"What do you want?" Stewart demanded.

"Only to talk," the man lied.

Stewart fumed.

"For a moment," he said.

"I am very tired."

The man sat down in the chair across from the councillor and gazed  intently at
Stewart. Beyond the fear in his face, Stewart did not look  well. Beneath his
sunken eyes were deep circles. His face was lined  with creases, his eyes
yellowed. His hands trembled and his skin had  taken on a grayish pallor. His
thinning hair had long since turned  gray. When he spoke, a click from his
tobacco-stained dentures could  sometimes be heard. He seemed terminally weary.

"Do you know why I'm here?" the man asked.

Stewart sighed heavily, a mixture of weariness and disgust.

"To talk, you said."

"Do you know what about?" the man asked.

Stewart glared. He reached to the table at his side and tapped a Pall  Mall out
of its package. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Why don't you enlighten me," he said.

A Red Sox runner advanced to second. The announcer's voice took on an  edge of
excitement. The evening air, earlier heavy with tropical  humidity, had grown
slightly cooler with the passing shower. Stewart  wore a sleeveless sweater over
a short-sleeved sport shirt, yet he  seemed chilled and folded his arms over his
chest. He drew on the  cigarette again, not as deeply this time.

"Do you ever consider what comes next?" the man asked earnestly,  almost
brightly.

Stewart appeared stumped.

The man half smiled.

"In the broadest sense," he said.

Stewart shook his head.

"I have trouble enough with tomorrow," he said. A flip remark.

The man did not smile.

"I mean it as a serious question," he said.
Silence.

"Do you ever dare look into the great abyss?"

Stewart sat silently, fear swelling in his chest, pressing against his  lungs.

His breathing grew slightly labored. He was sweating now. And  trembling. Some
instinct from deep within urged him to make a run for  it, but it seemed his
legs could not move. He could see no weapon but  he could feel it, sense it,
knew it was there somewhere covered by the  man's windbreaker.

Stewart's voice was shaky.

"I thought this was in the past."

The man seemed remarkably calm.

"What would you do if you were me?" he asked Stewart.

Stewart steadied himself.

"I would leave immediately," he said, "Before there was trouble."

The man nodded, as though thinking about that, considering the  option.

"You concede," the man said, "that you are not the saint you are  considered to
be?"

Stewart rubbed his eyes with the fingers on his right hand. He drew on  the butt
again, deeply this time.

"In fact, isn't it true that you are an evil man?"

Stewart frowned.

The man nodded. Then he rose from his chair.

"I am going to leave," he said. He stepped into the kitchen, just a  few feet
past Stewart, and took a hand towel from a rack.

He took the gun from inside his windbreaker and wrapped the towel  around it
with his left hand while he held the weapon with his right.

Stewart recoiled in shock. He threw up his hands.

"For Christ sakes calm down," he said loudly, a note of panic in his  throat. He
moved to get up.

"Stay there," the man ordered and Stewart obeyed.

A chilling breeze blew through the screen, gently rattling the door.  Stewart
shivered.

"I am only doing what I have a right to do," said the man. He quickly  reached
over and turned the radio dial to the right, raising the volume  on the game as
the announcer shouted out news of a Sox hit and a runner  driving toward the
plate. As Stewart began to move forward in an  effort to rise the man fired
twice,
burning a hole through the towel and exploding two slugs into  Stewart's heart,
killing him instantly. The man dropped the towel on  the floor, placed the gun
in his pocket, and vanished into the night.

The Boston Post was housed in a vast, sprawling redbrick building in  the
Dorchester section of the city, set on a plot of land bordered on  one side by
an aging, congested interstate highway, on another by a  heavily traveled
secondary road, and on a third side by an inlet  running from Dorchester Bay. On
the ground floor, at one end of the  building, were loading docks-nine hundred
feet long--where every night,  beginning at 11:30, dozens of dark-green box
trucks were crammed with  papers and dispatched to thousands of locations.
Beyond the docks, and  taking up most of the rest of the ground floor, were
massive,  high-speed presses. The building's second floor contained scores of
offices housing hundreds of employees who worked in advertising,  circulation,
accounting, personnel, and promotion. On the third floor,  at the front of the
Post building, were hushed, spacious, wood-paneled  offices of the company's
senior managers--the publisher, chief  financial officer, and others engaged in
balancing the accounts.

In the back half of the building's third floor was the editorial  operation,
home to the reporters, editors, researchers, clerks, and  secretaries who put
the newspaper together each day. The editorial  department was divided into
various divisions--sports, arts, national  and foreign--but its center was the
local news operation. Local  reporters were spread throughout the city room, a
vast space without  ornament where the walls and ceiling were white, the
lighting harsh,  and the air stale. It was a room that seemed to go on and on,
with row  upon row of desks and computer terminals piled high with books,
reports, and yellowing newsprint. Some desks were so laden with junk  saved
through the years that the stacks served as barriers to hide the  reporter
hunkered within.

Toward the rear of the room was the paper's nerve center-the city desk,  home to
the editors in charge of local news. The
desk was U-shaped, with a half dozen assistant city editors positioned  around
the U and the city editor, Howard Berman, at the head of the  desk facing out
over the room. His was an unbroken view all the way to  the sports department
110 yards away.

The city desk was like a small village unto itself. Within the U were  seats for
a half dozen student interns who performed a variety of  tasks, nearly all of
them poorly. The interns answered the thousands  of phone calls that came into
the city desk each day. They handled the  scores of calls from crackpots and
lunatics-from people who claimed to  be Jesus Christ to those who said they'd
found Hitler's children living  in a bank vault on Beacon Hill.

Within the six hundred square feet inside the perimeter of the city  desk were
fax machines that spewed an endless roll of paper twenty-four  hours a day. Most
of the faxes were either thrown away inadvertantly,  lost behind the machines,
or distributed by the interns to the wrong  people. There were two coffee
machines, both with coffeepots whose  bottoms were thick with sludge. It was
that layer of scum, Berman  insisted, that gave the city desk coffee its unique
character.

There was a small refrigerator that, when opened, emitted a stench so  powerful
no one could get close enough to the machine to clean it.  There were computers
and copiers and phones and faxes and so much  machinery that the tangle of wires
that lay under the feet of those at  the desk was like the thick cable of a
ship's anchor. Strewn around  the desk were discarded pizza boxes, sandwich
wrappers, paper cups,  Coke cans, and hundreds of old newspapers.

Along the three walls of the city room were glass offices housing the  paper's
senior editors and a few columnists. Berman had an office  along one wall, but
rarely used it, preferring instead his perch at the  city desk. Berman's job was
to oversee the reporting and editing of  all local news. He was in charge of the
reporters and editors who  covered politics at the State House and City Hall;

oversaw feature writers, specialists in education and medicine, and he  led a
large crew of general assignment reporters who wrote about  accidents, fires,
and, most of all, crime. Crime stories were the  staple of the city desk and
Berman loved them-stories about crimes of  passion, cold-blooded crimes,
victimless
crimes, stupid crimes, brilliant crimes, heartbreaking crimes. He  loved these
stories whether they came from the city's sewers or  corporate suites, for these
were the unvarnished stories of life and  death in the city.

Berman was an intense, nervously energetic man of thirty-five. He was  short,
with the wiry, nearly gaunt physique of an English rock  musician. He had held
the city editor's job for four years--longer  than was traditional at the Post.

It was the most grueling job at the paper and the editorial department  was
littered with the burned-out carcasses of former city editors who'd  cracked or
wilted under the pressure. (One former city editor, long  since reassigned to
another department, spent each day hunched over a  terminal wearing a ski hat,
wool scarf, and goggles.) No matter how  good the package of local stories was
on any given day, they were  forgotten within twenty-four hours when a new Post
hit the streets.  When Herman's group put out a stellar effort, he rarely heard
from his  superiors. But when the Record-American, the Post's slimy cross town
rival, beat them on a story, Berman heard a great deal.

Unlike so many of his predecessors, however, Berman had not allowed the  job to
drag him down. He had, in fact, thrived by taking the only  rational approach to
making it work: he eliminated the rest of his  life. Berman had accepted the
job, after six successful years as a  reporter--three covering local news and
three as a foreign  correspondent in Central and South America. Berman had a
knack for  languages--he spoke French, Spanish, and had picked up Creole--which
had been of immeasurable value when he covered the political turbulence  in
Haiti. When he took the city editor's job he had decided that if he  were to do
it, he would devote his every waking moment to it for five  years in the hopes
it would lead to a significant promotion--perhaps to  managing editor. Berman
knew that anything short of an all-out  commitment to the job would be a
prescription for failure. He  succeeded because he worked harder than anyone
else in the newsroom--a  minimum of twelve hours a day and usually more. Berman
kept a cot  folded in the corner of a utility room at the back of the news
operation and a week never went by that he didn't pull it out and sleep  within
earshot of the city desk. During
his first summer on the job he slept by the desk an average of three  nights a
week, and one morning he had appeared at a meeting with his  assistant editors
wearing only pajama bottoms. His sometimes eccentric  behavior was tolerated
because Berman handled the most thankless job in  the building with nothing less
than distinction.

Herman's capacity for endless hours of work was essential to his  success. But
he also had an unerring instinct for news, and an uncanny  ability to deal with
the varying characters who populated the newsroom.  The daily bread of
newspapers such as the Post-was local news coverage,  yet the more experienced
and polished a reporter was, the less likely  he or she was to be assigned to
the metro reporting staff. The best  reporters--those who proved to be fast,
industrious, accurate, and  stylish--were invariably promoted to the national or
foreign desks or  to living arts the Sunday magazine--anywhere but the metro
staff, which  was widely viewed as the lowest point on the journalistic food
chain.  Yet Berman managed to produce a consistently quality product. He coaxed
out of hiding a reporter who had previously spent most of his time  hunched
under his desk whispering on the telephone. He brought peace  between two older
reporters who had engaged in fistfights over annoying  noises each
made--snorting, sneezing, etcetera--from their neighboring  desks. He took his
band of kooks, retreads, incompetents, and barely  literate interns--along with
a handful of excellent reporters--and made  them into a metro staff that somehow
got the job done day in and day  out.

So the Boston Post had Berman's diligence to thank on the morning of  July
12,1994, when he became the first newsperson in the city to sniff  out one of
the hottest stories in Boston since the 1950 Brinks  robbery.

Many editors ignored the police scanners that sat atop the city desk  and
crackled obnoxiously throughout the night and day. But Berman  listened. Part of
the reason his attention span was so short, a  characteristic that drove the
reporters and editors who worked for him  to distraction, was his constant
monitoring of the normally mundane  scanner traffic.

"It's like panning for gold," Berman would say.

"You sift and
sift and sift some more and, bingo!--a nugget."

On this particular morning, as the harshly accented voice of the Boston  Police
Department dispatcher croaked through the static, Berman struck  a rich vein
when he heard a call for a squad car to number 112 Moss  Hill Road in Jamaica
Plain.

He knew, because he made it his business to know such details, that it  was the
address of Boston City Councillor Philip P. Stewart.

"Why would a car be going to Stewart's house?" Berman asked no one in
particular as he moved closer to the scanner.

"Jesus, I wonder if he's getting chauffeured around town by the cops  now. Are
the cops driving Stewart around, or what?"

Berman asked a row of assistant editors.

"Can't we find that out? And who gave them the authorization? Kids  are killing
each other in the streets but they can spare a cop to drive  a fucking
councillor around? Cut the shit."

Approximately ten minutes later the dispatcher called for an ambulance  to be
sent to "the Jamaica Plain address previously mentioned."

Berman swiveled away from his terminal and faced the radios.

"They're hiding something," he said.

"Address previously mentioned. They only say that when they don't want  anyone
to pay attention. They never say it! What's going on over  there?"

Berman rose and began pacing the wide area behind the city desk where  the
cheap, burnt-orange carpet was worn through from his incessant  striding. He was
disheveled in blue jeans, high-top Reeboks, and a  button-down shirt with the
tail half hanging out. He peered out over  the city room searching for a
reporter.

"Kimmy," he shouted to a reporter sitting at her desk reading the paper  and
drinking coffee.

"Kimmy! Come on." The young woman rose reluctantly and walked up to  the center
of the U on the desk and faced Berman.

"Sorry to wake you," he said.

"Get over to 112 Moss Hill Road in JP. Councillor Stewart's house.  Something
might be wrong."

"Like what?" said the reporter.

"They sent an ambulance is all I know," said Berman.

"Hurry. And call me soonest."

He grabbed his phone and dialed the photo department.
"Jerry, we need a camera at 112 Moss Hill Road in JP. Councillor  Stewart's
home.

Pronto. Something's up."

Donald Deegan was not thinking kind thoughts on this summer morning. He  had
never thought kindly about the High and Mighty One. For fifteen  years Deegan
had been forced to curry favor with Philip Stewart, and he  had never liked it
even a little bit. As was the case with many other  politicians in town, Stewart
regularly turned to Deegan for political  counsel. And on this morning Deegan
had been asked to breakfast with  the High and Mighty One to discuss some
political problem. Deegan had  told Stewart when he called that his health was
poor, that straying  from his home was uncomfortable. But the High and Mighty
One paid no  attention. He asked Deegan to be at his house at nine A.M.

"We need a talk," Stewart had said.

"A talk" meant there was a problem.

"A talk" meant a strategy session, perhaps a lengthy one, a tiring one.  When
the councillor had phoned Deegan the afternoon before, he had  sounded subdued.

Deegan wondered whether it had been more than that. Had the sour note  in his
voice been that of fright? In recent months Stewart had not  looked well. He had
appeared sallow and dissipated. His body was  older than its years, and Deegan
wondered whether the bad cells had  invaded the High and Mighty One.

Deegan thought of this as he dressed in a wrinkled blue wool suit that  had not
seen the dry cleaners since midwinter. He wore a white shirt  and a
black-and-gray-striped bowtie. Deegan was short and gaunt. His  large round
head, noticeably out of proportion to his body, and his  oversized ears gave him
the look of a leprechaun. In years past, his  step had a spring to it, his voice
a lilt. No more. A half million  cigarettes had taken their toll. The elasticity
in his lungs was gone,  the bacilli covered in a thick layer of accumulated tar,
not unlike a  seabird after a tanker spill. His breathing was labored. Deegan
used  a portable oxygen machine. A hose ran from a small box that was  attached
to a mask which, when he felt the urge, he placed over his  nose and mouth for
reinvigoration. On this morning, he left his house  and placed
the machine in the car on the front passenger seat. He drove slowly  in his
black LTD up along Centre Street in West Roxbury, past the Holy  Name Church,
through a corner of Brookline and into Moss Hill. He  parked in front of
Stewart's house, a modest-sized cape, well kept,  with a small patch of lawn in
front. In the warm morning air, bees  buzzed around the chrysanthemums and
dahlias in the yard.

Deegan knocked on the front door and then again. He pressed the bell  repeatedly
but there was no answer. He was about to return home when  he thought of
checking the rear porch where Stewart spent much of his  time in summer. Deegan
moved slowly, following the flagstone path  around the side of the house. He
rounded the corner to the backyard  and glanced over toward the screened-in
porch. Over the shrubs, he  could see Stewart's head. The arrogant prick
wouldn't even get up off  his ass to come answer the door, thought Deegan.
Deegan turned the  corner and followed the path to the porch and only then did
he look up,  and it was at that moment that he saw Philip Stewart slumped in the
chair, a mass of dead weight collapsed into a heap, his head hanging  back,
mouth and eyes open, a sizable stain, reddish-brown, on the front  of his shirt
and sleeveless sweater.

Donald Deegan's heart pounded within his chest. Later he would sit  back at home
in his red leather easy chair, a generous tumbler of  Glenlivet in one hand, a
Marlboro in the other, and permit a half smile  to crease his face. The High and
Mighty One cold and white and stiff,  his dick like the stem of an umbrella
under his trousers. What a  sight! It was later, after his duty had been done,
that Donald Deegan  sat in the privacy of his own home and raised a glass to the
demise of  Philip Stewart.

But at the moment Deegan did his duty. He went next door and called  the police
department liaison to the City Council, a man he knew well,  and asked him to
send a car. The man complied without question and it  was that radio call which
Howard Berman heard on the scanner. And it  was the next call, made by the first
officer to arrive at the scene,  which brought an ambulance to the house.

The Post photographer arrived in time to capture on film two
EMTs, led by a paramedic, carrying a stretcher with Stewart's body  covered in a
black plastic sheet. The photographer clicked away as  they loaded Stewart's
body into the back of the ambulance, and shut the  doors. Kimmy Brooks, the
reporter, got no comment on the record from  either of the cops on the scene,
though they did confirm off-the-record  that the body was indeed that of Philip
P. Stewart, and that he had  been shot at least once, probably twice, in the
chest. When she heard  that, she raced to a pay phone and broke the news to
Berman.

Upon hearing this stunning bit of information, Berman strode quickly to  the
corner office belonging to the Post's editor in chief, Roy  Johnson.

"Roy, terrible news," said Berman, his heart racing.

"Phil Stewart has just been found dead at his home. Murdered,  apparently."

"My God," Johnson gasped, slumping back in his chair as though he'd  been
hammered in the stomach.

"Who could do that to such a man?"

"Two shots to the chest," said Berman.

"We've got a pie of the EMTs carrying the body to the van."

Johnson was a veteran newsman, a tough man who'd seen every news story
imaginable, but he sat, thunderstruck. Johnson had known Stewart well.  He had
liked and respected the man. Johnson sat at his desk, looking  up at Berman,
searching for some explanation.

"Whys'" he implored Berman.

Berman shrugged.

"No idea," he said.

"Nothing from the cops yet."

"Now I've seen everything," he said quietly.

"There is no point below which human beings will not stoop." He shook  his head
and stared out the window.

"Insane."

Berman nodded. He knew that Johnson and Stewart had been friends. He  did not
want to appear crass, but he was far more interested in how his  newspaper
covered Stewart's death than in the fact that the councillor  was dead. Berman
had an immense amount of work ahead of him and was  itching to move.

"Think we can get two clear pages inside, Roy?"

Johnson nodded absently.
Berman turned and half ran toward the city desk. This was big, he  thought,
adrenaline surging through his body. This would be a great  news day.

Det. Thomas McCormack of the Boston Police Department Homicide  Division was
beeped the moment the EMTs arrived. He was there in  minutes. McCormack asked
the EMTs, two uniformed officers, and Donald  Deegan to wait outside for him. He
liked to study a setting alone, in  the still that always settled over a murder
scene after the fact.

He stood by himself on the porch and took it all in. There was a  padded lounge
chair facing out toward the backyard and another chair  opposite. On a side
table next to the padded chair was an ashtray,  three-quarters of a pack of Pall
Malls, a book of matches, and an empty  Moxie can. On another table was a radio.

McCormack noted that it was tuned to WRKO-AM. On the floor halfway  between the
two chairs was a hand towel. McCormack picked it up by a  corner and examined
it.

There was a small hole and powder burns. The towel, it was clear, had  been used
to muffle the shots. McCormack went into the kitchen. It  was small and neat. On
the table was another ashtray and more Pall  Malls. There was a portable
television on the counter next to a  microwave. On the far end of the counter,
next to the hallway leading  from the front of the house, was a set of keys and
a wallet, which  McCormack opened. It contained Stewart's driver's license and
assorted  credit cards in his name. McCormack counted the cash--eleven
one-hundred-dollar bills, three fifties, assorted twenties, tens, and
singles--more than $1,300 in all. A great deal of money for a city  councillor
earning $38,000 a year.

McCormack pulled a plastic bag from his suitcoat pocket, placed the  wallet
inside, and sealed it. He would call in a variety of  investigators and they
would comb every inch, quite literally, of the  house and the yard. They would
knock on every door in the  neighborhood. They would write page after page after
page of reports.  And what would they conclude? McCormack wondered.
McCormack thought the scene rather odd. How would he describe it in  his report?
He looked around the room. Nothing, save for the towel,  was out of place.
Nothing had been disturbed. The matches were  stacked neatly on top of the red
Pall Mall package. The Moxie can,  though empty, was upright. On impulse,
McCormack picked up the can and  placed it into a plastic bag. Then he slid it
inside his jacket  pocket. He looked around the porch and out into the kitchen.
Clinical  was the word that came to mind. Clean. Neat. No muss, no fuss.

McCormack went outside to the ambulance and had the EMTs fold back the  plastic
cover partway. The detective looked at the face of the dead  councillor. His
lids had been rolled closed by an EMT but his mouth  remained open. McCormack
walked over to where several officers had  gathered by the side of the house.
They had brought out a chair for  Donald Deegan, who did not appear well.
Between McCormack and Deegan,  longtime acquaintances, there was mutual
distrust.

McCormack asked the others for a moment alone with Deegan. Deegan  explained
that he was scheduled to meet with Stewart that morning and  had arrived for
their discussion when he found the councillor dead.

"What was the meeting about?" McCormack asked.

"He didn't say," said Deegan.

"He just said he wanted to have a talk."

McCormack nodded toward the house.

"You touched nothing, I assume?" he said.

"The doorknob," said Deegan.

McCormack nodded. Wiseguy.

"Where were you last night?" McCormack asked.

You prick, thought Deegan.

"At home," he replied.

"With anyone?" asked the detective.

Deegan paused for a moment.

"Christie Brinkley," he replied.

McCormack looked at the ugly little man who seemed more dwarf than not,  looked
at his gray pallor and his withered face and couldn't help  himself. He laughed
quietly.

Deegan smiled.

"As you know, detective, I live alone," said Deegan.

"I'm always alone. Except for a visiting nurse now and then."

McCormack nodded.

"Any thoughts?" he asked.

Deegan considered the question and smiled.

"The town will
mourn him," Deegan said.

"They think he's a saint."

McCormack looked down at his shoes and nodded, a frown on his fleshy  face.

Deegan smiled.

"We know different," he said.

"Not many knew him, really. Very few saw his other side."

"Did you do it?" McCormack suddenly asked.

Deegan studied the detective. He shook his head slowly and smiled  again,
mischeviously this time.

"No, detective," he replied.

"Did you?"

" Let's meet!" Berman shouted out to his assistant editors stationed around the
city desk.

"Gather round."

Five of the six were there at that moment and they assembled in a  huddle around
Berman at the head of the desk.

"Philip Stewart is dead, shot in the chest twice," he said.

There was a collective gasp from his assistant editors.

"They just found him at his house," said Berman.

"How do we know?" one asked.

"There were a couple of radio calls to the house--cruiser, then an  ambulance. I
sent Kimmy. She confirmed it with the cops. We have a  photo of the EMTs with
the body."

"Was anyone else there?" asked another editor, referring to other  newspapers or
television stations.

Berman shook his head, clearly pleased that the Post had a jump on the  story
and an exclusive photo.

"Obviously, we'll blow it out tomorrow," he said.

"We've got two clear pages inside. How's this for a package: main news  story on
the death, cops stuff, etcetera, which we should put two,  maybe even three
people on. Let's put both the City Hall guys on it,  plus someone working the
cops. We'll do a backgrounder on his life--in  effect a long obit. Also we'll
need a highlights box with a chronology  of the major events in his life. And a
big react story including pols,  businesspeople, clergy, community activists,
and so on. And man-on  the-street."

"We should also do a page-one box giving the basic information on
arrangements--wake, funeral, any memorial service, whatever," said one  of his
assistants.

"Good. And let's bear down on the reaction story," said
Berman.

"Lots of voices. He was an authentic hero. The activists loved this  guy.

So the react story will have real people and pols."

"What about a sidebar on the day at Spruce Street," someone  suggested.

"What if we have someone go down and just record what happens? Write  the scene
from the moment people hear the news through the rest of the  day?"

The Spruce Street Inn was the city's largest and most important  homeless
shelter. Stewart had risen from once having been a guest  there--a broken,
homeless alcoholic--to being chairman of the board of  directors and its
political champion in the city. His was a  Lazarus-like tale. He had risen from
near-death, defeating alcohol and  overcoming hopelessness. Even as a member of
the council, he was at  Spruce Street several times a week checking on
operations, serving food  to the needy, washing clothes, or doing a variety of
menial tasks. He  still served in a volunteer capacity as chairman of the
Greater Boston  Shelter Coalition, a position which gave him substantial control
over  the disbursement of millions of dollars annually.

"Good," said Berman.

"Let's get someone over there now so they'll be there when word gets  out. One
more thing," said Berman.

"Who's going to do the bio piece?

It should be mostly from the clips but with some fresh quotes. It's  got to be
well written. Who can do that?"

"Cronin would be perfect for that," someone suggested, referring to  Frank
Cronin, one of the Post's best reporters, who specialized in long  investigative
and feature stories.

"Damnit, he's away," said Berman.

"Vacation."

Early that afternoon, word of Stewart's death spread throughout the  city like a
prairie fire in August heat. The local TV stations broke  into scheduled
programming with bulletins. Throughout Boston people  collected in front of
radios and TVs as they numbly sat and watched or  listened. There were, of
course, those to whom Stewart was merely  another pol whose face they'd seen
flash by on the evening news, but to  thousands of other Bostonians, Stewart was
an icon whose death left  them stricken with grief.

By late afternoon a crowd of several hundred people had gathered on the
sprawling brick City Hall plaza three stories below the windows of  Stewart's
Council office. Another fifty or more stood stiffly on Moss  Hill Road in front
of the councillor's home, which was under siege from  Boston police searching
for clues. Off to one side of the crowd,  behind police lines marked by bright
yellow tape, was a group of media  people--a half dozen print, TV, and radio
reporters and three cameras  from the city's network affiliates. As afternoon
gave way to early  evening and workers began leaving downtown, more and more
people  gravitated to City Hall Plaza, where the crowd swelled to nearly a
thousand.

As he did every night at six o'clock, Berman interrupted the pre  deadline rush
in the city room to watch the evening news on the local  television stations.

Perched on a platform raised slightly above his desk were three small  Hitachis,
each tuned to a different station. He watched all three,  shifting the sound up
on one and down on the others as a story would  catch his eye. On this night, a
dozen reporters and editors formed a  half circle behind Berman, watching
stories on the murder.

All three stations led with it and all dedicated almost ten minutes of  their
airtime to the story. The parade of people appearing on the  screen to offer
words of praise for Stewart included both of  Massachusetts's U.S. senators, the
governor and lieutenant governor,  the cardinal, and the mayor of Boston.

Stewart's colleagues on the City Council seemed particularly stricken.  One
poignant scene showed two council members, Eddie Keaveney of South  Boston, an
arch conservative, and Jamal Lewis of Roxbury, a liberal  black--two men who had
battled for years and whose enmity had verged on  physical violence at
times--weeping and embracing in the Council  chambers.

As dusk gave way to darkness over the sorrowful city of Boston that  night, a
couple began passing among the crowd at City Hall Plaza  distributing candles.

Soon the throng began moving slowly down Tremont Street, gathering  mourners as
the procession made its way through the city, past the  Common, and into the
South End. When word reached the Spruce Street  Inn that the crowd was headed
there, volunteers backed a flatbed truck  up to the front of the building,
across from a city park. Powerful  klieg lights from the TV trucks illuminated
the
makeshift stage while the mourners' candles cast a soft glow into the  night
sky.

Police department technicians hastily rigged a sound system, and within  a few
moments of the crowd's arrival, the Inn's chaplain, Father Tom  McHugh, offered
a brief prayer for the repose of Phil Stewart's soul.  He then introduced the
mayor, who had been out jogging when he had been  tracked down and given the
news that morning. He had immediately gone  to the scene of the crime and was
still in jogging clothes when he took  the stage. The mayor was a tall, athletic
man who had built his  political career through his relentless work on behalf of
neighborhood  groups.

"We have lost today, because of an act of brutal and senseless  violence,
perhaps the finest, the most decent citizen of our city, a  man who well lived
the Christian life, who was the embodiment of that  to which many of us aspire.
To have risen from the depths of despair,  from the clutches of alcoholism, to
become one of the most effective,  if not to say beloved, members of our Council
was in itself an  achievement of Herculean proportions. But even more inspiring
to me  was Phil's incredible ability to maintain a caring attitude toward
others.

He and I worked together closely on issues of housing and homelessness,  issues
of health care, crime and drugs, alcohol rehabilitation. And I  cannot remember
a single instance, not one, when he placed his own  interests ahead of the
interest of someone in need."

The mayor paused and gazed out over the hushed crowd of mourners.

"Many of you may be familiar with this story," he said.

"To me, it so perfectly represents what Phil was all about.. ."

Some in the crowd, knowing well the story that the mayor was about to  tell--for
it had become part of the Stewart lore--began sobbing.

"It was a number of years ago now, back when Phil and I were serving  together
on the Council. It was in Dorchester, after a community  meeting. And we were
walking along when a young fellow approached us.  It appeared he was going to
speak with us, but, instead, he suddenly  charged forward--it was a freezing
cold winter day, a bitterly cold  morning--and the young man, who we later found
out was disturbed,  without warning charged
forward and assaulted Phil. He punched him in the face, knocking him  into a
frozen snowbank. It just so happened that the community meeting  had been on a
matter related to the police department and several  officers were on the scene
immediately restraining the young fellow.  The poor soul had been de
institutionalized as it turned out. He was  sitting there on the ground, being
restrained by an officer and wearing  only an old workshirt, no hat or gloves or
jacket.

"The officers were about to arrest him but Phil interceded. He would  not permit
it.

"He'll get worse in jail, my friends," Phil said.

"I'll take him down to the Inn." And then what did he do? What did  this decent
man who has been today taken away from us with such  brutality? He took off his
overcoat and draped it over the man's  shoulders. He gave him the coat off his
back!"

Hundreds of Bostonians in the candlelit park joined their mayor in  weeping
openly at the loss of Philip Stewart.

The mayor turned abruptly from the microphone, his head bowed, and  walked
quickly from the platform. He was followed by other speakers  who similiarly
praised Stewart.

When it grew late and the crowd had dwindled some, and Father McHugh  returned
to the stage for a final prayer to close the evening, a  remarkable thing
occurred:

People Srewart had helped through the years spontaneously came up out  of the
audience to tell of his effect on their lives. A balding,  middle-aged man in a
suit recalled his days as an alcoholic street  person and said it had been the
shelter of the Inn and personal  counseling from Phil Stewart that had enabled
him to turn his life  around. An older man who appeared to be approaching
seventy had a  similar story. And a young woman said she had escaped a life of
drug  abuse and prostitution with Phil Stewart's help. The testimony  continued
late into the night, beyond the time Berman had to put the  final touches on his
package for the morning paper.

By eleven p.m." the layout editor had put together page one, which  included a
main news story and a long reaction piece with quotes--and  wails of
sorrow--from people in virtually every neighborhood of the  city. Also on page
one were two pictures:
one of the candlelight vigil and another of Stewart's body being  carried from
the house. On the inside pages to which the frontpage  story jumped were
additional photos of the vigil, the mayor, and two  shots of Stewart. There were
also inside stories on the day at the  Spruce Street Inn--a touching feature on
the profound sense of loss  suffered there by the staff and guests alike. There
were sidebars on  the spontaneous gathering at City Hall that led to the vigil
at Spruce  Street. And, finally, there was a piece about his life.

Late that night, after the first edition had rolled off the presses,  Berman
slumped back in his chair. He thought about the next day and  the direction the
Posts coverage would take. He wondered who would do  such a thing and why.

Earlier in the day, another editor speculated that it was a random  killing.

Berman dismissed that possibility out of hand. Random killings were  rare.
People killed for very specific reasons, usually money or sex.  In most cases,
murderers were acquainted with their victims, often they  were related. Berman
believed Stewart was killed for a reason, and he  wanted desperately to know
that reason.

He wished Cronin was around. He would know what to do, how to approach  the
story. Cronin was his best reporter, not his best writer or  stylist but his
best reporter. Cronin went into the trenches and dug  and dug and dug some more
until he unearthed the story. He was not  fashionable, but he was effective.
Frank Cronin always delivered.
Suspects?" asked Post's editor Roy johnson. Berman shook his head.

"Not as of five minutes ago."

The two men were in Johnson's corner office, shortly after eight A.M.  on
Thursday, just shy of twenty-four hours since the discovery of  Stewart's body.

"I don't want to get beat on this," said Johnson.

"You know how these things go.

They'll have nothing for a few days, even weeks, then, bang. Arrest,
arraignment, all big news."

Berman nodded.

"There'll be white heat to bring someone in fast."

"Are they speculating on motive?"

"They're mystified," said Berman.

"I'm not sure they know any more than we do."

"Which is nothing," said Johnson, sullenly.

"Which is nothing."

Johnson drew back in his chair, propping his chin on his hand.

"What do you think, Howard?"

"I honest to God have no idea," said Berman.

"I really didn't know the guy, except by reputation."

Johnson nodded in disgust.

"He did more damn good for the unfortunates of this town than anybody."  Johnson
said it as though challenging Berman to disagree.

Berman fidgeted, then rose from his seat and paced across the room.

"Everybody's asking the same question," said Berman.

"Why would anyone kill such a sainted one? It's all over the talk  shows."
"Unless they were deranged," said Johnson.

The editor frowned and shook his head. Though he knew this was painful  for
Johnson, Berman was not known for his bedside manner.

"I don't mean to seem indelicate, Roy, but I'm frankly more interested  in our
coverage of this than anything else right now. And that means  who do we assign
to chase it for the foreseeable future. All my best  reporters are on projects.
I'm covering the city with kids."

Berman wanted Frank Cronin to cover the story, but Cronin was on  vacation, and
when he returned he was planning to continue working on a  series Johnson had
proposed on the financial exploitation of the  elderly. Rather than asking
bluntly to shift Cronin off that, he  wanted Johnson to see they had little
choice.

"Who's wired into the cops these days?" Johnson asked.

"Cronin," said Berman.

"DA's office?"

Berman nodded.

"Cronin."

"Well, shit, he's our best digger, no?"

Berman nodded again.

Johnson did not appear pleased. Cronin had already invested a month in
Johnson's project. At a daily newspaper, where a week is considered  too long to
work on almost any story, a month was considered  indecent.

Johnson screwed up his face, then relaxed.

"Do we have a choice?"

"I don't think we do," said Berman, rising and heading for the door. He  could
not place the call to Vermont to track Cronin down soon enough.  The thought of
getting beaten on any aspect of the story by the city's  television stations or
the Record-American made Berman feel physically  ill.

Berman was close to the door, bidding Johnson goodbye when the editor  stopped
him and asked, "What's the deal with Cronin, anyway?"

Like most editors, Johnson spent the bulk of his time meeting with  other
editors. He had had little more than perfunctory contact with  the paper's
reporting staff (except for the Washington and a couple of  foreign bureaus,
which got him out of town for a few days). Save for a
couple of meetings on the series about financial exploitation of the  elderly,
Johnson had had little to do with Cronin.

Johnson was relatively new on the job. Years earlier he'd worked at  the Post,
then gone off to Time magazine. Now he was back as editor.  But so much had
changed in the days he'd been gone that he still didn't  have a good grasp of
which reporters were best suited for certain  stories.

Fortunately for Berman, just as his hesitation to respond grew  uncomfortably
long, Johnson's phone rang. The editor of the Boston  Post was a sophisticated
man, but he had one glaringly rude habit for  which Berman was suddenly
grateful:

Johnson often held protracted phone conversations while one of his  employees
sat in his office waiting to continue a discussion.

The question posed by Johnson--what was the story of one Frank  Cronin--had been
asked of Berman many times, yet he had never quite  mastered an answer. While
Johnson talked on the phone, Berman  considered the matter.

To start with, Berman thought, Cronin was the best reporter at the  paper. In
ten years, Cronin was the only Post reporter to have won a  Pulitzer Prize. The
award had come for a series in which Cronin had  traced the perilous passage of
a Vietnamese family from Saigon to  Boston.

But what made Cronin a character of such intrigue around the Post was a  far
more dubious distinction. Three years earlier he had been  suspended for a month
from the Post when it was determined that he had  violated the paper's ethics
rules.

Since no one had ever been fired from the Post for any reason,  suspension was
the closest thing to professional capital punishment  that existed at the paper.

Cronin's transgression had come in the midst of an investigative piece  he was
doing on the superintendent of the city clinic, a woman who had  a mattress
address in Boston but who actually lived in the suburbs.  Were she to be found
out, she would likely be fired. During the period  in which Cronin was working
on the story, a night cleaning woman at the  Post approached him in tears. Her
name was Geneen Ouelette and Cronin  had become friendly with her years earlier
when they had been on the  overnight shift together. She was in her early
fifties and had  survived a series of disasters in her life, struggling always
to keep  her family intact. She had lived through separaation4
and reconciliation with her husband, his year-long layoff, the  cerebral palsy
of a daughter. But now she had told Cronin she feared  she was on the verge of
losing her nineteen-year-old son, Daniel. He  had become a drunk, and she had
been told that by far the best facility  in the area was at the city clinic, but
she discovered there was a six-  to nine-month waiting period for the program.

She learned from a friend who worked as an orderly at the clinic that  most of
the patients got in through political influence. Word was, the  friend told
Geneen, that none of the twelve people then in the program  had ever been on the
waiting list; all had been placed through  politicians.

When Geneen explained the situation to him, Cronin saw that it was a  great
potential story. The idea that one needed the intercession of a  state
representative or a city councillor to secure a steel-frame bed  for someone
suffering from DTs was despicable, a perfect example of the  venality of Boston
politics. But to Geneen, this was hardly the point.  She cared not at all for
the systemic problem; her concern was her son.  As a reporter, it was Cronin's
job to look at the situation  differently. By writing about the need for
political influence at the  clinic, he knew that, overnight, he could alter the
admissions process.  It was a stark choice; the correct course for a journalist
was  obvious.

Geneen believed Cronin had influence, that he knew important people in  the city
government. It wasn't really true, but she didn't know that,  and so she asked
for his help; she asked him to make a call, talk with  whomever needed talking
to and to get her son into the program. And  quickly.

It would be seen later, by those who admired Cronin, as an aberration,  a
temporary lapse in judgment. But he never felt that way. When  Berman asked him
much later what he would do if he had it to do over  again, he said he wouldn't
change anything, he would still help  Geneen.

He knew the consequences would be serious, but he went to the clinic,
nonetheless, and had a private conversation with the superintendent. He  told
her that he knew about her mattress address but that he would  ignore it if she
would place Geneen's son in alcohol rehab. She  readily agreed.

That very night space was made in the clinic for Daniel
Ouelette. Once he was admitted, Cronin went to Berman and confessed  his
transgression. It was a corrupt act and he knew it. Berman was  furious and
demanded an explanation. Cronin said he thought it over  and decided that he
could not use the information Geneen had given him  for a story. It was a
private matter. He learned about the political  nature of the clinic not by
reporting but in the context of a plea for  help from a friend. To turn around
and not only refuse to help the  friend but then to also use her information for
a story would have been  unethical, he argued. More important, he told Berman,
Geneen was  desperate. This was her son, her child, they were talking about.

"She's kept that family together through hard times, Howard," Cronin  had said.

"It's more than you or I have ever done."

Berman was stunned by the whole matter and felt sure Cronin would be  fired.

Cronin did not, Berman recalled, seem to care terribly what the  punishment was,
though Berman knew Cronin would have been deeply hurt  by a dismissal. Some
senior editors said anything short of firing  would be unthinkable for such a
grievous error, but the tradition at  the Post was that everybody got a second
chance, no matter the  transgression.

After the suspension, Cronin achieved a kind of celebrity status within  the
building--venerated by some as a hero who had subsumed his personal  and
professional interests for the good of another; scorned by others  who saw him
as one who had sold his journalistic integrity. Through it  all, Berman had
marveled at Cronin's equanimity. He had made his  decision and then, with a
Zen-like calm, he lived with it.

"So what's with him?" Johnson asked abruptly, hanging up the phone.

"How do you mean?" Berman asked.

"Just generally," Johnson said.

"I don't feel like I know him really."

"He's hard to get to know," said Berman.

"He loves his work, you know that. He's a nut about jogging, pumping  iron.
Single, never married." Berman paused.

"I

don't know what else to say."

"Is he as arrogant as they say?"

Berman felt a surge of anger. Johnson was trying to bait him for some  reason.
Cronin was hardly arrogant, though the politically correct crowd at  the Post,
the self-satisfied crowd that had so disapproved of his help  for Geneen
Ouelette, peddled the notion that he was.

"Aloof," said Berman.

"Distant. Reserved."

Berman knew a good deal more about Cronin than he told Royjohnson. He  knew, for
example, that Cronin's greatest passion, outside his work,  was his farmhouse in
the hills of eastern Vermont. Berman knew Cronin  had been a hockey star at
Dartmouth and had been drafted by Boston in  the National Hockey League. Berman
also knew that, once or twice a  year, Cronin drank himself into a stupor over a
long weekend. Berman  would not have known that unless he had once been called
upon to bail  Cronin out of jail in upstate New York, where he had gone on a
bender  and gotten into a scrape with the police. He knew that Cronin gave
money to people at the paper who needed it, loans where repayment was  never
expected.

Johnson's phone rang again, and this time when the editor began to chat  Berman
quietly slipped out of the office. As he returned to the city  desk Berman
thought that he knew Frank Cronin better than anyone else  at the Post. And
still, Berman realized, he didn't really know him.

Cronin was difficult to reach in Vermont, something that had long  frustrated
Berman. Cronin had no telephone at his ramshackle farmhouse  and had resisted
Berman's entreaties to have one installed, even at  Post expense. Cronin's
explanation had been simple: "If it's easy to  call me, you'll call me, Howard,"
he had told Berman.

"And when I'm in Vermont, I don't want you to call me."

Cronin had once given Berman the number of a fellow who ran a small  dairy farm
a few miles down the valley from Cronin and said he could  try and reach him
through the farmer in an emergency. Right after his  discussion with Johnson,
Berman called the farmer and left a message  for Cronin to call back. Late that
afternoon, Cronin phoned in. He  had just seen a story about Stewart in the
Rutland Herald.

Berman was tense.

"We need you on this right away, Frank," he said.

"Can you come right now?"
"What happened exactly?" he asked Berman.

"Nobody heard or saw anything," said Berman.

"They found him on the porch Wednesday morning. Cops estimate he'd  been dead
about twelve hours."

"How'd we get it?" Cronin asked.

"I heard a call on the radio--squad car, then ambulance to the  address," said
Berman.

"I knew it was his house."

"Pretty good," said Cronin, impressed that his friend had sifted it out  of the
radio traffic.

Berman smiled.

"Yeah, we had a pie on one of the body being carried to the ambulance.  Nobody
else had it."

"Suspects?" Cronin asked.

"Nothing so far," said Berman.

"None yet. They're at a loss as far as motive goes." Pause.

"Look, we need you on it, Frankie. Right away. We can't get beat on  this. The
heat's on here."

This was what Cronin did. This was who he was. His mission was to dig  beneath
the surface, to find facts and motives and drama--the stuff  that made the
smudged ink slopped on newsprint each day reach up and  grab readers' attention.

Cronin reveled in the process of digging, of finding new information  and being
the first to report it. There were others who were brilliant  analysts of
political or world events. There were gorgeous stylists  whose feature stories
could move even the stoniest heart.

Cronin was different. He was a man who gathered facts, wove them into  a
coherent package, and put them into the paper.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Just jump in," said Berman, speaking rapidly.

"Jump in and see what there is.

Follow the trail. Scrounge around and see what you come up with. What  have the
cops got, motives, suspects, anything. I don't care what  angle you come at the
story from, Frank, I just care that you come at  the story, attack it. Get us
something."

Berman hesitated, then said, "Sloane's on it." He was referring to  Assistant
District Attorney Susan Sloane.

Cronin was silent. He could picture her in his mind. He often did  that, often
thought back to their times together, quiet moments they  had shared. He
recalled their vacations together, informal dinners at  her place or his. It had
been a long time since he had seen her, and  he thought that encountering her
now
while working on this story would be difficult for both of them.

"You there?" Berman asked.

"I'm here."

"She'd talk to you, maybe steer us in the right direction."

"Howard, don't be so crass."

Berman's voice betrayed his nervous tension.

"I'm telling you, Frank, we can't get beat on this story," he said.

"They'll rip my head off if the Record has something we don't."

"What do you think he was really like," Cronin wondered aloud.

Berman sounded annoyed.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that," Cronin said.

"I wonder what he was like. Underneath it all."

"Well, isn't it possible he was really like what he appeared to be  really
like?"

Berman asked.

"Of course," said Cronin.

"But even if that's what he was like most of the time, I wonder what he  was
like the rest of the time? What else did he do with his life? What  would make
somebody want to kill him?"

Berman shrugged.

"What the rest of us do," he said.

"Watch the Sox. Smoke cigarettes. Take walks. Get laid."

"That's not what I'm talking about," said Cronin.

"Jesus, Frank, you can pry at the depths of his soul later," said  Berman.

"I'd just like to know who killed him and why."

"I'll drive down tonight," said Cronin.

"See you in your office in the morning."

"We cannot get beat on this, Frankie," said Berman, pleadingly.

"We just cannot."

Cronin woke shortly after five A.M." four hours after he'd arrived  from
Vermont, to the sounds of birds chirping in the pine trees outside  his
apartment window.

He rose, quickly showered, dressed in khaki pants and a blue-and  white-striped
dress shirt, and went into the kitchen where he made  coffee. He moved quietly
in the early mornings in the hopes that he  would not wake his landlady, a
frail, elderly woman. Cronin's  apartment, which was the second floor of a
two-family, consisted of
two bedrooms, a kitchen, and gumwood paneled living room. The house  was set in
a well-kept section of the Roslindale neighborhood of  Boston, where the houses
tended to be close together, each separated by  a compact, nearly trimmed lawn
or garden. The neighborhood was a  mixture of two- and three-family houses
occupied, for the most part, by  Italian and Irish Americans and Greek
immigrants. Many of the Irish  and Italians worked at the gas company, or for
the government--the Post  Office, fire or police departments. The Greeks owned
stores,  restaurants, and sub shops.

At 5:40 a.m." Cronin walked quietly down the back steps and drove to  St. John's
Chapel, a small stone church on the grounds of what was  once a monastery on the
edge of an arboretum in Jamaica Plain. The  chapel was staffed by Jesuits from
Boston College who lived in a large  tudor-style home next door. There were
seven of them, all doctoral  candidates in various disciplines, principally
theology.

Each man celebrated Mass one day a week at six A.M. On average, Cronin  went
three or four mornings a week, and generally saw the same faces  each day: an
older man, in his early sixties, who carried a black lunch  pail and wore a
Boston Bruins jacket; three elderly women well into  their seventies who wore
veils; a cop who lived around the corner; a  husband and wife who appeared to be
his own age. Occasionally there  were others, though he had rarely seen more
than a half dozen people  there on a given day.

Cronin arrived a few minutes early, as was his custom, and took his  usual seat
against the cool stone wall in the last row. The chapel was  ancient and musty,
with worn oak pews and tattered red-leather prayer  books. The windows, of
authentic stained glass, depicted various  biblical scenes. Waterstains appeared
in spots on the granite walls,  and in winter, the wind whistled through cracks
in the door and window  casings. In the air was the smell of incense, of burning
candle wax.  Along the walls, carved into the stone by some long-dead mason,
were  the Stations of the Cross, the sacrament in memory of each stop on
Christ's road to the Crucifixion. The detailed stone carvings depicted  Jesus's
being condemned to death. They showed him weighted down with  the Cross as he
climbed Calvary.

They
showed Christ being nailed to the Cross, dying, being removed and  placed in the
sepulchre.

Somehow, in the hush of the chapel, the depiction of this terrible  violence
committed against Christ seemed coolly lacking in passion. The  fourteen
stations, seven carvings along each sidewall, served as silent  ornament, no
threat to the tranquillity of the holy place. There was a  refuge like quality
to this chapel for Cronin. He felt less judged in  the presence of God than in
the presence of man.

Cronin arrived at the Post a few minutes after seven, and went directly  to the
weight room to workout. In forty minutes, he could complete the  circuit of
Nautilus machines twice. It was a decent workout and, along  with jogging three
times a week, kept him in good physical condition.  In shorts, tank top, and
sneakers, Cronin had the well-muscled look of  an athlete and appeared bigger
than he did in his normal work clothes  of loose-fitting dress shirt, jacket,
and khaki pants. Fully dressed,  hands stuffed into his pants pockets, slouching
by his desk chatting  with coworkers, Cronin looked smaller than he was. But in
gym clothes,  he looked every bit his six feet two inches, 195 pounds. Cronin
had  always been big and powerful. As a kid, he had been a power-hitter in
baseball.

He had also been a moderately successful Golden Gloves boxer and a  feared power
forward in hockey. In college, his hockey teammates,  noticing his bulging
forearms, had nicknamed him Popeye.

Cronin's appearance was otherwise unremarkable. He had a short scar  that ran at
a slight angle away from his left eye, a remnant of the  hockey wars, and a thin
nose that was slightly too prominent. His jaw  was set in a strong, square line
and his thick, jet-black hair formed a  widow's peak high on his forehead. His
eyes--a deep, rich green that  in some light appeared to be a luminous
black--were his most attractive  feature. Though he was not a strikingly
handsome man, not one women  noticed in a crowd, he was attractive enough, and
had grown more so  with age.

Cronin showered, dressed, and was at his desk in the city
room by eight a.m. He looked around and saw that he had virtually the  entire
place to himself. One assistant metro editor monitored the  radio traffic at the
city desk, and one student intern slept in a chair  nearby. Cronin liked the
early morning quiet of the newsroom. It was  the only time of day when there was
a letup from the constant din of  the place. Throughout the rest of the day
there were dozens of people  chatting, laughing, arguing, shouting back and
forth across the room.  Cronin found the quiet of the early morning the most
productive time to  plan and organize. As he sat at his computer terminal Cronin
could  hear the hum of cool air being forced through the duct above his head.
And from beyond a cluster of desks sixty feet away came the sound of a  vacuum
cleaner.

Soon, with the vacuuming done and the worker moved on, he could hear  only the
whoosh of air through the vent. The room was eerily silent.  He gazed around and
saw dozens of terminals perched on desks, the  square heads of aliens, the
cursors on their screens blinking on and  off in a sickly green color.

His desk was piled high with stacks of documents he had gathered for  his now
aborted series on the financial exploitation of the elderly. He  recognized that
the topic was important and the sort of thing a major  newspaper should tackle,
but it had bored him and he was glad to be rid  of it. There were piles of
documents stacked so high they shielded him  from the woman at an adjacent desk.

Cronin didn't have much space, nobody in the city room did, but what he  had was
tucked into the quietest corner in the room, a modest but  welcome perquisite of
his stature at the paper. In another profession,  someone of Cronin's worth
would be rich with material rewards--hefty  salary and bonus, stock options, and
more--but in the newspaper  business, where reporters were, on a comparative
basis, poorly paid,  the stars were rewarded differently. The ultimate perk was
the freedom  to write on topics of one's own choosing.

Cronin had earned his stripes not because he was possessed of a  magnificent
natural gift, but because of his dogged determination. He  approached his work
with passion and drive, working whatever hours were  necessary, including nights
and weekends, until a story was completed.  It appeared to his colleagues at the
newspaper that he had little in the way of a private life, though they  did not
know for sure.

Cronin ignored the internal politics of the Post, a consuming  occupation for
many reporters and editors there. He preferred the work  of news papering There
was no aspect of reporting that put him off.  Even sifting through documents, a
tedious but often crucial process,  held a certain fascination for him. He had
learned through the years  how to coax stories out of people. With primary
sources--people who  help a reporter gather the basic building blocks of an
article--the key  was to get the person to tell his or her story. There was a
difference  between persuading someone to answer questions and convincing them
to  tell a story. This was a crucial distinction many journalists did not  fully
grasp. To tell a story people had to feel a certain empathy from  a reporter,
and Cronin conveyed that feeling naturally, without  artifice. Through the
years, he had cultivated many good sources in  the city, including a number of
law enforcement people. In the Stewart  story, none would be more crucial than
the lead homicide detective on  the case, Tom McCormack.

Cronin had become acquainted with Detective McCormack a number of years
earlier, when Cronin had written a series of articles about a case on  which
McCormack had worked that involved a man wrongfully convicted of  murder and
imprisoned for sixteen years. The combination of  McCormack's investigation and
Cronin's articles had resulted in the  man, B. D. Ediund, being freed from
prison and given a  half-million-dollar annuity by the state legislature.

Cronin had not easily won McCormack's trust. The detective had a  visceral
aversion to the Post. Like many people in the city, McCormack  resented the
newspaper's having crusaded on behalf of forced busing  back in the 1970s.

McCormack did not quarrel with the federal court's determination that  the
Boston public schools had been willfully segregated and, as a  result, that the
system denied equal opportunity to thousands of black  children. McCormack
passionately supported equal access for all  children. But he agreed with many
others in the city--who were, to  their sorrow, eventually proven correct--that
the busing order as  implemented by the courts was catastrophic. It drove tens
of thou
sands of stable middle-class families to the suburbs, never to return.  But the
Post never understood the legitimate views of the working  ethnic families in
the city. The newspaper had been condescending and  sanctimonious throughout the
busing ordeal. Perhaps worst of all, the  Post editors and reporters who worked
for the imposition of busing on  the city were personally unaffected by it. They
lived in the suburbs  and were not subject to the busing decree.

But McCormack saw Cronin in a different light. The detective had been  impressed
with Cronin's dogged work on the Ediund case, and he had come  to view Cronin as
a Post aberration-someone not guided by liberal  orthodoxy. In the years since
the Ediund case, McCormack had helped  Frank Cronin on a couple of stories.

Cronin rarely approached McCormack, for he felt that a source so  valuable
should only be tapped on the most important stories. There  was no question that
the Stewart matter qualified. And so it was that  on Friday, the day of Phil
Stewart's funeral, Frank Cronin called  Detective McCormack and they agreed to
meet that evening at Larz  Anderson Park in Brookline, just a few miles from
police headquarters  in Boston's Back Bay. McCormack was particularly fond of
the park's  vantage point on a hill with a sweeping view of the city. A couple
of  nights a week, after leaving work, Tom McCormack would drive out to the
park and smoke a cigar while idly gazing out over Boston.

At the appointed time, Cronin saw McCormack turn into the parking lot  in a
black Crown Victoria. He pulled himself out of the car and began  walking the
hundred or so feet to the nearest bench. It was a short,  but painful journey
for Tom McCormack. Cronin could see that his limp  had worsened. McCormack's
right leg had been seriously injured in a  shootout during a raid just two years
earlier.

McCormack made his way to the bench, where he sat sideways, positioning  himself
so that he had a full view of the city skyline. He was wearing  a rumpled gray
suit and wingtips, and he carried a brown paper bag from
which he removed two bottles of Sam Adams. He popped the top off with  a church
key and handed one to Cronin, who gratefully accepted it. He  opened the other
and took a long sip. McCormack seemed old to Cronin.  The detective was only in
his early sixties, but he didn't look well.  He was pale, too heavy, and,
judging from the lines in his face, Frank  guessed that the pain made him
grimace too often. McCormack had a  broad forehead, a sharp beak of a nose, and
a full head of curly salt  and pepper hair.

His skin was flushed and the veins around his nose had begun to show  through.

His eyes were kind.

The two men gazed out toward the northeast. On a long hill that sloped  away in
front of them kids were playing Frisbee with a dog. In the  playground off to
one side, beyond the grove of trees and picnic  tables, a half dozen parents
watched over their little ones. One  mother pushed a giddy little boy higher and
higher on a swing.

"I was sorry to hear about your wife," said Cronin.

"That was very sad."

McCormack nodded.

"I appreciated your note," he said.

"It means a lot."

McCormack looked out across the city as the setting sun cast a softer  light on
the landscape. In the distance, planes from Logan, as though  in slow motion,
rose soundlessly into the air or glided gently to  earth. McCormack sipped his
beer. From Cronin's angle, he could not  see whether the detective's eyes were
fixed upon some object in the  distance or whether he was taking in the full
horizon. But Cronin  could hear McCormack's deep, rhythmic breathing, almost as
though he  was asleep. His tie was loosened at the neck. Finally, he shifted his
position and recrossed his legs.

"Dot and I would come up here often, especially in the early years,"  McCormack
said.

"I gave her her diamond up here." He turned to Cronin and smiled.

"Still not married, are you?"

Cronin shook his head.

"How about you and Sloane?"

Cronin paused a moment, then said simply, "It didn't work out."
"I like her," McCormack said.

"And there's nothing like marriage. A good one.

Happiest years of my life, by far. We just fit. We rarely exchanged  an
unpleasant word.

"Follow your bliss," they say. Dot was my bliss." He turned and  studied
Cronin's face.

"I know. Widowers romanticize. But believe me, we had something."

McCormack finished his beer and limped over to a bathroom next to the  skating
rink that was shut for the summer. He returned and sat heavily  on the bench.

"Dot and I talked about you just before she passed away," he said.

"I told her you reminded me of myself in a way." Cronin reacted with  surprise.
McCormack chuckled at the recollection.

"It's true. I told her, "If you think about it, detectives and  reporters commit
similar sins. We take the truth and make it black and  white."

"What's wrong with that?" she asked me. I said, "The problem with  that is the
truth is often gray."

" He sighed.

"By then she was too far gone to follow much of what I was saying."

He shifted his weight, seemingly unable to get comfortable, and ran a  hand
through his mop of hair.

"It was breast cancer?"

"Started there," McCormack replied.

"Then it metastasized." He shrugged as though to say, nothing you can  do then.

He shook his head.

"It goes so fast. Then, when you want it to accelerate, when you need  it just
to be the end, it stalls." He had a quizzical look on his full  face as though
he was groping to understand all of this.

"They linger, suffering."

McCormack resumed his stare out over the city as the sun dipped in the  sky. He
was quiet for a moment, and then, as though snapping out of a  sort of reverie,
he slapped his thigh and turned toward Cronin.

"Afterward, they give me time off," said McCormack.

"So I head out to my sister's in San Diego. Husband's a retired  ensign. I spend
six weeks with them."

"How was San Diego?" Cronin asked, trying to lighten the  conversation.

"Too sunny for my taste," said McCormack.

"Sunny every day. No letup." He was serious.

"They asked you to come back for this?" Cronin asked.
McCormack shook his head.

"No need to ask," he said.

They sat silently for a moment.

"So what do you make of it?" McCormack asked.

Cronin shrugged.

McCormack sipped his beer.

"You know what I wonder?" he said.

"What?"

"I wonder why someone would want to do this fellow if he was the saint  he's
made out to be?" He eyed Cronin.

"If he's so perfect, where's the motive?"

"Right," said Cronin.

"The commissioner thinks it's a whacko, some homeless mental patient,  someone
along those lines," said McCormack. He shook his head,  dismissing the idea.

"The place is undisturbed. No food, clothes, not a thing. His wallet  was on the
kitchen counter in plain sight. As you go in from the rear,  through the porch,
there's a doorway into the kitchen, then, just off  that, there's a den,
study-type room. He used it as an office. It was  packed with stuff, photographs
covering the walls. Pictures of him and  various pols--Kennedys, McCarthy,
McGovern, Jesse Jackson. All the  lefties."

"Anything interesting in the wallet?" Cronin asked.

"Credit cards, license, you know," he said.

"Money?" Cronin asked.

"About thirteen, fourteen hundred bucks," said McCormack.

Cronin did some quiet calculations in his head.

"That's almost three weeks pay for him," said Cronin.

"Three weeks take home pay."

McCormack studied the reporter.

"We're clear on the terms of this discussion, right?"

"It's off-the-record," Cronin said.

"I attribute nothing you tell me to you.

Anything you tell me I use in a story is attributed to an official  familiar
with the investigation." McCormack nodded. He knew Cronin  would protect him.

"The wallet was just a fraction," said McCormack.

"Of?"

"I'm telling this for your own information," said the detective.

"I don't think you should use this because so few people know.
Could be traced back to me. But he had a strongbox in the bedroom  closet."

"How much was in it?"

"That we've found so far, almost seventy grand," McCormack said.

"Jesus!" Cronin exclaimed.

"Any idea where it came from or what it was for?" Cronin asked.

McCormack shook his head.

"We're lost," he said.

"He was up to something, exactly what we don't know. We know of one  scam only.
The feds almost grabbed him on it, in fact."

"You're kidding."

"Best-kept secret in town," said the detective.

"I don't know myself until yesterday when the feds filled me in."

"What happened?" Cronin asked.

"Evidently this woman walks in off the street," he said.

"Shows up at the U.S.

Attorney's office with a story to tell. They sit her down with one of  the young
turks in there and she claims Stewart's holding her up. For  years. Says she's
tired of getting squeezed."

"Recently?"

"Three, four months ago."

"Who is she?

"DiMasi's her name, Arlene DiMasi," said McCormack.

"She and her husband have a little restaurant in the North End. They  also do
some catering for the city.

Napoli Catering, it's called. Arlene handles the business side.  Husband does
the cooking. She goes to the feds on her own--the husband  doesn't know. She
says they're paying Stewart off for seven years. In  exchange for contracts. She
says she'd been after her husband to go to  the law but he wouldn't consider it.
She goes to the grand jury and  tells the whole story."

McCormack pauses.

"They're ready to indict and she chokes. Says she won't testify at  trial."

"You're sure of this," said Cronin. It translated into: "I'm going to  use this
in a story and I must be absolutely certain it's right."

"Positive," said the detective.
McCormack struggled to his feet with a sharp intake of breath as he  placed his
weight on his bad leg. He began limping slowly back toward  his car with Cronin
alongside.

"Phone me at home if it's necessary, but it's best to talk here,"  McCormack
said.

"I'm here two, three nights a week, anyway."

They walked slowly toward the parking lot. McCormack unlocked the  Crown Vie's
door and leaned on the roof with one elbow.

"This is a strange one," he mused.

"An unusually antiseptic scene. The money still in the wallet. Sitting  there in
plain view. A common criminal doesn't leave thirteen,  fourteen hundred bucks
behind. This was planned. Thought out. I  don't think the way to crack it is to
go out looking for a killer. We  need to retrace Stewart's steps. Who did he
screw over? Who did he  hurt? We go back and look and find his victims, whoever
and whatever  they were, and we'll find ourselves a killer."

McCormack lowered himself in behind the steering wheel, then closed the  door.

Cronin leaned on the door frame.

"I want you to know I appreciate your help," he said.

McCormack nodded.

"Happy to do it," he said.

"Just one more question," said Cronin.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you helping me?"

McCormack started the car and revved the engine. He looked up at  Cronin and
said, "Because I like you. But, also, to tell you the God's  honest truth,
because I think Phil Stewart was dirty." And he drove  away.
Cronin spotted Arlene DiMasi walking briskly along Day Boulevard in  South
Boston. She was a slender woman who, it was clear, took great  care with her
appearance. Though it was just after seven A.M." her  platinum hair was
carefully arranged and her face meticulously made up.  She wore a black Nike
jogging suit with pink trim and pink Reeboks. A  Sorry Walkman was tucked into
her jacket pocket, a wire running up to  her earpiece. She strode rapidly along
and turned onto the causeway  leading out across the water toward Castle Island.

After she passed, Cronin drove farther out the boulevard toward the  island and
parked near Kelly's Landing, a small, informal restaurant.  He pulled his car
over into the far corner of the lot and walked around  the back of the huge
stone fort from which troops had guarded the  entrance to Boston Harbor in the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.  Jets on their final approach to Logan,
just a thousand yards across the  water, roared low overhead. Arlene DiMasi's
route would take her out  along the causeway and then bring her back around
behind the fort  before completing her walk in front of Kelly's. Cronin selected
a  wooden bench with a commanding view of the harbor, yet tucked in behind  the
fort out of sight of most passersby.

He waited. Twenty minutes later, she came around the bend, arms  pumping, faced
flushed. When she was forty feet away, Cronin called to  her, but she did not
hear. Then just as she was walking past where he  stood, he called her name more
loudly.
She stopped abruptly and turned, removing the earphones.

"Did you say my name?" she asked.

"ArleneDiMasi?"

"Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is Frank Cronin, Mrs. DiMasi. I'm a reporter for the Post.  Here's my
identification." He extended his press card toward her. She  took it warily,
inspected it, and handed it back. She edged a step  away from Cronin.

"What do you want?"

"I'd like to talk with you. I need your help with a story I'm working  on."

She looked him up and down. Arlene DiMasi was distrustful by nature.

"Why the frig should I help you? I don't even know you."

There was a harsh edge to her voice and when she studied him, she did  so with
eyes narrowed and a look of distaste on her face.

"Please give me a minute to explain. Just sit down and listen to me.  For a
moment." Cronin motioned toward the bench.

He had seen the look many times before. She was wary, slightly  frightened, yet
she was also intrigued.

"How do I know you're not a friggin' rapist?"

He smiled. A clean-shaven, unthreatening, all-American boy.

"Presenting his ID?"

Cronin asked.

She eyed him.

"Please sit down," he said offering her a seat on the bench.

"Let's hear it," she said, as she crossed her legs, and pulled a pack  of
Marlboro Lights out of her jogging jacket. She placed one in her  mouth, snapped
a pink Bic lighter, and took a deep drag.

He leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, his hands flat  together in
front of his face as though he were offering a prayer. He  would drop the news
on her abruptly and gauge her reaction.

"Mrs. DiMasi," he began carefully.

"I am investigating corruption in the life of Philip Stewart."

She seemed, suddenly, paler, but she did not respond. She drew again  on her
cigarette and exhaled slowly, aiming her smoke out over the  bay.
"I know that you know precisely what I'm talking about," he said.

Suddenly she rose to leave, dropping her cigarette to the ground and  crushing
it with her heel.

"I've heard enough," she said, as she hurried away. Cronin scrambled  after her
and fell in step as she headed toward the parking lot.

"Please, I already have the story. I know you went to the feds. I'm  writing an
article about it. But I may be able to protect you and your  husband."

She stopped abruptly and turned angrily toward him. She tilted her  head to one
side as though challenging him to a fight. She moved to  within a foot of his
face and spat out her words.

"So you've come to do me a favor, huh?"

"I may be able to help you," he said softly.

She laughed a hard, hollow laugh.

"I was born at night, Mr. Cronin, but not last night."

"It's not absolutely necessary that your name or your husband's name be  in the
story," he said.

"But to do that I need your help."

She looked at him skeptically.

"This I do not understand," she said.

"Please," Cronin said, motioning toward the bench. They both sat  down.

"Here are the basics," he said.

"Here's what I know. I know that for years Stewart extorted money from  you and
your husband. You paid him because you knew that if you  didn't, you would lose
contracts with the city. And you needed the  contracts because the restaurant
hasn't been doing particularly well. I  know that you went to the U.S.
Attorney's office and told them you were  being extorted, that they took you
seriously and proceeded to the grand  jury. I know you testified at length
before the grand jury but that  when time came to indict you said you would not
be willing to testify  at trial."

She shook her head, a look of utter disbelief spreading across her  face.

"I

cannot believe I'm hearing this," she said, gazing off toward the east  and
slowly shaking her head in disbelief.

Arlene DiMasi was a hard woman, toughened by the years, but the strain  of it
all was too much for her. She felt a burning sensation behind  her eyes. She
turned away and let out a deep,
weary sigh. She sat pensively looking out over the water and lit  another
cigarette. She was humiliated in front of a perfect stranger,  a newspaper
reporter. She had gone to federal authorities in the  strictest of confidence
and now a man she had never before laid eyes on  was accosting her in a public
place and telling her he knew the darkest  secret of her life. How could this
happen, she wondered? This  violation. The assistant U.S. attorneys had
guaranteed her that her  information would be held in the strictest of
confidence.

It was as though Cronin could read her mind. He had found through the  years
that people in her position were invariably shocked that  information they had
shared in confidence with law enforcement  officials had somehow leaked. The
sense of betrayal was palpable and,  to Cronin, understandable.

When she spoke again her voice had lost much of its defiance.

"We'll be ruined," she said.

"Destroyed. If this gets out." Her voice cracked, but, again, she  caught
herself. She spoke as evenly as she could manage.

"We had no choice," she said, turning and looking at Cronin, as though  trying
to gauge whether he believed her. He listened carefully.

"We panicked. The thought of losing the business, our house,  everything. We
couldn't bear it." She took a deep breath.

Suddenly, she seemed terribly annoyed with Cronin.

"Why would you do this to us?" she asked.

"If you know so much about us then you know we're not well off. We  struggle. We
friggin' work ourselves to exhaustion.

It's always been that way for us. Nothin' has come easy to us. And  now you've
come to destroy us."

Cronin shook his head.

"That's not my intention."

"Then leave us alone," she snapped.

Cronin was silent.

She waved him off in disgust and spat out her words.

"You could give a shit less about us."

She glared at him.

Cronin spoke quietly.

"I want to expose him for what he was," he said.

"What does it matter now?" asked Arlene DiMasi.

"He's dead. What could it possibly matter now?"
"The truth matters," he said.

She scoffed at the notion, emitting a bitter laugh.

"And you're fuckin' Dudley Doright, huh?"

Cronin looked to the northeast. A few sailboats rode the light breeze  just
offshore. In the distance was a cargo ship, making for open  waters.

"This is what I do," he said simply.

"You mean invade people's lives."

"Do you think you and your husband were the only people he held up?"  Cronin
continued.

"You think somebody who did what he did to you, over a period of years,  never
ever did it again to anyone else? You find that believable?"

She clamped her mouth shut as though she was trying to get newly  applied
lipstick even on her lips.

"There are two choices," Cronin said.

"One, I can write a story based on what I know now--that he extorted  money from
you and your husband in return for catering contracts. That  would include your
names."

Her reply was defiant, each word bitten off and spit out: "No fuckin'  way."

"But if I know the full story with detail and color, then I could tell  the
story without naming Napoli or you or your husband."

She screwed up her face, at a loss to understand what Cronin was  talking about.

"I tell you what happened, and you put that in the paper, but you don't  put our
names in? You're lying. It's a sleazeball trick to get me to  spill my guts."

Cronin sat impassively.

"And if I don't tell you the story you put our names in the paper?"

"I'd have no choice."

A look of disdain crept across her face.

"So this is how it works? This is how the press does its dirty  business. This
is very friggin' revealing."

It wasn't something Cronin was terribly proud of, though the reality  was that
the news business was extremely competitive, and to succeed,  reporters had to
play by the rules, even when they might not find those  rules particularly
attractive. Many reporters in town, Cronin knew,
went far beyond what he considered ethical boundaries. There were  reporters
who, having been invited to a state senator's home for his  annual press party,
snuck away from the gathering and rifled files in  the man's private study. At
the Record-American there were a number of  reporters who bullied and threatened
people for information. Their  technique involved intimidation. They told public
officials who  refused to give them information that they would write
disparaging  items about them in a weekend column. Arlene DiMasi was in a
corner,  but she did have a choice, one that many other reporters would not have
offered.

"Mrs. DiMasi, with all due respect, I did not pay bribes to a public  official,"
said Cronin.

"Please don't portray me as too great an ogre."

"You could let the whole thing go." Cronin shook his head.

"That's not an option."

"Oh, right," she said sarcastically, "the truth." Cronin betrayed an  edge of
impatience.

"Mrs. DiMasi, there are some reporters who would have already written  the
story. You'd get a call at five o'clock the night before the story  appeared to
see if you wanted to make a comment. Or, more likely,  you'd see the story in
the paper with a line saying you could not be  reached for comment even though
nobody had ever tried to reach you for  comment."

She took his rebuke in silence. She looked away from him, back toward  the city
where, in the distance, the North End could be seen. She  spoke in a whisper he
barely heard.

"He was an evil man."

Cronin was silent, half expecting her to say more, but she seemed lost  in her
own thoughts--in her confusion and passionate hatred for Philip  Stewart.

"There's another alternative here," said Cronin.

"You could put the whole thing on-the-record--your name, your husband's  name,
Napoli. Everything."

She shook her head.

"It would be insane," she said.

"There's only one thing left that you can get at," said Cronin, "but it  was the
most important thing to him--his reputation."

She seemed to seriously consider it for a moment, but then shook it  off.

"It would be humiliating," she said, "to expose ourselves that way."
"A lot of people would understand, I think," he said.

"It wasn't as though it was your idea to pay him off. You didn't hatch  a scheme
to get rich. He put you in an untenable position. People  will see that you had
no alternative."

She was lost. She didn't want to believe him, but he could tell that  what he
was saying made some sense to her.

"I don't want to put you under any more stress than you're already  under," he
said.

"All I will tell you is that a story with you on-the-record and with  full
details would be immensely powerful. It would change the way or  begin to change
the way people think of Stewart. It would blot the  legacy. Appropriately.

"The other thing to consider is that in cases like these, there's a  certain
inevitability to the leakage of names," he said.

"As you can see, law enforcement agencies don't keep many secrets. In  a case
like this, there's no real chance that you and your husband will  escape having
your names in the media. So if it's going to happen  eventually anyway .. ."

He rose from the bench, pulled a card from his pocket with his phone  numbers,
and handed it to her.

"Think it over," he said.

"I'll do nothing for a couple of days. We'll publish nothing. You  have my word.
Think about what I've said. Talk it over with your  husband if you wish. If I
don't hear from you within forty-eight  hours, I'll know your answer. But if
you'd be willing to talk, please  give me a call." He paused.

"I'm sorry that this is the way it works. I don't want to hurt you. I  hope you
believe me."

One of the first lessons Cronin had learned as a young reporter was  that an
astonishing amount of information essential to good news  stories was sitting in
public buildings waiting to be picked up. Often,  newsworthy information
remained secret because reporters didn't bother  to look for it, or didn't know
where to look. And because of the  Freedom of Information Act, millions of
government documents were  available for public inspection.

Most reporters Cronin knew rarely searched documents. When he would  say he was
headed to the Registry of Deeds or the secretary of state's  office or the
Office of Campaign and Political Finance or the city  clerk's office, most of
his colleagues
looked at him as though he was a bit off his game. The thought of  sitting in a
dusty closet pouring through faded onionskin hour after  hour, sometimes day
after day, was distinctly unappealing to modern  journalists. Reporters much
preferred to have sources hand the goods  to them.

On a story such as the Stewart matter, documents were essential. To  write about
allegations that Stewart had extorted money from the  DiMasis, Cronin had to
determine with certainty that Napoli did, in  fact, have catering contracts with
the city for the amounts she  specified at the times she stated. He headed to
City Hall as much to  cover himself as to check Arlene's DiMasi's credibility.

Searches were nearly always an adventure at the Hall. The public  records
division was housed in a series of vast, windowless rooms where  documents were
often haphazardly dumped rather than filed. Persons  doing a records search of
any kind were required to sign a ledger book  in the office with their name and
a description of what they were  looking for. Cronin had been burned before
because of the ledger. He  had learned the first few times he had done records
searches here that  the journalistic bottom-dwellers that were the reporters
from the  Record regularly searched the log to see what their competitors from
the Post were up to. The Record reporters would then dig up the same  documents
searched by the Post and throw some sort of story together.

Cronin signed in under a broken fluorescent bulb. He made sure nothing  he wrote
was even remotely legible. He walked to the end of a lengthy  cement counter
behind which a half dozen clerks lounged. He stood  waiting, as none of the
clerks made even the slightest move to come to  his assistance. After a while,
one bored young man offered to help.  Cronin told him that he was looking for
records on city catering  contracts. The man rolled his eyes, went into a back
office, consulted  with a senior clerk, and returned. He opened a wooden gate
and  beckoned for Cronin to follow him back into the dimly lit recesses of  the
Hall.

The clerk gestured unspecifically to a stack of several dozen cardboard  boxes
and walked away.

"That should be everything back five years," he called over his  shoulder. And
he was gone.
Shortly after nine A.M." Cronin settled in and began reviewing the  voluminous
files. He quickly found that, though the documents were  arranged in a vaguely
chronological way, there was no other rhyme or  reason to them. He had hoped
that some files would be cross-referenced  by vendor, which would put all the
Napoli records together. Cronin  thought that if the records were computerized,
he could type in a  request for all references to Napoli and within literally
seconds  receive everything he wanted. But that was not the case and he dug in
and was soon filthy. The files were covered with thick dust--an  indication that
thay hadn't been touched in years. He pushed on,  thumbing through hundreds and
hundreds of salmon-pink forms. By 4:30  P.M." when the records office closed, he
had culled out twenty-seven  Napoli contracts.

The following morning at nine he returned to complete his work. By two  that
afternoon he had located a dozen more Napoli contracts. He went  back to the
Post and laid out the documents on his desk. He went  through each one
carefully, scribbling notes on a separate sheet of  paper. Finally, he had a
clear picture of Napoli's history with the  city. He found that in each of the
past seven years Napoli had done in  excess of $100,000 worth of business with
the city. For the city of  Boston, with its billion-dollar budget, the money was
a pittance, but  for a small, family-owned North End caterer, it was a
substantial  sum.

The documents also showed that nearly all of the catering had been done  at City
Council-sponsored events. All but two of those were paid for  out of the City
Council's administrative budget, over which Stewart had  had substantial
control.

The range of services Napoli provided was broad. Some called for  Napoli to
prepare antipasto for a dozen, others required canapes for  three hundred
people, still others demanded full, sit-down dinners for  fifty. Napoli had
catered everything from low-budget retirement  parties for city employees to
extravagent celebrations for two space  shuttle astronauts. There had been
breakfast for homeless veterans,  lunch for the Gay and Lesbian Political
Alliance, and dinner for the  Ancient Order of Hibernians.

Cronin planned to write a story based on his information from McCormack  and the
documents, but when he went home
that night, Cronin found a message on his answering machine from  Arlene DiMasi.

She wanted to meet the next morning at Kelly's Landing.

Arlene DiMasi was sipping tea at a corner table when he arrived. She  wore a red
Adidas jogging suit with black trim and white Nikes with a  red stripe. Her hair
was carefully done and her nails, long and shiny,  were lacquered with polish
that matched her outfit. A ring of red  lipstick circled the filter tip of a
butt that lay in the ashtray. She  was heavily made up but even that could not
fully conceal the deep  circles under her bloodshot eyes. She appeared
exhausted, and Cronin  thought she had perhaps not slept at all the night
before. And who  knew how much she had cried. She sipped her tea and tapped an
inch-long ash from the end of her cigarette and took a drag. She  turned away
from him and, when she exhaled, the bluish smoke drifted  toward a nearby
window.

"I'm glad he's dead," she said, turning back and looking directly into  Cronin's
eyes.

"He was a pig."

It was clear she expected a response of some kind, perhaps  reprobation.

Something. But he was silent and would remain so for as long as  necessary.

During his career as a reporter, Cronin had endured many protracted,
uncomfortable silences. He knew that if he spoke next it might break  her
momentum, get her off the track. He was sure that if he held his  tongue, she
would continue her story. He placed his elbows on the  table, clasped his hands,
and folded them together. He rested his chin  on his folded hands and waited.

"I want you to understand some things before you write your article,"  she said.

"Am I allowed to tell you things not for the paper? Just so you  understand
them?"

"Why don't you tell me whatever you feel I should know," he said.

"Then, after that, we'll figure out what to put into the paper-She  nodded.

"I've decided to tell you the whole story," she said.

"With our names included. My husband doesn't agree with me, but he  goes along
with what I want usually. He didn't try to
stop me from coming here. I told him, "Hey, it's going to come out  sometime
anyway." And I figure if I explain it all, maybe you'll  understand and maybe
people will see that we're not evil."

She shrugged.

"It's worth a try, anyway," she said.

"So tell our story. But please do it in a way that people can see how  we were
put in a position where we really had no choice. We committed  a crime by paying
the money. I get it. No squawks. We did it.  Technically, we didn't have to do
it. We could have said no and walked  away. We should have said no and walked
away. If he came up to me  today and made the same deal I'd spit in his fuckin'
face. We're  guilty of a crime. I understand. But it's not that black and
white."  She shook her head and half smiled.

"I'm sorry, but it's just not. And anybody who thinks it's nice and  simple,
black and white, has their head up their ass."

She lit another cigarette and thought for a moment.

"I am glad he's dead," she said evenly.

"He was a bad guy. That no-good bastard hurt us. He hurt my Gabriel.  He hurt
me. He hurt our marriage." She stared down into her cup.

"You don't know what it's like. Day after day with this. It's like a  friggin'
nightmare. Like a giant weight on your neck all the time.  Just when you think
you've gotten used to it you remember it and it  wrecks your day, day after day
after day. I'd wake up in the night  sometimes terrified we were about to get
caught. Sometimes I'd say I  can't stand it anymore, it's not right and we have
to stop. We were  going to stop a million friggin' times. But then we'd look at
what  would happen if we lost the contract. It's what has kept us afloat.  The
restaurant never worked out. We always thought we were on the  verge of breaking
through but it never happened. The catering paid the  bills. It was the
difference between staying in business and losing it  all."

She leaned forward, hands on the table, palms up, beseeching him to  understand.

"We didn't have any choice. I just hope people see that."

She studied Cronin and shook her head.

"This is like a goddamn nightmare."

"You can change your mind," he said.

"You said more people would believe the story if our names were ink?"
"No doubt about it," he said.

"That's what I want," she said, nodding her head.

"I've been feeling this terrible feeling for a long time, like a dirty  feeling.
Like I was violated.

That no-good son of a bitch hurt us. I want to hurt him."

ronin returned to the Post and wrote his story:

Officials of the U.S. Justice Department in Boston have investigated
allegations that the late city councillor Philip Stewart, who was  murdered last
week, extorted tens of thousands of dollars from a Boston  catering company over
the past decade, according to law enforcement  sources and the catering company
owner.

The investigation, which was conducted by two assistant U.S. attorneys,
occurred several months prior to Stewart's death, the sources said.

The probe centered on Stewart's relationship with Napoli Catering Co.  of the
North End, which for a number of years has had contracts with  the city.

Arlene DiMasi, who with her husband, Gabriel, owns Napoli, said during  an
interview with the Post that Stewart had extorted money from them  for seven
years. She said Stewart said that if they did not pay him  they would lose their
city contract.

Stewart's death, which plunged the city into mourning last week, is  currently
being investigated by Boston police, who have refused to  comment on the
progress of their investigation. To date, police have  not disclosed whether
they have a suspect or a motive for the killing.  Stewart was shot twice in the
chest at point-blank range.

Federal officials began the investigation into Stewart when Arlene  DiMasi went
to the U.S. Attorney's office in Boston and complained that  Stewart had
demanded cash payments in return for renewal of the firm's  city contract.

During an interview with the Post, DiMasi said Stewart
demanded cash payments three to four times a year. Payments ranged  from a few
hundred dollars to several thousand.

DiMasi said that during the past seven years, Napoli catering paid  Stewart in
excess of $19,000. DiMasi said that Stewart insisted in  being paid with $50
bills and that the cash was invariably delivered to  Stewart's Council office in
an order of takeout food. DiMasi said that  the bills would be wrapped in
tinfoil and placed at the bottom of a  brown bag containing the food.

Stewart once complained that sauce had leaked onto the bills, said  DiMasi.

"He was very bold, very arrogant," she said.

"It was like we owed him this money, like he had worked for it."

DiMasi said she and her husband were aware that they were making  unlawful
payments but they felt trapped. She said that proceeds from  their restaurant,
the Domini Cafe, were unsteady and revenues from the  catering business kept the
restaurant afloat.

DiMasi said that on many occasions she and her husband decided to break  the
arrangement, but never followed through for fear of losing their  livelihood.

"We felt we were in too deep to get out," she said.

The story continued on at some length, laying out background  information on
Stewart, his life, his record, and his death.

"Holy shit!" Berman squealed as he read the story on his computer  screen.

"Fifties wrapped in tinfoil! Great detail!"

Moments later, after having read the entire story, Berman looked up  from his
screen and studied Cronin. Cronin knew Berman would challenge  him. It was how
Berman operated. Even on stories he found all but  flawless, he often challenged
a reporter with questions.

"Powerful stuff, powerful stuff," Berman said, leaning back in his  chair, hands
behind his head.

"You're sure about all this?"

"I'm sure," said Cronin.
The scanners on the city desk crackled in the background. Berman got  up and
closed the door to his office. He slumped down in a chair  across from Cronin
and sat silently for a moment.

"Who's your primary source?" Berman asked.

"I've got someone inside," said Cronin.

"Mind telling me who it is?" Berman asked.

"Yes."

Berman frowned.

"The story's on the record," said Cronin.

"It doesn't hang on a source. What's the problem?"

"No problem," said Berman.

"The person who tipped you to this is good?"

"Inside," said Cronin, who had no intention of telling anyone at the  paper or
elsewhere who his source was. McCormack would be known as  Cronin's "guy" to
Post editors. Cronin had seen many cases where  reporters told editors who their
sources were and learned to their  horror that their editors soon blabbed the
source's name all over  town.

Berman switched gears.

"You think he scammed others?" Berman asked.

"I'd be very surprised if he didn't," said Cronin.

"Just like these people--small vendors who depended on city  contracts."

"If we go down this road," Berman said quietly, "we will get an epic  amount of
heat. Epic. There are people who will go fucking ballistic.  To even raise a
question about Stewart is blasphemous to some people in  this town. To suggest
he was a thief , .. Jesus." Berman shook his  head.

"We've got to be sure, Frank.

If there's even a hint of doubt.. ."

Cronin shook his head.

"There's no doubt, Howard" he said.

"He was dirty."

"OK, let's say you're right," said Berman, jumping to his feet and  pacing.

"Let's say I concede that. Stewart was dirty. OK. So what? He's  dead. In the
ground. Buried. He's fucking dead, Frank."

"Howard, there were two Phil Stewarts. The one everyone saw. And an
exceptionally well concealed dark side."

"So you're on this investigation that may produce a couple of
stories, it may produce a dozen stories. It may be months of work.  For what?

You're investigating a dead man."

"No, Howard," Cronin said forcefully.

"I'm investigating a reputation, a legacy.

Stewart's reputation lives. It thrives. He has been glorified, all  but
canonized, I'm not after the man. Now I'm after something much  bigger. The
reputation. Because it's a lie."
cool rain swept across the city, washing away the heat of the day.  Looking out
across Boston from the highest point in Larz Anderson Park,  Cronin could see
darker, more ominous clouds in the distance, moving  steadily eastward. The
heavy weather was just a dozen miles west of  the city and would hit within an
hour. As the breeze picked up the  temperature dropped. Cronin had hoped to
catch up with McCormack, but  the detective did not appear at the park on this
evening. A couple  walked a dog on the grassy hill beyond where Cronin had
parked, but no  one else braved the increasingly chilly rain. Cronin waited
until  after seven o'clock before giving up on the possibility that McCormack
would show. The wind out of the west was more persistent now. Heavier  clouds
had moved over the city and the rain came harder and colder.  From atop the
park's hill, Cronin could see it sweeping in sheets  across the landscape. It
was chilly and forbidding, but Cronin saw it  as cleansing as well, for it was
growing into the sort of torrent that  would wash away the city's accumulated
summer grime and send it pouring  into the sewers and out to sea.

Cronin left the park and headed back out through Brookline to West  Roxbury. As
he drove, thunder rolled in the distance and he saw a  flash of lightning. After
a short drive, he turned off the main road  through a gate and continued past
hundreds of rows of gravestones. He  followed a narrow unpaved roadway back
around a small stone chapel to a  corner of the cemetery where thick oak trees
shielded the grounds from  the outside world.
Cronin squeezed his car over to the side of the road, past the grove  of trees
and up against an old wooden fence that surrounded the back  portions of the
cemetery. He zipped up his Goretex jacket, put on his  baseball cap, and headed
back toward the deepest reaches of this place  that he knew so well. In the
older part of the cemetery the years had  smoothed the edges of hundreds of
slabs of chiseled granite. Some  listed one way or another, bent by the winds of
time. On one side of  the narrow roadway was the original section where graves
were eighty,  even one hundred years old. He moved on to a plot where the graves
had  been dug and the stones set in the early 1960s. He made his way past
several rows to the rear of the section, the last row, where the  stones, shades
of black and gray, sat stiffly in the whipping wind and  rain. He was in a
protected area at the back of the cemetery, a  section nearly surrounded by
trees. The sound of the rain on the  leaves grew louder as the full force of the
storm struck.

Branches swayed wildly in the wind as flashes of lightning lit the  skies only
seconds after great claps of thunder.

He walked to the end of the line and turned to face the final headstone  in the
second to last row. He stood still for a long moment, his eyes  fixed on the
grave marker. Soon, Cronin fell to his knees, soaking his  dungarees and
sneakers. He bowed his head, made the sign of the cross,  and prayed.

For Cronin, prayer was remembrance.

He saw things so vividly, sometimes fully, sometimes only in flashes.  She
seemed tall to him, though in fact she was not. But for all of  their time
together, he looked up at her. He would lean against the  corner of the
refrigerator as she worked patiently over the stove,  cooking their supper. Her
skin was fair and freckled around her nose.  She joked that they were a sign of
beauty, but she silently cursed the  Celtic genes that sentenced her to live
with a freckled face. Her hair  was thick and auburn and she cared for it so
meticulously that it  looked lustrous no matter the occasion. She was attractive
enough,  though hardly the great beauty he considered her. Her nose was
slightly too big, her skin too chalky. But what he remembered more  than
anything else about the way she looked was her smile and its  radiance. She
smiled that way only for him, and, later, for the baby.  Never for
the father or anyone else. It was a smile of boundless love and  warmth and he
was mesmerized by it. Often, as he gazed up at her, she  would reach down and
pull him close, squeezing him hard and telling him  that she loved him "more
than the sun and the moon and the stars."

With his face pressed close, he could smell the freshness of her skin,  and the
hint of roses that came from her soap. She would joke with him  in the evening,
telling him stories about her work in a diner in the  center of town. She would
tell him of the idiosyncracies of coworkers,  including one who always ate his
lunch in reverse order--first coffee  and two oatmeal cookies, a sandwich next,
and then a cup of soup. He  and his mother would howl with laughter over these
and other stories.  For the boy, it was not so much what she said that engaged
him, but the  music of her voice. It was light and lilting, full of laughter.

There was no sound he more enjoyed. But he noticed that whenever the  father
visited, her voice grew heavier and lost its joy.

The father was a great hulking man, enormously powerful, with muscular  arms and
thick, heavily calloused hands. He remembered his father  arriving now and again
on freezing winter nights, sometimes parking a  huge logging truck out front.
His travels in search of work, at lumber  camps from Maine to the Canadian
Rockies, gave him a life entirely  apart from theirs. He appeared rarely as the
years passed, returning  for a night or two, here or there, and then, as
abruptly as he arrived,  he would be gone.

And so, with the father away, it was he and his mother. And that is  how they
both preferred it. For Christmas one year, he had used glue  and popsicle sticks
to construct a pencil box for her. When he had  presented it to her she acted as
though he had bestowed upon her the  Crown Jewels, but to her, of course, the
small box with its crooked  lines was far more precious than any jewel could
possibly have been.

He was suddenly flooded with the sweet memory of one summer they had  spent
together on Cape Cod, one blissful summer where it was just the  two of them. It
was the summer when she found a job as a cocktail  waitress at a resort on Cape
Cod, a job where she would make good money  that would help them
through the winter. He had been only five years old at the time, but  he
recalled it so clearly as he knelt there, remembered that they had  risen in the
very early morning, before the sun, and gone to the bus  station in Coaticook,
Quebec, where they lived. He stood with her,  holding one hand, while she lugged
a heavy duffel bag in the other. At  the ticket window, she carefully counted
bills out of her purse, paying  in exact change, to the cent, for two tickets.
Soon, they boarded a  Trailways that took them south through the bright early
summer day down  into Vermont, through Burlington and the Green Mountains,
southeast  along Interstate 89. By midafternoon they had reached Concord, New
Hampshire, where they changed buses and she bought him lunch of a  frankfurt and
milk.

"A lot cheaper than in Boston," she had said to him, smiling at her own  little
bit of wisdom.

They rode to Boston, where it was muggy and dusty, where the traffic  seemed as
though it could not budge. The station was wild there and  she clenched his hand
until it hurt, keeping him off to the side away  from the crowd and the
strange-looking people in filthy clothing who  muttered to themselves or shouted
out loud, invoking the name of the  Lord.

They boarded their third and final bus of the day in early evening and  crept
through traffic for the better part of an hour, headed south.  After a while,
ever so gradually, they gained speed and the road grew  less congested. After an
hour and a half there were few cars and no  longer any buildings on the sides of
the road, only stands of scrub  pine. They crossed a bridge spanning the Cape
Cod canal, up and over  and on down past Hyannis where she said the Kennedy
family lived in  summer, to a small town called Chatham. It was a quiet place of
narrow  streets;

pretty, weathered-shingle summer homes; a quaint business district of a  single
block. The bus driver let them off on Main Street, in front of  the newsstand,
and in the cool of the evening she told him to breath  the air. They stood on
the sidewalk by the duffel and she looked up to  the sky, closing her eyes and
taking deep breaths of the salt air,  laughing as she did so, giddy at their
adventure together.

With directions from the man at the newsstand, they walked
up Main Street only two blocks and then turned, and they knew they  were headed
toward the ocean, for a cool breeze, laden with salt, blew  directly into their
faces. She lugged the duffel bag and he walked  alongside her, moving as swiftly
as his little legs would carry him,  not wanting to slow her down. They walked
five blocks until they came  to the entrance to The Inn, a driveway marked by a
modest sign. They  went through the gate and up the drive and arrived at a grand
sweeping  staircase leading to a wide porch that wrapped around a massive
Victorian structure. On the deck people were sitting on white wicker  chairs and
love seats. Frankie's first image of the place would stay  with him always. As
they trudged up the stairs, he saw an older  gentleman reading a newspaper. He
was dressed in a seersucker suit,  fresh white shirt, and navy blue bowtie. His
hair was white and  thinning and he wore a white mustache. He looked over the
reading  glasses perched on his nose and smiled benevolently as she held her
little boy's hand and guided him through the hotel entrance. Inside,  the lobby
was hushed. A huge Oriental carpet covered the floor. In  various spots around
the room were small clusters--a coffee table, easy  chairs, a sofa, reading
lamps--where guests could enjoy a drink or sit  and read. There were people
scattered about having cocktails, and  others already seated for dinner.

Upon their arrival, they had been led from the grand lobby, back behind  the
registration desk, out through the back door, past a large garbage  dumpster
containing slop from the kitchen, across a back parking lot to  a small, narrow,
two-story barracks-like structure. This was the  dormitory where the help lived
for the summer. Their room was small,  just large enough for two single beds, a
dresser, and one chair.

He woke during the night, frightened, unsure where he was. She  gathered him in
her arms and brought him in to bed with her, pulling  him close so that his head
was under the curve in her chin, his face  against her chest. In her arms, he
soon fell back to sleep.

Every day that summer they would breakfast together, hang out a while,  then
head for the beach. She knew to slather him with sunscreen and  she did it every
day and then again if he went in the water for any  length of time. Unlike many
of the other
children he saw that summer, he never got a sunburn. As June turned  to July,
both he and his mother turned slightly brownish.

They spent hours in the sand, digging holes to China, building  elaborate sand
castles surrounded by moats that were deep and wide.  The moats were always her
idea.

"For protection," she would say. After a while he didn't need to be  reminded
that a moat was needed and he would dig them as intensely as  he built the
castle and its walls.

They would go up to the kitchen for lunch some days, although usually  they
would pack a lunch in the morning, pour some juice into a thermos,  and eat
right there on the beach, never leaving the sand all day long.  This for Frankie
was the most glorious of times. How could he possibly  have been happier? He had
her all to himself literally all day long,  day after day after day. She would
work with him on the castles, or  bury him in the sand up to his neck if he
asked. She would swim in the  ocean with him and buy him ice cream from the
Frosty man who came  around with his truck in midafternoon. Sometimes they would
lay  together on their towels, side by side, the same towels every day, and  he
would doze off with her arm around his shoulder. Sometimes he would  use the
crook of her shoulder as his pillow and close his eyes and  dream, and when he
would wake up he would find he had been dreaming of  doing exactly what they
were doing at that moment in that place. In  late afternoon, often after he had
taken a nap on the beach, she would  give him juice and a cookie and they would
walk slowly along the sand,  way down to the point, where the Coast Guard manned
a lighthouse, and  they would search for shells and sand dollars. They would
bring a  fresh plastic bag each day, and in late afternoon they would return to
their room with the bag sagging under the weight of their sandy, wet  prizes.

He could see her back in the kitchen of their trailer back home in  Canada, at
the small table by the window, the curtain blowing in on the  breeze, pressing
against the screen, the smoke from her cigarette  drifting toward the
refrigerator. He was six when she told him that he  would soon have a baby
brother or sister and, within months, a little boy was born and she  shed tears
of joy when she returned from the hospital and laid the  infant in his arms.

She knelt beside the sofa where he sat, the fully swathed infant,  red-faced and
asleep, feeling heavy against his chest. He did not know  what to make of this
creature, though he was excited about his arrival.  She knelt and leaned over to
kiss the baby's head, then she took his  face in her hands and kissed him, too.

She spoke softly to him.

"You're such a big boy now, Frankie," she said.

"You're a big brother. Isn't that exciting?"

"Am I still your favorite, Mom?" he asked.

"Darling, I love my boys more than I can say, more than anything. But  Frankie,
I want you to do something very special for Mom, OK?"

She caressed the infant's cheek and kissed him again. She placed her  hand on
his shoulder.

"I want you to promise me that you will always love your little  brother, and
that you will always be kind to him and try to help him.  Will you promise me
that, sweetheart?"

He nodded.

"I promise, Mom."

"Frankie," she said, her voice taking on a note of urgency.

"This is very important to Mommy, sweetie. I want you to promise me  that you
will always love your brother."

"I'll be the best big brother ever. Mom," he said.

"I promise."

She pulled them both to her bosom and held them. He could barely hear  her
whisper "thank you." And he could feel her warm tears fall from  her face onto
his own.

The child brought him and his mother even closer together. They played  with him
and cared for him and laughed at his attempts to form words,  to crawl, and then
to walk. He and his mother found great joy with the  child, who was shy and
easily frightened by others. He seemed to take  comfort only in the presence of
his mother and brother.

Frankie liked it best when the baby was sick, not seriously ill, of  course, but
feverish. His skin would become hot to the touch
and he would become listless and his thirst would be unquenchable. It  was at
such times that he and his mother, sitting on the sofa, would  place him on a
pillow between them so that the little boy's head lay on  his mother's lap, his
feet on his big brother's. As the baby got older  he would sometimes ask to
reverse his position, placing his head on his  brother's lap.

They grew to be inseparable. The baby became a little boy who  worshiped his
older brother. When the baby was four, and Frankie was  ten, the little boy
asked him one day, "Are we best pals, Frankie?"

"Of course we are," said Frankie with a laugh.

But the little guy was deadly serious.

"Are we the best pals in the whole world, Frankie?" the boy asked  earnestly.

"You bet we are," his brother replied.

"For ever and ever?"

"For ever and ever," said Frankie, as his best pal broke into a  smile.

One day she was gone.

An automobile accident. He cried the first few days, remembered  nothing of the
wake or funeral. No one knew where their father was. A  distant cousin of their
mother's, an older woman from Boston whom they  had never met, came to the house
and stayed with them for a week. Since  she was the only adult relative
available, it was left to her to decide  on arrangements. She chose to have the
burial in Boston. The little  boy was left behind, with neighbors, when Frankie
traveled to the  funeral. All he recalled was standing on the soggy ground as
she was  lowered into the earth.

Their father's sister lived in West Texas, and she and her husband were
contacted and asked to take the boys, but they had four of their own  and barely
got by. And so a woman from the provincial government  arrived. At the time,
Frankie was eleven and the little boy was five.  She gave them each a bag of
M&M's and drove them out to the interstate.  More than an hour later they
stopped in front of a boxy gray house in a
subdivision. She told them it was their new home. Upon hearing this,  his pal
began to cry. Frankie wanted to cry as well. He fought the  burning behind his
eyes, the tingling feeling in his nose, the heaving  in his chest. He battled
what felt like a physical need to cry. He  learned that if he shut his eyes as
tightly as possible, and clenched  his teeth and his fists hard, he could ward
off the urge to cry. He  would use that technique hundreds of times in the next
seven years,  during which he and his pal would be shunted to eleven different
foster  homes. After their mother was gone, Frankie watched his best pal turn
sullen.

For many years thereafter, Frank would experience a nightmare. It  would come
once a week or so all the way through college. Then it came  less frequently and
had dwindled to the point where, after he turned  thirty, he experienced it only
two or three times a year.

He had dreamed that she was missing, alive somewhere. He dreamed that  he
undertook a frantic search and that he had found her living in  England. She
would be dressed in a gray wool skirt and jacket, and she  would receive him
politely but coolly. He told her he had been looking  for her and had come to
bring her home. He told her that he and his  best pal needed her. He begged her
to come back. But she would not.  She was adamant. She had started a new life.

At this point in the dream he would experience a searing pain in his  chest, a
pain so sharp that he would wake up in a moment of agony.

For years, the dream tormented him. The pattern was the same. He  would go to
bed and sleep soundly for two to three hours. Then he  would experience the
dream.

Upon finding her, he would heave and weep and cry for joy, but she  would be
standoffish. And it would become clear that she had known of  his search, had
known that he had long been at it, yet she did nothing  to help him. She had no
wish to be found, she told him. It was  nothing against him, particularly. It
was just that she had found a  new life.

He would beg her to come home with him. He would plead with her. But  she would
not. She would merely shake her head, no, and that was that.  He would go away
wondering whether she had a new husband, whether she  had children. And he
would return to the spot--in London, Surrey, Cornwall, wherever--to  find that
she had vanished.

In spite of it all--the loss, the deterioration of his best pal, the  pain of
remembering--Frankie moved forward. He persevered. He carried  on even though
his heart had been broken by his own life.
Susan Sloane, chief of the homicide division in the office of the  Suffolk
County District Attorney, walked briskly through the courthouse  hallway, the
heels of her black pumps clicking hard on the polished  granite floor. She
walked with purpose and determination, and those  who lined the hallway
walls--witnesses waiting to testify, police and  court officers, lawyers in
other cases, and families of the victims and  the accused--took note of her as
she strode toward courtroom number  sixteen, where it was her mission to revoke
forever the freedom of a  twenty-three-year-old killer. Those who watched her
noticed no one  trait in particular--not her dark hair, chopped clean at the
neck, not  her shapely legs.

They did not see the warmth and beauty of her smile, because in the  courtroom
she rarely smiled. Her job as chief prosecutor of murder  trials in a murderous
city was grim business. But in the seconds it  took her to move across the
hallway and into the courtroom, the people  who caught a glimpse of her noticed
a sense of urgency, an energy.  Those able to see her green eyes--narrowed,
focused-saw her  determination.

Courtroom number sixteen, long ago stripped of its art deco ornament,  was her
domain. The walls were unattractively paneled with dried-out  walnut curling at
the edges. Hanging on one wall, slightly crooked,  was a clock. At the front of
the room, set above all else, was the  judge's padded black-leather high-backed
chair. In front of the judge  were positioned a court stenographer and clerk.

Then came two aged pine tables, six feet long, two
and a half feet wide. The tables, one in front of the other, were  spaced about
six feet apart. The one closest to the judge was reserved  for the prosecution,
the other for the defense. The jury box was to  the right of the tables and, in
the back of the room, were a few rows  of benches for spectators. When Sloane
arrived, there were a dozen  spectators, about the usual number. These were
cases that attracted  desultory if any attention beyond the families of those
involved in the  terrible proceedings.

Before she took her seat, Sloane went to the end of the first row of
spectators.

There, seated in cushioned armchairs identical to those used by the  jurors,
were the wife and two teenaged daughters of the victim in this  case. Stephen
(Benny) Bennett had been shot dead thirteen months  earlier. His wife and
daughters had grieved mightily during that time;  their lives broken in ways
that could not be repaired.

But now their moment had arrived. Here in this courtroom they were  treated with
the greatest respect. Sloane took pains to care for the  victims' families. She
ensured their transportation to and from court,  paying for cabs when necessary.

She provided for their morning coffee, for their lunch, for a  comfortable,
private area where they could spend the interminable hours  waiting during the
course of indictments, pretrial motions, jury  selection, the trial itself, and
then, finally, the always agonizing  wait for a verdict.

With the family settled, Susan Sloane proceeded to the prosecution  table where
she sat reviewing her notes one last time. Detective  McCormack entered the
courtroom from a side door and took a seat among  the court officers.

Sloane glanced to her left, saw McCormack, and got up from her seat.  She went
into the side hallway reserved for court personnel and  McCormack followed. They
stood together off to the side of an ancient  elevator, a cage used to transport
jurors and prisoners. The space was  cramped and dusty.

McCormack, a head taller than Sloane, leaned down so his ear was close  to her
mouth. She started to whisper something and then stopped.

No matter how many times she closed a murder trial, this moment always  made her
nervous. The momentous nature of
what was happening struck her with particular force prior to the  closing.

Sloane had done this dozens of times. She had always prepared  thoroughly and
performed well. She knew, deep down, that she would do  the same this day. But
in spite of that confidence, in spite of her  experience, she inevitably grew
jittery on the day of a closing.

It was on such days that she felt particularly comforted by Mack's  presence.
She would have performed perfectly well without him there,  of course, but she
was more comfortable when he was. It was his  friendship and moral support she
needed at such times, not his ability  as a cop.

McCormack understood. He had come to know her well in the nearly four  years
they had worked together. They seemed an improbable team. Sloane  was petite,
exceptionally fit, strikingly pretty, from a background of  privilege. McCormack
was a lumbering physical presence, overweight, a  grayish pallor, a product of
humble beginnings. Yet they were a  formidable team, smart and relentless, and
together they had solved  dozens of murders.

They had been rewarded in this case, where the leads had been cold day  after
day, week after week, until, finally, McCormack had found a young  man to whom
the killer had confessed in the moments after the murder.  McCormack had brought
the young fellow in and he and Sloane had worked  with him and soon enough the
pieces had fallen into place. And now had  come the day of triumph for the
Commonwealth, for today was the day on  which Sloane would recount for the
jurors the case against the  defendant.

Sloane had rehearsed her closing argument the night before in her  office,
McCormack her audience. Over pizza and diet Cokes, Sloane had  gone through her
closing once with the aid of notes, then again without  notes. She had performed
beautifully, he had thought. He was always  awed by her preparation, the ease
with which she retained in her head  countless details, bits of evidence and
testimony.

Though her first run-through had seemed nearly perfect to Mack, it had  not been
good enough for Sloane. She had done it a second time and  then a third.
McCormack insisted after that that she go home and go to bed, and she  had done
so, but she had tossed and turned for half the night unable to  get out of her
mind the terrible images this case evoked.

She had thought, as she had for many months, about Benny Bennett, whose  life
was so cruelly taken from him. She had thought of his wife, a  sweet woman who
now seemed rather lost in the world. She had thought  of Benny's two daughters,
good, stable girls who had been very close to  their father. And she had thought
of the grandmother of the accused, a  heavy woman with mournful eyes who had sat
in the back of the courtroom  throughout the trial. Sloane had thought that the
woman must fear for  this boy, this child of her child, this young man she loved
so dearly,  whose savagery was unknown to her.

"Take it nice and slow," said McCormack.

Sloane nodded. She glanced back into the courtroom toward the defense  table and
saw the defendant sitting there. He was twenty-three years  old, and if Sloane
did her job well this morning, he would never again  taste even a moment's
freedom.

Sloane squeezed Mack's hand and he nodded his head ever so slightly. A  sign of
affirmation, a wish good luck. They returned to their places  and soon the jury
filed in. The court officer announced the judge's  arrival and all present rose.

The judge seated herself, then nodded toward Sloane.

"Is the Commonwealth prepared for summation?" she asked.

Sloane rose.

"We are, your honor," she replied.

"You may proceed," said the judge.

Susan Sloane walked toward the jurors, stopping a foot shy of the  wooden
railing that separated them from the rest of the courtroom. She  appeared
businesslike in a dark green suit, skirt to just above the  knee, sheer
stockings, an off-white silk shirt buttoned at the collar.  She wore simple gold
earrings and very little makeup.

Though she had been out of school for years, she could have passed for  a
college senior. She was fortunate to have inherited her mother's  flawless skin.
Sloane was arrestingly pretty, with thick, jet-black  hair clipped short. She
had a bright smile and seductive green eyes.
In a sleeveless dress, Sloane's powerful shoulders and upper body,  verging on
muscular, were evident, vestiges of having been an avid  sculler in college. She
had made the women's team, although she had  never been very good. At five feet
three, she had been too short to  excel, but she had been, as she was in so many
other aspects of her  life, dogged. She won a fair number of races and lost more
than she  cared to remember but none by a wide margin. Since then, though she
still rowed once or twice a week, her upper body had gotten smaller,  but her
athletic build was still noticeable.

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," she began, standing with her hands  folded
in front of her, "in the past nine days you have seen dozens of  witnesses
sitting in that chair answering thousands of questions. Now  comes the time to
decide which of those statements make sense, which  witnesses were telling the
truth.

Let me be clear at the outset: we, the Commonwealth, bear the entire  legal
burden in this matter. We must prove to you beyond a reasonable  doubt that this
defendant murdered Benny Bennett outside of his liquor  store a minute after
closing time on the night of May 26,1993. The  defense has no obligation
whatsoever to prove that this defendant is  without guilt. So we have presented
witnesses to you in an effort to  do that. You have heard from a variety of
people, good people, friends  and neighbors of Benny's and his family. You heard
Chico the stockboy  testify that on the day of the murder, the defendant entered
the store  in the late afternoon without a shirt and that Benny told him he
needed  a shirt to be in the store, that nobody was allowed in without a  shirt;

that there was a sign to that effect on the front door. You heard  Chico say
that when the defendant asked why he needed a shirt, Benny  replied, 'because
this is a nice store."

" Sloane paused for a moment as she glanced down at the floor.

"Because this is a nice store," she continued.

"Benny had worked hard for that store. He bought it just three years  ago. His
own business. His lifelong dream realized. He was proud of  that store.

"Wear a shirt," he asked his customers. Not so much to ask.

But you heard Chico testify, and Kitty Fernandes testify that the  defendant let
loose with a stream of invective, a stream of filthy  language, violent
language, aimed at Benny. You heard Chico and Kitty  testify that at that moment
a young woman, Carla, entered
the store and that the defendant began rubbing up against her in a  sexually
suggestive way, and that Benny in the strongest possible terms  said, "I will
not allow that in my store." And he ordered the  defendant out. And you heard
Carla and Kitty and Chico testify that  before leaving the defendant said, "I'll
be back."

" Sloane stepped back and to the side, watching the jurors as she did  so to see
if their eyes remained upon her. They did. She had their  attention. They were
listening closely. Did they know she was telling  them the truth? she wondered.

"And within an hour he was back," she continued.

"You heard Chico testify that the defendant returned wearing a long,  baggy
shirt, that he went up to the counter and confronted Benny, that  he raised his
shirt showing the grip of a gun sticking out from the  waistband of his pants,
and that when he showed that gun to Benny the  defendant said these words: he
said, "I'll blow your head off."

" She looked down at the floor, then quickly back up and scanned the  jurors,
her brow knitted, her mouth set. She repeated it, slowly,  drawing out the
words.

"I'll. Blow. Your, Head. Off.

"You heard testimony from Chico and from Andrew Parks, the last  customer of the
night in Benny's store, that was identical. Both men  testified that they walked
out of the store with Benny that night and  stood chatting as he pulled down the
heavy metal grates and locked them  in place. And both Chico and Andrew Parks
testified that no sooner had  Benny locked the grates than a shot rang out
hitting the grate. And  then a second shot rang out. A second bullet, forty-five
caliber. It  was that slug, that second shot, which struck the head of Benny
Bennett. It entered his skull and pierced his brain. Arid it took his  life
away.

You heard the first EMT responding to the scene testify that Benny died  right
there on the sidewalk in front of his store."

She turned away from the jury now and looked into a corner of the room  to
compose herself. Her hands were folded in front of her face, as  though she was
praying. She could hear the soft, muffled sobs coming  from Benny's wife and
daughters.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you heard the testimony of Tyrone Miller, who  was with
the defendant that night down by the
tracks, not five hundred yards from the shooting. And you heard  Tyrone Miller
testify--Tyrone Miller, a friend of the defendant--that  the defendant came down
to the tracks in a state of agitation shortly  after eleven P.M. and said these
words, chilling words we will never  forget. He said, "I hadda buck him twice."

"Buck him," she repeated.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you didn't know what he meant by that and I  didn't know
either, but we heard testimony that in the talk of the  street these days that
term has one meaning and only one meaning: to  buck him is to shoot him."

Sloane folded her arms across her chest and walked slowly away from the  railing
in front of the jurors, back across the courtroom, passing  directly in front of
the defense table. She looked down at the floor  as she walked. She circled
around behind the defense table, taking a  position three feet directly behind
where the defendant sat. The man  who murdered Benny Bennett stiffened. The room
was hushed. Sloane  stood silently, looking over the defendant's head at the
jurors. She  repeated the words again, more slowly this time.

"I had to buck him twice."

There was a barely detectable mocking tone to her words now.

"The defense will tell you in closing that we have not proven our case,  ladies
and gentlemen. They will tell you that we presented no  eyewitnesses. No one who
actually saw this defendant point a gun at  Benny Bennett and pull the trigger.
They will tell you that we do not  have a murder weapon. That we were unable to
find the gun. And both  of those things are true. Nobody saw him shooting. We do
not have the  gun.

"But ladies and gentlemen, you have heard the witnesses. You have  heard good
people, people with no ax to grind, no criminal history,  nothing to gain. You
have heard Chico and Kitty and Carla and Andrew  Parks and Tyrone Miller. And
you heard them testify as to the threats  made by this defendant against Benny.
You have heard the testimony  that the defendant carried a weapon, threatened to
blow Benny's head  off, promised to come back to the store. You heard the
testimony that  the defendant said to Mr. Miller, "I hadda buck him twice."

"The defendant offered no testimony during this trial. He is not  required to
take the stand. He is not required to prove where
he was at the time of the killing. But where was he? If he was  elsewhere, why
haven't we heard about it?

"And the reason we haven't heard about it, ladies and gentlemen, is  because he
was on the edge of the park across from the store with a  weapon in his hand
aiming and firing at Benny Bennett, not once but  twice, first missing but then
pulling the trigger a second time and  driving a slug into the brain of Benny,
sending Benny crashing to the  sidewalk. Killing him. Murdering him. In cold
blood. Because Benny  told him to wear a shirt in his store."

Her voice dropped down to a whisper.

"In his 'nice store,"

" she said.

She walked slowly back to the railing and looked at each of the twelve  jurors
and the two alternates, pausing a second to make eye contact  with each.

"I

implore you, ladies and gentlemen, to deliberate with wisdom and to  return the
only verdict warranted by the set of facts you have heard  here in this room:

guilty of murder in the first degree. Thank you."

After the closing arguments and the judge's instructions to the jury,  the
jurors were led off to the airless room in which they would be  given lunch and
then asked to conduct their solemn deliberations.

Sloane retreated to her office with McCormack and Benny Bennett's widow  and
daughters. The office was long and narrow, and in one corner,  leaning against
the wall, was a massive, twisted chrome bumper from an  Oldsmobile. On a table
next to it was a metal curling iron, nine  inches in length. On the table near
the iron lay a kitchen knife, and  alongside that, was a Hillerich and Bradsby
thirty-three-ounce baseball  bat. All four items had various color tags affixed
to them. All were  crucial pieces of evidence in pending cases, for all had been
used to  commit murder.

Benny Bennett's wife and daughters settled in around the small  conference table
in Sloane's office. Soup and sandwiches were brought  in for the Bennett family
before Sloane left them in the care of a  court matron.
It was a ritual, observed by Sloane and McCormack, that on the day one  of their
cases went to the jury, they would go out for lunch together  to the same spot.

They rode down the rear elevator to the subbasement, where McCormack's  car was
parked. They walked together, wordlessly, across the cement  garage floor to the
Crown Victoria.

"Hungry?" McCormack asked as they rode down Cambridge Street toward  the Charles
River.

Sloane shook her head.

"Me neither," he said and she turned to him and smiled, for she knew  that of
course he was hungry. Mack was always hungry.

"Buzzy's," she said, and he pulled into a parking lot on the right at  Charles
Circle and ordered a roast beef sandwich and coffee.

Sloane waited in the car as McCormack stood at the window, hands in his
pockets.

With his suit jacket pushed back she could see the edge of the shoulder  strap
bolstering his gun. She could see his beeper and his ample  stomach.

"I thought you were on Jenny Craig," she said when he got back into the  car.

"They were all women," he said.

"In the class. I was the only man."

"So? "she said.

He glanced at her as he drove across the Longfellow Bridge into  Cambridge and
turned west on Memorial Drive.

"So?" he said.

"What do you mean so? Have you ever tried being the only fat guy in a  room.
It's not easy."

She smiled.

Mack pulled the car over under a tree on Memorial Drive. They got out  and
walked to a park bench that looked out across the river. The gold  dome of the
State House glittered in the midday sun.

Ever since their first murder case together four years earlier, when  Sloane had
been so jumpy about the jury's verdict that McCormack  brought her to this place
to calm her down, they had come here when  deliberations began, for just an hour
or so, to watch the sailboats  glide across the water, to clear their minds,
calm their nerves.
Sloane sat on the bench and put her head back, enjoying the warmth of  the sun
on her face. McCormack spread waxed paper out on his lap and  took a bite of his
sandwich. He sipped his coffee.

"That was some closing," he said to her. He nodded his head, glancing  at her
with a look of admiration.

"You could talk a dog off a meat wagon."

She turned toward him and tried to smile. She could not. McCormack  knew his
role here, knew that time and time again, in trial after  trial, Sloane had the
same reaction on the day of the closing argument:  her heart bled.

McCormack had worked with a dozen or more prosecutors through the years  and he
had never known anyone as tough as Sloane. Some of the guys  he'd worked with
had had a swagger or an attitude that portrayed a kind  of toughness, a
machismo. But Sloane was mentally tough. She was  unrelenting. She would do
whatever it took, within the law, to get a  guilty verdict. She never suppressed
evidence or issued phony  warrants. She played by the rules and she played with
an almost brutal  will to win. Her job was to represent the innocent citizens of
the  Commonwealth against those accused of the worst possible crimes. And  the
people of the state had no idea how well they were represented in  these
matters, McCormack thought.

No idea.

When she had first taken over homicide prosecutions, she had made some
strategic mistakes typical of beginners--negotiating a plea when she  need not
have done so, refusing a plea bargain when she didn't have the  evidence to go
to trial.

Back then, some of the detectives had begun to whisper that she wasn't  up to
the job. But it had not been long before Sloane had grown into  the position.
She sized up cases after one read of the file and almost  always chose the
correct strategic course. In the murder trials she  had personally prosecuted,
she had won thirty-three guilties in  thirty-three attempts. Under her
leadership, the department had won  guilty verdicts in 412 of the 441 cases they
had tried during her  tenure.

She was witheringly efficient in her prosecution of cases, fueled by a  passion
McCormack had rarely seen in an assistant DA. She despised  people who hurt the
innocent. She made a
moral distinction in her own mind--one she was reluctant to
acknowledge--between the murders of innocent people and murders of  criminals.
To her, taking the life of an innocent person was the worst  sin a human being
could commit. She was far less interested in the  prosecution of drug dealers
who killed other drug dealers. It was not  that she was content to permit the
urban war to rage unabated, but she  was limited in the amount of manpower she
had available and in her  store of moral indignation. She was required to
prosecute every murder  committed in the County of Suffolk, Commonwealth of
Massachusetts,  nearly one hundred per year. But she could not possibly devote
equal  time or resources to each. As a result, she targeted cases where the
victim was more innocent than not. She had little interest or time for
shootouts between gang members where a homicide resulted. But when a
nine-year-old girl in a schoolyard was killed in the crossfire of a  gang fight,
she pursued the shooters with a vengeance. She had become  obsessed with that
one, had bypassed the other ten lawyers in her  office and assigned it to
herself. She had put three detectives on  it--which was unheard of--and had
pushed and wheedled and bullied until  she was satisfied that the three young
thugs under suspicion were in  fact the guilty parties. She went to trial,
eviscerated the defense,  and won guilty verdicts against all three.

For all of her toughness, however, Sloane could never avoid, as a trial  drew to
a close, reflecting on the lives of those involved. Including  the lives of the
accused and his family.

She turned toward McCormack and spoke with sadness in her voice.

"Have you seen the woman in the back of the court, the older woman?"  she asked.

McCormack nodded.

"The grandmother," he said.

"Can you imagine it?" she asked.

He thought about it for a moment then said sadly, "No, I cannot."

She shook her head in bewilderment.

"That boy's entire life is about to be gone.

In prison forever." She rubbed her fingers over her temple.

"Jesus," she whispered staring off across the river.

Sloane was showing the strain, as was McCormack. But in
time they would come back, in a matter of weeks or months they would  be on the
trail of someone who had hurt someone else, and they would  come in and seek,
through the system of justice, to avenge that  terrible death. And they would,
Mack knew, succeed.

McCormack had a piece of his sandwich left and he handed it to Sloane.  She
thanked him and ate it. They sat together for a while absorbing  the warmth of
the day. Then they drove back to the courthouse to await  the jury's verdict.

They were not kept in suspense long.

At 4:19 P.M." the jurors returned and pronounced the defendant guilty  of murder
in the first degree. The judge set sentencing for a week  hence but she had no
discretion. The sentence could only be life  without parole. Barring a
successful appeal or a gubernatorial  commutation or pardon, this killer would
die in prison.

In her office, Sloane accepted congratulations from the district  attorney and
from colleagues and staff members. She was embraced and  profusely thanked by
the family members, by Benny Bennett's wife and  daughters, all of whom were in
tears when they entered the cab that  Sloane called to take them home.

McCormack arrived after staffers in the DA's office had finished their
congratulations. He peeked in and saw Sloane signing papers that had
accumulated during the trial.

She smiled upon seeing Mack and sat back in her chair, tossing her pen  onto the
pile of papers. She was worn out, glad the trial was over.

"Happy birthday," McCormack said, handing her an envelope.

"You remembered!" she said, delighted.

"Thank you, Mack. This is so sweet."

She ripped open the envelope and found two Red Sox tickets. Box  seats.

"Oh, Mack, you are so thoughtful." She went to him and reached around  his neck
and hugged him.

"You are the world's nicest man," she said.
"How about joining me for the game on the .. . ah, let's see," she  said looking
at the tickets, "on the fifth. How about it?"

He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

"Take somebody younger and thinner," he says.

"How about Frank?"

She frowned at him.

"No engineering my private life, Mack, remember?"

"I'm only trying to help speed up the inevitable," he said.

"I saw him the other night." McCormack paused.

"He asked after you," he lied.

Sloane eyed him.

"He did?"

"Really," said McCormack.

"You're quite a bad liar, Mack," she said.

"But thanks."
In the twilight, Sloane watched Canada geese coast out of the sky and  land with
barely a ripple on the surface of the pond. She gazed past  the water and saw a
fox move hesitantly across the seventh fairway,  heading for the woods. She
remained still, watching him trot more  confidently as he approached the cover
of the forest, where he  disappeared.

She had stood on this very spot hundreds of times. Her father had  brought her
and her sister, Alice, here when they were very young, and  through the years
they had accompanied him on countless nature walks.  He would bring them along
when he played a few holes on this portion of  the club grounds, where an extra
nine holes were laid out.

Suddenly, a cooling breeze swept down the sloping ninth fairway, and  blew
Sloane's dark hair back. It had been a hot, humid day, but since  she had
strolled down to the far end of the golf course the air had  dried out. Sloane
saw that the sky had turned a rich blue, nearly  dark. She realized she'd been
standing there for some time,  daydreaming.

She remembered the first time they had met, four years earlier. At the  time,
Sloane was dating a man named Tom Dillon, who, it turned out, had  been a
classmate of Cronin's at Dartmouth. Sloane and Tom had gone to  a party in
Cambridge and, to Tom's surprise, run into Frank there. When  the party ended
early due to an acute beer shortage, Tom and Sloane had  joined Frank and some
others at the Club Casablanca in Harvard Square.  Sloane remembered distinctly
that they had taken up a
position at the end of the bar and poured quarters into the jukebox  until
closing time at two a.m.

At the time, Sloane was quite happy with Tom and she had believed that  they
would wind up getting married. Still, there had been something  about Frank
Cronin she found appealing. He possessed an easy  self-confidence, a calmness
that suggested a maturity beyond his  years.

Tom told her later that Frank had been the star of the Dartmouth hockey  team
for three years running, had been its captain in his senior year.  Tom told her
that Cronin had been the team's fastest skater and highest  scorer. He had also
been the team enforcer--when someone on an  opposing team singled out one of the
smaller Dartmouth players, Cronin  had been the one to step in. He'd been
drafted by Boston in the  National Hockey League;

after that, Tom had gone off to medical school in New York and lost  track of
Frank.

Sloane remembered a particular moment late that night at Casablanca.  The crowd
at the bar had thinned out some and the group was soon to  head home, but they
wanted to wait until their songs were finished  playing on the jukebox. There
was a particular song that Frank had  been waiting for and she remembered that
when it had come on he had  smiled broadly and looked straight at Sloane and
held her gaze for just  an instant longer than she would have expected. And then
she  remembered hearing the sweet strains of Sinatra lazily singing "Summer
Wind."

By that fall, Sloane and Tom Dillon had drifted apart. Several months  later,
after Cronin and Sloane ran into each other at a judicial  conference that
Cronin was covering, they began dating.

It had been a blissful time.

Soon after they began seeing one another they became all but  inseparable. They
would spend rainy spring weekends in Cambridge  bookstores or seeing old movies
at the Brattle Theater. They spent  some evenings at seedy clubs around Boston
listening to the hottest new  rock 'n' roll bands. Other nights they would go
out to a cheap  restaurant or have dinner at Sloane's apartment on the flat of
Beacon  Hill.

In the summer they made trips together to the Cape to visit
friends, to Martha's Vineyard where they went surf casting for  bluefish off
Chappaquiddick Island.

But the highlight of that giddy period of early love came when they  went on
vacation together for two weeks to Frank's old farmhouse in  Pomfret, Vermont.

The house itself had seen better days. There was a pleasant living  room with a
fireplace, and three bedrooms, two quite small though the  other rather
spacious.

The kitchen was hardly more than serviceable. But the property on  which the
house sat was spectacular. Cronin had a dozen acres of land  in the hills, most
of it heavily wooded, but some of it open meadows  and streams. Across a field
behind the house was a pond fed by a  natural underground spring.

Frank had bought the place not long after he had gone to work for the  Post. He
had come to know the area by visiting the family of his  Dartmouth roommate, Dan
Linden. The Lindens lived in Darien but had a  sprawling, beautifully designed
vacation home in Pomfret. Frank's  place had originally been part of the Linden
property, and Dan's  father, who had developed a strong relationship with Frank
when the  boys were in school, sold him the property for far below market
value.

The house had been used only occasionally for guests, anyway, and the  Linden
property contained more than two hundred acres, so they could  surely afford the
loss of a dozen.

Sloane loved the place. She and Frank had taken long walks, six or  seven miles,
up over Hewitt Hill and across to Galaxy Hill. From the  top of Galaxy Hill they
could look north and west for miles and miles  and see nothing but forest,
nothing but a carpet of lush greenery. On  warm days they swam in the pond and
spent their afternoon reading on  the porch. They drove into Woodstock for
dinner a couple of times and  in to Hanover once. But most nights they would
cook up some pasta or  grill chicken or lamb from George the butcher in
Woodstock and sit out  on the porch of Frank's place and watch the trees sway in
the pleasant  evening breeze.

There was no doubt that they were in love, happily, contentedly in  love.

Initially, it did not trouble Sloane that Frank did not express his  love for
her verbally. She knew from being with him--by the
way he looked at her and spoke to her and listened to her--that he  loved her.

She knew by their passionate lovemaking the intensity of his love.

The fact that he was showing his love was far more important than his  saying
the words, she reasoned to herself.

But then the vacation was over and they returned to Boston and soon  enough she
saw Frank begin, inexorably, to drift away from her. She  could feel him pulling
back. He seemed hesitant, anxious. She raised  the subject and he shied away
from it saying time and again that he  cared very much for her, but never going
beyond that. For periods of  weeks and even months all seemed well, but it
became clear to Sloane  that the future of their relationship was, at best,
uncertain.

Sloane had been approaching thirty at the time. The ideas of  stability,
commitment, and children were very much on her mind. But  Frank was far from
being in the same place.

And so, sadly, they had parted.

And though it had been a long time, she still missed him as much on  this, her
thirty-first birthday, as she did on the day they  separated.

He shivered against the breeze that swept across the course, and as she  began
walking back toward the clubhouse, her thoughts turned to her  parents.

The Sloanes were quiet, private people. They had taken pains through  the years
to teach their daughter, even at an early age, that with  privilege came
responsibility--"a duty to God," as her mother put  it--to help others. This did
not mean, they had taught her, attending  a few black tie charitable functions
annually, but rather making aid to  others part of one's life. Even now, as she
held down the demanding  job of chief of homicide in the Suffolk County District
Attorney's  office, Susan Sloane rose before dawn every Wednesday morning to
serve  breakfast to homeless women at a downtown shelter.

She had learned well from her parents, from these two people who had  helped
nurture within her a sense of fair play, a curiosity about the  world, and
tolerence for differences among people.
Sloane had seriously considered following her father into  international
corporate law, but with only minimal exposure in law  school, she had developed
a passion for the flesh-and-blood reality of  criminal law. She had been struck
by the idea that society was  invested with the power to deprive a person
transgressing certain rules  of their liberty. And even, in some states, of
their life.

During the summer between her second and third years of law school,  Sloane had
taken a job as a public defender in Chicago. Like so many  other eager, young
law students, she became an ardent advocate for her  clients. Upon graduation
the following spring, she went to work at the  public defenders office in
Boston. She was assigned to Roxbury  District Court, where she worked on
standard district court  fare--robberies, armed assaults, motor vehicle
offenses--misdemeanors  and minor felonies.

Like any other resident of a major American city or its environs,  Sloane knew
from reading the newspaper that the inner city was plagued  with violence. She
knew intellectually of the deprivation, the  pathologies, the widespread
incidence of young, uneducated, single  women giving birth to children whose
fate would often be the same. She  knew, intellectually, that too many young
black males fathered children  and then abandoned them. She knew that the
economy of the inner city  had failed and that a staggering percentage of the
young males had  encounters with the criminal justice system.

But to witness it firsthand, to see the reality of it, had been  harrowing. She
had been appalled at how many innocent people were  hurt, in one way or another,
by the violence of the city streets. And  after a year and a half on the job,
she had abruptly quit. She had  awakened one Saturday morning and realized what
she had known  subconsciously all along: that the overwhelming majority of the
people  she defended were guilty. And most had lengthy histories of violent
acts. She decided within a matter of hours that she could no longer go  into a
courtroom and try to win freedom for people who had hurt others  and who would,
in all likelihood, go out again soon and hurt someone  else. It had all come
crashing in on her that day. Faced with the
knowledge that she had become an advocate for some of the most vicious  people
in the city was too much. She had to stop. The following  Monday morning she
submitted her resignation and, two weeks later, she  was gone.

She had taken some time off, audited a couple of courses, increased the  amount
of her volunteer work, did some traveling, and read voraciously.  Over time, it
had become clear where she was headed. Her mother saw it  first. Amid much talk
of working for various advocacy  groups--litigating on behalf of children, the
environment, battered  women, and more--Emma Sloane had seen quite clearly that
her daughter  was destined to become a prosecutor. Susan believed deeply in the
rule  of law. She believed that a civilized society needed clearly  prescribed
rules. She believed that the great majority of people (who  were good, in
Sloane's view) could only be shielded from the tyranny of  the few (who were
bad), if the rule of law was upheld fairly and  consistently.

Other than sitting on a bench draped in a black robe, said Emma Sloane,  the
only place a lawyer can work to protect the good from the bad is as  a
prosecutor.

Both Susan and David Sloane reacted with surprise to the notion. Susan  had
never seen herself in such a role, but after talking about the idea  only
briefly, she felt a certain enthusiasm. After looking into it  more deeply she
decided to give it a try.

Six years later, Sloane had risen through the ranks to become chief of  homicide
at the Suffolk DA's office, where she was responsible for the  investigation and
prosecution of the murder of Councillor Philip  Stewart.

after a shower in the women's locker room, Sloane dressed in i.a navy  blue raw
silk sleeveless dress. She slipped on a raspberry-colored  blazer and headed
toward the clubhouse, where she was scheduled to meet  her parents for a
birthday dinner. She left the locker building, a  small but elegant brick
structure of Georgian design, and strolled  across the practice green, past rows
of red clay tennis courts and the  swimming pool, to the ramshackle clubhouse.
It was a large clapboard  building, white

A;
with dark green shutters and trim, set on a slight hill just behind  the
eighteenth green. The structure had aged gracefully and retained a  slightly
worn but polished look. The clubhouse was furnished with old  oak and cherry,
muted chintz and red leather. The main hallway was  lined with golf memorabilia,
with the framed scorecards from past  events, including two U.S. Open
championships.

Wooden-shafted clubs from seventy years ago and gutta-percha balls--all  used in
World War I-era tournaments--were displayed in a glass case.  The first floor
included a large, informal dining room used mostly by  families, as well as a
library and reading room, a slightly stuffy yet  comfortable formal dining room,
and the men's bar. On the second floor  were several private dining rooms that
could be reserved for weddings  and other events, as well as bedrooms for
overnight club guests.

When Sloane arrived, her parents rose from the dinner table and hugged  their
daughter.

"Happy birthday, dear," said her mother.

Her father poured her a glass of champagne and raised his glass.

"To our dear girl. A happy birthday and prayers for many, many more."  The three
Sloanes clinked glasses and sipped.

"And to Alice," her father said quietly. They raised their glasses  again and
sipped. There came a moment of silence. It had long been a  family ritual that
at the start of any family gathering they would  pause briefly and remember
Alice.

Alice the soccer star. Beautiful, funny, irreverent Alice. Alice the  artist
whose paintings had dazzled her most demanding teachers.

Alice had been two years older than Sloane, a girl with so much energy,  such
zest for life. But when she was barely twenty-one, she had been  hit by a drunk
driver and killed.

In Sloane's world, all was well. All was perfect, in fact. She had  grown up
amid splendor and wealth with every conceivable opportunity.  She had lived in
the most exclusive area of Boston, summered in Maine,  wintered in Hobe Sound,
gone to Dana Hall, Wellesley, Harvard Law  School. Everything in her life was
perfect except what mattered most.  Alice. Alice had been the center of the
family, the passion and soul  of the Sloanes.

And when she died she had left a gaping hole in Sloane's life, a hole  in the
family, a hole, Sloane believed, in the world.
Alice had always said that they would both get married in their  twenties and
have their babies simultaneously so that they could walk  them together in new
strollers, around Jamaica Pond and around and  around, and they would have lunch
together every day and discuss the  issues of the day and Alice would watch
Sloane's baby while Sloane did  her law work, and Sloane would watch Alice's
baby while Alice splashed  paint across a canvas. But it was not to be.

It had been twelve years since Alice was gone. Twelve years of missing  Alice.

They chatted over crab cake appetizers, laughing at ancient jokes that  her
father told over and over again through the years. During a dinner  of grilled
salmon, Emma Sloane turned the conversation to Susan's work.  She told them
about the Bennett case she'd won earlier in the day. They  listened intently to
the details, which she summarized as quickly as  she was able. Though both her
mother and father were intensely  interested in the case, Sloane had had enough.
She wanted to put it  behind her. Her mother, sensing this, turned the
conversation to the  Stewart murder.

"I suppose this terrible Stewart case is taking up your time?"

"And with pathetic little result, frankly," said Sloane.

"I've got others to keep me hopping as well, of course. Just in the  past week
I've got a gang execution of a boy all of fifteen years old.  And I have the
weekly case of a crazed ex-husband with stacks of  restraining orders who got
drunk and killed his ex-wife."

"Dear God," said her mother.

"What happened?" her father asked.

"Oh, Dad, you truly don't want to know," said Susan.

"Grisly stuff."

David Sloane grimaced.

Susan nodded.

"These jilted men are walking time bombs. They're set to go off but  nobody
knows when and all the restraining orders in the world won't  stop them. Theirs
is a savagery unlike any other. It's sheer  bloodlust. A passion to kill. But
this latest fellow we have cold.
Every conceivable piece of evidence. We'll convict him on first  degree I'm
certain. And what he gets when he's in prison is precisely  what he deserves, if
you ask me."

"Susan!" exclaimed her mother.

"Would you care to see photographs of the woman's body, Mother?" Sloane  asked,
an edge to her voice.

"Or perhaps you'd like to meet the children, three of the little  buggers under
seven, who are now motherless. Or perhaps you'd like to  see the photos and meet
the children."

"Speaking on your mother's behalf," said David Sloane to his daughter,  "she
yields."

"I do," said her mother, "but that tone of yours sounds a little  bloodthirsty
itself, if you ask me."

Sloane looked to her father.

"You call that yielding?" she asked, a tone of mock horror.

David Sloane smiled.

"Has your mother ever not gotten the last word, dear?"

They all laughed.

"Oh, I know what I wanted to ask you about, honey," her mother  exclaimed.

"This story in the paper that there is some inkling that Philip Stewart  was
somehow corrupt. Could that possibly be true?"

Sloane considered the question.

"I don't suppose much of anything would surprise me anymore, Mother,  though I
admit I was a bit taken aback when I read it. You knew him,  Dad, what do you
think?"

"Not at all well," replied David Sloane as he swirled wine in his glass  and
reflected for a moment.

"We'd met, you know, and talked. He struck me as a decent man." He  shook his
head and frowned as he looked across the table at his  daughter.

"Perhaps it's a function of having practiced law for so many years,  where you
see, for good and ill, people stripped of their pretensions.  But I'll tell you
I am reluctant to say that anyone is truly a certain  type of character.

There is so much we don't know--even about people who we may think we  know
rather well. There is so much that is unknowable unless, of  course, a
particular individual chooses to reveal whatever it is he or  she is hiding.

"Who knows what really goes on inside any man," David
Sloane continued.

"He could have lived another life for all we know."

"That's what Mack thinks," said Susan, "that Stewart may have had some  sort of
subterranean existence that he brilliantly concealed."

"How is your friend Mack, Susie?" her mother asked.

Susan sipped her wine.

"Very well, really," she said.

"Considering."

"Yes," said her mother.

"His poor wife. That was so very sad."

"Mack's strong," said Sloane.

"He's a survivor."

"Well, if he's correct about Stewart having some other life," said Emma  Sloane,
"then it was exceptionally well concealed, wasn't it?"

"Yes, and frankly, I wonder," Susan replied, "whether it's possible for  such a
public person to have successfully hidden something as wretched  as this. Some
other life in which he pillaged and plundered."

"Theoretically, it's certainly possible," said David Sloane.

"The practicality of it is another matter, of course. But he was  single, wasn't
he?"

Sloane nodded.

"Well, that would certainly simplify matters, wouldn't it?" he said.

"How's that, exactly?" asked his wife.

"Well, it would be far easier to camouflage a separate life if you  don't have
to spend your time worrying about deceiving the people with  whom you live."

"And the story said he extorted money from this very small catering  company,"
said her mother.

"That's the sort of thing that used to go on all the time in the city,  years
ago."

"But you know, Mother, the set of facts presented could conceivably  lead to a
different conclusion, at least legally," said Sloane.

"How could that be, dear?" asked her mother.

"I would think extortion is extortion is extortion."

"We've questioned people close to Stewart, members of his council  staff, close
political supporters, and they insist this was  fund-raising rather than
extortion," said Susan.

"They concede
it appears shabby--was shabby--but they vehemently deny that he was a  corrupt
man."

David Sloane spoke up.

"Couldn't it be argued that the system of fund-raising for political  campaigns
is de facto extortion?

"Under color of official right," the statute reads. In other words, if  a public
official uses the color or power of his office to seek  financial gain, it's
extortion. Well, isn't that what perfectly legal  political fund-raising is?"

"I don't quite see that," said Emma Sloane.

"Raising money for a campaign strikes me as quite different from  stealing funds
from a helpless little family company that does a bit of  city work."

"But how do we know the money wasn't preferred by the helpless little  family
company in the first place?" Susan asked.

"Well, they've complained in the newspaper," said Emma.

"I don't think someone who initiates such an arrangement would talk  about it
publicly, do you?"

"One wouldn't think so," said Sloane.

An elderly waiter cleared the table and presented the Sloane's with a  small
carrot cake topped with a birthday candle.

Sloane went to blow out the candle but her father stopped her.

"Make a wish first, Suz," said her father.

Sloane paused for a moment. She thought of a wish, blushed slightly,  and blew
out the candle.

"What was your wish, dear?" Emma Sloane asked.

"Don't you dare tell," said her father.

"That ruins it."

After dinner they moved into a comfortable sitting room for coffee and  David
Sloane asked his daughter whether she'd had any luck with her  investigation
thus far.

Sloane sighed.

"It's not gone nearly as well as I'd hoped, actually," she said.

"It's been maddening. We scoured the neighborhood--nothing. It was  raining, so
people weren't out strolling, but, still, nobody saw  anything unusual. Nobody
was seen running from the home, or yard, or  the street."

"Any forensics?" asked her father.

Sloane shook her head.
"Nothing. No prints, no fibers beyond what you'd expect--denim,  cotton.
Needless to say no weapon."

David Sloane saw an old friend across the room and excused himself to  go say a
brief hello. His wife saw it as an opportune moment to  question Susan.

Emma Sloane was reluctant to raise Frank Cronin's name with Susan, but  she
could not help herself.

"I was wondering," she asked in a hesitant voice, "whether you'd had  any
contact with Frankie?"

Sloane stirred her decaf absently and shook her head.

"Not really," she said.

"We've exchanged polite notes. I congratulated him on a story he'd  written some
months ago and he sent me a nice card when that case was  affirmed on appeal.
But other than that we haven't talked. I've not  seen him in, oh, it must be
nearly ten months now."

Sloane's smile was brave, but she was pained by it all, her mother  knew. Emma
Sloane had always been reluctant to advise her daughter on  matters of the
heart, had always believed adults should be left to  their own devices, but she
fidgeted with her silverware in a way that  suggested she was struggling with
whether to speak.

"What is it, Mother?" Sloane asked.

"I'd appreciate you sharing whatever thoughts you have."

Her mother had had two glasses of wine, Emma Sloane's limit, and was  less
reticent than she might otherwise have been.

"Well, I only hope you've not given up on him, Susie," said her mother.  She
hastened to add, "It is your business entirely, darling, of course.  And I
respect that. But I'd be disingenuous if I feigned disinterest.  Your father and
I obviously care very deeply for your well-being and I  must say I cannot accept
in my own mind that you two have given up on  your relationship .. ."

"... Such as it is," Sloane interjected.

"Such as it is," agreed her mother.

"But I wonder whether it's been given a fair chance. Really, I wonder  whether
it has. He's a very fine man, Susie, you know that and I  wonder whether it's
not simply a matter of timing, really."

Sloane shook her head.

"No, Mother," she replied.

"Timing is part of the problem, but it's vastly more complicated and,  I'm
afraid, more difficult than simply timing."
She sipped her coffee and paused, reflecting.

"I don't know precisely what the problem is myself, although more than  anything
else Frank is a man for whom commitment to a relationship  isn't merely
frightening, it's terrifying. He cares very much for me.  Mother, and I for him.
We share many mutual interests, delight in each  other's company, but all of
that doesn't necessarily make for a full,  whole relationship. Not in our case,
at any rate. You know. Mother,  when you date someone either the relationship
grows or it dies. You  either peel the layers away that reveal the person or you
don't. And  in the time we were together he began to get to know me pretty well.
I  was very comfortable with him and I revealed a lot about myself. But  it
never came the other way. Quite honestly, Mother, it comes down to  being ready
and willing to share my life with him and him not being  ready or willing to
reciprocate. Why? Who knows. I'm not at all sure  he knows. I do think his life
had been complicated. Strained in some  ways. I've told you how skillfully he
steers clear of discussing his  past, his childhood and family and upbringing
and all that. Who knows  what might have happened back there?"

"May I ask rather bluntly, Susie, whether you've given up on him?"

She seemed surprised by the question.

"Oh, I don't think I have, Mother," she said.

"I certainly hope not."

When she arrived home after dinner, Sloane found a cone-shaped package  leaning
by her rear entranceway. She picked it up and felt flowers.  She carefully
peeled back the green and white paper and revealed a half  dozen beautiful
peonies. Her favorites. Her mother making sure she  ended her birthday on a
pleasant note, no doubt. But when she opened  the card she caught her breath:
"Sloane, Happy Birthday, love,  Frank."

Love, Frank.

She poured herself a glass of wine as she placed the flowers in a tall  vase and
set them in the center of the kitchen. She sat admiring them  as she read and
reread the card.

She sat looking at the flowers, sipping her wine, and she wanted to  give in to
the almost irresistible urge to talk to him. To hear his  voice. Surely she
should thank him for this gesture. She
reached for the phone, then stopped. Perhaps the flowers meant  something more
than happy birthday. Perhaps he was sending a signal.  He had always been so
elliptical in the way he communicated. It had  been so difficult for him to
convey affection.

Could he possibly be signaling that he was ready to try again?

Whether he was or not, Sloane was touched by the flowers. It was after  ten
o'clock, but she could not resist. She picked up the phone and  dialed his
number. It fell easily from her memory.

He answered on the second ring.

"They're beautiful," she said.

"Thank you."

"Oh," he said, genuinely surprised to hear her voice.

"Your welcome."

"I didn't wake you?"

"No, no," he said.

"I was just reading."

"What?"

"DeLillo."

"Not Libra again?" she said.

He laughed.

"I'm afraid so," he said.

There was a brief, somewhat awkward pause.

"So you've been OK?" she asked.

"Yeah, I've been OK," he said.

"You?"

"Fine," she said.

"Lot of work."

"I'm sure."

Another pause.

Sloane sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I shouldn't have called."

"No, no," said Frank, "I'm glad you did. It's good to hear your  voice."

"I'll let you go," she said, clearly regretting that she had phoned.

"I just wanted to say thanks. So, thanks."

"Happy birthday," he said.

"Good night," she said.

"Good night," he said.

She went upstairs to her bedroom and undressed. She was warm, flushed.  The
night air was tropical. The laziest of breezes blew, carrying the
sweet smell of the new-mown field beyond the pond. She put on a silk  nightshirt
that tell just above the knee, and returned downstairs to  lock the doors and
flip on the alarm.

She went back upstairs to her bedroom. It was large, the result of a  wall
having been knocked down and the joining together of two smaller  rooms. On one
side, across from her bed, was a chintz love seat and  comfortable chair in
front of a small coffee table. In this room,  Sloane felt as though she was
locked away from the world; hidden in the  most private of places.

She switched off most of the lights in her room. A small bedside lamp  across
from where she sat remained lit, casting a muted yellowish glow.  Moonlight
flowed in through the glass doors that lead to a small  balcony.

She stretched out on the love seat. The cushions were goose down,  luxuriant.
She sipped her wine and set the glass on the table. It was  nearly eleven P.M.
on her birthday and Sloane was alone.

She slid the nightshirt up above her waist. With her right hand, she  began to
massage, ever so slowly, with infinite patience. She cleared  her mind, relaxing
herself. She was calm and deliberate. There was no  rush, no urgency. She smiled
at the recollection of a comment made by  a friend: "Who you have sex with is
your business, especially if it's  yourself."

The rhythm was so slow, just as she wanted it. In time, the tension  built. She
seemed to tighten somewhere inside. And then there came a  moment of wonderful
relief. It was not sharp or quick. But fulsome  and satisfying. And she hung on
to the sensation for as long as she  could until she sped up her rhythm slightly
to coax it along and,  suddenly, felt a second wave more intense than the first.

She could hear herself groaning quietly, her head back, eyes closed.  She
shuddered and it was over and soon, in her bed alone, she fell into  a deep
sleep.
"Follow the money" had been the mantra of Watergate investigators Bob  Woodward
and Carl Bernstein in the early 1970s, and Cronin believed  that by pursuing the
same trail he would find the real Philip Stewart.  Berman, however, betrayed
some impatience with this approach. To him,  the key questions were who murdered
Stewart and why. The issue of  whether Stewart had extorted money was secondary.

He wanted Cronin to spend his time dogging police, making sure the Post  had the
latest police suspicions on suspects and motive. Berman's  overriding concern
was not getting beat by the Record. As was the case  with many editors, he was
obsessed with the fear that the other paper  would contain a scrap of
information the Post did not have. Cronin had  no such fear. He believed that
his relationship with McCormack was an  insurance policy against getting scooped
by the Record.

The two men were in Berman's cramped, glass-walled office just off the  city
room. Berman was disheveled in blue jeans and a T-shirt, having  raced in to
work during the night to supervise coverage of a gang war  in the city's
streets.

Cronin was dressed neatly in lightweight khaki pants, dress shirt, and  sport
jacket. It was shortly after nine o'clock, but already Cronin  had been to Mass
and worked out.

"Let's just stay focused on the cops and what they're doing," said  Berman.

"Why can't we do that?"

"They are doing routine, boring things that have zero news value,  Howard," said
Cronin.

"They are running lab tests on fibers from the house. Examining  prints.
Interviewing neighbors. The usual stuff only more of it. It's slow  and tedious
and, so far, without result."

"They have nothing?" Berman asked, incredulous.

"Howard, you know, they're not interested in your itchiness for news,"  said
Cronin.

"That is not their overriding concern."

Berman rose from his desk and began pacing.

"I would guess that in seventy-five percent of the murders in this city  they
make an arrest within two weeks, right?"

Cronin considered this for a moment and said, "I'd guess maybe half."

"Whatever," said Berman.

"The point is that this is the most high profile case in history  probably,
they've got three times as many people on it as they normally  would, and
they've got diddly so far. Nada. What gives?"

Cronin pulled out a notebook and flipped through it.

"I'll walk you through every conversation I have with my guy," said  Cronin, in
reference to McCormack.

"He says it will take time. They have very little." He continued to  thumb
through his notebook, scanning for nuggets of interest. As he  went through, he
read aloud bits of information he had jotted down  while talking with McCormack.

"Lots of forensics, but nothing of consequence .. . believe it was  carefully
planned, well executed ... no fibers that matter .. . print  on radio dial but
serrated edge obscures." Cronin flipped through more  pages.

"None of what gets early break--weapon, witness, forensics."

Cronin closed his notebook and looked at Berman.

"So we can sit around waiting for the cops to stumble on something,  which my
guy says could be months, literally, or we can go out  hunting," said Cronin.

"I say we hunt."

Berman folded his arms across his chest and sighed.

"For what exactly?" he asked.

"For who Stewart really was," Cronin replied.

Berman screwed up his face, appearing as though he had just bitten  deeply into
a lemon.

"This is a newspaper, Frank, not Psychology Today," Berman said.

"Howard, my guy thinks that if you find the people he hurt then you'll  find a
killer," said Cronin.

"If we get to really know this man, maybe we learn some things."

Berman listened carefully. He was in his usual devil's advocate
stance. It could be annoying--in fact, it drove some reporters to  angry
rages--but Cronin didn't mind it. It was simply Berman's way of  making himself
comfortable with an idea.

"So where would you go from here?" Berman asked.

Cronin shrugged.

"Have you ever heard of a dirty politician who crossed the line just  once?"
Cronin shook his head.

"It doesn't work that way. There's a pattern.

There's always a pattern. They do it once, it works, they do it again.  And
again."

Berman nodded his agreement.

"So back to the records," Cronin said.

Berman grimaced.

"Looking for what, exactly?" he asked.

"Jesus, we're talking about literally thousands and thousands of pieces  of
paper."

"But there's a profile to search for," said Cronin.

"Obviously, we look only at contracts under the control of committees  he
chaired."

"Which were Transportation, Capital Administration, and one other,"  said
Berman.

"Health Care," said Cronin.

Berman frowned.

"Three huge areas with who knows how many contracts each."

"Thousands each," said Cronin.

"At least over the past few years."

"So where do we start?" Berman asked.

"We learn from the past," Cronin said.

"Crooked pols tend to focus on people who need them desperately, people  who
would basically go out of business without the public contract. So  we look for
people who have that level of dependence. That effectively  eliminates any
really big deals. IBM, for example, may sell the city  mainframes, but Stewart
would have no real leverage with a company like  that. If he tried to extort
them they'd go to the law or walk away.  They don't need the city's business."

Berman looked skeptical.

"You're describing a man with a base, predatory instinct. That's  pretty far
removed from what people knew."

"People knew the image, Howard, not the man," said Cronin.

"So you think he went after the most vulnerable?" Berman asked.
"Such as the DiMasis," said Cronin.

"So we look for middle-sized deals, a half million up to say four or  five
million. And not a corporation--a small company run by one or two  individuals.
Companies with those sized contracts, who depend on the  city for a good chunk
of their revenues and who do some sort of work in  health care, transportation,
and--well, with capital administration it  could be anything. But mostly
contractors."

Berman eyed him.

"Could take a while," he said.

"Two or three days in the archives is my guess," said Cronin.

"With two or three good long days of fast sifting in the files I'm sure  I can
come up with a few dozen prospects. It won't be the entire  universe but it'll
be a sample."

"Then?"

"Then I start making the rounds, talking to them all, seeing what if  any
dealings they had with Stewart directly, whether he ever asked for  anything."

"You don't want to spook them," said Berman.

"If somebody seems like a prospect, I'll point out that he's dead and  there'll
be no extortion prosecution," Cronin said.

"That should help."

Shouts came from the city room for Berman. There had been a shooting  in
Roxbury.

Another kid was dead on the streets. Berman moved quickly from his  office
heading for the city desk.

"Good hunting," he shouted back over his shoulder.

The list turned out to be shorter than Cronin expected. He had  anticipated
digging up a dozen or more companies that met the crit era  but after nearly
twenty-seven hours over three days inside the vast,  dusty catacombs of the City
of Boston Public Records Division he had  emerged with Xerox copies of contracts
the city maintained with just  six companies. All were owned by an individual or
family, all relied  heavily on the city (each contract document included an
estimate from  the vendor of the percentage of revenues the company received
from the  city), and all the contracts were small or medium-sized.

Cronin sat at his desk, going over the list. There was a small  trucking company
that had been hired by the city to plow snow.
There was a health-care company that had a contract with the city to  supply
mental health services to twenty-two neighborhood health  centers. There was a
transit company with a contract to transport  special-needs students to and from
Boston public schools, a collection  company with a contract to computerize and
collect all of the city's  parking ticket revenues, a small firm that designed
and installed  playground equipment, and a contractor who organized the city's
summer  camp for the mentally retarded.

To Cronin, they all seemed decent prospects. In Boston, the  disbursement of
plowing contracts had long been a patronage haven. The  competition was fierce
from dozens of contractors with fleets of trucks  that stood idle throughout the
winter when construction all but ground  to a halt. Others were good prospects
as well, though.

Cronin was drawn to Urban Mental Health Services, which held a contract  to
provide mental health services in neighborhood health centers. The  competition
for such work was cutthroat, and in recent years there had  been mounting fraud
in medical services. Sandier Financial interested  Cronin for the obvious
reason--there were tremendous opportunities for  abuse in the collection of tens
of millions of dollars annually in  parking fines. Two of the firms on his list
were utterly dependent on  the city. Both Camp Jubilee Enterprises, which ran
the city's summer  day camp for the mentally retarded, and Wrightways Transit,
which had  been contracted to transport handicapped children to and from school
in  specially equipped vans, relied on the city for 100 percent of their
revenues.

Without those contracts, they would be out of business overnight.

But when Cronin cross-checked his list of companies against the donors  to
Stewart's last reelection campaign, he found that the only name that  showed up
from any of the six firms on his list was the owner of  PlayThings, Robert
Dooley.

The PlayThings office was in South Boston, across Summer Street from a  massive
Boston Edison generating plant. It shared a long, low-slung  industrial building
with a plumbing supply company. Cronin arrived in  the late morning of a
gloriously sunny day, temperature in the high  seventies and no humidity in
the air, a rare day in Boston. When Cronin rang the doorbell at the  Play Things
office, a man dressed in a plaid shirt and faded blue  jeans, with a graying
ponytail and beard, answered the door. It turned  out to be Dooley, an aging
hippie with a thin face and a mournful  expression.

Cronin introduced himself and said he wanted to talk about Stewart.  Dooley,
clearly surprised, took a moment to answer.

"Why me? "he asked.

Cronin had on his most ingratiating, least threatening face. This was  a crucial
moment in any interview--getting in the door to talk with  someone who nervously
or even suspiciously greeted the arrival of a  reporter.

"We're talking to people about Councillor Stewart and noticed that you
contributed to his last campaign," Cronin said, "and we thought we  could ask
you some questions about him."

Dooley seemed genuinely surprised.

"I guess," said Dooley.

"Come in."

The room into which Dooley led Cronin was long and narrow with a  red-brick wall
lined with large plants on one side and, in one corner,  a drafting table and a
stool. Across from it were two mismatched easy  chairs and a beanbag chair,
little more than a lump of leatherette on  the hardwood floor. Dooley cleared
some papers from one of the easy  chairs and motioned for Cronin to take a seat.

Dooley pulled his stool over away from the drafting table and sat  down.

"Those look like fun," Cronin said, indicating bright color photos on  the walls
of various play structures.

Dooley nodded.

"Yeah," he said with evident satisfaction.

"Those are all in Austin. We got hired by a group of private companies  down
there a few years ago to build a series of structures. One of the  folks down
there had heard a talk I gave about the concept of emotional  safety being as
relevant as physical safety for kids. You notice the  one on the right there,
the yellow one, is scaled down, more comforting  to a smaller child. That's
specifically for toddlers. They don't  react well to structures for bigger kids.
They're not threatened on  that like they are on a normal-sized structure."

The two men gazed at the photograph for an uncomfortable
moment.

"But you're interested in Phil Stewart," said Dooley.

Cronin nodded.

"I am," he said.

"And I wonder whether you could tell me a little bit about how you got  to know
him?"

Cronin was fishing as he often did at the beginning of an interview. He  did not
want to let on until he had to what he was looking for.

"There isn't much to tell," said Dooley.

"I was active in tent city, back in, oh, it must be twenty-plus years  ago," he
said, referring to a group of radical community activists and  their efforts to
build low-income housing in the city.

"And Phil was an ally. So I knew him a little bit back then. But  after that, I
was gone--Cuernavaca, Berkeley, Missoula, eventually,  where I finished school."

"But then you moved back here at some point," said Cronin.

"Oh, yeah, that was just four, five years ago," said Dooley.

"I first got into this work in Missoula, but I had always figured I'd  wend my
way back here."

"And you started your business then?" Cronin asked.

"Not really," said Dooley.

"I mean, I had started it already in Montana. I just really moved it  here."

Cronin nodded.

"And you hooked up with Councillor Stewart when you got back?"

"Not really," Dooley said.

"When I came back I set up shop here and just continued with my  business, you
know, just as I had in Montana. Nothing much changed  except the location."

Cronin wanted to be careful not to offend Dooley.

"You got the big Boston contract when, a couple years ago?" Cronin  asked.

"Two years ago," Dooley replied. But then he seemed annoyed.

"What does that have to do with anything? I thought you were  interested in
Stewart?"

"I'm very interested in him," Cronin said innocently.

"I just assumed he helped you get that contract."

Dooley was silent for a moment, evidently trying to figure out where  Cronin was
headed.

"He really had next to nothing to do with it," Dooley said.

Cronin knew that Stewart had, in fact, signed off on the contract. He  had a
copy of the document with Stewart's signature next to Dooley's.  But just as
Cronin was beginning to believe
that Dooley was intentionally trying to conceal that information,  Dooley said:

"He was there for the signing, that's it," said Dooley.

"It was ceremonial. A PR event by the Parks Department. He knew  nothing about
the details of it. He had no memory of me until I  reminded him of our Tent City
days."

"So you didn't deal with him at all when you were bidding on the  contract?"

Cronin asked.

"Never," Dooley said.

"And your contribution to his campaign, $500 I think it was, came after  that?"

Cronin asked.

Dooley was red-faced. He fumbled for an answer.

"Look, I design the stuff, then hire local contractors to build it.  This deal
is like eighty percent of my business right now, and one of  the contractors
asks me a while back how much money I had donated to  different pols and I told
him none; he advised me as an insurance  policy--that's what he called it--to
donate a sizable check to  somebody. He said it may not guarantee you keep the
deal, but it will  make sure you have access to get into his office and appeal
it if  someone's trying to take it away."

"So he never asked you for any money?" Cronin asked.

"Stewart?" There was a look of genuine surprise on Dooley's face.

Cronin nodded.

"No," Dooley said.

"Never. I just sent it in."

Cronin shook his head.

"Not the campaign contribution," he said.

"I meant did he ever ask for any other money?"

Dooley seemed at a loss.

"What for?"

"Did he ever try to extort money from you?" Cronin asked.

Dooley appeared stunned.

"Jesus, no," he said.

"Are you serious?"

Cronin nodded.

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Why would you even ask?"

"There was an incident reported in the paper the other day," Cronin  said,
"where he did that. Extorted some money from some people who  owned a
restaurant."

"Oh, yeah," said Dooley.

"I heard about that. I couldn't really believe it. But, hey, what  does it
matter anyway. The guy's gone. He's dead. Leave well enough  alone."
Cronin's visit to Randall Trucking yielded similar results, though his
encounter at Randall struck a distinctly unpleasant note. Cronin had  learned
through the years that there were some people who had a  visceral hatred for
reporters. Paul Randall, owner of Randall  Trucking, was among them. When Cronin
arrived at the company's office  and told a receptionist who he was, Randall, a
heavyset man in work  clothes and with an air of menace about him, promptly came
charging out  of a back office, opened the front door and said to Cronin:
"Screw."

Cronin hesitated.

Randall did not.

"You heard me," he barked.

"Screw. Get off my property."

"I only wanted to ask you a few questions about Phil Stewart," Cronin  said.

"If you'd give me a minute I'd appreciate it."

"Screw!" Randall shouted.

"Get off my property or I'll throw you off."

Cronin could see signs of progress for the city and the Post in  Randall's
reaction to him. It wasn't too many years earlier that he  would have been
dismissed as having come from the "nigga' loving"  newspaper.

Cronin started for the door.

"If you change your .. ."

"... Get the fuck out," said Randall.

"Don't even fuckin' talk to me."

When Cronin stepped outside Randall slammed the door only inches behind  him.

It was certainly the least pleasant aspect of being a reporter. He had  been
greeted with similar hostility--and worse--many times throughout  his career.

Though Cronin encountered more civil receptions at Urban Mental Health
Services, Sandier Financial, and Camp Jubilee Enterprises, he uncovered  no new
information on Stewart. This surprised him. He did not expect  a major story of
corruption to tumble into his lap, but he had  anticipated that one of the
companies on his list would yield  something, however tenuous.

He visited the last prospect, Wrightways Transit, with no real  expectation of
success. Wrightways was housed in a rundown concrete  garage in one of Boston's
worst neighborhoods. Next to the garage,  which had about it the look of
abandonment, was
a parking lot of cracked cement through which dandelions and other  weeds
sprouted. The yard was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link  fence topped with
barbed wire. In one corner sat an abandoned kitchen  table and a sofa bed, the
stuffing pushing through slashes in the  fabric. Lined up in the center of the
yard were sixteen yellow  Wrightways vans.

Raymond Wright was an affable man who, on this day, wore plaid Bermuda  shorts
and a Red Sox T-shirt. He was obese, barely able to squeeze  into the tattered
lawn chair he used in his office. When Cronin  arrived and introduced himself,
Wright, though immediately friendly,  did not rise. Cronin got the sense that
the man was so fat that if he  tried to stand up the chair would remain attached
to him. Wright's  office was a tiny, cramped space barely large enough for a
desk and  small refrigerator. When Cronin arrived, Wright was smoking an El
Producto panatella and drinking from a sixteen-ounce bottle of AW Root  Beer.

Wright explained that his company, which consisted of himself and  various
relatives, had a contract with the city to transport  handicapped children to
and from school.

"And somehow, in the process of getting the contract, I take it you met  Phil
Stewart," Cronin asked.

"Only the once," Wright said.

"At the bid opening when I got the contract. It was just me, him, and  a guy
from the city clerk's office. To make it official."

"Why was Stewart there?" Cronin asked.

"They said something about him being chairman of the Transportation  Committee,"
Wright replied.

Wright laughed and his body shook like pudding.

"I was the only bidder! Nobody wants the work. It's a terrible  headache, crazy
zigzag routes, individual attention at each stop. With  these kids, you know,
the driver's got to stop, get out, go up to the  apartment, help the poor mother
bring the kid down, then load the kid  onto the bus. And there's always changes.
Schedule changes, route  changes, and on and on. It's a terrible headache. The
last two guys  who had the contract lasted a year. Both lost money."

"So why do you do it?" Cronin asked.
"Look at this place," Wrighr said, waving his arm around, pointing  toward the
garage and the yard.

"Look at it. This is everything, for me. This is it. My empire." He  laughed
heartily.

"For twenty years I ran a garage out of here--repairs, body work--and  what do I
have to show for it? Some guys are born with a knack for  business. Some have
it, others don't. Me, I don't. I figured I'd try  something new. The last guy
who had the contract--I repaired his  vans--told me how he wasn't going to go
after it when it came up again.  Too much of an arse ache. So I thought, Jesus,
I'll try for it." He  smiled.

"And wouldn't you know I got the damn thing."

"And it's profitable?" Cronin asked.

"Profitable?" Wright puffed on his cigar and considered the  question.

"Depends on what you mean by profit. In accountant talk it sure ain't.  But I
have a different way of looking at profit. Am I ahead of the  game, I ask
myself. That's profit to me. And with this, I am  definitely ahead of the game,
you know, relative to where I'd be  otherwise. The thing with this, see," Wright
said with an impish grin,  "is that even if I don't make no money, I've at least
got jobs to give  to my cousins, brothers, and sisters. I got half a dozen
nieces and  nephews working for me. My oldest boy and my daughter. They all
drive  and make a decent buck off it. So for me, it's worked out very good.
Excellent." Wright nodded, seeming quite satisfied with the deal.

"So you saw Stewart at the bid opening and that was it?" Cronin  asked.

Wright thought about it.

"Except on TV," said Wright.

"To be honest with you, I never cared for him that much. He was a  radical
liberal as far as I'm concerned.

I'm not too big on the liberals, quite honestly."

"The city paid your bills on time?" Cronin asked.

Wright shook his head.

"Always late. Always. They pay twice a year, always late," he said,  swigging
his root beer.

"Last time, lemme see," he said, opening a desk drawer and pulling out  an
ink-stained ledger.

"Last time, Christ, they paid nine weeks late. Nine weeks! I have to  pay my
leasing company on time. You think GM wants to wait around for  its money
because the city is behind.

"Hey, don't tell us your problems, pal." My GM guy,
that's what he tells me. Same with the gas companies. They want the  money when
you pump the gas. Shit, the city's got me in a hole all the  time."

"But you get by?" Cronin asked.

"The trick is to keep the routes tight and the drivers pay reasonable,"  he
said.

"Those are your biggest expenses, gas and the drivers?"

"Naturally, besides the leases on the vehicles," said Wright.

"But there are a hell of a lot of others that add up. You'd be  surprised.
Insurance is wicked, of course, plus linkage payments,  maintenance. It adds
up."

"Linkage?" Cronin asked.

"Yeah, it's only, what, half of a percent annually but that's real  money."

Cronin shook his head as though lost, feigning ignorance. He asked,  "How does
it work exactly?"

"Simple," said Wright.

"You remember when the real estate boom was hot and heavy downtown? The  pols,
they latched on to linkage. If you wanted to develop a tower  downtown you had
to build housing in the slums. It was the price of  admission.

You don't like that, fine, screw, amscray. They had them lined up on  City Hall
Plaza begging for the go-ahead with condos, hotels, office  buildings, you name
it. Development here was a license to print money.  And the city used linkage to
cash in. The idea was they linked some  business thing to some do-gooder
project.

A legal kickback, if you ask me."

Cronin knew the linkage law well. He had covered the issue when it was  first
proposed and he knew it applied only to large, downtown real  estate projects.

There was no provision within the law which would have permitted any  linkage
arrangement with a contract such as Wrightways had.

Cronin could barely believe what he was hearing. He wondered whether  Wright
might be lying. But the man was so open, so utterly guileless,  that Cronin
dismissed the possibility.

"Bear with me if you will," said Cronin, "so I make sure I understand  this."

"Happy to help. You want a cold drink? Root Beer?"

"Please," said Cronin.

Ill
Wright reached over and opened the refrigerator. It was jammed with a  dozen or
more bottles ofAW. He pulled a couple out and snapped them  open with a church
key. Wright handed one to Cronin. He put the other  to his lips and drank a
third of it in one chug. He wiped his mouth  and puffed on his cigar.

"I'm not sure I understand what linkage has to do with you," Cronin  said.

"You get the contract with the city to transport handicapped kids ..  ."

"Sometimes we take 'em to events, or therapy or whatever," said  Wright.

"It's mostly to and from school but not strictly. When they have a  special day
at Fenway for the kids, we take 'em over. That kind of  thing."

"So how does linkage affect you?" Cronin asked.

"See, I get the business so I have to do something in return for  getting the
business, same as a downtown developer," said Wright.

"I pay much less, naturally, because of the scale. But it's along the  same
idea, see what I'm saying?"

Cronin nodded.

"So what do you do in return for the contract?"

"Well, everybody's different, as I understand it," he said.

"I make payments to a homeless shelter. But the way it was explained  to me was
that other businesses pay to different things-to a housing  fund or health
clinics, what have you."

"Who exactly do you pay?"

"One of the shelters," Wright replied.

"Which one?"

"Well, it's not a shelter exactly, but something having to do with the
homeless," said Wright.

"It's called the Shelter Coalition Capital Fund."

"And that is what, exactly?" Cronin asked.

Wright shrugged.

"Like I say, something to do with the homeless. A building or  construction fund
or some such. I never paid that much attention to  it, to be truthful."

"You pay by check?"

"Of course."

"And where do you send the check?" Cronin asked.

"To the Fund," Wright said.

"A P.O. box downtown."
Cronin was astonished by the simplicity of it. It was so clear now.  Stewart was
committing extortion yet the person being fleeced didn't  know it. He merely
considered it a legitimate part of the deal.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that this was an odd arrangement?"

Wright was puzzled.

"How so?"

"Hasn't anyone ever said it doesn't seem quite right to make these  payments?"

"I thought it was screwy at first, no question. No question about it.  Then it
was fully explained to me," said Wright.

"Stewart ... he showed me the actual paperwork on the deal between  Forbes
Development and the city. Worth millions.

They build the building on the water, the new bank. He gave me a copy  to look
at. Serious money there. My deal was peanuts compared.  Peanuts. I pay, what?
Let me see." Again, he pulled a ledger book  out from a drawer and thumbed
through the pages.

"Here," he said, running his finger down the page.

"I pay what amounts to a half a percent of the contract in linkage  money. Since
the contract total runs just shy of $1.9 million a year,  that's linkage dough
of eighteen grand and change."

"Who knows about this?" Cronin asked.

Wright regarded him warily. He puffed on his El Producto and said,  "You're
beginning to make me a little, how should I say, jiggy" Cronin  smiled.

"I don't mean to," he said.

"Then why do you ask who knows about this?" Wright wondered.

"I'm curious whether your arrangement is common knowledge," Cronin  said.

"Whether anyone has ever questioned it?"

"Questioned it how so?" Wright asked.

"Whether it was legitimate," said Cronin.

Wright looked alarmed.

"Hey, I pay the linkage. I get the kids to school. I get 'em home. I  fulfill
the terms of the contract."

"You misunderstand me," Cronin said calmly.

"I wonder whether anybody has ever questioned whether the deal was  legitimate
from Stewart's end."

"Oh, Jesus," said Wright, as though suddenly realizing what
had happened.

"Don't tell me. Hello federal." He shook his head as though  defeated.

"Vincent, my brother-in-law. He told me I was being jobbed. He said  the deal
stunk."

Wright's eyes beseeched Cronin for a sign that it wasn't so, for some
indication that Vincent was wrong. The truth seemed, at that moment,  to dawn on
Raymond Wright.

"Weren't you ever suspicious?" Cronin asked.

Wright nodded.

"When he told me not to talk about it with anyone, I was. He was  adamant. He
said that he was giving me a special deal, way below what  others were paying,
and if word of that got out he'd have to jack me  way up. He said some people
were paying one percent, even a point and  a half."

Cronin took it all in.

"Am I in trouble?" Wright asked.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Cronin said.

"Not knowingly, anyway. I can't imagine the DA would lean on you."

"Unbelievable," Wright said, shaking his head.

"I'd like your permission to write a story about this," Cronin said.

Wright shrugged.

"Why not? I got nothing to hide. Stupidity's not a crime, is it?" And  he
laughed.

Under Massachusetts law, virtually every record pertaining to the  financial
status of a tax-exempt charity was public information. Before  writing the story
of Stewart's extortion of money from Wrightways,  Cronin needed to be absolutely
sure that the Shelter Coalition Capital  Fund had been under Stewart's control.

Instinctively, he was certain it was the case, but to publish a story  he needed
documentation.

At the Secretary of State's office, he found extensive records on an  entity
called the Shelter Coalition Inc." a large nonprofit  corporation which served
as a legal umbrella for dozens of shelters,  soup kitchens, and other charities
for the homeless throughout  Massachusetts. Stewart had been chairman of the
Shelter Coalition  Inc." and he was listed as one of seven legal
signatories--people  empowered to spend funds on behalf of the organization.
The Shelter Coalition Capital Fund, Cronin discovered amid a pile of  papers,
was an entirely different entity, a separate charitable  corporation. It listed
Stewart as chairman and empowered Stewart  only--no other person--to spend funds
on behalf of the fund.

This was the smoking gun. It proved that Stewart controlled the money  that
Wright deposited into the account and could spend it any way he  chose. The
records indicated that the fund had taken in a total of  $107,496 the previous
year with an equal amount dispersed. In other  words, Stewart had spent every
cent taken in by the trust. How he  spent the money was another matter, one
which would require further  digging. But it was clear from Wright's comments
and from the records  that Stewart had been running an illegal scam, that he
extorted money  from Wright under the guise of the city linkage ordinance, and
that he  had directed the money to be placed into an account over which he had
sole control.

The records raised an additional question:

eighteen thousand came from Wright. What was the source of the  remaining
$89,000?

Cronin wanted to wait until he could find out how Stewart had spent the  money,
but Berman would not hear of it; he was crazed for the story.  Berman was
worried about the competition, worried that a reporter from  the Record might
somehow uncover the Wrightways angle and print it the  next day. And besides, he
argued that there was now a pattern of  corruption on Stewart's part. No longer,
said Berman, was there the  possibility that the DiMasi's case was merely an
isolated incident.

Cronin relented. He wrote a carefully worded account of his  conversation with
Raymond Wright, which appeared on the front page of  the Post on Thursday, July
27. The headline read:

"Contractor Charges Stewart with Extortion."

Former Councillor Philip Stewart apparently extorted funds from a  Boston
transit company owner with a city contract by convincing the  businessman that
the payments were linkage funds for the homeless,  according to the businessman.

For the past three years, Raymond Wright, owner of
Wrightways Transit, who holds a $1.9 million city contract, said he  made two
payments annually of more than $9,000 to an account under  Stewart's control.

Wright made the payments to an account under the control of the Shelter
Coalition Capital Fund, he said during an interview. Records on file  at the
secretary of state's office indicate that the Shelter Coalition  Capital Fund
was controlled by Stewart.

Records showing that Stewart was the fund's chairman also indicate that  only
Stewart was empowered to disperse funds from the Shelter Coalition  Capital Fund
account.

The revelation of Stewart's arrangement with Wrightways is the second
apparently illegal financial maneuver by Stewart reported within the  past week.

The Post reported last week that investigators are probing allegations  that
Stewart extorted more than $19,000 from a Boston catering concern  with city
contracts over a period of seven years.

The charge that Stewart extorted funds disguised as linkage payments  was made
by Raymond Wright, owner of Wrightways Transit, which has a  contract to
transport special-needs students in the public schools.  Wrightways principal
function is to transport physically and mentally  handicapped children to and
from school.

According to Wright and city records, Wrightways won the contract three  years
ago. Wrightways was the only bid made to the city. As chairman  of the council's
Transportation Committee, Stewart passed on all  transportation contracts,
including those with the school department.

During an interview, Raymond Wright said that at the time he was  awarded the
contract he was summoned to Stewart's office for a meeting  at which Stewart
said that his obligation, having won the contract, was  to pay a half of one
percent of the contract amount in so-called  linkage money to the Shelter
Coalition Capital Fund. Wright said  Stewart told him that the money would go
for maintenance, rehab, and  construction work.
Berman considered the story a home run. Now there were at least two  scams, he
told Roy Johnson, and if there were two, surely there were  more. This bit of
speculation from Berman seemed not to please  Johnson. In fact, it brought a
frown, dark and forbidding, to the face  of the editor of the Boston Post.
On a warm, sunny morning, the day the Post carried Cronin's article  about
Wrightways Transit, three dozen people appeared in front of the  newspaper to
protest the treatment of Philip Stewart. The  demonstrators were young, in their
twenties for the most part, though  there were a half dozen among them who were
in their fifties, even  sixties. Demonstrations against the newspaper--its
editorial position  in support of abortion rights, its coverage of the
Arab-Israeli  conflict, its cancellation of an obscure comic strip-were common.

Few had any impact at all on the paper or how it was perceived by its  readers.

But this demonstration, these demonstrators, were different. They  presented a
threat to the paper's reputation not because they were  activists who worked as
volunteers or paid staffers for the Shelter  Coalition. The real threat to the
Post was the man at the center of  the demonstration, its organizer and leader,
Father Patrick Boyle.  While the demonstrators were dressed in blue jeans and
cutoffs, tank  tops and T-shirts, Boyle stood out in his priestly garb of black
polyester slacks, bagged at the knee, cheaply made black tie shoes, and  a black
top with Roman collar.

Boyle was a thin, bearded, ascetic with deep-set eyes and an intense  air. He
squinted against the sun as he chatted with the half dozen  reporters dispatched
by television and radio stations to cover this  event. This was news. For years,
Boyle's causes had been the Posts  causes. Rarely had they disagreed on major
issues. And, in fact, the  Post had crusaded on its editorial pages
(and some would say on its news pages as well) for the agenda  enunciated by the
Shelter Coalition and its legislative director,  Patrick Boyle. Boyle was one of
the best-known priests in the city, a  man respected for his zealous commitment
to the causes of the poor. For  many people in Boston, it had been jarring to
see the Post run two  negative stories about Phil Stewart, a Post ally and at
the top of the  paper's unwritten list of political untouchables. But if Stewart
had  been at the top of that list, Boyle was next in line, and to see Boyle
going so far as to organize a demonstration against the paper with  which he had
been so allied was also jarring in its way.

The demonstration was deeply embarrassing to the Post, and to Berman  and Roy
Johnson in particular. As editor, Johnson had absolute control  over the Post
editorial page, and he had used that power on scores of  occasions when Boyle
called and asked the paper to take one stand or  another.

Johnson stood in an office on the building's third floor looking down  at the
demonstration, seething inside, furious not at Boyle so much as  he was at
Berman and Cronin for bringing this embarrassment on the  paper. Johnson knew
that the Record-American and the city's TV and  radio stations--all competitors
of the Post in the business of news  gathering--would feast on this story,
giving plenty of space and  airtime to Boyle and making much of what would be
perceived as a rift  between the paper and the forces of Good led by Father
Boyle. The Post  was a paper with a liberal bent, and by letting that show
through in  its news pages, the paper had long since alienated conservatives in
the  city, including Republicans, many Roman Catholics, and blue-collar
families who felt disconnected from the paper. The Post had its base  among
liberals, the very people with whom Boyle had the greatest  credibility. If
Boyle chose, he could harm the paper's reputation and  perhaps even its
circulation among those people.

As they walked a steady circle holding up banners reading "Honk if you  hate the
Post" and "Phil Stewart's memory lives," TV crews filmed the  scene.

Berman, too, watched. Like Johnson, Berman was rattled by it. The  city editor
had known Boyle for nearly ten years. The two
men had met in Central America when Berman was doing a stint as a  foreign
correspondent and Boyle was a missionary. They had stayed in  touch when both
men were back in Boston, though Boyle's interest in  Berman was clearly related
to what Berman could do in the way of  publicizing Boyle's causes. Berman knew
that Boyle was friendly with  Roy Johnson and that the priest would go so far as
to lead a  demonstration at the paper was alarming to Berman. Berman thought
Boyle a man of peculiar, though undeniable, charisma.

Berman had seen Boyle lead demonstrations before, most recently in  Boston where
he led marches for fair housing, welfare rights, jobs for  the poor. He had also
seen him lead demonstrations in Nicaragua in the  late 1980s. In Managua, Boyle
worked with a cadre of liberation  theologists, priests whose missions took them
into the poorest barrios  where they ministered not only to the spiritual needs
of the flock but  to the social and political needs as well. These radical
priests  believed that to follow the teachings of the Gospel it was their
responsibility to care for the poor practically as well as  theologically.

There was something about Boyle that bothered Berman. Something hazy  about his
past. Though there had been literally dozens of stories done  about him in local
and national papers, magazines, and television  stations, no one had ever fully
explained the circumstances under which  Boyle had left Haiti, where he had been
working as a missionary after  his time in Nicaragua.

In Haiti, Boyle had been a supporter of Father Aristide, long before  the priest
was elected to the presidency. Boyle shared Aristide's love  of the poor masses
living in squalid conditions in vast slums of  Port-au-Prince. During the time
Boyle had been in the country there  had been much bloodshed. It had been common
for innocent citizens who  opposed the government to be shot down in the street
by the army, or  the Tontons Macoutes. And it was common for the people to
retaliate  against wealthy businesspeople and landowners, supporters of the
Macoutes. In the parish where Boyle worked there were many instances  where
Macoutes were hacked to death with machetes, where businesspeople  were
subjected to neck lacing a particularly savage
form of torture where an automobile tire was placed around the neck,  doused
with gasoline, and ignited. When Boyle was recalled to the  United States by the
directorate of the Silesian Order, he refused,  saying his mission was with the
poor. Though the director insisted he  leave, for his own safety, Boyle would
not. Soon thereafter he was  kidnapped by Macoutes, severely beaten and stabbed,
tossed into a ditch  on the city's outskirts, and left for dead. Miraculously,
he was found  by peasants who got him to a doctor in time to save his life.

"God would prefer I continue to make a bother of myself on earth,"  Boyle had
been quoted as saying after he recovered. His willingness to  remain in the
country, his insistence that he stay with his flock and  his subsequent
shooting, resulted in a wave of flattering publicity and  a hero's welcome when
he returned to Boston.

In the years since his return, Boyle had plunged in to work on behalf  of the
poor and homeless. He had risen to the position of vice  chairman of the Shelter
Coalition. He had long waited for his  opportunity to take what he viewed as his
rightful place as head of the  Shelter Coalition. He had felt a calling to the
priesthood as a young  man and for years he had felt called as well to be the
leader of the  poor of Greater Boston, the poor who lived amid such wealth. It
was a  crime, Boyle thought, a crime against man and against God. He had
fervently believed since his return from missionary work that he would  lead a
quiet revolution here at home. He had patiently bided his time  fully expecting
that the degenerate Stewart would have retired by  now.

But now that Boyle's chance had finally arrived, he feared that the  vehicle of
his revolution, the Coalition, was being heavily damaged.

Boyle feared he might be inheriting a burned-out organization, a shell  of what
it had once been. For the power of the Coalition was financial  and political,
and to attract money and exercise political muscle the  Coalition needed the
deep well of credibility it had always enjoyed.  Stewart's activities were a
grave threat to that credibility and Boyle  knew it. The priest also knew it was
in his self-interest and that of  the organization to do whatever could be done
to preserve the  organization's reputation. If a
perception took hold among the population that Stewart had been  nothing but a
venal crook who raped the Coalition, its sources of  money--the public, major
banks, corporations, and foundations--would  dry up.

He and Stewart had been viewed as close associates and friends.  Associates they
were, but not friends. Very few people knew, in fact,  that Father Pat Boyle had
come to despise Philip Stewart.

"Tt is so very disappointing to me, after all of the good this  in-Lstitution
has done, that for some inexplicable reason they now  appear determined to
destroy the legacy of a great man," Boyle told the  reporters who had gathered
before him outside.

"I am frankly at a loss to understand the motive, but I understand  clearly the
effect: they're robbing a dead man of his reputation. And  I find something
particularly offensive about that. A man who devoted  his life to seeking
economic justice and who is unable to defend  himself is a target of not
character assassination but legacy  assassination, I suppose you'd call it."

Boyle's assault on the Post, carried on a dozen radio news programs and  several
television news shows, brought a flood of angry callers who  shared his sense of
outrage. Throughout the morning, callers to  various radio talk programs in town
were apopletic. The lines were  jammed with people waiting not to express
disappointment in Stewart but  to heap scorn on the Post. Hosts of the programs
as well as the  overwhelming majority of callers were incensed at the newspaper
for  sullying Stewart's name.

"It's a desecration, Jerry," said a caller to one program.

"His body is still warm, in the ground a matter of days, and they  commit a
desecration. There's no other way to describe it, Jerry. What  about the
presumption of innocence, Jerry?

What about that? He was never even charged with any crimes, never  indicted,
never mind tried or convicted. Never got his day in court,  Jerry, and now this
desecration."

When Berman heard what Boyle had said, he was distressed.

"I cannot believe what I am hearing," he said.

"Did anybody in this city do more for Stewart's causes than this  newspaper?"
Cronin shook his head.

"Damn it, that pisses me off," said Berman, banging the desk with the  palm of
his hand and getting up to pace in the bullpen behind the city  desk.

Cronin sat nearby. He shrugged.

"What do you expect?" he asked in a reasoned voice.

"These people have an image of Stewart that they've carried through the  years.
They revere him as some sort of chosen one and then, suddenly,  their hero is
gone. And on top of that, as though that isn't jarring  enough to the acolytes,
two weeks later, they're informed that the guy  was a thief. They're being told
that they worshiped a false god all  this time."

"And in the meantime, who gets hurt?" Berman asked.

"We do. In the meantime, the very institution that champions the  causes in
which those assholes believe, gets hurt. Let's not kid  ourselves. This man can
damage us. He perhaps more than anyone in  town. He's got credibility. People
view him as clean, unfettered. And  we don't exactly start out with a huge
reservoir of goodwill out there.  People think we're a rung or two above
used-car salesmen. We need  every shred of credibility we can hang on to. And
Boyle can hurt us.  He goes on the tube wearing that Roman collar and people
listen."

Berman's private line rang and he grabbed it. He listened and spoke  briefly
before hanging up.

"Boyle's in the lobby," said Berman.

"Johnson's going to meet with him. He wants us there."

They gathered in Johnson's office. The editor was gracious when Boyle  arrived.

The priest shook hands with Johnson and Berman and ignored Frank  Cronin. His
face, pocked by acne, was flushed from the heat. He was  sweating through his
shirt, causing it stick to his back. He sat on an  antique bench across from
where Johnson sat in a rocking chair. Berman  and Cronin sat on a sofa off to
the side.

"I don't understand what's going on here," he said.

"I must tell you I don't get it. Philip's reputation took a very long  time to
build, and now, suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, you people  are out to destroy
it in a week," Boyle said.

"Why can't you permit his good soul to rest in peace?"

Johnson shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.
"Sometimes when we follow the news, Father, the results aren't so  pleasant,"
said Berman.

"But the point is that in a sense it's out of our hands. It isn't
discretionary. We have an obligation to follow the news, pleasant or  not."

"But with all due respect," said the priest in a low voice, "you've  gotten it
wrong. I understand you have to print the news, but you have  an obligation to
get it right. And you haven't."

The room was still. Johnson knitted his brow. Berman's heart raced.  The
possibility that the stories were somehow factually incorrect was  frightening.

The worst thing for any newspaper was getting the story wrong.

"How do you mean?" Berman asked.

"You portray Phil as venal and greedy, as out for his personal gain,"  the
priest said.

"You don't explain the whole story."

"Which is?"

"That politicians commonly bend the rules for political fundraising,"  said the
priest.

"Campaigns are very expensive. Your own paper has documented just how  expensive
and editorialized in favor of changing the way campaigns are  financed.

Here was a good man who, like so many other politicians, bent the rules  to
raise campaign funds, and you villify him."

Johnson and Berman were stunned. The idea that in his stories Cronin  had missed
the mark so wildly, that he had not reported that the funds  were for Stewart's
campaigns would be, if true, hugely embarrassing.  Clearly, there was a dramatic
difference between pressuring people for  money for campaigns and extorting
funds for personal use. Readers  would be far quicker to forgive the former.

Johnson, his visage dark, glanced at Cronin, who started to speak in  his own
defense, but Johnson swiftly cut him off.

"We're here so Father Boyle can have his say," said Johnson in a chilly  tone.

"Look," said the priest, the voice of reason, "I deplore the business  of
political fund-raising, just as I suspect you people do. But the  truth is that
many politicians in this city and all across the country  bend the rules. And so
for me, there's a choice: adhere absolutely to  the letter of the law and
perhaps
lose a man such as Phil Stewart from public life, or bend the rules  and keep
him in office doing so much good for so many people. To me,  that's an easy
call. The moral imperative demands that we do what we  must do to keep him in
office."

Boyle leaned forward on the bench.

"Am I proud of the fundraising techniques sometimes used by Phil? No.  But don't
you see a vast difference between fund-raising indiscretions  and the kind of
brutal extortion you have portrayed?"

There was a prolonged, uncomfortable silence in the room. Finally,  Berman
spoke.

"Why didn't you come talk with us after the first story ran about the  DiMasis?"

he asked.

"Because I assumed," said the priest, "that that was a one-shot deal."  He
shifted his glance to Johnson.

"I didn't expect that the Post would mount a jihad against an honorable  man in
death."

"How can you be so sure of what you're telling us?" Johnson asked.

"That it was for fundraising?"

Boyle half laughed. He spoke softly, yet with a haughty air of  certainty.

"Well, because, as I'm sure your reporter must know"--and here Boyle  turned and
looked squarely at Cronin--"I was Phil's campaign treasurer.  I handled all the
money."

In the early morning, Cronin sat at his desk in the newsroom, alone. He  could
still feel the sting of Johnson's gaze from the previous  afternoon. It was
clear that Johnson believed Boyle's version of  events. After Boyle had gone,
Cronin told Johnson he did not believe  that Stewart had been' raising money for
his campaigns. He could tell  Johnson had not believed him. Even Berman had been
shaky. How they  could view what was so obviously extortion as fund-raising was
a  mystery to him. No matter, thought Cronin. It was clear that he would  now
have to dig deeper, that he would have to prove Stewart guilty of  sins darker
than fund-raising irregularities.

The city room was hushed. In the distance, Cronin could hear the  police
scanners crackling on the city desk. He took a yellow
legal pad out of his desk and sat back, a cup of coffee nearby, and  began
making notes on the pad.

Suddenly, Cronin looked up and there, much to his surprise-it was not  yet seven
o'clock--was Lydia Wells, the woman who occupied the desk  next to his. She was
a young reporter--a "writer" was how she  introduced herself, the term reporter
was insufficiently lofty to suit  her--and she had been given plum assignments
since moving off General  Assignment a couple of years earlier. She had yet to
reach thirty.

For some reason she had taken a liking to Cronin.

"You're in early," he said cheerfully.

"I'm just leaving," she said.

"I started this piece last night right after Letterman. I've been  working on it
forever." She slid on top of her desk and sat in a lotus  position.

"The piece seems too removed for me, so far. I wish it could have the  spareness
your stuff has. Your stuff is so ... so ... gritty," she  said.

"Close to the ground."

She glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly seven.

"I'm out of here," she said, rising and grabbing her bag.

"I've got to get some sleep. But, hey," she said, turning back to face  him.

"I meant to ask you. These Stewart stories you've done, what's up with  that?"

He shrugged.

"Chasing various leads."

She tilted her head sideways.

"But, like, I don't get it. What have you got against this dude? I  mean, he's
dead." She turned to go, and said, "Lighten up."

Many law enforcement people found it embarrassing to be forced to  follow leads
that emanated from news stories, but McCormack didn't mind  in the least. He
didn't care at all, in fact, where his leads came  from. He was happy to have
any information that might bring more order  to his case.

And the Wrightways Transit article that Cronin had written certainly  helped do
that.

In a case such as this one, in fact, there was a distinct possibility  that a
front-page story in the Post about Raymond Wright being extorted  without his
knowledge might embolden others
who'd been held up by Stewart--with or without their knowledge--to  step
forward.

On the morning that Patrick Boyle and his followers demonstrated  outside the
Post, Detective McCormack arrived at the Suffolk County  Courthouse for a
meeting with Sloane about the progress--or lack  thereof--of the Stewart
investigation.

McCormack carried a packet of papers in the pocket of his suit jacket,  papers
that contained the notes he'd gathered from supervising his team  of detectives
investigating the case.

One of the sheets of paper contained McCormack's unofficial list of  suspects,
people he had even a slight reason to be suspicious about.  His instructions to
his men had been, as usual, to cast a wide net. He  wanted to include every
conceivable name on the list and then winnow it  down as the investigation
progressed. The list, of course, included  the names of Arlene DiMasi and her
husband (who had boasted to a  companion in a North End men's club that he had
done it himself,  according to a police informant; McCormack had great
difficulty  believing this--DiMasi had never been accused of a crime in his
life--but one never knew).

Numerous other names populated the list, including another councillor,
Stewart's nemesis, a right-winger named Buster Navarro, who'd opposed  virtually
every liberal initiative Stewart had proposed during his  career from an
increase in welfare to distribution of condoms in public  schools. Navarro, upon
hearing the news that Stewart was dead, had  reportedly nodded his head and
said, "Outstanding."

There were other names, people who had been crossed by Stewart during  his
career, some angry constituents in the habit of writing him nasty  letters.

But nowhere on the list was even a single name that made McCormack feel  like he
had the killer in his sights. Nowhere on the list was a name  that made
McCormack sit up and begin to assemble the pieces in his  mind.

But he was not worried. He had been doing this long enough to know  that only
the rarest homicide cases go unsolved. McCormack was a  patient man and he
believed that they would get their break in the  case. Whether that break would
come in
weeks, months, or years he did not know. Though he suspected, from  past
experience, that it would be sooner rather than later.

S" o it seems," said Sloane, holding up a copy of the Post containing  Frank's
story about Wrightways Transit, "that your secret life theory  may have
something to it."

"It makes more sense than anything else we've got," said Mack.

Sloane nodded.

"So we feel some confidence that this was not random?" Sloane said.

McCormack shrugged.

"It has none of the signs," he said.

"How many random killings have we seen in four years, five years?" he  asked.

"Two, maybe three that we've worked on," he said.

"And they all have a messy scene and there's robbery and the people are  drunk
or on drugs and sloppy and they get seen by passersby or  neighbors. They are
messy. This is clean. Surgical."

"Anything new from the scene?" Sloane asked.

"Nothing worth anything," said McCormack.

"The perp wears sneakers, Reeboks to be precise. Men's. No prints  other than
those of the deceased. Denim fibers."

"Nothing," said Sloane.

"Nothing," McCormack agreed.

"You worried?" Sloane asked.

McCormack shook his head dismissively.

"Nah," he said.

"Something'll pop up."

Sloane seemed skeptical.

"I don't know," she said.

"This has a funny feel to it."

"It does," said Mack.

"I agree. But this"--he motioned toward Frank's story about  Wrightways--"could
conceivably lead somewhere."

Sloane nodded.

"I've got a subpoena going in this afternoon for the bank records of  the
Shelter Coalition Capital Fund. But you know how reluctant banks  are to cough
up documents."

"Could be a week or two before you get what you want," he said.

"So we'll go through those very carefully and see whether
there are any leads," said Sloane.

"In the meantime, we keep interviewing friends, acquaintances, and  neighbors."

Sloane sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

"I must admit I am still not quite prepared to fully believe that  Stewart was a
bad man," she said.

"I just have a hard time reconciling the public man with these  indications of
another, darker private side."

Believe it, McCormack thought. But he did not say it.
It was fitting that the John F. Kennedy Library could be seen from the  corner
office occupied by Post editor Roy Johnson. Originally, Johnson  had hoped the
Kennedy family would realize its dream of having the  library located in
Cambridge, on a choice bit of Harvard Square real  estate overlooking the
Charles River. Kennedy had been a Harvard man,  of course, and his
administration had been populated by literally  dozens of others. But Cambridge
city leaders feared gridlock would  result from the streams of tourists the
place would surely attract, and  they resolutely resisted construction of the
library there. And so the  building wound up on a point overlooking Dorchester
Bay with a view of  Boston Harbor.

Roy Johnson was also a Harvard man, and though he had not been a member  of the
Kennedy administration, he had covered the Kennedy White House  for the Post.

Through the years, the Post had supported the Kennedy family in their  political
ambitions. And no Kennedy had been more rabidly supported  than Jack, and no
Post reporter or editor had been more accommodating  to Jack than Roy Johnson.
He had known Kennedy since the late forties,  had covered his first campaign for
Congress in 1948. As a columnist,  Johnson had been an ardent supporter of
Kennedy's run for the U.S.  Senate in 1952 against Henry Cabot Lodge. When
Kennedy was elected  president, Johnson had moved to Washington to head the Post
bureau  there. And his association with Kennedy proved magic, for access to  the
president and his men gave Johnson something enjoyed by few other
Washington journalists. Those had been Johnson's (jlory Days. So  prominent did
Johnson become in Washington circles during the Kennedy  years that he was hired
away from the Post by Time magazine to become,  initially, Time's chief
Washington correspondent and, later, the  magazine's deputy executive editor.

After Kennedy's death, he had maintained contact with other members of  the
family. Through the years, his Kennedy associations had given him  a cache of
sorts in journalistic circles. Johnson was not averse to  doing a favor for the
Kennedys now and again--writing a favorable  column, making sure an editorial
contained the Kennedy spin,  influencing a news story so that it wasn't overly
critical.

Johnson no longer fooled himself. He once thought of himself as a  political
player in Washington. It was many years before he realized  that politicians
worked him and feigned intimacy with him purely for  what they could get out of
the arrangement. Having seen his illusions  for what they were, he had left Time
and returned to Boston when the  editor's position had come open at the Post.
His plan was to live out  his career in Boston where, as editor, he had some
legitimate power. He  had the final word on hirings and firings, on assignments,
on who would  be awarded a column, on promotions, on whether stories ran and
where  they were played.

Johnson was a worldly man--well traveled, elegantly tailored. He was  of medium
height and build, with thinning reddish hair, fair skin, and  tortoiseshell
glasses that gave him an academic air.

Though Johnson had been a confidant of Stewart's--at least that is what  Stewart
had led Johnson to believe--the editor had never before had to  flex his
editorial muscle on Stewart's behalf. For the truth was that  Phil Stewart was
one of those rare politicians who seemed above  reproach and had never received
bad publicity. The councillor's death  had been a blow to Johnson, though hardly
more than the news that  Stewart had been involved in at least a couple of
corrupt ventures. He  had been shocked at the story of Stewart's extortion of
the DiMasis and  further chagrined at the Post's report on Wrightways Transit.

He had thought the stories legitimate and fairly done. But he had
recently been buried in an avalanche of criticism from people with  whom it was
important for Johnson to have a connection--the Kennedy's,  the cardinal. He had
received calls from them all--calls from four  different members of the Kennedy
family--urging him to lay off Stewart.  It was fund-raising, they claimed. It
was not pleasant or pretty, but  it was a reality of politics. Stop persecuting
a good man's memory,  they urged.

He contemplated this from his corner office where he never failed to  thrill at
the site of the alabaster lines of the library across the  way. He could ignore
many of the calls that came to him pleading mercy  for the memory of Phil
Stewart, but ignoring the Kennedys was not  something he did lightly. They had
done so much for him through the  years, provided him with a level of access and
credibility he would  otherwise never have enjoyed.

But beyond that it was through the Kennedys that he had met Gabrielle.  He sat
back in his chair, his hands clasped together and placed behind  his head,
reclining and gazing out at the bay. A smile came  involuntarily to his face.

Yes, he had met Gabrielle through the Kennedys and for that he would  remain
forever in their debt.

It had happened three years earlier, just six or so months after  Johnson had
gotten divorced from Miriam, his wife of thirty-one years.  The break had not
been in the least rancorous. Their marriage, they  both sadly realized, had
simply run out of steam. With their three  children grown and happily off on
their own, there was now no reason to  remain together. Miriam had her life, Roy
had his, and the two rarely  intersected.

The summer after their breakup, Roy had been invited to Hyannis Port  for a
weekend. Among the guests were Henri Juenot and his wife and  daughter. Juenot
was one of the leading industrialists in France, the  chairman of a conglomerate
which owned three dozen companies throughout  the world. He had once been in the
diplomatic service, posted to  Washington, where he had come to know members of
the Kennedy family.  Juenot was the product of immensely wealthy parents
renowned for their  generous support of artists and artistic institutions
throughout  France. They were also prominent Roman Catholics who had been
regular  guests of popes through the years.
But Johnson's interest that weekend in Hyannis Port was not in Henri  Juenot or
his wife, but in their daughter Gabrielle, who was then  twenty-nine years old.

Johnson believed that he fell in love with Gabrielle before he had  actually
seen her face, that he had fallen in love with a sublime,  ethereal image. He
had been seated on the terrace of one of the homes  within the compound--Ted
Kennedy's, he recalled--when he saw, across  the expansive lawn, a woman walking
alone toward the edge of the water.  It was early evening, high tide, and the
woman seemed to him, at first,  to be a vision shimmering in the setting
sunlight. She wore a long  dress, a light gauze like fabric, and as she walked
he could see the  outline of her long legs. Her hair was of medium length,
thick, and  the color of chestnuts, and she would patiently brush it away from
her  face as the sea breeze kicked up.

Johnson sat on the terrace, alone, sipping a drink and watching her  move across
the grass. He noticed she was barefoot. When she reached  the shore on the far
side of the lawn she stood for a moment in the  breeze, her back to the setting
sun, then she knelt, her head bowed.  When she rose, Johnson was not sure but he
thought he saw her make the  sign of the cross. Had she knelt in prayer? he
wondered.

She ambled back across the lawn and about halfway to the house she  glanced up
and seemed to notice him. She approached him, her face  flushed. She was tall
and so very thin. Her mouth was small, though  her lips were full and red. Her
eyes were bright and large, a rich  blue, and he noticed that her cheekbones
were high and pronounced. One  of her teeth, on the bottom, was slightly
crooked. He was relieved by  this imperfection.

"You were watching me," she said pleasantly, as she approached him.

He was startled and not sure quite what to say, so he blurted the  truth.

"I

could not help it," he confessed.

"You are very beautiful."

"Ah, you are so kind," she said, blushing slightly and glancing away.

"I am Gabrielle Juenot," she said, extending her hand.

"And you are?"

He suddenly fumbled to place his glass on a small table by his chair  and
quickly rose to introduce himself.

"Forgive me,
please," he said.

"How rude of me. My name is Roy Johnson."

"You are the newspaper man, no?" she asked.

"I am," he replied, feeling rather pleased that she knew who he was.

"That must be the most interesting sort of work, is it?" Thus began  the most
glorious relationship of his life. Roy Johnson had always  been a rational man,
never one who permitted his emotions to rule.  Throughout his life he had taken
the measure of whatever situation  faced him, personal or professional, and made
a careful, considered  judgment.

But from the moment he met Gabrielle, from that weekend in Hyannis Port  on, Roy
Johnson was overwhelmed by a pure passion he had never before  experienced.

Initially, he thought it a lustful infatuation. But as time passed and  as he
began to see her more frequently--for dinner or lunch or a  weekend stroll in
the city--he became aware that his desire was not for  her beauty, her
body--though he greatly desired it. It was a far  greater, more profound passion
simply to be with her, in her  presence.

He loved her, he realized, in a way and with a depth utterly unfamiliar  to him.

He revealed none of this to her, of course. He was, in fact, deathly  afraid of
spooking her, and he was sick with the thought that she kept  company with him
only to bide her time until a younger, more suitable  man, a more appropriate
marriage candidate, came along. But it soon  became clear she was doing no such
thing. Gabrielle, it turned out,  loved him as well.

In those first weeks and months they spent time together he learned  much about
Gabrielle: that she had taken a degree in art history at the  Sorbonne, that she
had eclectic tastes that ran from El Greco to Paul  Klee. When it came to the
art world, Roy Johnson was on less than  solid footing and he enjoyed learning
from her, was grateful for her  lack of pretension on the subject. He loved that
she was a physical  fitness fanatic, that she had been close to an Olympic-level
skier  until she tore the cartilage in a knee.

And he learned, most importantly, that at the center of her life, the  thing
that grounded her and from which she drew immense strength and  joy, was her
faith.
Notwithstanding her disagreements with Church policy on matters such  as birth
control, she was a devout Roman Catholic who attended Mass  four, even five,
times a week.

Johnson had himself been raised a Catholic. But there was a problem.  Both
Johnson and his first wife were Catholics and they had married in  a church
ceremony. Though they were divorced, the Church still  recognized their marriage
as valid.

That Gabrielle would marry in a civil, not a religious ceremony, was
inconceivable. The solution was obvious: Johnson would petition for an
annulment of his first marriage, clearing the way for him to marry  Gabrielle in
the Church. Such a procedure had become common, and when  Johnson initiated the
process, he did some research and found that he  could reasonably expect to have
the marriage annuled in twelve to  fourteen months.

But then came the bad news. During his first meeting with the pastor  of his
church, he got inklings that the Church was cracking down on  annulments. The
pastor told him a new man had been installed as vicar  of the Tribunal of the
Archdiocese of Boston. The man had come with a  mandate to cut back on
annulments. In subsequent meetings with his  pastor and in phone conversations
with influential Catholics he knew,  Johnson learned that there was indeed a
crackdown in the making. He  was told that officials at the Vatican had been
watching with mounting  chagrin as the Church in the United States let the
number of annulments  get out of hand. It got to the point where the U.S. Church
accounted  for 80 percent of all the annulments granted in the world.

In Rome, this was regarded as a scandal. Making matters worse for  Johnson was
the fact that the diocese that led the United States in  annulments was none
other than Boston, the place that would first be  targeted for far more
stringent regulations.

This was terribly disheartening news for Roy Johnson and Gabrielle  Juenot.

Nonetheless, they proceeded. After sixteen months, the process had not  budged.

Worse yet, Miriam decided to oppose the annulment. She did not want  her
marriage, though dissolved under Massachusetts law, to be dissolved  in
the eyes of God. Her opposition would only make it more difficult for  Roy and
Gabrielle. It was an intolerable situation for Royjohnson. His  future with
Gabrielle depended upon a judgment made by a cleric in an  elegant Georgian
manse in Boston where the vicar and his staff were  housed. And Roy Johnson, who
throughout his career had easy access to  councils of power, could not penetrate
the walls of the manse. Until  Father Patrick Boyle came along.

On the morning after the encounter with Father Boyle, Berman arrived at  work to
find a message on his computer that Johnson wished to see him  as soon as he
arrived. After getting a cup of coffee, Berman headed to  Johnson's office.

Though the Post building was modern, and the addition housing the city  room was
only three years old, Johnson's office was furnished with  colonial antiques.
His desk was made of heavy, dark mahogany. There  was a Shaker-style wooden
bench, severe in appearance and as  uncomfortable as it looked, against one
wall. Along another wall was  an overstuffed sofa with hunter green fabric.
Recessed shelves were  lined with books and displayed Johnson's prized
collection of antique  decoys. Scattered throughout the office were seven
photographs of  Gabrielle. The two remaining walls were sheer glass, floor to
ceiling.

When Berman entered Johnson's office, the editor was sitting in a  walnut
rocking chair reading that morning's New York Times. The stack  of papers beside
the chair indicated that Johnson had already been  through the Record, the Wall
Street Journal, and, of course, the Post.  Johnson dropped the Times on a coffee
table nearby and leaned back in  his chair. He was wearing a navy blue,
lightweight wool suit. The  pants were pleated, the jacket, draped over the back
of his chair, was  double-breasted. He wore black tasseled English loafers and
yellow  silk suspenders.

The two men exchanged greetings and Johnson queried Berman about a  couple of
minor personnel matters. Then he got to the point.

"What did you make of Boyle?" Johnson asked Berman.

Berman shook his head dismissively.

"I don't believe him."
Johnson seemed surprised.

"On what basis?" he demanded.

"Viscerally, I just don't believe him," said Berman.

"In my gut."

"Seemed pretty goddamned persuasive to me," Johnson said in a gruff  tone.

Johnson's face tightened.

"How many pieces have we done on this?" Johnson asked.

"Just the two," replied Berman, who thought Johnson knew full well how  many
there'd been.

"Refresh my memory," said Johnson.

"The first one .. ."

"... broke the news that the feds had looked at Stewart," said  Berman.

"That was the caterer?" Johnson asked.

"The Italian woman?"

"DiMasi, yes," said Berman.

"And yesterday. Wrightways Transit. That's it. Two stories. And  Boyle calls it
a jihad."

Johnson's brow wrinkled. He seemed to be trying to remember more.

"You sure there wasn't another one?"

Berman laughed uncomfortably.

"Of course I'm sure, Roy."

"Seems like more," said Johnson.

He knows damn well exactly how many stories there have been, Berman  thought.

Berman had given Johnson a heads up before the DiMasi story had run. He  had
heard nothing in return. Since Johnson was only involved in the  day-to-day
selection of stories when he chose to be, that was not  unusual. The routine
work of choosing which stories would run and,  most important, selecting the six
or seven stories which would get  page-one play fell to Berman and three other
editors. After the  page-one calls were made each evening, Berman decided what
stories to  put on the Metro Front, the newspaper's second section, where much
of  the local and regional news appeared.

"No, it's been just the two stories," Berman said.

"Both on one?" Johnson asked, referring to page one.

Jesus, thought Berman.

"Yes, Roy, both on one."

"Below the fold?"

"Both below the fold, yes."

"Do we have any proof that the money was for Stewart's personal use?"  Johnson
asked.

Berman paused.

"Personal as opposed to campaign funds?" Berman asked.
"Yes," said the editor.

"No," said Berman, "I suppose we don't have absolute, hard proof."

Johnson rose from his chair and moved to the window. After a moment,  he turned
toward Berman, placed his hands in his pockets, and said,  "What's going on
here, Howard?"

Berman gave a look of surprise.

"With what, Roy?"

"Don't we customarily leave the dead alone?"

Berman considered the question for a moment, then he looked out the  window,
toward Dorchester Bay, and nodded his head toward the library  building.

"Not always," he said.

"JFK has been trashed in death."

"Decades after his passing, Howard. This is weeks."

"OK, Roy," Berman conceded.

"It is soon. I have some slight discomfort with that. I'd prefer some  more
distance. But what are we supposed to do when Cronin comes in  with a story--on
the record from the victims and confirmed by the

U.S.

Attorney's office--that this supposedly pious man was under  investigation? That
he extorted money from a mom-and-pop catering  operation? What do I say to
Frank, other than nice job, when he then  digs through the fucking records and
uncovers an extortion scheme so  brilliantly concealed that the guy being
extorted wasn't even aware he  was being ripped off?"

Berman was on the edge of his chair now, waving his arms wildly in the  air,
gesticulating, his face flushed, furious that Johnson was somehow  calling into
question the stories. But then, suddenly, Berman caught  himself.

"I don't mean to get excited, Roy, but these are nothing but great
stories--that we have alone, let's not forget--and it bothers me, quite
frankly, that you call them into question. We can believe that priest  or our
own reporter. I prefer to believe our own man, to be honest  with you."

Johnson was motionless. He sat back in his chair, his hands folded on  his lap.

He studied Berman, then looked out the window over the rushing traffic  and
toward the library. A flock of herring gulls swooped lazily above  the building
in the balmy summer air. Johnson turned back toward  Berman with a puzzled look
on his face.

"What's Cronin up to?" he asked.
"How do you mean, Roy?" asked Berman, struggling to compose  himself.

"What's his agenda?" Johnson asked.

Oh, what a fucking asshole you are, Berman thought. It was plain to  Berman not
only that Johnson was questioning the integrity of the  paper's best reporter,
but he was also subtly taunting Berman. The  city editor would not be lured into
such a trap.

"His agenda?" said Berman, his distaste for the word apparent. He  smiled,
thinly, and spoke in a crisp tone.

"He's just trying to do what he's always done, Roy. Come up with good  stories.
That's all." Berman forced another smile.

The editor of the Boston Post shot a sharply disapproving glance at  Berman.

He walked around behind his desk and put on his jacket.

"I've got a meeting down front," he said, walking Berman out of his  office.

"Let's be careful on this, Howard. The man is dead."

Donald Deegan was asleep in the easy chair in his den when he was  awakened by a
tapping sound. He could not place it at first, but then  determined that it was
coming from the kitchen door to his house. He  rose with some effort and
shuffled through the den. It was dark  outside, and he could see by the clock
that it was nearly midnight.  Deegan peered through the glass and made out the
shape of a man. He  flicked on the porch light and saw that it was none other
than the  Pious One, Father Patrick Boyle.

Deegan unbolted the lock and opened the door.

"We need to talk," said the priest.

"Ah, as civilized as ever," said Deegan.

"Come in, padre. No advance call. You arrive at an inhospitable hour  and
without even the slightest pretension of a greeting. A joy to be  in your
presence."

It was as though Boyle had not heard Deegan.

"I didn't want to be seen," he said, an apparent explanation for his  arrival at
the rear door under cover of darkness.

Deegan rebelled the door and led the priest into the den. Deegan sat
and reached down beside the chair for the hose emanating from his  portable
oxygen supply. He placed the mouthpiece on his nose and mouth  and took several
deep breaths.

Boyle took a seat opposite Deegan without waiting to be asked. He was  dressed
in a T-shirt and black polyester slacks, bagged in the knees,  worn shiny in the
seat. He wore black canvas Converse All-Star  high-top sneakers.

"Did he leave a document with you concerning me?" the priest asked.

Deegan regarded the younger man. So pious. Such an unpleasant  fanatic. But
Deegan had not responded promptly enough for Boyle's  liking.

"Are you deaf?" Boyle barked.

Deegan laughed out loud.

"Deaf?" he said.

"Deaf, no. My lungs don't work too well, nor my eyes, legs, or cock.  But my
ears are fine, thank you for asking, padre."

Boyle did not so much as crack a smile.

"Did he leave a document?" Boyle asked.

"Not with me," said Deegan.

"And even if he had, the law requires that his estate be probated  before any
asset is dispersed. Can't help ya, I'm afraid." He added  with a smile.

"Much as I'd like to."

Boyle leaned forward on his chair, his face growing increasingly tense.  He used
his hands and spoke slowly as though trying to communicate with  a child.

"He left a letter in which he asks the Coalition board to elect me  chairman,"
said Boyle.

"He told me he placed it with you."

Deegan thought for a moment, as though trying to recall.

"When did he tell you that?" Deegan asked.

"Recently," said the priest.

"What's your definition of recently?" Deegan asked.

"Last week," said Boyle.

Deegan nodded.

"Last week," he repeated.

"And he said he'd written a letter recommending you to the board?"

"Yes."

"And he said he'd given that to me?" Deegan asked.

"The original," said Boyle.

"He showed me a copy. I insisted on seeing the text."
Deegan wondered why Boyle had really come to see him, showed up  unannounced at
midnight at the back door. Deegan knew that Boyle, as  vice chairman of the
Coalition, was all but assured election by the  board, which had been
hand-picked by Stewart. Whether Stewart left a  letter was hardly a matter of
consequence, never mind urgency.

"Ah, yes," said Deegan.

"I seem to remember something that may have been along those lines.  Give me a
day or two to look through the files and I'll get back to  you."

Boyle nodded lamely, but did not move. He hesitated, then asked, "Did  he
mention the Capital Fund?"

Deegan took a hit off his air hose and considered the question.

"In what regard?"

Deegan could see that Boyle was stuck. The priest did not know how  much Deegan
knew. He did not want to impart information through his  questioning.

"Protecting it," said Boyle.

"Protecting the assets."

"In what respect?"

"Protecting the assets from harm," said Boyle.

"You puzzle me, padre," said Deegan.

"As Stewart's finance chairman, you would have knowledge of such  matters."

Boyle was suddenly red-faced.

"Those funds must not be put in jeopardy," said the priest.

"I have plans for that money, every cent of it. A shelter to  construct, an AIDS
hospice, nutritional outreach, a wellness clinic,  and more.

Much more! I've waited my turn, Donald, and I won't be denied the  opportunity
that is rightfully mine to do good! I will not be denied  that right!"

Deegan would now play father confessor.

"Of course not, padre," he said in a soothing tone.

"You should not be denied that right. But help me understand the  context here."

"We had a goddamned deal," said the priest, "that I would gain control  of the
funds when he retired."

"Of which funds, exactly?" Deegan asked.

"All Coalition funds, but most importantly the Capital Fund."

Deegan shrugged, as though at a loss.

"And what is it you would like me to do, padre," Deegan asked.

Father Boyle was calmer now. He spoke softly. He looked at Deegan as  though
regarding some lower life form.
"Larger issues are at stake here, Donald," said Boyle.

"Be very careful. There is a greater good to be served and you would  be
ill-advised to be an obstructionist. Protect the funds, Donald.  Just protect
the funds."

rank Cronin had worked with Scot Lehman in Tucson when they were both  eager
young reporters breaking into the business. After Tucson, Lehman  went on to law
school then to a job at the Justice Department in  Washington, where he had
specialized in white-collar organized crimes.  Eventually he made his way to
Massachusetts, where he joined the State  Banking Commission's legal department,
working his way up to chief  counsel in only a few years. The two men had stayed
in touch over time  and got together socially every few months. On two previous
occasions,  Cronin had sought out Lehman on a story and Lehman had been eager to
assist his friend. It was, of course, expressly contrary to the law  for Lehman
to reveal any of this information to Cronin. In fact, when  Cronin had first
started out in the business, he had been surprised by  the frequency and ease
with which people in government broke the law to  help reporters. Prosecuting
attorneys, legislators, and staff members  of every conceivable government
agency at the state, local, and federal  level routinely ignored laws
prohibiting them from divulging certain,  supposedly privileged, information. He
had so often been the  beneficiary of such leaks that he did not complain,
though he had  sometimes thought that doing a story on just this phenomena would
make  for fascinating reading.

On the sultry summer day that Royjohnson met with Howard Berman, Cronin  sought
Lehman's help in probing the life of Philip Stewart. Cronin  needed proof that
the money Stewart extorted was for personal use. And  it was clear to Cronin
that Johnson wouldn't publish another word about  Stewart until there was such
proof.

Lehman was familiar with the stories Cronin had written and had found  the
information about Wrightways Transit particularly intriguing, since  it involved
the banking industry and possible fraud. Within a matter  of days, Lehman had
culled out of the
Banking Commission's powerful computers two years' worth of activity  on the
Shelter Coalition Capital Fund account.

When he was finished, he called Cronin. Lehman sounded nervous on the
telephone.

He said he was sorry but he would not be able to talk about what he had  found.

Cronin was irked by this. The reporter pointed out that he had brought  the
original information to Lehman and that he would never have  conducted a
computer search had it not been for Cronin's spade work.

"I can't be seen with you," Lehman said, his voice edgy.

Cronin was now taken aback.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Don't be so fucking cavalier, Frank," Lehman said angrily.

"This is my livelihood."

Cronin could hear the fear in Lehman's voice.

"Look," he said, "I'm sorry. But this is very important to me. All I  ask is
that you give me the information you've got. Then I won't  bother you again. I
promise."

Lehman hesitated.

"You remember the Greek's in Roslindale Square?" Cronin asked. It was  a
hole-in-the-wall bar they'd been to a few times years earlier.

"How about we meet there after work and talk?" Frank asked.

"Jesus, Frank," said Lehman.

"I wouldn't ask you to do this unless it was extremely important," said  Cronin.

Lehman reluctantly agreed.

"Do you think it's safe?" he asked.

"Absolutely," said Cronin.

"See you there at six."

The Greek's was housed in a nondescript, one-story building in  Roslindale
Square, a bus stop directly in front. There was no sign on  the place, no
indication even that it was a tavern, but there was no  need of a sign--beyond
the locals and regulars, no one else ever  darkened the door of the place.

When Frank arrived a few minutes before six, there were a dozen men at  the bar.

The place was long and narrow and erratically lit. The bar ran down  the right
side and on the left side were scattered tables of varying  styles. Some round,
some square,
most with chairs, a few without. In the rear was a larger room with a  pool
table.

Frank went to a table in the back left-hand side of the room, set  apart,
protected by a corner of the wall and a cigarette machine that  jutted out.

Frank went up to the bar, got two Buds, and brought them to the table.  A moment
later Scot Lehman arrived. He had removed his jacket and tie  and looked
furtively around the room as he made his way to the table.  He was clearly
nervous.

Lehman frowned and peered into the back room.

"You think this is safe?" he asked, yet again.

Cronin nodded, looking steadily at his friend.

"I need your word that none of this leaks to anyone, Frank," said  Lehman.

Frank nodded.

"You have it," he said.

"I could get fired for telling you any of this," said Lehman.

"Nobody will know," said Cronin.

"Nobody will ever know."

"The DA's office doesn't even have this information yet, neither does  the AG,"
said Lehman.

"Nobody does."

Cronin studied his friend. Something was wrong here.

"This isn't like you," Cronin said.

"You're scared of something and I don't think it's losing your job."

Lehman's jaw was tight. His eyes were narrowed, his brow furrowed.

"This doesn't feel good to me," Lehman said.

"All we're doing is having a conversation," said Frank.

"No, this"--and with that, Lehman clutched his notes-- "This doesn't  feel good
to me."

Cronin looked puzzled.

Lehman leaned forward, hunched over the wobbly table, "There's  something really
wrong here." He spoke only slightly above a  whisper.

"Something that scares you," said Frank.

Lehman nodded.

"What?

"Frank asked.

Lehman shook his head.

"I don't know," he said.

"I don't know where it leads. I don't know what's underneath the  layers of
camouflage."
"What are you saying?" Frank asked.

Lehman began to speak and then caught himself. He took a deep  breath.

"Let me go through it with you," he said.

Cronin nodded.

Lehman glanced down at the notes and looked up at Frank.

"There's way too much activity in this account," Lehman said, "and the  sort of
traffic in it doesn't feel right. With a standard capital  account you'd expect
only a few deposits a year.

"There are deposits here in excess of $5,000 each, probably four or  five times
a month. The guy from Wrightways is in here, twice a year  for each of the past
two years. Each payment totals slightly more than  $9,000" "That's what Ray
Wright said, nine grand and change each time,"  said Cronin.

"There's a freight company I noticed making regular deposits--five in  the past
two years," said Lehman.

"There's a truck leasing company doing the same."

Two men got up from the bar and came toward their table. Lehman froze  and
leaned his arms over his notes. The men walked past and into the  back room
where they began playing pool.

"Usually with accounts like these, the charity is trying to maximize  its
investment while, at the same time, making sure none of it is put  at anything
more than minimal risk. So you'll usually see them in zero  coupon bonds,
Treasury bills."

"But some of this money is in risky ventures?"

"That's the problem," said Lehman.

"You can't tell from this really where it is.

It's going to a shell, a real estate trust where the true identity of  the
person or persons in control is camouflaged."

"Is that legal?" asked Cronin.

"In Massachusetts it is," said Lehman.

"It's one of a very few states. And it was only a few years ago that  the
legislature changed the statute to allow them.

They're controversial because it's a convenient way to hide illicit  funds."

"How so?" asked Cronin.

"A real estate trust is actually very simple," said Lehman.

"It's a legal entity that must file with the state like any other legal  entity.
Except the only name attached to it is a trustee--a front
man basically. The entity that received most of the money is called  Empire
Realty Trust. The trustee is Donald Deegan."

This was very interesting--the man who discovered Stewart's body now  turned up
as the trustee on a secret Stewart financial deal.

"These sorts of trusts vary," said Lehman.

"With some, the trustee is nothing more than a front, usually the  lawyer who
established the trust. But in other cases the trustee is  also a beneficiary,
though you can't readily determine that. The  beneficiary or beneficiaries of
the trust, the person who actually  controls its funds, could be anybody.
Deegan, Stewart, anyone. It  can't be determined by viewing any public document.
It also can't be  determined what Empire owns. Could be a vacant lot, could be
the  Empire State Building."

"There's no way to find out the beneficiary?"

"Not through public records," said Lehman.

"You'd need to subpoena records of the lawyer who established it."

"Why would a charitable organization seek to mask the true owner and  why, of
all things, would they invest in real estate?" Cronin asked.

"If the trust's assets are in fact in real estate," said Lehman.

The front door to the bar opened and three men entered. One who wore a  suit,
looked around as though searching for someone. Lehman's heart  raced. But soon
the fellow spotted whoever he was looking for playing  pool.

"In the past two years, more than $1.3 million in cash has moved  through this
account," Lehman said.

"That's in addition to the money from Wrightways Transit, from the  freight and
trucking companies. Cash. Numerous instances, and every  single one under the
$10,000 level that triggers federal reporting.  Every one.

Nearly all in the $9,500 range. All cash."

"Which means?"

Lehman's eyes were dark. He stared at his friend.

"I worked on enough of these cases while I was at Justice to see the  pattern,"
he said.

Lehman glanced nervously around the room. His face glistened with  sweat.

"It's classic," Lehman said.

"They were laundering cash.
Whoever was involved with this was laundering money, and substantial  amounts.

These aren't the types of people who you want to be dealing with,  Frank.
They're bad people, they hurt people without a second thought.  Maybe Stewart
crossed them somehow. Got in their way. And look what  happened to him."

Lehman held Cronin's gaze.

"Don't you get in their way, Frank," said Lehman.

"You're sure Stewart was involved?" Cronin asked.

"He's the only signatory on the account," said Lehman.

"No question he was involved."

Cronin sat impassively.

Lehman grew agitated.

"It's a brilliant criminal scheme," he said.

"Philip Stewart, a man above reproach, was using a charitable account  under his
control to launder cash. There couldn't be a better cover  for dirty money than
the cause of homelessness and no better conduit  than a man as far above
suspicion as Stewart."

Cronin took it all in, savoring it, thrilled with the moment, with the  rush he
felt at the news. He had struck gold and he knew it.
Dockerty has been sighted in the city and the curiosity ofDet. Thomas  McCormack
has been aroused. McCormack sat at his desk in the corner of  a crowded room
housing homicide detectives and ran his finger down a  typewritten list of
names.

The list was a compilation of names collected by detectives during the  course
of scores of interviews. In each interview the detectives would  seek to
determine whether Stewart had any enemies. Researchers  assigned to the homicide
unit had also combed through Stewart's  political history searching for any
incident that might have caused  someone to want Stewart harmed. The list
included two members of the  City Council with whom Stewart had frequently
clashed. Listed as well  were the DiMasis, a former employee at the Shelter
Coalition, a  mentally unbalanced individual Stewart had dismissed from a
Council  staff job, and several people who had been targets of Council
committees he had chaired.

Mick Dockerty fell into the last category. His had been one of the  first names
placed on the list in the days immediately following the  murder. An inmate at
the state's maximum security prison at Walpole, a  man who had been a police
informant on and off for years, told  investigators that Dockerty had confided
in him two years earlier that  he intended to kill Stewart. Such tips from
convicts were notoriously  unreliable, and McCormack had treated this one with
indifference.

But Dockerty's name was kept on the list because he had, in fact, been
fired from his job as a guard at a city jail due to an investigation  by a
Stewart-led committee which had concluded that Dockerty was  probably
responsible for the beating death of an inmate. Dockerty had  at no point been
under active investigation by the detectives probing  the death of Councillor
Stewart, but now that word came that Dockerty  was back in Boston after a
lengthy absence, McCormack wanted a closer  look.

McCormack had received reports that a man fitting Dockerty's  description had
been seen in the neighborhood of Stewart's Moss Hill  home. One neighbor who
lived a half dozen houses up the street from  Stewart called police to say he
had seen the same man, whom he  described as short and musclebound with closely
cropped black hair and  a diamond stud in one ear, several times in the vicinity
of Stewart's  home. Another neighbor said she had seen a man fitting that
description park a black BMW several streets away from Stewart's and  then walk
down the hill in the direction of Stewart's home. She had  seen the same man do
that twice in three days, the woman said.

On the basis of this information, McCormack assigned two plainclothes  officers
to stake out the Stewart home. Two nights later, Dockerty  appeared. He parked
the BMW several streets away and ambled leisurely  down the hill to Stewart's.
He stood across the street and watched the  house for just a moment, then he
circled around the block to the back  of the lot and looked through the row of
hedges. He then returned to  his car and drove away.

McCormack was puzzled. Was Dockerty looking to determine whether the  house was
under surveillance? Whether it was alarmed? What was he up  to?

McCormack guided his Crown Vie on to Storrow Drive from Berkeley Street  and
headed out Boylston, past Fenway, along the Jamaicaway out to West  Roxbury. He
pulled off onto a side street and parked in a prearranged  spot. A young
detective, O'Toole, climbed into the front seat.

"He's still in the house," O'Toole said.

"Been inside now for twenty minutes. I called you the minute he went  in the
door." The young cop paused and added, "I mean, I know whose  house it is."
McCormack nodded his appreciation.

"My partner's watching the house now," O'Toole said.

"It's one or two streets over from here?" McCormack asked.

"Two," O'Toole replied.

"How long you on him?" McCormack asked.

"All last night," said O'Toole.

"He was out to the clubs until closing. Then to the hotel."

"Which one?"

"Four Seasons," said O'Toole.

"Who was with him today?" McCormack asked.

"Stanton and Dix," said O'Toole.

"Then we picked him up a few hours ago. Stanton said he was at the  hotel all
day. Worked out in the weight room, ate, slept."

Suddenly the radio on O'Toole's belt crackled. His partner's voice  said, "He's
on the way out."

"Gotta run," said O'Toole, jumping out of McCormack's car and racing to  his
own.

The BMW headed out of West Roxbury, through Jamaica Plain. McCormack,  following
O'Toole, who was tailing Dockerty, radioed to O'Toole's car:  "I'm in the
parade."

"Roger," came the reply.

Dockerty led them across Jamaica Plain, along Columbus Avenue toward  the South
End. In these neighborhoods, McCormack instinctively locked  his car doors. His
windows were closed, the air conditioner running  steadily. Outside, along the
dirty boulevard, people sat on the stoops  of brick and cinderblock apartment
buildings. Off to McCormack's right  was a sprawling public housing project with
its prison-style  architecture and music blaring so loudly McCormack could hear
it  through tightly shut windows. As a young beat cop he had been assigned  to
this area and he'd chased dozens of kids into that project. But  once inside it
was like the catacombs. The residents who knew the  tunnels always found a way
to elude police. McCormack drove on,  keeping O'Toole's car within sight. At the
intersection of Columbus  and Massachusetts Avenue hundreds of people were
hanging on the street  corners outside the sub and coffee shops, outside the
liquor stores and  bars.

Dockerty drove through more gentrified sections of the South
End, past well-maintained, bow-front brick town houses. But at West  Newton
Street he turned right and headed into a more rundown section.  The farther he
drove the more blighted the surroundings. Dockerty  turned onto Pembroke Street,
followed it to the end and parked on the  street. McCormack was more than a full
block back and could not see  Dockerty, but when the detective saw O'Toole's car
slip to the side of  the road, he stopped, too. A moment later, O'Toole
approached  McCormack's car and spoke through the driver's-side window.

"He went into one-oh-three," O'Toole said.

"One-oh-three," McCormack repeated.

"Yeah."

"This is Pembroke, right?" McCormack asked, to double check.

"Pembroke, right," said O'Toole.

One-oh-three Pembroke. McCormack knew the address. He knew who lived  there,
upstairs over the first-floor soup kitchen.

O'Toole fidgeted.

"What's up with this dude?" he asked.

McCormack shrugged. He wished he knew.

After a few minutes, McCormack got out of the Crown Vie.

"I'm going for a walk," he told O'Toole.

"Then I'm heading back. Stay with him, OK? Anything strange, call  me."

"Roger."

McCormack walked slowly down the block, limping moderately, the pain in  his leg
tolerable this night. He felt lucky. He made his way past a  doorway where two
winos shared a bottle and where a third lay on the  steps, asleep. He stood in
an adjacent doorway and watched 103 for a  few moments. In the hallway, he saw
Dockerty and Boyle talking.

McCormack spent part of the morning reviewing a background report on  Dockerty.

The detective arrived at Sloane's office shortly after noon. He  entered a back
hallway, bypassing the reception area, through a small  law library, past
cubicles occupied by Sloane's staff, and into her  office. She was speaking on
the telephone when he arrived and she  motioned for him to be seated at a long
metal conference table.
Sloane's quarters in the Pemberton Square Court House in Boston, two  blocks to
the rear of the State House, were similar to all of the other  department heads
in the office of the Suffolk County District Attorney.  It was long and narrow,
with one large dirty window overlooking a  dreary courtyard nine stories below.
Once a splendid garden, it had  long since deteriorated into a parking lot for
judges.

On the walls were brightly colored Lichtenstein prints. On Sloane's  neatly kept
metal desk were a half dozen family photographs, mostly  summer scenes from
Maine. One photo, her favorite, had been taken on  the porch of the family
summer house in Cape Elizabeth. There were her  parents, Sloane, and her sister,
Alice.

It had been taken the night of their mother's fiftieth birthday.

McCormack pulled a sheaf of papers from a large manila envelope and  laid them
on the conference table. He pretended to review them as he  half watched Sloane
in conversation with a defense lawyer about a  negotiated plea in a manslaughter
case. She was wearing a navy blue  raw silk suit, her skirt to the knee, black
pumps, and her hair pulled  back with a blue headband. She wore rimless glasses
and little makeup  and McCormack took delight in watching her, for he thought
she was an  exquisite beauty.

Sloane placed the phone in its receiver and looked up at McCormack.

"You don't, by chance, happen to have any good news, do you, Mack?" she  asked.

McCormack glanced down at his notes and began.

"You remember the inmate I mentioned to you a couple of days after the  murder?"

"The one claiming he'd heard someone planning to kill Stewart," said  Sloane.

McCormack nodded.

"We put him on the list, but you know how cons are. I don't think  twice about
it, though I send O'Toole over to see him, just to get it  on the record. This
character, Leach, says he was with a wise guy  named Dockerty some time
back--over a year ago, now--and Dockerty told  him he was planning to do
Stewart."

"Did he say why?" Sloane asked.
"Leach told O'Toole he didn't remember exactly the reason .. ."

"Sounds almost honest, Mack," said Sloane.

"He says he remembered something about Dockerty saying that Stewart had  shafted
him somehow. That was all. Leach said Dockerty either never  gave him more of an
explanation or Leach has forgotten it."

"Did he say when this was?" Sloane asked.

McCormack shook his head.

"Again, not clear," he said.

"O'Toole gets the impression it's some years ago now. Which makes  sense. I had
some digging done on Dockerty and it turns out there's  some unpleasant history
between him and Stewart."

Sloane straightened in her chair, clearly interested in what McCormack  was
saying.

"Oh?"

"Do you remember the guard at Deer Island who supposedly beat up the  inmate who
died? It was in '87. There was an investigation by the  Council, suspicions the
inmate was beaten to death. Remember that?"

"Dockerty was the guard?" Sloane asked.

McCormack nodded.

"One of four escorting this kid," he said.

"They all tell the grand jury the same story. That they're moving the  kid to
the infirmary and he falls down the stairs. But privately one  of the guards
tells our guys that Dockerty beat the kid senseless.  Carey's his name, from
West Roxbury. Dockerty has had some trouble  before. Suspended a couple of times
for fights with inmates. This  other guard who talks to us says the kid, Carey,
complained that  Dockerty was shoving him along the hallway too hard and
Dockerty  punched him.

Says he thinks that's the end of it. But then Dockerty pounces on the  kid and
before they can peel him off he smashes the kid up. Then  shoves him down a
flight of stairs."

"And the screws won't testify against Dockerty, will they, Mack?" said  Sloane.

McCormack shook his head.

"They protect their own, plus they're intimidated.

Whether Dockerty explicitly threatens them, who knows? But he's a  scary guy.

About thirty, pumped up like Schwarzenegger. Walking steroid bomb.  Plus,
there's talk that he works on the side for some wiseguys in the  North End."
"And Stewart's place in all this?" Sloane asked, a barely detectable  note of
impatience in her voice.

"The grand jury returns no indictments," said McCormack.

"The guards walk.

Naturally, the kid's family is outraged. His father knows Stewart and  goes to
him with the whole story. Stewart gets our files--he's not  supposed to have
access to them, but he has friends--and sets up a  Council committee to
investigate. He's chairman and he's not fooling  around. This isn't window
dressing. He calls a series of witnesses,  including Dockerty, but because the
committee doesn't have subpoena  power, Dockerty and the other guards don't
show.

This pisses Stewart off even more. They go through a few days of  public
hearings, but the real work is done privately with our files.  Stewart and a
couple of the others are convinced Dockerty batted the  boy around. The
committee ends up calling for Dockerty's dismissal and  he's axed soon after
that."

McCormack frowned.

"Then Dockerty vanishes. Within days, literally, he's gone.

No trace. Then, just as suddenly, he reappears. Driving a new BMW,  nice
clothes, the works."

McCormack shifted his position in the chair.

"We put a tail on him and night before last where is he but in the  vicinity of
Stewart's house."

Sloane screwed up her face.

"How odd," she said.

"What on earth for?"

McCormack shrugged.

"Strange," said Sloane, "but hardly a crime."

"There's something stranger," said McCormack.

"Last night we tail him and he stops at two locations. At each stop  for
fifteen, twenty minutes."

He paused and looked at Sloane.

"His first stop was in West Roxbury. He visited Donald Deegan at  home."

Sloane's eyes widened and she cocked her head, taken utterly by  surprise.

"After that, he drove to the South End and paid a call on Father  Patrick
Boyle."
McCormack was alone in his apartment at three A.M." listening to the  steady hum
from his window air conditioner. Outside the air was dense  with humidity. He
had been awakened by a thunderstorm around one and  been unable to get back to
sleep.

He lay in bed in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, sweat dried around the  neck band
He flicked on the bedside lamp and swung his feet onto the  floor. He rose,
unsteadily, placing most of his weight on his left  leg, but nonetheless feeling
the pain slice through his right knee.

"Jesus," he whispered, surprised as he so often was by the intensity of  the
pain.

He put on a pair of lightweight slacks and sneakers and went into the  kitchen.

He felt wide awake but not altogether steady on his feet. He squinted  against
the glare of the kitchen light. The Canadian Club was on the  counter, a
tumbler, nearly empty, at its side. He had had two or  three, he could not
recall which and was bothered by his failure of  memory. It had not been a good
day. At work, he had been unable to  stop thinking about Stewart. He had arrived
home a few minutes after  seven that evening and gone directly to the liquor
cabinet and downed  his first, a full tumbler, no water, no ice. The liquid, the
tawny  color of a worn leather belt, calmed him and immediately had a slight
taming effect on the raw nerves in his knee. He recalled that with the  next
drink he had downed two Percocets. Twenty-five minutes later--not  yet eight
P.M.--he had gone into the air-conditioned bedroom, stripped  to his
underclothes, and lay down on the bed. Two drinks, he thought.  It must have
been two. Two full tumblers. Then he was out on the bed.  The next thing he
remembered was the storm, claps of thunder, flashes  of lightning, the torrent.
He had tried to fall back into the bliss of  sleep but his knee throbbed so and
his mind was moving and he could  rest no more.

On the sidewalk outside, he felt the familiar ache that came in his  head from
the combination of alcohol and painkillers. The air was  still humid, though
slightly cooler than it had been earlier. Thin  vapors of steam rose up from the
wet pavement. The neighborhood was  quiet. McCormack could hear a car in the
distance, out on the main  road a quarter mile away. He moved
slowly along the sidewalk in the gait he had developed after the  shooting. He
would step forward with his left leg, then move his right  leg in an awkward
motion that was half step and half drag, pulling it  even with his left foot. He
would repeat that over and over again. For  McCormack, that was now what was
loosely termed walking.

He struggled down to the corner, less than two hundred feet away.  There, he
paused and leaned against a fence. His knee throbbed. He  wiped the sweat from
his face and returned home. In the kitchen, he  rinsed out the glass on the
counter and poured it full of Canadian  Club. He sipped it, enjoying the mild
burn and the anesthetic effect.  He sat down at the kitchen table and flipped on
the radio. The  all-news station mentioned something about Stewart and a
scholarship  being established in his name. Stewart. The detective could not get
away from him.

McCormack thought of the man he had barely known but for whom he felt  an
abiding hatred. And when he thought of Stewart, he recalled the  night when his
life became one marked by physical pain.

His heart had pounded so hard on that night years before that his ears  had
rung.

He had heard someone moving down the back steps and assumed it was  Melendes.

Melendes was a madman, drug dealer, a killer. There had been four of  them on
the raid and McCormack had been given this post downstairs by  the rear door
because it was the least risky. Safer certainly than  trying to blast through
the front door of Melendes's second-floor  apartment with the portable battering
ram favored by the narcotics  detectives. These were young men with a wild look
in their eyes and  tight blue jeans, whose raids regularly put them in the line
of fire.  McCormack had accompanied them on the raid purely because their
target,  Melendes, was a suspect in a murder case.

For a man McCormack's age and condition it was madness to be out  lurking around
in the dark. He had been frozen with fear in the far  end of the hallway and it
did not occur to him at that moment, though  it did many times later, that if it
weren't for Stewart he wouldn't  have been in that hallway. If Stewart had been
a man of even modest  honor, Thomas McCormack would have been in an office where
he belonged.  McCormack was a
sedentary fellow, a thinker, a solver of mental puzzles, not a  warrior.

Throughout his career he had faced remarkably little physical danger.  His gun
had been unholstered for cleanings only and it had never been  fired in anger.

McCormack had heard Melendes approaching and suddenly the detective had  wheeled
to his right in the hallway, revolver extended. He had been in  a half crouch,
the crouch he had learned so many years ago at the  academy, but now he was
trembling, his body shaking as never before.  Melendes had come around the
corner from the stairs and McCormack had  been startled at how big he was, well
over six feet. He had had a  satchel in his left hand--the dope, McCormack
thought--and a shotgun  cradled in his right. McCormack could hardly believe his
eyes:  Melendes was going to put it down; he would put the gun down and
surrender and McCormack would walk out the door and breathe the night  air. He
would go home and she would be waiting for him and they would  talk about his
day and he would avoid any mention of this insanity and  she would never know
that for a moment he thought that he was going to  die at the hands of a lunatic
without a shred of conscience. But as  McCormack looked down the hallway, his
finger on the trigger of the  Glock .9 millimeter, he saw that he'd been wrong.
Melendes hadn't been  putting the shotgun down at all. He was lowering it,
aiming it, and  McCormack had found himself now staring down the barrel leveled
at his  chest just thirty feet away. He knew the weapon and he knew that the
spray would blow a hole through him the size of a softball, and he  could not
let that happen. This no-good fucker was not going to end  his life, not here in
this filthy, rat-infested tenement.

McCormack had fired once, then again, and he saw that he had hit  Melendes in
the upper body somewhere, the shoulder, maybe even the  chest, and he was spun
sideways by the force of the slug and again  McCormack thought he was safe,
free!

But simultaneous with his second round he had heard a third blast, and  he had
known it was not his and thought it must be from the shotgun,  and then he was
blinded for a second by the pain that seared him. When  it hit him the trauma
was so massive he could not locate it in his  body, did not know whether he'd
had his arm
or his head blown off, but within milliseconds he felt that it was his  leg and
he looked down and saw that the fabric of his pants was gone  and there was a
mass of red.

And that had been all he remembered until he awoke sometime later and  saw a
nurse in white at the foot of his bed. Later still, a doctor  told him that the
good news was he would be able to walk again after  physical therapy. The bad
news was that his knee would hurt for the  rest of his life. It had been as
though there'd been an explosion in  his knee, the doctor explained. It had been
shredded by the blast,  then painstakingly reconstructed by a surgical team
working throughout  a full day. From a medical standpoint, the operation had
been a  success. But now when he walked McCormack felt as though there was  bone
scraping against bone and it hurt him every day and every night,  every waking
moment, and he did not know how the pain could be  conquered for any sustained
period of time and now feared that it was  unconquerable. It affected every
aspect of his life. He could not  exercise and so he grew heavier, and the
heavier he grew, the greater  was the stress on the leg. And it was difficult to
be a cheerful,  pleasant person whose company was enjoyed by others when the
obsession  of one's life was pain.

He had tried everything. Percocet, Percodan, Darvon, Stolichnaya. He  had tried
Halcion and Dalmane. He had tried various combinations  during the day and at
bedtime. Nothing worked.

It was indirect, to be sure. But there was no doubt that he would not  have been
in that hallway in the path of Melendes's savagery had Philip  Stewart been a
decent man. McCormack drained the Canadian Club and  poured another, a half
tumbler this time. He sat at the kitchen table  clutching it, pleased that
Stewart was dead.
"It's much too nice to be inside today," said Sloane.

"Can I I talk you into letting me take you to lunch?"

Cronin was momentarily speechless.

"Try and contain your enthusiasm," she said with a hearty laugh.

"No, no," he said, fumbling for words.

"I'm surprised. I didn't expect to hear from you." He brightened.

"But I'm glad you called. Absolutely you can take me to lunch. I'd  like that."

"Great," she said.

"Meet you in half an hour at the corner of Charles and Beacon."

Cronin hung up the phone and found he was smiling. This is good. This  is very
good, he thought. He sat at his desk, staring vacantly into  space.

The voice ofBerman interrupted his reverie: "What are you so happy  about?" he
asked, sitting down on the edge of Cronin's desk.

"Oh, nothing." He rose and brushed back his hair. He put on a poplin  sports
jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

"I'm meeting someone for lunch."

"Must be nice to have a tit job where you go out for lunch," Berman  needled.

"Yeah," said Cronin sarcastically.

"I try to do it every summer."

"Where to?"

"I don't know," said Cronin.

"I'm meeting the person at the Public Garden. We'll maybe go over to  Newbury
Street."
"The person?" said Berman in lightly mocking tone.

"This must be a female person."

Cronin laughed.

"Howard, what are you, my chaperon? Yes, it's a female person."

"You're meeting an actual woman for lunch?" said Berman.

"An actual woman, Howard," said Cronin, "hard as it may be to  believe."

"So do I know the actual woman?" Berman asked. Cronin picked his car  keys up
off the desk and started walking toward the door. Berman  followed.

"Do I?" Berman persisted.

"It's Sloane, Howard," said Cronin as he walked.

"Sloane!" said Berman.

"Is this about Stewart?"

"This is about lunch, Howard," said Cronin as he walked through the  door.

Berman shouted after him: "Ask her about Stewart!" While he drove,  Cronin
wondered, as he so often had in recent months, what had gone  wrong. But he
knew.

He knew well. Though he loved being with her--found her beautiful,  sexy, smart,
and funny--the timing had been wrong. He had not been  ready for something
serious. As he weaved his way through traffic  heading into the Back Bay, he
thought perhaps that had changed.

Sloane hung up the phone and sat silently for a moment. There. I've  done it,
she thought. A little initiative goes a long way, her mother  had always said.
Sloane smiled. This is good. This is very good, she  thought.

She rode the elevator to the first floor and began walking across  Beacon Hill
to Mount Vernon Street. Sloane walked slowly, enjoying the  sunshine and
thinking of this man who so attracted her. And who  remained, in many ways, an
enigma.

He saw her from a block away. She was crossing Chestnut on Charles  Street
headed in his direction. She was moving briskly now along the  brick sidewalk of
Charles Street, past an art gallery, an antique shop,  and a bakery, under the
lime green awning of a restaurant, past the  outdoor fruit and vegetable stand
in front of a small market. She  arrived at the corner of Charles and Beacon,
opposite him, waiting for  the light to
change, waving quickly in his direction. She wore a lemon-colored  dress with
white polka dots and a single strand of pearls. She crossed  and they met on the
other side of Beacon. They grasped each other's  hands and quickly kissed.

"This is the nicest surprise I've had in a while," he said, grasping  her hands
and looking into her eyes.

"You look wonderful."

She smiled at him.

"Thank you," she said.

"So do you."

Sloane had made a reservation at a new cafe on Newbury Street, an  outdoor place
that she had recently tried and liked. They strolled  through the black,
wrought-iron gate that led into the Public Garden,  past scores of impeccably
kept tulip beds. The wooden benches that  lined the walkways that wove
throughout the Garden were jammed with a  lunchtime crowd that had purchased
salads, hot dogs, sandwiches, and  yogurt from pushcart vendors on Charles
Street. Farther on, toward the  center of the Garden, there were families
sitting on the grass with  picnics, children crowding around the organ grinder
who sold balloons  and popcorn. Frank and Sloane started across the picturesque
footbridge that spanned the Garden's lagoon. Sloane stopped and leaned  over the
railing looking down at the Swanboats, long boats with half a  dozen wooden
benches facing forward and huge, freshly painted  fiberglass swans in the rear,
gleaming white in the sunlight, as  college students in blue captains hats
peddled the boats slowly across  the lagoon, and around a tiny island. People on
the boats tossed  kernels of popcorn into the water for ducks and geese trailing
along.  Sloane and Cronin continued on through the Garden, exiting across from
the Ritz and walking along Newbury Street. They took a table at a  sidewalk cafe
and each ordered a Caesar's salad.

"Hold the anchovies, please," Cronin asked the waiter.

"I'll eat yours," said Sloane.

"I forgot," said Cronin, with a laugh.

"Anchovies. One of your little eccentricities."

"Don't be silly, Frank, it's you who's missing out," she said.

"They're scrumptious--in the right place."

"Not alone?" Cronin asked.

"Oh, never alone," she said.

"In salads, on pizza, that sort of thing."

"You haven't changed," he said.
"I should hope not," she replied, sipping her water.

"It hasn't been all that long."

Cronin sipped a diet Coke.

"I'm glad you called," he said.

"I suppose this sounds lame but I had planned on calling you after your
birthday. It seemed a little awkward back there on the phone."

He glanced up at her and she nodded her agreement.

"I don't think either one of us felt comfortable that night," he  continued.

"But I really am glad we've gotten together. It's been too long."

"Well, in the interest of full disclosure," she said, "I must confess  that I've
been tempted many times to call you but could never bring  myself to do it. I
suppose my pride wouldn't permit it. But now I  thought, what the heck, you
broke the ice with flowers on my birthday  and it felt to me like sufficient
time had passed so that we might find  ourselves in different circumstances. And
I'd been hearing your name  quite a lot lately and that seemed a sign of some
sort." She  laughed.

"Silly, isn't it?"

"Hearing my name from whom?" he asked.

"Oh, from Mack," she said referring to McCormack, "and mother has asked  after
you recently. A couple of times."

Cronin brightened.

"How are your parents?" he asked with genuine interest.

"They're marvelous, thank you, knock on wood," she said.

"Daddy has had a bit of heart trouble, nothing terribly serious, though  he's
medicated and a close eye is kept on him. Mother is, well,  Mother! Still
irrepressible, a tad annoying at times, but endearingly  so."

Reflex suggested that Sloane, having been asked about her parents, in  turn
inquire about the well-being of Cronin's family, but she quickly  caught
herself.

She had long since learned that when asked about family Frank dodged,  shifting
quickly to make sure the subject was changed. It was as  though Cronin's life
started when he entered Dartmouth in the fall of  1975. He didn't talk about
anything prior to that. Ever. Sloane  studied him. Did he feel any awkwardness
not discussing his family?  She was not sure. He was so well practiced at
avoiding it that it was  impossible to determine how he felt.
Lunch passed in a lazy fashion that suited the day. It was Friday and  neither
had any pressing business that afternoon. At other tables  patrons finished and
headed back to work. Tables were cleared around  them as they sat chatting over
coffee. Finally, Sloane asked for and  paid the check.

"If you don't have to get back," Cronin said when they got up and began  ambling
down the street, "maybe you'd let me buy you an ice cream  cone?"

"But only if it is the tiniest ice cream cone ever," she said.

"I guarantee it," he agreed, as they strolled along Newbury Street to  the
Haagen Dazs shop. They continued back to the Public Garden, past  the tulip beds
and across the footbridge spanning the lagoon. They  settled on a bench in a
quiet corner of the park where they fell into  comfortable conversation about
mutual friends, travel, books they had  recently read. Sloane had always found
it remarkably easy to talk with  Frank. He was an attentive, sympathetic
listener whose manner invited  candor. After a while, she found herself talking
about the recent  frustration of her work. She told him that the trial of the
man who  had murdered Benny Bennett had left her feeling beaten down.

"I don't know why, really," she said, looking puzzled and brushing her  hair off
to the side of her face.

"You won it, though," he offered.

She nodded.

"I felt kind of empty when it was over," she said.

"His wife and daughters went off in a filthy old cab. Back to an  apartment over
the liquor store. Back to where their view out the  front window is of the
sidewalk where Benny died. Back to a  neighborhood where fourteen-year-olds
riding by on bicycles might wave  at you or shoot you. I watched as their cab
pulled away from the curb  by the courthouse and thought, "They're headed home
to face this  incalculable loss for the remainder of their lives. A husband and
father, poof, just gone. Taken away from them by an incredibly vicious
individual." I mean, think about the consequences of that act, of that  punk
pulling that trigger the second time.

These girls will have no father at their weddings, no grand163
father for their kids. And Mrs. Bennett will have no husband, no  partner as she
grows old."

Sloane glanced down at the bench and shook her head. He watched her as  she
frowned, the ends of her mouth turning down, her eyes averted.  There was, he
thought, no artifice about her. There was an openness,  an honesty that deeply
appealed to him. It was possible, he thought,  to know who she truly was. She
did not camouflage her life, masquerade  as something she was not.

"The daughters," she said.

"Oh, dear, how they have suffered." She seemed struck by the enormity  of it.

"They are such sweet girls. So well mannered and respectful. Not only  of
others, their parents, but of themselves as well."

She looked at Frank and said, "How do you deal with the trauma if  you're
thirteen years old?" she asked.

"You know how kids are about their parents.

Girls, I think, especially about their fathers. Their father was a  strong man,
a protector, invincible, as all fathers are in the eyes of  their kids. And then
this. The crushing loss of any semblance of  innocence about the world. The sure
knowledge at thirteen that there  is true evil in the world."

"But you've given them something with the conviction," said Frank.

"You've given them closure on his death. Legal closure. And I think  that helps
them work through it all."

"I feel worst of all for poor Benny," she continued.

"He had lots of life to live. Lots of wonderful moments ahead. All  lost. Gone.
Spinning off into the cosmos somewhere. The unfairness  of it all is getting to
me. Benny played by the rules. He nurtured  his family. He worked and saved.
Bought and built a business.

And from nowhere one night.. ."

She sighed.

"I used to love my job," she said.

"But lately I wonder whether I shouldn't get out. Try something where  not every
case involves some unspeakable horror."

He nodded, understanding.

"It's one of the reasons, for all its obvious shortcomings, that I like
journalism," he said.

"The diet is wildly varied. You can be writing about tragedy one week,  comedy
the next. You can write
about news or personalities or the human condition. I admire your  steadiness
and determination sticking to what you do day after day,  month after month. I
couldn't handle it, I don't think. It takes a  toughness that most journalists
don't have."

"You're nice to say that, Frankie," she said, "but toughness only works  in
certain circumstances. You need some luck, some breaks, and right  now--as I'm
sure you've noticed--we're getting no breaks on Stewart."  She turned and smiled
at him.

"Other than following your leads, of course," she said.

"OnWrightways," he said.

She nodded.

"Yes, quite incredible to me that Stewart not only managed to pull that  off but
had the cleverness and was bold enough to make it work. I can  honestly say it's
the first case of public corruption I've ever seen  where the victim was unaware
he was being fleeced."

She paused for a moment and asked, "You really don't think  Wrightknew?"

"No way," said Frank.

"I sat there in his office and watched his reaction when I raised the
possibility of what had been going on, and he was telling the truth.

He was unwitting."

Sloane was comfortable talking with Frank about some things having to  do with
her work, though not others. They had long had a tacit  understanding that
whenever she talked with him about a case he treated  it as a personal matter
and never used any information she gave him for  any news articles.

"Obviously we subpoenaed the bank records of the Shelter Coalition  Capital Fund
after your article came out about Wrightways," she said.

"But you know how the banks are about subpoenas. They fight it overtly  or
covertly. They don't like the government snooping around in peoples  accounts.
So we've gotten some records but not all, and we haven't  made any real headway
in sorting through them yet."

Frank said nothing about what he had learned from Scot Lehman. He  would have
liked very much to be able to suggest to Sloane that she  call Scot, but Frank
had given his word to Scot that he would protect  his identity and he would do
just that.

Sloane had her own secrets, of course. Fresh in her mind was the  conversation
she'd had with Mack the previous afternoon
when he had told her about Dockerty's visits to Donald Deegan and  Father Boyle.

"What I don't understand," she said, "is how the trail could be so cold  so
fast.

Nobody seems to have seen anything or anyone unusual. And there's been
amazingly little that's bubbled up in the way of information from  informants."
Sloane sighed.

"It's frustrating, particularly with the high-profile nature of the  case, not
to have really much of anything," she said.

Suddenly she shrugged it off.

"Something will turn up, though," she said, smiling.

"It always does. But enough about that."

"Yes, enough about that," Frank agreed.

"What you need and what an afternoon like this demands is nothing less  than a
cruise. No afternoon this lazy should be allowed to pass  without a quick sail
around the lagoon."

He grabbed her hand and before she could respond pulled her up off the  bench
and led her to the dock. He bought two tickets and they took the  front row on a
boat occupied by parents and one child three rows behind  them.

As the boat lazily turned around the island, Sloane, staring off toward  the
banks, said quietly, "I've missed you."

He was taken by surprise. His heart thumped hard. He turned to look  at her but
she was staring off toward the banks, away from him. He  waited, expected that
she would turn to look at him, but she did not.

"I've missed you, too," he said.

"You don't have to say that," she said quickly.

"I didn't say it for that reason--for you to reciprocate. I said it  because I
want you to know how I feel."

She turned now and gazed at him, her brow knitted, her look serious, as  though
she were cross with herself for her honesty.

Late in the afternoon a warm breeze blew out of the south. Most of the  families
had left the Garden, and the Swanboat peddlers propelled  nearly empty boats
around the lagoon. A few couples lay back on the  grass, staring at the sky and
talking quietly. Sloane and Cronin sat  on a bench in a corner of the Garden and
watched several children about  six or seven years old play nearby.
Sloane smiled at them.

"Do you remember being that age?" she asked Frank.

"Sure," he said.

"Really?"

"Really."

"What do you remember?" she asked.

He thought for a second.

"My mother," he said.

"Being with her. I mostly remember going to work with her."

Sloane was startled by Cronin's mention of his mother. When they were  together
before, Frank had rarely talked about anything from his past  life. That he had
been unwilling or unable, whatever it was, to share  himself with her had been a
serious stumbling block.

Perhaps he was trying to signal to her that he had changed.

"What did she do?" Sloane asked, nervous that he would back away from  the
discussion. But he didn't.

"She was a waitress," he said. He laughed quietly.

"The customers were crazy about her."

"I'd like to hear about that, about where she worked and what it was  like," she
said.

Cronin's voice was matter-of-fact, but she felt a thrill, when he began  to
speak, that he was willing to share this with her.

"She worked in a place called Misty's in Coaticook," he said.

"It was a diner, really, with a counter in front, booths along the  walls and
some tables."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

"She must have been quite a wonderful woman," said Sloane.

He looked down at his hands and nodded his head.

"She made sure we were never deprived. She worked hard, of course. She  would
get picked up by another woman she worked with and she would take  me with her
for the breakfast shift. She had to be at work by six and  I would go and sit in
a booth in the back. After the breakfast crowd  died down a little she would
walk me a couple of blocks up the street  to school, which I loved from the
start. She was so pleased by any  little success I had at school, and when I
learned to read she reacted  as though I was the next Einstein."

"She must have been so very proud," said Sloane.

He nodded that yes, indeed, she had been.

"After school, I'd
walk over to Misty's and go back to my booth until she finished up,  usually
around three o'clock. Except for Thursday, Friday, and  Saturday nights when
she'd work straight through the dinner shift. She  never liked doing that
because it meant I was up later than she wanted  me to be, but she always said
that she made as much on tips in three  dinners as she did at breakfast and
lunch Monday through Saturday. I  don't know how much money she earned, but I
know it wasn't much. She  watched every penny, literally. We didn't have a car.
I never  remember her buying anything for more than, I don't know, I'd bet ten
dollars. Literally.

When I started hockey she got everything--and I mean every stitch of
equipment--from friends who had older boys. Most of them were her  friends from
the restaurant. Sometimes we'd go to the movies, but that  was rare. We didn't
own a television, though we had a small radio on  the counter. I think someone
at work gave it to her. Everything went  for food and electric bills and propane
and other essentials.

"But what we had was more than enough. I always remember my mother  being quite
happy, and Chris and I never felt lacking in anything."

Sloane could hardly believe her ears. The subject that Sloane knew was  most
difficult of all for Frank was that of his brother, Chris. That  Cronin had
mentioned the boy without prompting amazed Sloane.

"We'd go to the library every Friday right after lunch at the  restaurant. We'd
walk down together and get new books, return the old  ones, and go back to the
restaurant, and she'd read me one new story  before starting work on the dinner
shift. And she read to me every  night before I went to sleep, except the nights
we were at the  restaurant, and even there she would read to me if things got
slow."

Sloane felt as though this was somehow a breakthrough for them. He was  talking
to her, comfortably and with ease, it appeared, about a subject  he held close
within himself. She took it as a signal that perhaps  things had changed;
perhaps he had reached a point where he was ready  to take another step. They
walked slowly together toward the corner of  Beacon and Charles. The organ
grinder was packing up to head home.  The
shouting children were gone. The city seemed oddly, yet pleasantly,  quiet. As
they parted, Cronin asked whether Sloane planned to be  around over the weekend.

She said she was. They agreed to have dinner together Saturday night.  On the
way back to her office, Sloane thought that they had been in  love for quite
some time.
When the silent alarm is tripped within the now-darkened home of the  late
Philip Stewart, an electrical signal is dispatched to police  headquarters and
relayed at once to plainclothes detective O'Toole.  O'Toole is already aware
that the house has been breeched, because he  sits in his dark gray Ford Taurus
sedan on a side street with a view  down the hill to the Stewart house. O'Toole
has tailed Dockerty this  night from the Four Seasons Hotel to the Stewart house
and watched as  Dockerty disappeared around to the rear of the property. It is
10:40  P.M. on a pleasant summer evening. Within a minute of Dockerty's  having
disappeared from view, O'Toole receives the signal that the  alarm has been set
off. Dockerty knows nothing of the alarm, for it is  the latest in electronic
gadgetry, an invisible beam of energy that  lays across the floor of the Stewart
home like a shallow pool of water.  It is impossible to evade. Any presence in
the house heavier than a  small dog will set it off.

Dockerty's break-in had been anticipated by McCormack, and O'Toole has  explicit
instructions in this case: he is to keep the house under  surveillance and
summon McCormack at once. With the compact cellular  phone in his shirt pocket,
O'Toole dials McCormack's beeper number,  punches in his code, and waits. Less
than a minute passes before  McCormack is on the line.

"He's inside," says O'Toole.

"You're up the hill?" McCormack asks.
"Yes."

"What can you see?"

"Front entrance, front yard," O'Toole replies.

"His car?" McCormack asks.

"It's up the block from me, three, four hundred yards."

"You're between him and the BMW?" McCormack asks.

"Affirmative," says O'Toole.

"I'm there in five minutes," says McCormack, who was at his apartment,  a short
drive from the Stewart home.

Dockerty did what he had been instructed to do: upon entering the  house, he
removed a small flashlight from his pocket, picked his way  carefully through
the kitchen, followed a hallway to the living room,  and sat down in an easy
chair.

Once seated, he clicked off the flashlight. The room was dark, and it  took
Dockerty's eyes a moment to adjust. He did not believe he had  been followed.

Dockerty was less sure about an alarm in the house, though he was  betting there
wasn't one. To be sure, however, he sat patiently and  waited for thirty minutes
to pass. Surely, if an alarm had been  triggered, police would arrive within
that amount of time. Dockerty  was tempted, after the passage of twenty minutes,
to proceed with his  mission, but Bufalino had been insistent that he wait a
full half hour.  To Bufalino, a half hour meant thirty minutes, not twenty-nine
and a  half. And though Bufalino was very far away at the moment, Dockerty  was
determined to follow his instructions to the letter. That was why  Dockerty had
received this assignment, which could bring him a great  deal of money. It was
how he had earned Bufalino's favor.

Dockerty checked his watch. When half an hour had passed, he rose from  the
chair and went to the stairway leading to the basement. He clicked  on the
flashlight and went carefully down the stairs. The door to  Stewart's home
office was open and he went inside. The room was  windowless, allowing him to
turn on a table lamp and an overhead light  without it being noticed outside the
house.

Dockerty's eyes had been used to the dark, and it took him a moment to  adjust
to bright light. He surveyed the office.
There was a small love seat against one wall, a coffee table set in  front of
it.

Beside it was an end table with a lamp. Nearby was a television set  and against
the far wall a desk. Dockerty paused briefly to get his  bearings--he was
looking for a spot six feet in from the front wall. He  placed the coffee table
face down on the love seat and pushed it across  the carpet to the middle of the
room. He then pulled a small jackknife  from his back pocket and dropped to his
knees. He moved rapidly along  the wall using the sharp edge of the knife to
pull carpet tacks out of  the floor. When he had completed the row, the carpet
lifted easily and  he rolled it back eight feet across the room. Peeled back,
the carpet  revealed what appeared to be a tongue-in-groove hardwood floor.
Dockerty estimated a point six feet from the wall and tapped the wood  gently
with his knife. His first few taps brought sounds reflecting  solid spots. Then
he tapped and heard a slightly different sound, not  hollow exactly but not as
solid. He pried at several pieces of wood,  finding a slight crack and jamming
his blade down between two slats.  He worked the blade back and forth, loosening
one slat.

Finally, one piece, eight inches square, popped loose. He removed  several other
sections easily now and set them aside on the carpet.

With the wood out of the way, Dockerty could see a large brass plate  held in
place with a dozen screws. With another tool from his  jackknife, Dockerty
removed the screws and lifted the plate clear,  setting it on the rug.

And there it was, just as Bufalino had said: a stainless-steel safe set  into
the concrete beneath the floor, built at Bufalino's insistence by  Bufalino's
men.

Stewart had not objected. He had rarely used it through the years, so  smooth
and efficient had been their operation. The combination had  been known to two
men:

Stewart and Bufalino. Now Dockerty had the combination and Stewart was  in the
ground, where he belonged.

O'Toole was itchy.

"What's taking so long?" he wondered.

McCormack shrugged. It was now 11:35. Dockerty had been inside  fifty-five
minutes.
"What's he doing?" O'Toole asked.

"Looking for something," said McCormack.

"What?" O'Toole asked.

McCormack shook his head.

O'Toole hesitated.

"You think we should have just grabbed him?"

"Then we wouldn't know what he was looking for," said McCormack.

"What if he doesn't find whatever it is?" O'Toole asked.

"Then we haven't lost anything," said McCormack.

"But if he does find it, he'll bring it out and we'll know."

Dockerty turned the small dial slowly, carefully. Five numbers.  Tumblers
aligned. Click. The cover of the safe pushed up ever so  slightly. When Dockerty
opened it he could see why:

this large, stainless-steel air- and watertight case was full, packed  to the
bursting point, with cash money. Packets with wrappers marked "  $10,000." The
packs contained hundreds and fifties. Dockerty counted  the packs, pulling each
one out of the safe and placing it in a pile on  the carpet. Fifty-seven
packets:

570,000 U.S. dollars.

For Dockerty, now came the truly difficult part of his assignment, the  part
which most tested his willpower and loyalty to Bufalino. His  instructions were
to determine whether the money was in the safe and  then, if it was there, to
count it. He was then, Bufalino had ordered,  to put it back in the safe,
recover the floor, and leave. To Dockerty,  this seemed senseless.

But Bufalino had insisted. Bufalino was self-educated. He had taught  himself to
anticipate, to think strategically. And he feared that if  the police were aware
of Dockerty, they would be intelligent enough to  let him find whatever it was
he searched for and then take him as he  left the premises. If that was not the
case, Bufalino reasoned, it  would merely delay matters twenty-four hours, a
small price to pay for  caution.

Dockerty was sorely tempted. It seemed so easy. He could take the  money, get
into his car, and drive off. After delivering the goods he  would be paid the 30
percent fee Bufalino had
promised him--$171,000 in cash.

But Dockerty had not progressed to this point by ignoring Bufalino's
instructions. He would do as he was told. And if the cops were  unaware, as he
felt sure they were, he would return the next night and  take the money.

Dockerty made quick work of placing the cash back into the safe,  screwing in
the plate, replacing the wood flooring, and rolling back  the carpet. He used
the blunt end of an ashtray to bang the carpet  tacks back into place. He
returned the love seat and coffee table to  their places. He shut off the lights
and left the house, cutting  across the backyard, through the privet hedge and
circling back around  up the hill to his car. He was opening the door of his BMW
when three  Boston police detectives, weapons drawn, suddenly appeared and
ordered  him to lay face down on the street. As he lay on the pavement, with
one of the cops handcuffing his hands behind his back, all Dockerty  could think
of was that Bufalino was one smart fucker.

A patrol car was summoned and Dockerty was locked into the backseat,  cuffs on
his hands, manacles on his legs. His car was searched and,  well concealed in
the backseat, a gun was found--an Italian made .415  caliber, the type of gun
used in the murder of Philip Stewart. Dockerty  was removed to the Area D police
station and placed in a holding cell.  He refused to answer questions without
benefit of counsel. He called a  lawyer, a name Bufalino had given him, and he
was charged with unlawful  possession of a handgun. The gun was brought to the
state police crime  lab for tests to determine whether it was in fact the weapon
used to  kill Stewart.

Detective McCormack walked slowly through Stewart's house. He stood in  every
room looking around, waiting for something to strike him as out  of place, as
unusual. He went through the house once, twice, a third  time. Finally, he went
home, wondering what Dockerty had been  searching for.
Through a contact at the FBI, McCormack had Dockerty's name run  through the
U.S.

Justice Department computer-- a cluster of massive mainframes  containing every
scrap of information the government had on all known  organized crime figures
and their associates. The file on Dockerty was  not extensive but it was
revealing.

After leaving Boston in 1987, Dockerty had gone directly to Las Vegas,  where he
quickly attached himself to gangsters managing two casinos,  one in Las Vegas,
the other in Reno. Dockerty had started out as a  bouncer at the Las Vegas
casino, but he soon became an enforcer for the  prostitutes the casinos
employed.

It was Dockerty's job to win the confidence of the girls, to get to  know them,
and to make sure they were not skimming profits. They were  entitled to their
share of any scores they made at the  casino--half--but no more. The rules were
clear, and broken at one's  peril. Some girls tried to work side deals--meet a
John at the casino,  suggest they go elsewhere, and keep the full take for
herself. It was  Dockerty's job to see that that did not occur, and he enforced
the  rules with a ruthlessness rarely seen even in Las Vegas.

The Strike Force report, gathered from government informants, indicated  that
Dockerty had skillfully built a network of his own spies among the  hookers,
rewarding those who ratted on others and brutalizing those who  violated the
rules.

Dockerty's efficiency drew the attention of Joseph Bufalino, one of the  key
Mafia figures in the city. Bufalino was known as a smart man who  kept to
himself and preferred a quiet lifestyle to the splashy behavior  favored by
other leading organized crime figures. Bufalino lived  modestly at the Sahara
Hotel in a suite from which he ran his business  ventures--gambling,
prostitution, loan-sharking, drug dealing, and  weapons sales.

The computer file indicated that Dockerty had worked for Bufalino  directly
since 1989. Dockerty had been arrested once on an assault  charge and beaten it.
That was the extent of the file, but McCormack's  friend at the FBI put him in
touch with an agent who had recently  worked in Vegas for a number of years and
knew the players there well.  The agent told McCormack that he knew Dockerty had
worked for Bufalino  as a utility man who could perform a variety of functions,
including  bodyguard
when there was a rash of violence among the crime families. The agent  said that
Dockerty lived alone in an expensive garden apartment in the  desert, that he
drove a Corvette, and had numerous girlfriends (one of  whom had filed the
assault charge against him).

The agent said that Dockerty would be unlikely to act as a free  agent--to do
anything unless he was instructed to do so by Bufalino.  Certainly Dockerty
would be unlikely to do something as significant as  a murder on his own, the
agent said. And that was the rub, thought  McCormack. It was clear that Dockerty
had a motive to kill Stewart,  but if he really would only act as Bufalino's
agent, then the question  was, what motive, if any, did Bufalino have for
wanting Stewart dead?

The ballistics report on Dockerty's gun was disappointing.

"Inconclusive," McCormack told Sloane. Often that was the case in such  matters.
The report would state that the borings were "not  inconsistent" with those
found in the slug in the victim, meaning the  tests could not prove or disprove
that a particular weapon was used in  the killing. Prosecution was always easier
when ballistics could  positively state that a certain gun was used to commit a
certain  murder.

But inconclusive findings were common enough and could be overcome.

"I would suggest that we let it be known publicly that Dockerty is  under
suspicion and see what comes in," said McCormack.

"See if anybody drops a dime.

"You know, somebody else who heard Dockerty say he planned to do  Stewart," said
Mack.

"Somebody who might have seen Dockerty around the neighborhood. We can  make
sure his picture makes the paper."

Sloane nodded her ascent.

When Sloane had first started out in the district attorney's office,  she had
not liked this sort of approach. Initially, she had been  surprised to find that
prosecutors often leaked word that they were  questioning a certain suspect in
the hopes that it would produce  additional evidence. She had worried that smart
defense lawyers knew
that such stories betrayed a weakness in therosecution's case, making  the
defense reluctant in some cases to negotiate a plea. Why not try a  case where
the prosecution is essentially admitting it is weak, went  the defense
reasoning.

But Sloane had long since overcome her distaste for this method of  evidence
gathering for the simple reason that, in a number of cases, it  had worked.

"So what do we do with this, just forget it?" Sloane said, motioning  to the
number of cartons of bank records that had been delivered that  morning in
compliance with Sloane's subpoena. The boxes contained  several years' worth of
data on the Shelter Coalition Capital Fund's  financial activities.

Mack waved it away.

"Forget it for now," he said.

"I suppose," said Sloane.

"We're a little thin on the personnel front right now, and I don't  think we can
justify doing much of anything beyond zeroing in on our  friend Mr. Dockerty."

"I agree," said Mack.

"So what are you going to do exactly to make sure his photo gets in  that
newspaper?" Sloane asked.

"Get it into the right hands," he said.

"The right hands, Mack?"

"Someone I can trust," he said.

"We can trust."

"Frank?"

McCormack nodded.

"I won't do it if you'd prefer that I not," he said.

"No, no," she said.

"That's fine."

They fell silent for a moment and McCormack suddenly felt awkward.

"I respect him."

She had been staring down at her desk for the briefest moment and she  looked up
quickly.

"I'know you do," she said.

"I do, too."

From the top of the hill at Larz Anderson Park, Cronin could see heat  rising
from the city streets. The jets taking off and landing at Logan  appeared
elongated as they passed through the shimmering waves of heat.  From a distance,
747s had the look of model airplanes passing in slow  motion over a carnival
mirror
that distorted its reflections. Cronin sat at a picnic table in a  grove of
trees next to the ice-skating rink. In the shade, with the  slight breeze, the
evening was bearable. Directly in front of where  Cronin sat the huge field that
sloped away from the top of the hill  began. The grassy knoll ran down a quarter
of a mile in a  thirty-degree grade. On the upper reaches, children played.

Cronin liked escaping the urban din while at the same time being able  to see
much of the city laid out at his feet. The sounds he could hear  were
calming--children, with their yelps of delight and bursts of  laughter; and the
loving tones of parents. There was none of the  assaultive urban noise that had
so come to bother Cronin in recent  years. He was soothed by the park, by its
stately elms and firs; by  the vast expanse of well-mowed fields that surrounded
the pinnacle, by  the gentle nature of people who gathered there.

McCormack arrived florid-faced and sweating. He sat heavily on the  picnic bench
next to Cronin, wordlessly handing him one of the two cold  Buds he had brought.

McCormack removed the jacket to his tan poplin suit and laid it over a  corner
of the table. His blue shirt was stained with sweat under the  arms and on his
back.

He loosened his tie and sipped the beer.

He told Cronin that the full autopsy report revealed what police  expected, that
Stewart had died from gunshot wounds to the chest. One  of the bullets pierced
the heart directly, the other passed through the  edge of the aorta. Tests
showed that Stewart was shot from close range  with a .415-caliber pistol, an
Italian-made model that could be bought  cheaply through the mail. There was no
sign of forced entry, no  indication of a struggle. The house had been scoured
by investigators,  but the only prints revealed were Stewart's. They had
analyzed several  bits of fabric but found nothing which provided even a hint of
who the  killer might be.

"But we think we've had a break," said McCormack, eyeing Cronin. The  reporter
seemed taken aback. He sat up straighter, his attention fully  focused on
McCormack.

"What can you tell me?" asked Cronin.

"The terms are the same?" McCormack asked.

"Absolutely," said Cronin.

"I attribute nothing to you."
McCormack felt silly for having asked, but he wanted to be cautious.

"We're not sure here, so we've got to be careful," said McCormack.

"We're looking at this guy. Carefully. We think he may be our man.  But again,
we're not sure. We need more."

"And you want his name out to help you get more," said Cronin.

McCormack nodded.

Cronin understood the game all too well. He didn't much like it, he  never had,
yet he had no choice but to play it. Reporters were used  all the time--by
politicians, businesspeople, law enforcement  officials--to float ideas, to
damage an adversary, and reporters and  their editors were willing participants
for a simple reason:  competition. Cronin knew that if he didn't play, McCormack
would go to  the Record-American or one of the television stations. When Cronin
had  been a young reporter he had been put off by this practice, had even  once
refused to write a story because he saw it as a violation of a  defendant's
right to the presumption of innocence. Colleagues in the  city room had laughed
at him.

Editors had scowled. The Constitution's guarantee that one is presumed  innocent
until proven guilty was nonsense in many cases, Cronin knew.  If not in a court
of law then certainly in the court of public opinion.  Reputations were ruined
by such leaks, but Cronin couldn't fight every  battle.

"What's the name?" Cronin asked, pulling a notebook out of his back  pocket.

"Mick Dockerty," said McCormack.

"We brought him in on a weapons charge a few days ago. Illegal  firearm.
Unregistered. It gives us a chance to talk with him."

Cronin jotted the name down and paused.

"Sounds familiar," he said.

"Where do I know that from?"

"You remember when that kid got beat up very bad at Deer Island by the  guard
and they had the Council hearing and all of that, back in  eighty-seven?"

"Dockerty was the guard?" Cronin asked.

McCormack nodded.

"Good memory."

Cronin screwed up his face.

"I don't get it," he said.

"Stewart ran the Council hearings that got Dockerty fired,"
said McCormack.

"We think Dockerty waited for some time to pass and then got his  revenge."

Cronin was nonplussed.

"But you're not charging him?"

"Not now," said McCormack.

"Not yet."

"So how should I write it?" Cronin asked.

"That he's a suspect?"

"The suspect," said McCormack.

"Is he talking at all?"

McCormack shook his head. He wanted to tell Cronin that Dockerty had  laughed
about Stewart's death when they asked him about it, that he  said he was glad he
was dead, that he denied killing him but said he  wished he had done it. But
McCormack had to remember that though he  liked Cronin, he had to maintain some
distance. Cronin was, after all,  a reporter.

"I'm going to pull the clips on the beating, but remind me of the  basics of
that, would you please?" asked Cronin.

McCormack told him the story essentially as he had told it to Sloane.

"So what's Dockerty been doing since then?" Cronin asked.

"Can't say," said McCormack.

"Can't say because you can't say or because you don't know?"

"Can't say."

"Where'shelive?"

"Vegas, now," said McCormack.

Looking out over the city, Cronin saw that, as he and McCormack had  been
talking, lights in the downtown buildings had come on as darkness  descended.

Cronin saw that the children were gone from the grassy slope. He and  McCormack
were the only people left in the park, aside from a few young  couples in the
parking lot.

"Who's his lawyer?" Cronin asked.

"Delaney," said McCormack. Stephen Delaney was one of the best and
highest-priced defense attorneys in town.

Cronin rose from the bench.

"I'm going to head back to the paper now, to try and get Delaney to  confirm
that his client is a suspect. I want to get this in the  morning paper."

McCormack understood. Cronin feared word leaking out to the  competition.
"You have enough?"

Cronin nodded.

"The fact that he's the suspect is enough, but then I'll cobble  together some
history from the hearings out of the clips. Background  on the murder. It's
plenty. But I better get moving to make  deadline."

Cronin stopped at a pay phone near the park and called Berman to tell  him he
was on his way in to write a story saying there was a suspect in  the Stewart
murder.

Berman, taking the call at the city desk, literally jumped for joy,  thrusting
his fist into the air as though he had just scored a goal in  overtime for the
Bruins against Montreal. Berman immediately huddled  with other editors to
remake page one. This would now be their lead  story for the morning, bumping a
leader about negotiations between the  Serbs and Croats.

They would forget about trying to shoehorn anything into the first  edition--the
early papers printed before midnight and circulated  upcountry. There wasn't
time. The next edition deadline that mattered  was for third--at 11:30 P.M.

Two-thirds of the press run of 600,000 papers was for third edition,  which
circulated in Greater Boston.

After talking with Berman, Cronin was transferred to the Post library  where he
requested all available clips about Dockerty, the Deer Island  beating, and the
Stewart hearings into the matter. They would be on  his desk when he arrived.

Cronin hurried back to the paper. He placed a call to the home of  Stephen
Delaney. The lawyer was not there, but his wife beeped him and  he soon called
Cronin. He would say little, but it was enough for a  story.

Ninety minutes after he sat down to write, Cronin completed his story,  which
was headlined "Ex City Worker Probed in Stewart Death."

The story led the paper the following morning and caused a sensation in  the
city. Radio and television stations quoted from the Post account.  Talk shows
focused on the story and on Dockerty, who suddenly became  one of the most
despised men in Boston. Anger and even rage greeted  the news. Some criticized
the police and the DA's office for taking so  long and for still not charging
anyone with the crime. But the  dominant emotion in
the city was relief, a sense that finally the demon responsible for  inflicting
this terrible wound on the city had been found; that justice  would be done. For
in spite of the two Post stories-about the DiMasis  and Wrightways
Transit--Philip Stewart remained a beloved figure. In  the wake of his death
many people refused to believe the Post accounts  of his corruption or ignored
the charges entirely. The common reaction  was not how and what Stewart had
done, but anger at the Post for  publishing stories that tarnished the dead
man's image.

At the Post, there was an air of triumph that the newspaper had broken  the
story alone, that no other media outlet in the city had even a hint  of it.
Berman was ecstatic and even Cronin's detractors felt a  grudging admiration for
his work.

Roy Johnson was delighted that his newspaper had the story. But also  relieved.

For this gave the story a new focus. No longer would the Post pursue  Stewart's
corruption. Instead, it was clear that Dockerty would have  to be the object of
their investigative work. Johnson communicated his  feelings to Berman first
thing that morning and Berman, in turn,  conveyed Johnson's message to Cronin.

But Cronin was not ready to shift gears quite so quickly. He surprised  Berman
when he told him he had one more major incident involving a  corrupt act by
Stewart. He said he needed a little more time to put it  together. He assured
Berman it would be worth the wait.
Cronin crossed School Street, just down from the Parker House, and  thought he
noticed a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. He  glanced again through
the morning crowd hustling to work in downtown  Boston, and saw that it was
indeed the dreaded Joe Skash, a reporter at  the Record-American. Like so many
other reporters at the Record, Skash  bullied and intimidated sources, usually
government officials,  threatening that if information was not leaked to him he
would  humiliate the person in the Record's political column.

Cronin normally cut through the alley from School Street that led to  Court
Street and on to City Hall, where Skash manned the  Record-American's bureau.

Cronin assumed Skash was headed to the Hall, but he also wanted to make  sure
Skash wasn't following him. It would not be the first time a  Record reporter
had followed someone from the Post working a big story.  Rather than turning
into the alley, Cronin headed down School Street  another half block and turned
left through the crowds onto Washington  Street. As he did so, he glanced over
his shoulder and saw Skash  hurrying after him. Skash looked as he always had.
He had a porcine  face, round, pinkish, and sweaty, with a blunt snout.

Cronin suspected that Skash was following him to see what he might pick  up on
the Stewart story. Cronin had heard that editors at the Record  were incensed
that the Post was beating them so thoroughly on the
story. He continued along Washingtontoward City Hall, then, abruptly,  made a
sharp right onto State Street, past the Old State House, then  turned right
again on Congress. After making the turn, Cronin sprinted  down a half block to
get well ahead of Skash. Cronin continued briskly  along to Post Office Square.
He paused momentarily before turning a  corner and had a clear view of the
sidewalk along Congress Street.  There was Skash hurrying along, appearing from
a distance to be  laboring. Suddenly, Cronin had an idea. He continued along
another  block, walking slowly enough now so that Skash was sure to keep him in
view. Cronin walked into the side entrance of the U.S. District Court,  went
through the metal detectors, and walked the length of the lobby  where he waited
in a crowd for the interminably slow elevators. He  made sure now that Skash did
not lose him in the crowd. He rode to the  seventh floor and walked down to the
office of the court clerk, where  he had often researched federal cases he'd
written about. The system  was simple and far more efficient than at the state
courts. He would  write out the names of the cases he wanted, note the carrel
number at  which he would be sitting and, within ten or fifteen minutes, the
files  were delivered.

Cronin asked for files on a case he knew little about except that it  had been a
lengthy proceeding with numerous pretrial motions. The case  involved the city
of Boston, so Skash might plausibly believe it had  some bearing on the Stewart
matter. After filling out his order slip  and handing it to one of the clerks,
Cronin sat down at a vacant carrel  and took his notebook out of his back pocket
and began making notes.

Fifteen minutes later, a clerk arrived with a large cardboard box and  placed it
on the carrel. Then he brought a second box jammed with  files and then a third.

He and Cronin joked about the size of the task the reporter faced. For  the
following hour and ten minutes, Cronin read through random sections  of the
files. Then, he rose and returned to the counter where he told  the clerk that
he suddenly remembered he had to be somewhere else and  would not be returning
until the following day. Clerks were far less  prompt about retrieving files and
so, as was the custom, Cronin knew  the files he had ordered would sit on the
carrel for a while.
As soon as Cronin left, Skash marked down the name of the case. And  for the
remainder of the day, as Cronin went about his business  unhindered, Skash began
drowning in a sea of worthless paper.

Cronin took a seat in the far corner of the Public Records Division of  City
Hall. He laughed to himself at the contrast between this  operation and the
federal court down the street. At the courthouse,  records were well cared for.

There was a system that worked. Here, at City Hall, there were a few  Public
Records Division employees who lounged around throughout the day  listening to a
loud radio and waiting on people only when the spirit  moved them. It could be a
distinctly unpleasant experience if you were  uninitiated in the byzantine ways
of the division. But it was perfect  for Cronin. The records clerks knew he was
a reguler and let him help  himself to anything he wanted, for that meant the
clerk need not  stir.

Cronin sat in front of a series of cabinets that held files from the  City
Council. Included within those files were records of when members  of the
Council traveled out of the city and for how long. Few people  outside the
Council knew or cared that such records were kept. Cronin  had heard about the
practice years ago, and it had recently occurred to  him that such information
might be useful.

The records were required by ordinance, as it was once explained to  Cronin.
Some years back, he thought in the postwar period, there was a  rogue city
councillor who was reelected year after year, took the full  salary for the job,
as well as whatever else he could collect for  various "favors," but did no
actual Council work. In fact, he lived  for much of the year on Cape Cod, rarely
attending Council meetings. To  spite him, a group of councillors drafted an
ordinance that required  any member of the Council traveling beyond the city
limits for more  than two nights to log that information with the city's Public
Records  Division.

The ordinance required that any councillor out of town two successive  nights or
more in excess of six times a year was to have his pay  reduced by some fixed
amount per trip over the limit.
Supporters of the ordinance argued that the new law would encourage  councillors
to stay at home where they were available to constituents.  And the
record-keeping requirement would ensure a full and accurate  accounting of any
absentee councillor. Every now and again through the  years, councillors had
lapsed in their record keeping. But just a few  years earlier the Record had run
a series of articles on councillors  who were often out of the city without
reporting it. Several had far  exceeded the six times a year limit on two-night
or more stays away  from Boston and should have lost pay as a result, but did
not. It was  one of those absurd statutes that should long ago have been
changed,  but no one on the Council was politically brave enough to initiate it.
Whenever someone even hinted at doing so opponents on the Council would  cry out
that such a change would make councillors less available to  serve their
constituents. Ever since the Record-American's expose,  councillors had
dutifully filled out the forms required.

As he thumbed through the file cabinets, Cronin saw that the records  were kept
chronologically, not by councillor. So he could not pull one  file on Stewart
for a given year and note the dates of his absences  from the city. Instead, he
would have to go through every file for the  year searching for Stewart's name.

Without the list he had folded in his pocket, his task would have taken  him
days, perhaps a week. But the list would make this fast work. He  looked around
and saw that nobody was near him. The clerks were  gathered around the Xerox
machine, on top of which sat a boom box  blaring Paula Abdul.

Cronin smoothed the single sheet of paper out on his lap. There were  seven
lines of figures on this page that had arrived in his mail, with  no note, and
no return address. It was untraceable, but Cronin knew it  had come from his
friend Scot Lehman at the State Banking Commission.  Each line included a
left-hand and a right-hand column. In the  left-hand column was a date, in the
right-hand column an amount of  money. The date was when Stewart had made a
withdrawal of funds to his  own name from the Shelter Coalition Capital Fund.
And the right-hand  column listed the amount he had withdrawn.
Jan. 17 ....$7,000 Mar. 3 .... 6,000 Mar. 29 .... 6,000 Apr. 21  .... 8,000 Aug.

7 .... 9,500 Sept. 19 .... 7,000 Nov. 9 .... 8,000

In all, during calendar year 1992, Stewart had withdrawn $51,500 to his  own
name. Cronin had no doubt that those at the bank processing his  withdrawals
assumed he was using the funds for some purpose connected  with one of the
shelters, if they gave it even a moment's thought. But  why would they? Why
would anonymous bankers think to even question the  activity of a man with
Stewart's reputation?

Cronin began thumbing through the files, searching for specific dates.  The
first checked out. On January 17, it was recorded that Stewart  left Boston for
four nights. The second worked as well. On March 3,  he left town for three
nights.

And the third:

on March 29, he left again for four nights. April 21 it was for four  nights,
August 7 for a week, September 19 for three nights, and  November 9 for four.

The pattern could not have been clearer: Stewart was withdrawing funds  from the
Shelter Coalition Capital Fund to his own name and then  leaving town.

The question now was where was he going and what was he doing with the  money.

That he would take such large amounts of cash for such short trips  suggested to
Cronin two possibilities:

either drugs or gambling or both. But it was hard to imagine Stewart  having a
serious drug problem--if he had, it quite likely would have  been noticed. But a
gambling problem could be concealed more easily.

Cronin took his information back to the Post and typed up a brief memo  laying
out what he found. He took it in to Berman and waited while the  city editor
read it over. Cronin wanted to run a story laying out the  details of Stewart's
withdrawals and his trips. To his disappointment,  Berman expressed little
interest.
They were in Herman's office at lunchtime. Berman was tired. He had  been up
throughout the night before, supervising coverage of a hostage  situation in
which all survived, not much of a story. Berman was  dressed in wrinkled chinos,
a T-shirt, and socks. His heavy beard  looked as if it had not been shaved in
four or five days. He was  eating a cheeseburger club sandwich and drinking a
large Coke.

"Is this you talking now, Howard, or is this Johnson's voice speaking  through
you?"

Berman frowned.

"Thanks a lot, Frank. Like I'm a fucking mouthpiece for that  asshole."

"So you are speaking for him?"

Berman put his sandwich down on the desk and swung his legs onto the  floor.

"You know, Frank, the amazing thing is that I almost agree with him on  this
one," said Berman.

"I do think there is greater news value in who killed Stewart and why  than in
what Stewart's secret life might have been. And I particularly  think the
questions of who killed him and why contain vastly more news  value than
this"--Berman reached over and waved Cronin's memo in the  air--"which is a long
ride from conclusive about anything. A long  ride. How do we know he didn't
spend the dough on food for the  shelters for Chrissake? How do we know the
money and trips are  related? It could have been coincidence? It was perfectly
legal for  Stewart to withdraw money from an account he controlled. It was
perfectly legal for him to take a few trips. So we should do a story  saying he
withdrew money and took trips, all of which, by the way, Mr.  and Mrs. Reader,
is entirely legal. So what's the point of the  story?"

"Of course we should pursue the killer and motive," said Cronin.

"But Howard, you've got a room full of people out there. It doesn't  have to be
me. We've got an investment in me writing about this man's  other life. Let's
not blow that now just because Roy is getting calls  from the fucking Kennedys."

Berman banged his desk with the palm of his hand.

"That is not why I want to shift gears on this story, and goddammit you  know me
better than that, Frank."

"But Howard, isn't it obvious that we can work on both angles
simultaneously? That we can chase Dockerty and stay on Stewart's  hidden life?"

Berman was tired and exasperated.

"Frank, I'm not stupid," said Berman, wearily.

"I know we can pursue both. But you can't pursue both, and I have to  decide
which aspect of the story you're more valuable on. And to me,  that's a
no-brainer. We need you to track down Dockerty and who he is  and why he did it
and all that. We just need you to do that for us."

Cronin got up from his seat and paced the office. He was silent, his  head down,
hand on his chin. He stopped and faced Berman. He started  to speak, thought
better of it, and went over and closed the door to  Berman's office. He went
back and stood directly in front of Berman  and spoke softly.

"Howard, I want you to know about something else I'm working on," said  Cronin.

"Another angle. It's just kind of developing."

"What is it?" Berman asked.

Cronin hesitated.

"I'm not sure exactly what will become of it," said Cronin.

"As I say, it's just developing--in my mind I'm trying to put it  together."

"Is it good?" Berman asked.

"If the piece pulls together it would show that Stewart's corruption  caused
someone's death."

Berman suddenly perked up.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"What happened?"

"I can't really talk about it yet," said Cronin.

"I'm working on it now, collecting string. It'll take some time."

"How close are you to having it?" Berman asked.

"A week maybe" said Cronin.

"It's very sensitive."

"Source sensitive?"

Cronin nodded.

"Who is it?" Berman asked.

"I can't tell you that right now, Howard," Cronin replied.

"It's Sloane," Berman declared, a broad smile breaking out across his  face.

"It is not Sloane, Howard," said Cronin.

"But it's not your guy? It's a new source?" Berman asked.

"Yes," said Cronin.
"Reliable?" Berman asked.

"Unimpeachable," said Cronin.

Berman folded his arms and put his feet back up on his desk.

"Johnson will freak," he said.

"Freak. He'll go nuts. He'll say it's overkill. He sent me a message  after news
of Dockerty broke."

Berman searched quickly through papers on his desk and handed a single  sheet to
Cronin. It was a note from Johnson to Berman which said:  "Stewart is dead,
buried and destroyed. Enough."

Cronin shook his head.

"I'm not so sure that's true," he said.

"Then they better dig him up fast," said Berman.

"Have you noticed that they are going ahead with the dedication this  weekend of
the elderly housing in Hyde Park?" said Cronin.

"They're changing the name to the Philip Stewart Housing Complex," said  Cronin.

"Yesterday, they changed the name of a street in the South End to  Stewart Way.
And two days ago, they held a fund-raiser in his name for  the Shelter
Coalition. You know who was there?

Kennedy, the mayor, the cardinal, the presidents of Edison, the phone  company,
on and on and on. This is a fund-raiser for the very  organization which he was
using as a cover to launder money. The same  organization he was stealing cash
from."

"But those people didn't know all that, it's not been proven," said  Berman.

"But they did know that he extorted money from the DiMasis and they did  know
that he stole money from Wrightways Transit and they still went,"  said Cronin.

"He's far from destroyed. People don't want to believe these things  about him.

They see a story or two and they put it out of their minds. They say  it was an
aberration. Whatever. They make sure the reputation is  preserved."

Berman settled back in his chair and paused a moment.

"Frank, of all my reporters in this room, you know as well or better  than any
that we can do the stories but we cannot go into every heart  and mind and
instruct it on how to feel or think about Philip  Stewart."

Cronin rubbed his face with both hands. He was tired, frayed.

"You're right, Howard, I know that," said Cronin.

"But let's not forget that he was an evil man. He hurt people."
The more Cronin thought about it, the more pleased he was that Berman  had no
interest in his story on Stewart's withdrawal of funds  coinciding with dates he
left town. It occured to him that the  information would be of great interest to
the law enforcement group  that had convened to unravel the mystery around
Stewart's death. He  knew from his friend Scot Lehman that the state attorney
general,  Malcolm Sears, had put together a working committee to plot strategy
on  Stewart that included Sears, Lehman, Sloane, McCormack, and Ben Palmer,
head of the Boston office of the U.S. Justice Department's Organized  Crime
Strike Force.

Cronin thought it interesting that McCormack had kept the group's  existence
secret from him. Cronin did not know that Sears had sworn  each member of the ad
hoc committee to complete secrecy--Lehman had  told Cronin of the group's
existence before that happened. Sears had  told them he would prosecute anyone
who broke the silence. Since then,  Lehman had been unwilling to talk to Cronin
about the group's work.

But now Cronin had information he was certain the committee did not  have. The
correlation between Stewart's withdrawing funds from the  Shelter Coalition
account and his trips out of town was tantalizing.  But Berman was right, it
proved nothing. It wasn't clear what Stewart  did with the money or where he
went. Or even if the money and the  absences from the city were connected,
though Cronin felt sure they  were. Nonetheless, he could prove nothing with
what he had. There was  a point at which being a reporter was nothing but
frustration.

Law enforcement officials had vastly more access to information than
journalists.

Cronin contacted McCormack and they met at Larz Anderson Park. Cronin  turned
the list matching the withdrawals with Stewart's trips out of  town over to the
detective. McCormack thanked him but said nothing  about any possible connection
between what the police were  investigating and these facts. But the detective
thought immediately  of Las Vegas. Where else did one go for three or four days
with  thousands and thousands of dollars?
Cronin also told McCormack that on the list of those making deposits  to the
Shelter Coalition Capital Fund was a freight company which  Cronin assumed had a
contract with the city and a truck leasing  company. Cronin said he suspected
those were scams similar to  Wrightways Transit.

"So why don't you go after this stuff?" McCormack asked.

"There's only so much I can concentrate on at any given time, and I've  got
other stuff," he said.

"It would be a shame for this to go to waste."

McCormack found this news extremely interesting. Just a few days  earlier Cronin
would have considered the information he was giving to  McCormack to be the
basis for dynamite stories. Now he was on to  something else.

"You got something good?" asked the detective.

"Could be," said Cronin.

"Something we might be interested in?" McCormack asked.

Cronin shrugged.

McCormack shifted in his seat. He didn't like trying to pry  information out of
reporters.

"I hear the heat's on you over there," McCormack said.

Cronin was surprised McCormack knew that.

"You know how it is," Cronin said.

"You step on a toe or two and the usual suspects howl."

"The cardinal called Johnson, eh?" said McCormack.

"Kennedy, too," Cronin said.

"Kennedy?" McCormack said.

"How come?"

"To complain we were being too tough on Stewart."

McCormack nodded.

"Chappaquiddick," said the detective.

Cronin didn't get it.

"It all goes back to Chappaquiddick, twenty-five years ago," said  McCormack.

"Mary Jo drowns and the senator's political career is on the line.  Stewart
wasn't an elected official then, but he was a budding activist  with strong
connections to the left and the news media. He pitched in,  went to bat for
Teddy."

"When you put two and two together on this, all I ask is for a head's  up," said
Cronin.

"OK?"

McCormack didn't respond right away.

"I'm in an awkward position," said the detective. He did not want to  say that
he had
taken a pledge of secrecy in the presence of the attorney general. He  would
feel too foolish.

"Oh?" said Cronin.

McCormack sighed.

"It's complicated," he said, "but I'm sure we can work something  out."
When Cronin had last been to her home, Sloane had lived in a  condominium on
Chestnut Street, on the flat of Beacon Hill. Since  then, however, Sloane's
grandmother had died leaving Susan her home in  a leafy suburb just outside the
city. When Cronin pulled into the  driveway and drove back through the woods, he
found a white clapboard  farmhouse, a rambling, secluded old place. As Cronin
pulled his car to  the side of the gravel driveway and walked around toward the
back, he  saw what was obviously a new wing constructed of glass and wood
stretching out toward a flagstone terrace next to a pool.

He carried a bottle of Silverado Chardonnay to present to Sloane and  walked
through the yard and on to the back terrace. He called through  the screen doors
of the porch: "Please tell me that the owner of this  spread is some
industrialist traveling in Europe and that you are  house-sitting," he joked.

"Please tell me that."

She came through the door wiping her hands on an apron. She was  wearing pale
yellow silk pants and a white shirt with a design of  brightly colored hot-air
balloons. Her hair was pulled back and she  had a slight sunburn on her face. He
was struck by her loveliness.

"Welcome," she said brightly.

"And I'm sorry to disappoint you but I actually own this place due to  an
accident of birth."

"This is," he said with a look of wonder, "unreal."

"I suppose it's a bit too much, but I had no wish to sell it," she
said.

"I don't think Grammy would have approved."

He presented her with the wine and she saw that it was her favorite.

"How thoughtful, Frankie," she said with delight. She reached up and  wrapped
her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Shall we have some?"

"Whatever you have opened is fine with me," he said.

"Oh, no," she said walking quickly to a kitchen counter, "I insist on  this."
She uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. They each took a  sip and
pronounced it delicious.

"I love this space," he said.

"Thank you," she replied.

"When I got the house I realized that the kitchen hadn't been touched  since the
fifties, literally. Everything was ancient and it just  seemed so dark and out
of date that I couldn't stand it. When Grammy  was here it was fine--it was her
kitchen and it suited her. But I  wanted .. .

this."

"This" was a large combination kitchen and sitting room. On one wall  were the
refrigerator, sink, and dishwasher. On an island just a  couple of feet away was
the gas stove. The cabinets were cherry with  glass panes. Past the island was a
brick fireplace and chimney that  acted as a kind of buffer between the kitchen
and sitting room where  Sloane had a dining table, sofa, bookshelves, and a
television and  stereo system built into the wall. The sofa, easy chair, and
curtains  were a bright orange, the walls white.

"The fireplace is great," said Cronin.

"There was a wall there," said Sloane, "separating the kitchen from a  sort of
mud room that wasn't really used. I knew the chimney ran up  through there and
so I asked whether if the wall was taken down we  could open up the chimney and
the architect said they could. It was  lovely during the winter to be sitting by
the fire and watching the  snow mount up outside. I must spend ninety percent of
my time in this  room."

But this was an evening to be outside in the warmth of the summer air.  The sky,
with the sun descending, held a few puffy clouds the color of  overly ripe
raspberries. They stood on the terrace looking out over  the pool, down across
an easily sloping lawn to a red clay tennis  court. Beyond the court was a grove
of
trees and, beyond that, Cronin could see the outline of a pond.

"Can you swim in there?" Cronin asked, pointing toward the pond.

"Oh, sure," she said.

"It's warm around the shore and near the surface, but cooler the deeper  you go.
It's fed by a cold underground spring that runs off the  Concord River. Jump in
if you'd like."

"Would you mind?" he asked.

"Oh, please, not the least," she said, turning and heading back through  the
kitchen.

"Here," she returned and handed him a fresh bath towel.

He headed down the hill with the towel slung over his shoulder, glass  of wine
in his hand. Cronin walked past the tennis court, which had  been recently
brushed, on toward the pond. There was a small stand of  trees at one end where
he took off his madras cotton shirt, shoes,  chinos, and underwear. He set them
in a pile next to the tree beside  his wineglass and glanced back up at the
house to make sure he could  not be seen. He stepped into the water, walking
gingerly until he was  deep enough to push forward and begin a leisurely swim.
The water was  bracingly chilly the farther out he got and he dove down deep, to
perhaps fifteen feet without hitting bottom and felt icy cool water  there. He
surfaced and continued on in a steady stroke until he  reached the other side.
The bottom was sandy there and Cronin supposed  that sand had been trucked in
through the years to create a beach,  perhaps for Sloane when she was a child.
He swam back across, guessing  that the pond wasn't any more than two hundred
feet long and half that  wide. He reached the trees where his clothes were piled
and sat down  on the grass naked, then stretched out on his back and stared up
at the  sky. It was growing steadily darker now and the colors of the clouds
were more muted.

Cronin sat up and sipped his wine. He lay back again feeling cleansed,  and
ready for this evening. For he knew a crucial time had come. He  knew that he
faced a test with this woman of whether he was able to  engage in normal human
connections, to feel love for her and to express  that love. He did not feel
burdened by such thoughts as he so often  had in the past. Perhaps
he had been baptized into a new life now and had a second chance.

He toweled off and dressed. As he walked back up toward the house  feeling cool
and revived, he knew that he was ready for this evening  that was too long
overdue.

They ate on the flagstone terrace at a black, wrought-iron table. The  dinner
was a treat--tasty swordfish, rice and salad, dessert of Haagen  Dazs strawberry
ice cream, and, to cap it all off, a half-bottle of  chilled Perrier-Jouet
champagne.

It was dark when they finished, but they sat quietly on the terrace,  sipping
the sparkling wine, candles flickering in the slight breeze.  Soon they were
chased inside by a few pesky mosquitoes. Cronin rinsed  the dishes and placed
them in the dishwasher while Sloane sponged off  the table and counters. She
brewed decaf and they took their cups into  the den, a cozy, walnut-lined room,
and relaxed in easy chairs on  either side of the stone fireplace. Sloane put
James Taylor on the  stereo and they chatted idly for a while. In time, they
fell silent.

"I was thinking last night about our conversation at lunch yesterday,"  she
said.

"I'm not sure I've ever heard quite the same tone in your voice as when  you
were reminiscing about your mom. It sounds like you were a very  happy child."

Frank considered this for a moment. He nodded.

"Very happy," he said, looking into her eyes and smiling.

"Life was simple then, and very good. I remember one summer in  particular. One
magical summer that I'm sure was the happiest time of  my life. We went to an
inn on Cape Cod. I don't even recall the name,  but it was one of those grand
old places with great wide porches and a  beautiful formal dining room. And the
guests were mostly old and so  civilized. And I remember the room we stayed in
together in a kind of  dorm for the people who worked there. My mother worked as
a waitress  at this place, but she worked in the evening so we had every day
together all summer long. And I remember it being beautiful every day  except
maybe one or two, and we would go to the beach, she and I, and  play in the sand
and swim and it was all so perfect. So idyllic.  And

I
think I thought that that was what life would always be like."

He laughed.

"What did I know. I was only five."

He paused, recalling that time so many years ago.

"I remember very distinctly that we left there the day after Labor Day,  very
early on a cool morning. I remember walking along into the town  to catch the
bus. She held my hand and in the other hand she carried a  big duffel bag with
all our stuff. We rode up to Boston; it was still  quite early and we hadn't
eaten yet, but we couldn't eat at the station  there because things were too
expensive in Boston."

He shook his head, half smiling.

"I remember her saying that. So we finally ate when we got to the bus  station
in Concord, New Hampshire. Anyway, we continued north on the  bus, up across New
Hampshire and into Vermont, and finally, in the  evening, we pulled into
Coaticook. We got off the bus and were  shivering and it felt like in just one
day--in just a bus ride--we had  traveled straight from summer to fall.

"Our trailer was set in a clearing a quarter mile up from the Cold  River, at
the end of a dirt road. It was actually a very nice little  place for us,
certainly not fancy, but more than adequate. It was  about the width of a bus,
as a matter-of-fact, and it had a very cozy  feel to it. I'm sure I'd be shocked
at how flimsy it was if I were to  go back and see it now, at how thin the walls
were, and how everything  was on top of everything else. There were three rooms:

a kitchen with a fold-out counter that we ate on, and my room and my  mother's
room."

He held out his hands and glanced at Sloane, not even a slight hint of
self-pity evident on his face.

"When that is what you know, it can be a very happy place.

I never yearned for space or privacy or anything but what we had."

He smiled a contented smile, and sat back, silent now.

"How come you never mention your father when you recall those days?"  Sloane
asked.

"It was a happier place when my father was gone," he replied, staring  down into
his glass.

"He was a huge, hulking man. A logger, had been the son of a logger,  and
logging was all he knew, all he cared to know. He was kind of a  drifter, a
drinker.

"When he visited, which was infrequently, my mother would
be frightened. There were a couple of times, very late at night, when  me and my
mom were sleeping, when he would show up at the trailer. I'm  sure he was drunk
those times. He would bang on the doors and windows,  demanding that she let him
in. And she would have no choice."

Sloane was shocked by this, sure she knew that some horrible violence  was done
to his mother and just as sure that he would not tell her the  details.

Cronin paused for a moment remembering one night when his father forced  his way
in and pushed her down the hallway to her bedroom. Frank had  come out of his
room and had seen her cowering with fear. He was  ordered back into his room by
his father and he heard his mother  imploring him to be quiet for the sake of
the boy. But Frank heard  everything--every harsh, obscene whisper, every creak
of the springs.  He heard the headboard banging against the wall, so quickly and
hard  that he thought it might break through. And he heard his father make a
scary sound, a loud noise like an animal.

When his father left that night he heard her crying in her bed, and he  went
from his room to her and she held him so tightly she was hurting  him and she
cried and told him she was all right, she was fine and she  loved him, she said,
more than the sun and the moon and the stars.

Frank got up and left the room. Soon he returned with a drink in his  hand. His
brow was knitted as he sat down in the easy chair. He  hunched forward, sipped
the drink, set it aside, then clasped his  hands, as though in prayer. He spoke
quietly.

"My mother went food shopping every Wednesday evening because that's  when she
got a ride from a neighbor, Mrs. Wensink. It was a snowy  night. She considered
not going. She mentioned it to me. But it was  arranged that Mrs. Wensink would
pick her up at a certain time and  there was no way to change that. We did not
have a telephone. If we  had had a phone I think she would have called Mrs.

Wensink and canceled. Because of the snow."

He sighed softly and sipped his drink.

"Logging trucks always
go too fast. They're always overloaded. They roar down from the  camps, bulging
with huge trees stripped of their branches, accelerating  around curves. I've
gone back and researched this a bit. To satisfy  my own curiosity, really. I've
just felt the need to know. They may  not have heard much of anything. Probably
never knew what hit them.  The driver, I found out, had had a snout full of ale,
and was rushing  to Maxwell Paper with an overload. The visibility must have
been very  bad. The snow swirls in these storms and there was a clearing nearby
where the wind could get up a good head of steam and whip the snow into  a
blinding frenzy. He must not have seen them because he didn't so  much hit them
as rode up over them. Crushed Mrs. Wensink's Dodge. It  spun off to the side and
down an embankment and into the trees. The  coroner's report said both women
died instantly."

Sloane sat in silence, stunned. Her eyes burned and a tear slipped  down her
cheek. She crossed to him and held him and found that it was  she who needed
holding. He had been through this a thousand times, a  million times, in his
mind.

He did not tell her, he supposed he did not need to, that it had  devastated him
and his brother. After she had been buried, a lady from  the provincial
government drove them on the interstate to a gray house  in a subdivision that
would be their transition into the world of  foster care. It was to be the first
of too many foster homes. The  boys wanted to be in Coaticook, back with their
friends, but there were  no foster homes available just then willing to take two
children. The  thought of splitting the boys up was raised with Frank but he
dismissed  it. It had been just weeks before the accident one night in the
restaurant when she thought both boys were asleep, he heard her talking  with
one of the other waitresses.

"He's not strong, like Frankie," he heard her say about Chris.

"Frankie is strong and wise, full of common sense. Chris is a sweet  child, but
not so lucky as Frank."

She had said, "Frankie's got to look after that boy."
Sloane's embrace was fierce. She had settled on his lap, curled  herself on top
of him, her face buried in his shoulder. She sobbed.  Her face was warm and wet
with tears. He felt calm. He held her and  kissed her hair. After a while, she
stopped crying. She sat up and  wiped her cheeks and her eyes. She held him at
arm's length, clutching  his biceps with her hands. She held his gaze.

"I am so very, very sorry," she said.

"It's heartbreaking, Frankie. I wish there was something I could say  or do.
Something."

He smiled at her.

"There is something you can do," he said.

"You can take a walk with me."

They went out through the glass doors leading to the terrace where they  had
eaten dinner and walked past the pool, down beyond the pond. There  was a path
that cut through the woods and led onto a sprawling tract of  conservation land
and a series of trails used for cross-country skiing  and horseback riding. A
huge yellow moon hung in the sky illuminating  the path. The night air was warm
and smelled of an earthy fragrance.

They ambled along the path, past a meadow that was so bright in the  moonlight
it appeared artificial. Beyond the meadow, near the point  where Sloane's
property abutted the conservation land, there was a  large sloping rock where
they stopped and sat down. They looked up at  the moon and listened to crickets.
The sound of a barn owl came from  not far away.

"Are you OK?" she asked him tenderly.

He squeezed her hand.

"I'm really fine," he said.

"Really, I am. I've had twenty-four years to deal with this, remember.  I've
been living with it for most of my life and I've long since  adjusted. I've long
since come to terms with it.

Life goes on. I try very hard not to dwell on it. There are times  when I do.

Naturally. But I fight hard the temptation to be absorbed by it  because the
self-pity that comes from dwelling on it is overpowering.  It's drug like And
when you're under its power then nothing is your  responsibility. You become a
victim, and when you become a victim you  start laying off responsibility for
your own life on other forces in  the universe. I hate that."

The truth was that he did feel sorry for himself, as much as he tried  not to.
He of course did not tell Sloane about the dream.
That he had long since come to terms with his mother's death was true  in a
sense, false in another. It haunted him, but he could not say  that to her.

It was clear to Sloane, however, that he had not entirely put it behind  him. He
was scarred by recollections of his father and his mother, of  a marriage where
there was violence and neglect. Was it any wonder he  had difficulty with
intimacy?

"I want to make the best of my life, Sloane," he said.

"It's my only chance. I know that. I'm trying to live as though I  truly
understand that. That's why I want so very much to try to make  it work between
us. I honestly do. And I know you must be suspicious  of that. You have reason
to be. But I believe that I am ready now. I  don't know whether it will work,
but I want to make a good-faith stab  at it."

"Oh, Frankie," she said.

"That's really all one can ask, isn't it? That we try.

I mean these things are terribly complicated in a way. But in another  respect
it's not very complicated at all. It really comes down to  whether we're willing
to make an effort. And Frankie, I do believe  there's something here, something
between us. And I am so very, very  happy to hear you say you want to try,
because there is something, I  feel it so strongly and I think you do, too, and
goddammit, Frankie,  we've got to give it a chance. We can't let it die of
neglect. That  would be a dreadful sin."

They embraced there on the rock, kissed tenderly and held each other.  They
ambled back along the moonlit path, his arm around her shoulder,  hers around
his waist. Every now and again they would pause and he  would look into her eyes
and she would touch his face and they would  kiss gently.

It was very late when they returned to the house. They were both  exhausted.
They stretched out on the sofa together and soon he had  fallen asleep. She
moved carefully out of his embrace and went to a  guest room to get a blanket.
She placed it over him and stood looking  down at him. She went to bed feeling
very much in love.
The L1011 turned onto the runway, accelerated smoothly, lifted easily  off the
ground, and rose steadily into the sky over Boston. When  Cronin glanced out the
window and saw the city recede he felt a  palpable sense of relief. He was happy
to be out of there.

He felt Sloane squeeze his hand and he turned to look at her smiling  face. She
held up a flute of champagne.

"Cheers," she said.

"Here's to a great little vacation."

He clinked glasses and they sipped their drinks.

"And here," he said, "is to the genius who had the idea for all of  this."

"Thank you," she said, beaming.

It had happened so fast. She had seen on Saturday night that he needed  a break.

On Sunday afternoon, she had made a few phone calls--to a couple of her  deputy
prosecutors, the airlines, and a hotel. Everything clicked.

This, she thought, is meant to happen.

She sat down with him early Sunday evening and told him she had a  surprise
birthday present for him, but that he had to be willing to  take a week off from
work. He noted that his birthday was two months  away and she said it was an
early present. He asked why it required a  week. She wouldn't say. She said you
either trust me or you don't. He  laughed for the first time all day and picked
up the phone. He called  Berman and asked for the week off.

This was not an easy call for Berman. Since the murder of Councillor  Stewart,
Cronin had been his lead reporter, his only
reporter, in fact, to break any news on the case. To let Frank go at  a time
like this increased the likelihood that the Post would get  beaten on some
aspect of the Stewart story.

But there was another consideration for Berman. Roy Johnson had put  tremendous
pressure on Berman to back off on Stewart coverage. And if  Cronin were away for
a week it would seem that Berman was yielding to  the pressure, thereby getting
Johnson off his back. For the moment at  least.

The risk of not having Cronin around was worth taking, Berman decided.  He told
Frank to go ahead and take the week off. Berman hoped that in  a week's time, he
would get the old Cronin back.

On Monday, before going into the office early, Sloane told Frank to go  home and
pack a bag and she would pick him up at his apartment at noon.  He was not
surprised when they drove to the airport. He was surprised  when they boarded a
flight to San Francisco and were seated in the  first-class cabin.

During the flight they chatted and drank more champagne. They ate some  of the
fruit and cheese served with lunch, and Sloane dozed off. While  she slept,
Cronin read a magazine and sat gazing out into the sunny  sky.

In her sleep, she had shifted in her seat and her head came to rest  against his
shoulder. She slept so soundly that her mouth opened  slightly as she breathed.

When the flight attendant had disappeared, he placed a gentle kiss on  her
forehead.

After landing in San Francisco, they caught a small plane headed down  the
coastline to Monterey. They rented a car at the airport and Sloane  drove them
down 17 Mile Drive to the Inn at Spanish Bay, on the  Monterey Peninsula. It was
early evening, Pacific time, when they  arrived. Their room was spacious and
elegant, furnished with a  king-sized bed at one end, a sofa and easy chairs at
the other. In a  wall by the sofa was a fireplace and the hotel staff had built
a fire  before their arrival and brought in a supply of wood. The far wall of
the room was glass from floor to ceiling, end to end. Sliding glass  doors led
out to a large private balcony. Directly below were dunes  and wild sea grass,
but
just beyond was the spectacular pounding Pacific surf, and as the day  grew late
the sun began to set on the horizon. In the clear sky the  sun appeared to be an
absurdly large orange ball, so huge it was as  though Hollywood's special
effects teams had been at work, but standing  in each other's arms in the
increasingly cool evening air, Cronin and  Sloane knew this was real. In the
room when they arrived was a bucket  with a chilled bottle ofTaittinger that
Cronin popped open and poured.  They stood on the balcony sipping their wine and
quietly watching the  sun slip ever so slowly below the horizon. When it had
finally  disappeared and the evening descended, they moved back inside. They
left the balcony doors open to hear the crash of the waves. In their  room the
fire crackled.

Standing in front of the fireplace, Frank took her in his arms and they
embraced. They kissed over and over again. After a while, he  unfastened her
pants and dropped them to the floor, running his hands  along the upper portions
of her legs, front and back. Sloane put her  head back, her eyes closed and took
a deep slow breath. His hands were  big and strong but he was so patient and
gentle with her. He took his  time, never hurrying. He would do anything and
everything to please  her and she thought of what they were about to do together
and she felt  a shudder of excitement.

He unbuttoned her shirt and took it off her. He unfastened her bra and  felt the
smoothness of her skin. He undressed himself and embraced her  again and they
moved to the bed. She had him lie on his stomach and  she straddled him and
began to massage his back. She pressed firmly  and worked the muscles in his
upper back and along his shoulders. She  took her time and massaged until he was
completely relaxed. And then  they switched positions, with Frank on top of her
massaging her back.  Soon, she was on her back and he was above her and they
kissed.

The room was dimly lit by the fire and the reflection of the rising  moon off
the black ocean water. It was enough light for them to see  each other clearly.

They kissed some more and rolled over on the bed and then Sloane was  atop him
and he was inside her and she felt his hardness and she moved  her hips back and
forth in a steady rhythm
and in time she was coming in slow waves. And then he was on top of  her again,
between her legs and soon she felt him inside of her and she  felt a flush of
warmth and a sharp snap of pleasure within.

"I love you," he said to her.

"And I love you," she said.

"I think I've loved you for a while," he said.

"I'm sure I've loved you for quite a long time," she said. They never  made it
out of their room for dinner. They shared an apple and  crackers that Cronin had
left over from the flight. And they went to  sleep, finally, exhausted at
midnight, three o'clock Eastern time,  wondering whether they could ever get
enough of each other.

After a day on the West Coast they felt as though they had been away a  week.

After three days it felt like they'd been gone a month. They walked  the beach
in Monterey and Frank accompanied Sloane as she played the  famed Pebble Beach
Golf Links, just a few miles down the coast from  Spanish Bay. He watched
carefully as she swung, trying to learn from  her, but the few shots he hit were
comically poor. Her form seemed  perfect on each swing, compact and powerful.
She repeated the same  motion over and over again and hit one straight shot
after another.

They walked the course in the late afternoon and in spite of whipping  winds,
she negotiated her way around one of the world's most famous  layouts in an
impressive eighty-four strokes.

They had drinks on the terrace at the Lodge at Pebble Beach and dinner  in a
restaurant in Carmel which had a retractable roof that refused to  close when
the rain began. The waiters and maitre d' struggled to  crank it shut but it
would not yield, and when they scanned the tables  for someone more muscled they
settled on Cronin and he happily pitched  in, but when he pulled on the crank
with all his might he snapped it  off to groans from the staff and applause from
the patrons, some of  whom were either drunk enough or laid back enough to sit
in the  downpour and finish their meals.
Cronin and Sloane were neither. They headed back to the Inn, soaked  and
chilled.

They got out of their wet clothes and took hot showers, then draped  themselves
in terrycloth robes provided by the hotel. They sprawled  together on the couch
facing the fireplace, he caressing her neck.  Soon, Frank reached down and undid
the belt that held Sloane's robe in  place. It fell open and he reached down
between her legs and felt her  warmth and moisture.

They made love in front of the fireplace and slept that chilly night  with the
balcony doors open and the sound of the surf and rain lashing  down outside. The
storm brought with it unseasonably cool air and they  spent all of the following
day in their room, in front of the  fireplace.

Feeling sluggish from the day, they went out for a long, vigorous walk  when the
clouds drifted away early that evening. Their route took them  along the sea at
Spanish Bay and up past Pebble Beach to Cypress Point,  where thirty- and
forty-foot cliffs stood above the Pacific. They saw  seals and sea lions in the
water below and stumbled onto the Cypress  Point Club, where they saw deer
tracks on a fairway. They walked on  and on, faster and faster, building up a
sweat until they broke into a  jog and circled back around, down through the
pine forest just inland  on the peninsula and back to the Inn. They went to the
gym, where they  were the only patrons, and worked on the Nautilus machines for
forty-five minutes and then plunged into the outdoor pool just as  darkness was
falling.

They showered and dressed and dined at a table by the huge fireplace in  the
main dining room of the Inn. They voraciously ate appetizers of  smoked salmon
and a main course of rack of lamb with asparagus and new  potatoes. Sloane
ordered a bottle of 1982 Silver Oak Cabernet  Sauvignon which Cronin sipped and
pronounced "the damnedest wine I've  ever tasted."

The next day they checked out and drove south along the highway rising  up into
the hills just south of Carmel, driving with towering forests  on both sides
until suddenly, the forest on their right was no more and  there was only open
ocean, hundreds and hundreds of feet below. Big  Sur. Dizzyingly high cliffs
that plunged into the surging Pacific. The  road was carved into
the cliffs at points and any misstep with the wheel meant the end.  Along the
way they noticed an occasional private home perched on the  cliff, stunning
places that were homes to movie stars.

They drove mesmerized by the views and calmed by their steady movement  south
where the air was warmer. They had intended to stay at the  Ventana Ranch in the
hills but decided to press on south to Santa  Barbara. They checked into the
Four Seasons and spent the final two  nights of their vacation there. During the
day they drove around and  explored the area, and Cronin, who had never before
been to Santa  Barbara, fell in love. It was, he said, the perfect place for
them to  live.

Sloane laughed.

"But what would we do?" she asked.

"We could teach," he said, meaning the University of California at  Santa
Barbara.

They were having dinner at a small, informal Mexican restaurant in  town.

"I'm absolutely serious," he said.

"What's holding us in Boston? Let's just go.

We're free to live wherever we want. Why not give it a try?"

She was taken aback by this. What was Frank saying? Was he, in his  circuitous
fashion, trying to tell her something? Why couldn't he  simply say that he
thought they should be together?

Clearly it was the implication of what he was saying. Sloane thought  maybe it
was the lawyer in her that valued directness. Ambiguity held  little charm for
her. She wanted to call him on it, to stop him right  then and there and prod
him to explain what he meant, to share with her  his view of what they should
be. But she did not feel the moment was  right. And she let it pass.

In bed that night she said to him, "Now I know we have a serious adult
relationship."

"How's that? "he asked.

"Because," she said, "we're in bed to sleep not for sex."

After breakfast they took a stroll on the beach, then returned to the  hotel and
relaxed by the pool. After baking in the sun, Frank got up  to swim and, as he
did so, she watched him
carefully. Standing at the pool's edge, he was tall and fit looking.  He wore a
baggy, lime green bathing suit that hid how slim his hips  were. His stomach was
flat, his chest and upper arms well muscled. His  shoulders were broad and
strong. He dove in and swam at a steady pace,  rolling his head back and forth,
side to side, in rhythm with his long,  powerful strokes.

As she watched, she wondered about him. She thought about a brief  conversation
they'd had their second night at Spanish Bay. In front of  the fireplace she had
asked him what he wanted out of life. She had  expected he'd make some sort of
joke to escape having to answer. But  he had not done that.

"The same thing everybody wants," he had replied.

"Health. Happiness. A family.

Rewarding work." He had shrugged and added, "What else is there?"

She had pressed.

"But above all else, what?" she had asked. He had not hesitated.

"A family," he had said.

"Above all else, I want a family." He paused, then said, "That's what  it's all
about, isn't it?"

He had made it sound so basic, so simple. For all the intricacies of  life, for
all the complications, that's what it came down to.

"Isn't that what you want?" he had asked.

She did not speak. She merely nodded her head in affirmation. Yes,  indeed, she
had thought. That is exactly what I want.

They lay on the beach in the late afternoon. The sun was headed down.  Santa
Barbara seemed quiet, tranquil.

They lay together on a blanket on their stomachs. The sound of the  surf
crashing onto the shore had lulled them both into sleep. Frank  soon woke and
lay reading a magazine. He thought Sloane was still  sleeping but she stirred
and moved closer toward him. She reached over  and took his arm and brought it
across her shoulders. He squeezed  her.

"You OK? "he asked.

"I'm afraid sometimes," she said. She surprised herself with her  bluntness.

He turned to her, surprised himself.

"You? Afraid?"

She smiled, but she was quite serious.
"Of anything in particular?" he asked.

"Of things going wrong," she said without hesitation.

"Of bad things happening."

"What sort of bad things?" Frank asked.

"Oh, you know," she said.

"The usual bad things."

"And what are the usual bad things?" he asked.

"The things that shatter people's happiness," she said.

"Terrible things. Like what happened to Alice."

This surprised Cronin. For as long as he had known her she had  protected this
part of her life, guarding the memory of her sister,  steadfastly avoiding any
extended discussion of her at all.

"Do you think about her much?" Cronin asked.

Sloane nodded.

"Quite a lot," she said.

"Not every day but just about. I mean I don't linger over it, but I  recall her
in flashes, in moments of the day.

Different things will trigger it. Little things. If I see what are  obviously
two sisters together or if someone talks about her sister or  if I encounter
someone named Alice or if I talk with my mother or  father.

"Or sometimes when I'm at home and I look up at the wall in the living  room or
in my bedroom or my office and see one of her paintings. Those  wild strokes,
slashing, vibrant strokes that were so much Alice, so  energized and colorful
and playful. I think of her then and I think  quite happily about her life, but
then I also think what a terrible  loss to us all, to the world, that Alice is
gone."

She stopped to compose herself.

"Every now and then," Sloane continued, "when I think of what happened  to Alice
it frightens me. It proves that terrible things do happen in  life. Sometimes
it's hard to trust happiness, I think."

He enveloped her in his arms and held her for a long moment. He wanted  to tell
her that everything would be OK, that bad things would not  happen to her, but
he knew that sort of talk would serve no purpose.

"Sometimes sharing the burden helps," he said.
They went swimming in the early evening and sat on the beach drying  off.

"You know," she said.

"I feel OK talking to you about Alice, telling you about her. I can't  help but
ask if you feel OK talking to me about Chris?"

Cronin thought about this. He nodded.

"Of course I do," he said. He reached for her hand and squeezed it.  With her
now he felt some kind of liberation he had not experienced  before. He felt free
to share almost anything with her now.

He watched some children down the beach playing Frisbee. Here and  there along
the sand couples strolled together. Though late in the day  it was still
pleasantly warm.

"Christopher was very small when he was born," Frank said.

"He was anemic and unbelievably tiny. I think he weighed something  like four
and a half pounds when he was born. They wouldn't let him  out of the hospital
right away. My mother was home for about a month  before they'd discharge him.
He had to build up his weight and  strength. And we would go every night to the
hospital to visit him. I  will never forget as long as I live the first time I
saw him. I was  only six at the time, and we walked into the Intensive Care Unit
and  there he was in a sort of clear plastic box, with tubes in his nose and  an
intravenous needle stuck in his thigh. And his face was scrunched  up and he was
screaming his little head off. And I knew when I saw him  he was terrified. He
was scared to death. And my very first thought  was, "This is my brother. I
should be able to do something so he  doesn't cry. To comfort him."

" Sloane sat propped up on her elbows, listening intently.

"Alice was protective of me that way," she said.

"It's a nice instinct older brothers and sisters have."

He gazed out to sea and remembered leaving the hospital that night with  his
mother and standing at the bus stop in the rain. Her hair was  matted down on
her forehead and she grasped Frank by the arms and  appeared for a moment as
though she were angry. And when she spoke she  did so with an intensity he had
never seen in her before.

"Listen to me now, Frankie," she had said.

"That little guy in
there needs us. Frankie, he's got no one else. He's all alone in  this world
without you and me. He's our family and there is nothing  more important. Do you
understand me, darling?"

And Frank understood. In spite of his age, he grasped what she was  saying.

Somehow, she had transferred her madness and intensity to Frank.

"Did you spend a lot of time together, you two?" Sloane asked.

"For years we were inseparable," he said.

"We were very different, but we had a rapport that was telepathic, I  think."

"How were you two different?" she asked.

"Physically, for one thing," said Frank.

"I was always much bigger than Chris.

He was very small for his age. And he was a nervous kid, skittish  around
people.

He had a hard time with school, too.

"But we were a very happy, contented family. We had one another. And  that was a
lot. The three of us got along so well. We never argued,  never fought. There
was no tension in the house."

"Come on!" said Sloane, "don't you think you're romanticizing just a  bit?"

Cronin laughed.

"No, really, it's true," he said.

"We had the greatest life.

Chris and I would go to work with Mom on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday  nights
and I would read stories to him in the back booth. Sometimes  Mom would give me
some money and I would take Chris down to the movie  theater or the arcade to
play pinball.

"In the summer, as I got older, I would caddy at the golf club where  the
executives from Maxwell Paper played. We saved some of the money I  made but
every week my mother would let me spend a little on Chris and  myself. I always
bought him something, candy, an ice cream cone."

"Sounds like the perfect childhood," she said.

He smiled and nodded.

"It was in a way," he said.

But Chris had a difficult time of it, Frank recalled. He had been a  poor
student and not much of an athlete. And he had had a stutter that  was the
source of frequent mockery from other children.

Frank had told Chris to ignore the children who made fun of
him. His mother had explained that that was hard for Chris to do.

"His feelings are easily hurt," his mother had told him.

"You have to understand that Chris isn't as strong as you are. He's  frightened
sometimes. He's fragile, Frankie, do you know what that  means?"

"Something that's fragile could break easily," Frank had replied.

"Exactly," she had said.

"That is why you have to always care for your brother, darling. Always.  And I
know you won't let me down."

"I won't. Mom," Frank had said.

"I would never do that."

The next day, when they bordered the plane at LAX bound for Boston, the
lightness Frank had felt all week seemed to dissipate. He was not  eager to get
back to the East Coast. The city where he lived held no  charm for him anymore.

It pretended to be something it was not, and though he had once  accepted that
pretension as reality, now he knew the truth. It was not  a place he wanted to
be anymore. Not a world in which he cared to  live. It suddenly occurred to him
that he wanted out.
Somehow, McCormack had known it would come to this. The police had  wanted to
question Dockerty in detail but the defense lawyer, Delaney,  would not allow
it.

Delaney had said, after his first interview with Dockerty, that his  client
possessed an alibi. He said that Dockerty did not wish to  disclose the nature
of that alibi unless it was necessary. Detective  O'Toole, upon hearing this,
laughed out loud at Delaney. McCormack had  not laughed.

The entire focus of the investigation into the murder of Philip Stewart  was now
on Dockerty. Detectives carrying his photograph had gone door  to door in the
Moss Hill neighborhood, and four neighbors swore they  had seen Dockerty in the
area, though none could state positively that  they had seen him anytime before
the murder took place. All had  recollections of seeing him since the killing.

Records showed Dockerty had checked into the Four Seasons two nights  after the
killing, but police theorized that he had been at some other  hotel and moved.

It was not the strongest of cases, though clearly Dockerty had motive.  The
prosecution would also make a deal for the testimony of the inmate  who had
heard Dockerty say he intended to kill Stewart. The prisoner's  credibility on
the stand would be crucial at trial. The weapon would  help, of course, as would
the fact that Dockerty had broken into the  Stewart house. The prosecution would
speculate in an opening argument  that Dockerty had come to Stewart's house on
the night of the murder  looking for something and killed Stewart in the process
of searching.
It was not the strongest of cases but it was better than no case, and  no case
was what the prosecution had without Dockerty. And law  enforcement officials in
the city, the police command staff, in  particular, were happy to have some
case, any case, so long as it  served to reduce the heat on them.

Dockerty was their man.

Until, that is, the lawyer Delaney was informed late in the afternoon  that his
client would be formally charged with homicide the following  morning. When
Delaney delivered this news to his client, the lawyer  was startled by
Dockerty's response. Dockerty claimed that he really  did have an alibi. He said
it was airtight. He explained to Delaney  that he had held back from using it
because the use of the alibi would  result in Dockerty's going back to prison
for a short stay for a parole  violation. He had held back the alibi in the hope
of getting off  entirely. But now that he was about to face a formal charge of
murder,  Dockerty told his lawyer, he wanted the authorities told of his  alibi.

He told Delaney what it was. Delaney conveyed it to the DA's office,  and, to
the astonishment of senior police officials in the city, the  alibi checked out.

The truth was there was no way in the world Dockerty could have  committed the
murder, for on the night Philip Stewart was killed,  Dockerty had been in a
Providence, Rhode Island, jail. He had been en  route to Boston, had stopped off
in Providence and gotten into a beef  at a bar. And he had had no intention of
going back to face the  charges. The arrest constituted his third parole
violation, which  would land him back in prison for an additional nine to twelve
months.

The investigation would now have to take on a new direction.

McCormack was ready.

The attorney general of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Malcolm  Sears,
convened the meeting in his sprawling suite on the twenty-first  floor of the
state office building. Sears occupied a corner office  which held a sweeping
view east to the harbor, the airport, and the  ocean beyond, and west and south
out along the Charles River. Directly
below him was the glittering gold dome of Bulfinch's Massachusetts  State House
and across the river was more Bulfinch handiwork--the  spires on the houses of
Harvard. Sears sat at a conference table, his  back to the window. He was joined
by Tom McCormack, representing the  homicide units of the Boston Police
Department and the Suffolk County  District Attorney's office; Scot Lehman,
general counsel to the State  Banking Commission; Ben Palmer, head of the Boston
office of the  Organized Crime Strike Force of the U.S. Justice Department.

Sears intended this to be an intensely private meeting. These  disparate
divisions of law enforcement had joined forces secretly to  investigate the
subterranean activities of Philip Stewart. McCormack  believed, and had
convinced Sears and Palmer, that the most intelligent  way to produce a new list
of suspects in the murder was to fully probe  Stewart's crooked dealings.

"Find the wronged party and we find a killer," McCormack had said.

Sears had been reluctant to get involved, but with the apparent  violation of
state banking laws, he had had no choice. Sears found  himself in an
uncomfortable position. He was a moderate Democrat in a  state where voters in
Democratic primaries tended to be quite liberal.  And Sears was working
furiously to head off the candidacy of a liberal  Hispanic woman who was making
rumblings about opposing him in the next  primary. In Sears's efforts to keep
her out of the race, he had won  the support of no less a liberal leader than
Father Patrick Boyle.

That very morning, in fact, Boyle had telephoned Sears and impressed  upon him
the importance of keeping private any further damaging  information gathered
concerning Stewart.

"The need for secrecy is paramount," said Sears, starting the  meeting.

"The point of our efforts is not to humiliate this man in death but to
apprehend a killer."

Sears opened the file on the table before him. He glanced down at a  sheet of
paper.

"As the detective has capably noted at our earlier sessions, this is an  unusual
case. No prints, no fibers, no forensics of any value," he  said.

"No witnesses. Nothing."
"Clean," said Palmer.

"It has all the marks of a professional strike. In, bang, out. No  traces."

"Except the weapon," said McCormack.

"It's not what you'd expect," said Palmer, "but it worked."

"So we have ruled out the possibility that this was in any way random  or a
crime of passion?" said Sears.

McCormack nodded.

"We have no choice," said Palmer.

"No forced entry, no struggle, nothing to betray the killer. This was  thought
out."

Sears fidgeted, his mind drifting from the merits of the case to the  politics.

He ignored Palmer.

"I want to say emphatically that we are examining and will examine the  late
councillor's, ah, dealings exclusively to the extent that they may  bear on his
death," Sears said.

"Period. This will not become a romp through his private life. We all
understand that?"

There were nods around the table. It was embarrassing. McCormack,  who'd never
had any dealings with Sears before this case, was now  convinced the man was a
fool.

"The point has been made ad nauseum, Malcolm," Palmer said.

"Let's try and solve the crime, shall we?"

Sears's back arched. He was offended by Palmer's manner. And his  implication.

Sears was about to respond to Palmer but thought better of it. He  thought if he
did, he ran the risk of reading an item in one of the  political columns about
his overzealous efforts to protect Stewart's  reputation. There would be
speculation why. Who in the room would  quietly lay that information on one of
the city's political writers?  Sears wondered as he glanced around. Who
wouldn't?

he thought.

Sears directed his gaze across the table to Scot Lehman and nodded.

"Empire Real Estate Trust is the key," said Lehman, "and it's now clear  he was
in violation of the state banking codes .. ."

"... not that that matters given the parameters of our mission," Sears
interrupted.

Lehman seemed annoyed.

"Well, it speaks to character, doesn't it? But, strictly speaking,  you're
right, it's not what we're about here."
"Strictly speaking nothing," said Sears, clearly miffed.

"It's not what we're about here period."

Lehman paused, then continued.

"The records subpoenaed from Stewart's counsel, Mr. Deegan, and from  his
personal estate reveal that there were two trustees, not one, as we  thought, as
the record indicated. Stewart was one. The other, we now  know, was Mr. Deegan."

Lehman paused to let this nugget of information settle in. Sears sat  glumly at
the head of the table, mute. McCormack, slouched to one  side, his chin resting
on his fist, raised his eyebrows.

"He shows up in at least three places, by my count," said Palmer,  leaning
forward over the table.

"One, he's attorney of record on establishment of the trust. Two, he  is trustee
on the trust. Three, he discovers the body." And four,  Palmer thinks, but does
not say aloud for fear the information will  somehow leak, there are letters in
Stewart's files. Letters from  Deegan to Stewart.

Nasty letters. Letters one could even characterize as threatening.

"The rather disturbing news," Lehman said, his voice dropping an octave  so that
he was speaking with a kind of respected hush, evidently for  the dead,
"concerns what we have uncovered about the beneficiaries of  the trust. There
are two. One is Councillor Stewart. The other is a  man named Joseph Bufalino."

Lehman glanced over at Ben Palmer, the federal Strike Force man, who  nodded his
head in confirmation.

"A notorious character in the rackets," said Palmer.

"The pattern is well established," Lehman continued.

"Large amounts of cash washed through the Shelter Coalition Capital  Fund, moved
into Empire, and dispersed through Empire by Bufalino and  Councillor Stewart."

"How much?" asked Sears.

"Over a seven-year period nearly $4 million," said Lehman.

"All cash? "said Palmer.

"All cash," said Lehman.

The room fell silent. There could be no doubt whatsoever. The most  beloved
political figure in the city, the slain hero, had been a money  launderer for
the Mafia.

Sears sighed heavily. Lehman sat back in his chair, his report
complete. McCormack remained still. Palmer moved some papers  around.

"It's not clear how much Deegan knew," said Palmer.

"He wasn't listed as a beneficiary, but he might have been one, de  facto. I'm
disinclined to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"And he declines to talk," said Sears.

"We spoke to him right after the murder, naturally, because he  discovered the
body," said McCormack.

"Nothing about any financial dealings, certainly. Nothing since  then."

He'll never say a word, thought McCormack. Not to the law. McCormack  knew
Deegan and he knew that, above all, Deegan hated cops; he hated  state and
county prosecutors and especially federal prosecutors. He  hated strike force
people, and the FBI and auditors from the IRS. He  despised them all for they
had conspired to ruin his life and had, by  and large, succeeded. He would never
talk to anyone official, no  matter how he yearned to talk, to unburden himself
about the Evil  One.

"What about Bufalino?" Sears asked.

"His main businesses are gambling and drugs, thus the need to scrub the  cash,"
said Palmer.

"He used some of it to buy legitimate businesses--restaurants, auto
dealerships. And he has extensive stock holdings--through straws, of  course."

Sears interrupted, seeming suddenly annoyed.

"I'm listening hard," he said, "but I'm not hearing a motive for  murder." His
tone was accusatory.

"Am I missing something?"

Jesus, thought McCormack.

Palmer looked at him with knitted brow.

"With that much money going back and forth there's always room for  murder,"
said Palmer.

"Who knows what happened between them? How the deal might have  soured?"

"So the point is?" asked Sears.

"That under all these thick clouds of smoke there may be fire," said  Palmer.

"There was regular contact between the two," said McCormack, meaning  Stewart
and Bufalino.

"He made regular trips to Las Vegas. Stays at Bufalino's hotel. Hangs  around
with him some. This we get from people in Vegas."

"Stewart was a big gambler?" Lehman asked.
McCormack nodded.

"He liked to gamble. Always lost. Didn't care because it wasn't his  money,
obviously. But he also spent money on women and possibly men,  too, we hear."

Sears was annoyed.

"That has nothing to do with anything," he snapped.

McCormack eyed the attorney general.

"It places him in Las Vegas," he said.

"In contact with a known organized crime figure. With an expensive  gambling
habit.

Probably an expensive prostitution habit." McCormack paused.

"As Ben says, sometimes when you have these unstable elements  compressed
together, it's combustible."

Lehman nodded in agreement.

"We find who he screwed over, we find a killer," said Palmer.

Sears grimaced.

McCormack was in trouble and he knew it. He had heard that the  commissioner
suspected him of leaking grand jury minutes to Cronin. And  now Sears seemed
wary of him. And Malcolm Sears was the type of  attorney general who would
salivate at the thought of indicting a cop.  It would help him knock the steam
out of his liberal primary opponent  who charged him with being too cozy with
police.

But McCormack was beyond caring about his own career. He saw very  clearly the
truth about Philip Stewart and it was just as he had long  ago suspected. Worse,
in fact. McCormack wanted the truth out. It  was that desire that compelled him
to meet secretly with Frank Cronin  and recount for him the details of the
meeting with Sears, Palmer, and  Lehman. McCormack did so in spite of the
explict warning by Sears  against anyone at the meeting revealing any details
outside the room.

Cronin returned to the Post with the information McCormack had given  him and
drafted a story, the meat of which was contained in the first  several
paragraphs:

State, county, and federal law enforcement officials are investigating  what
they believe to be links between former Councillor Philip Stewart
and a prominent organized crime figure for clues to who might have  murdered the
councillor and why, according to a law enforcement  source.

Officials have evidence indicating that for seven years Stewart  participated in
a scheme to launder cash generated by organized crime  activities--including
gambling and the drug trade--the source said.  Officials believe that Stewart
laundered the funds through an account  ostensibly intended for the Shelter
Coalition. Stewart was chairman of  the Coalition and held control of Coalition
accounts.

Investigators to date have been stymied in their probe of Stewart's  murder. The
scene yielded no clues of any use in the matter, police  have said.

Investigators now believe that if they probe what appears to have been
Stewart's extensive corrupt activities, they will be led to the  killer.

Cronin printed the story out and went to Berman's office and handed him  the
sheet of paper. Berman's eyes bulged.

"The mob?" Berman said in disbelief.

Cronin nodded.

"Money laundering?" Berman asked, incredulity overtaking his voice.

Again, Cronin nodded.

Berman stood at his desk, ran his hand through his hair while he read  it again.

"This is astounding," he said.

He stared intently at Cronin.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely," said the reporter.

"A law enforcement source?" Berman asked.

"A source. This is your guy?"

"Yes," said Cronin.

"Can't we get confirmation?" Berman asked.

"Make it plural?"

"I'm worried about the competition," said Cronin.

"Any call we make to check on this widens the circle of those who know.  Right
now it's a tiny circle. Part of my arrangement with my guy is  that I may not
call anyone else in the small circle for confirmation. I  agreed to that."
Berman nodded. He understood. Reporters made such deals all the  time. Sources
held the cards, after all.

"Let's go see Roy," said Berman.

They walked along the edge of the city room, past the city desk and the
assistant editors, past the bullpen filled with reporters, past the  copy desk
where the editors' mission was to wring every ounce of life  from a story, and
on back to the corner to Roy Johnson's office. He  was on the telephone and his
secretary asked them to wait until he was  finished. Time passed. Five minutes,
ten. Fifteen, twenty minutes.  Finally Johnson was done. Berman was sweating.

Cronin was tense.

There were no preliminaries. Berman handed the sheet of paper with  Cronin's
lead to the editor, who read it over slowly. When he was  done, he glanced up at
both of them, a dark scowl covering his face. He  was about to speak, thought
better of it, and read the words on the  paper again. This time, when he was
done, he removed his reading  glasses, placed them on his desk, and rubbed his
eyes. When he spoke,  his voice contained a note of impatience.

"A single-sourced story that ties the man to the Mafia?" he said,  making the
notion sound preposterous. He glared at Berman, then  Cronin.

"We're going to destroy the man's memory for all time based on one  source?" He
frowned.

"The hell we are."

He tossed the piece of paper on the desk.

Berman glanced at Cronin then back to Johnson.

"Frank's source has been unerring from the start," said Berman.

"Who is the source?" Johnson was asking Berman, not Cronin.

Berman blushed, embarrassed he did not know.

"He doesn't want anyone to know," said Cronin, attempting to rescue his  friend.

"That was his stipulation from day one, Roy. I thought it was a  reasonable
thing to agree to."

Johnson shook his head.

"Fine," said the editor.

"Protect him all you want. But we're not running this story based on a  single
source, period, never mind one that is unknown to us."

"We can't get confirmation," Berman said.

"The source stipulated that Frank not call anyone else involved in  this."
Johnson threw up his arms and looked at them as though they were  stupid.

"Then we don't have much of a story, do we?"

"But the story's good," said Cronin.

"It's true."

Johnson was impatient.

"Without confirmation that story doesn't make our pages," Johnson said  in a
tone that indicated they were dismissed.

Berman could not bring himself to yield.

"Roy, there were probably a half dozen people in the meeting where this  was
discussed," said Berman.

"If the law of averages applies, each one of them will tell two people  who in
turn will tell two more. Within a few hours dozens of people in  town will know
about this, which means the Record may find out today.

If they do, they won't worry about a single source."

Johnson was slouched in his chair, feet up on his desk, hands held as  though in
prayer, pressing his fingertips against his lips. He wanted  to think about this
very carefully. He wanted to make the right  judgment and he wanted to make that
judgment independent of his  personal interests. Boyle had phoned him only the
night before.  Ostensibly, the priest was calling to report a slight bit of
progress  on the annulment application. The new vicar, it had turned out, had
not only been a seminary roommate of Boyle's, but the two men were  close
friends as well.

Johnson's heart pounded each time Boyle called. But he believed that  he was
capable of separating his personal interests from professional  judgments. Many
senior editors similarly fooled themselves.

Then Boyle had turned the conversation to the damage being done to the  Shelter
Coalition's reputation, to its ability to raise funds, to help  the poor.

Johnson ignored Cronin altogether. He looked hard at Howard Berman.

"The story's not running, Howard," he said.

"Is that clear? Philip Stewart is dead and whether he was associated  with the
Mafia or Mother Teresa is now of little consequence.  Period."

"Jesus, Roy, I don't agree," said Berman.

Johnson cut him off.

"I understand that. You've made your case. The answer is no. Now  let's get back
to work."
Donald Deegan was not a well man. When asked to discuss the case by
investigators, Deegan, speaking through his attorney, said he was too  ill to be
interviewed. He made it plain that without a subpoena from a  grand jury, he
would have nothing to say. Whatever he told the  authorities would find its way
into the newspapers, he knew. And he  was a private man.

This was a clear signal to investigators that Deegan could not speak  for fear
of self-incrimination. Deegan knew he would be foolish to  answer questions from
law enforcement officials. But he nonetheless  had a powerful itch to talk to
someone about the case. Anonymously.  For he wanted to contribute to the
destruction of the memory of Philip  Stewart, his old friend and confidant. And
an opportunity to do just  that occurred when Frank Cronin suddenly appeared at
Deegan's door.
To the outsider, Boston was a city of sophistication and grace. It  was a
cultured place that, more than any other American city, had about  it an aura of
Europe, the Old World. But those who had long lived in  Boston knew better.
Those who had been born in one of its balkanized  neighborhoods and had not
migrated from west of the Charles River or  south of the Blue Hills knew Boston
for what it really was: a city of  ethnic tribes and class envy; a bazaar of
assorted hatreds; a city  where vengeance was a common goal; a place where most
ethnic groups at  least mistrusted and often despised most others.

Cronin had learned during his years as a reporter in Boston that often  the
motive for a person's willingness to help a reporter dig up  information
damaging to someone else was simple revenge. This was of  course the case in
other cities as well. But no where else did it have  the intensity of Boston,
where wrongs and perceived wrongs and slights  were not only not forgotten; they
were put away in a special place and  cared for, occasionally brought gingerly
into the sunlight, like fine  silver, where they were polished, burnished to a
high gloss. In  Boston, they have always loved to hate.

It was true of everyone in the city, what was said in the old joke:  What's the
definition of Irish Alzheimer's? You forget everything  except the grudges.

When working on stories with any sort of political bent to them, Cronin  made it
a habit--never with any success--to seek
the views of one Donald Deegan, former city councillor, state  representative,
and three-term congressman. Deegan had been a  promising young politician back
in the postwar years when he had  graduated from Boston College and BE Law
School.

He had successfully prosecuted a number of high-profile cases as an  assistant
in the Suffolk County District Attorney's office and on the  strength of his
record there, had sought and won a seat in the  Massachusetts House from West
Roxbury.

After two terms in the State House he had run citywide and won a  council seat
on his first try. Deegan was different from the old pols  of that era, most of
whom started their careers during the Depression.  The old-timers emphasized
personal political service, a kind of  politics that was on its way out. Deegan
worked larger issues with  skill. Rather than getting Mrs. McGillicuddy a turkey
for Christmas,  he would push for the state to pay for a program for turkeys for
thousands at Christmas. Deegan understood well the significance of the  Boston
vote to any politician running statewide and he held Beacon Hill  hostage for
the programs he most wanted for the city. In just a few  terms as a state
representative, Deegan had been able to bleed the  state of tens of millions of
additional dollars for Boston.

When he ran for Congress from a newly formed district that included all  of the
city and a smattering of suburbs, Deegan won easily and headed  to Washington.

Through the good offices of soon to be House Speaker John W. McCormack  of South
Boston, Deegan was the only freshman member of the House to  win a coveted seat
on the Ways and Means Committee, where he used his  role to bring contracts to
Massachusetts companies.

After a single term, Deegan was reelected with a record 86 percent of  the vote
in the general election. But soon after he returned to  Washington he began to
feel a financial pinch that had begun during his  freshman term. He would fly
home each weekend to work the district. On  Monday he would fly back to
Washington, working long days and spending  nights at his Capitol Hill
apartment.

He found the schedule backbreaking and the rewards few. In fact, he  learned
that the job was costing him money. His office budget fell  well shy of covering
all of the travel, staff, and other expenses he  incurred. Other members of
the House experienced a similar crunch and most members, many  well-to-do to
begin with, coped. But there were always a few who could  not resist the
temptation to supplement their incomes. Deegan did not  initiate the corruption.

He was approached, initially, by a man who owned a small engineering  company on
Route 128. The fellow was seeking to sell guidance systems  for a new generation
of small missiles to the air force. The man  offered Deegan $10,000 if he could
secure the contract. Deegan was  able to do so--it turned out the firm was
destined to get the contract,  anyway--and pocketed the cash. He was approached
by others,  subsequently, and performed similar services.

But in the midst of his third term Deegan grew bolder. Instead of  waiting for
eager businesspeople to offer money, Deegan asked for it.  It worked the first
few times, but then he propositioned the wrong  person; a man who went to the
FBI and cooperated in a sting of  Congressman Deegan. He was indicted on the eve
of his reelection  campaign and defeated. He was promptly tried in the federal
court,  convicted, imprisoned, and suspended for five years from the practice
of law. He served eleven months at Danbury and returned to Boston  penniless, a
broken man.

One thing about Boston, though--it took care of its own. A Boston  lobbying
firm, run by an old friend of Deegan's from his days in the  Massachusetts State
House, quietly hired him. For all the disgrace he  had suffered, Deegan still
had a number of contacts in Boston politics,  many of whom engaged in practices
similar to those which brought Deegan  crashing down. The difference between him
and them was simple: he got  caught. But in addition to influence he could
exercise on behalf of  clients through friends in the Massachusetts House and
Senate, Deegan  was also just as bright as he had ever been and his strategic
political  sense remained keen. He could plot strategy on behalf of a variety of
clients--from a major insurance company to the tobacco lobby--quietly,  without
ever emerging from the political shadows. And that is how his  career had gone,
and rather profitably, at that, since his return from  federal prison.
Deegan had become the ultimate inside player. He had ontacts  everywhere that
mattered in Boston politics--in the Council, the  mayor's office, important city
agencies, the police department, the  DA's office, and in the State House. He
made it his business to know  who was doing what to whom--politically-and why,
at any given moment in  time. When the racing industry wanted to know whether
the climate was  right on Beacon Hill to pass new legislation expanding racing
dates,  they went to Deegan. When members of the high-technology council  wanted
to know when to seek a cut in the capital gains tax, they went  to Deegan. When
the police commissioner wanted to know which member of  his command staff was
fucking a reporter at one of the TV stations, he  called Deegan. That Deegan's
name was barely known to the public, and  remembered largely by old-timers who
recalled his trial, was an  advantage to him, for it permitted him to operate
with the anonymity  that suited him best. Deegan didn't know everything about
Boston  politics. But he knew more than anyone else.

Most reporters in town knew who Deegan was but few had ever spoken with  him. He
was considered a relic of sorts, a practitioner of the old  style of corrupt
city politics who had long since been out of the  political loop. But Cronin
knew from the best political reporters at  the Post--those who covered the State
House--that, in fact, Deegan was  wired. Cronin had tried on occasion in the
past to speak with Deegan,  but the lobbyist despised reporters.

Councillor Philip Stewart had been a man of Boston. Deegan was such a  man, as
well, and Cronin believed Deegan, more than anyone else in  town, might be able
to make sense of Stewart's double lives.

Deegan was at home, battling emphysema. Cronin learned that he had  basically
stopped working and that the chances of his continuing his  lobbying business
seemed slim.

Cronin arrived in Deegan's West Roxbury neighborhood early on a humid  summer
afternoon. Cronin got out of his car and walked to the house,  rang the bell,
and waited. Soon, Deegan emerged from a room on the  first floor. He was dressed
in green striped pajamas and a dark blue  robe, and he shuffled along the floor,
carrying a small box with a thin  plastic tube that ran from
the machine to his nose. He opened the door and immediately, without  a word,
turned and began shuffling back through the living room toward  a sun porch
where Cronin could see a hospital bed had been set up.

Cronin followed slowly along. When Deegan reached the sun porch, he  sat down,
gingerly, in a large, red-leather chair that dwarfed him.  Cronin could see that
his eyes were wide and he was struggling for  breath from having crossed then
recrossed the living room. Deegan  looked pale and uncomfortable. The old man
waited until his breathing  had steadied before speaking.

Cronin started to introduce himself but Deegan stopped him.

"I know who you are," he said.

"I've been expecting you." A wide smile appeared on Deegan's face.  Another
moment passed before Deegan had fully caught his breath. When  he did so, he
spoke more easily. Deegan adjusted the tube that led to  his nose and was held
in place with a piece of plastic that wrapped  around his head, just over his
ears.

"I've read your articles," he said.

"Very good." He nodded.

"The Evil One unmasked."

Cronin was surprised by Deegan's characterization. He thought Deegan  and
Stewart had been friends.

"Of course, no attention has been paid," he said.

"To the articles. You understand that, correct?"

Cronin didn't know quite what to say.

"I suppose not much," he offered weakly, though, in fact, they had been
followed up on by the TV and radio stations and had been the subject of  the
talk programs.

Deegan half laughed and coughed.

"Don't flatter yourself, son." He waved his hand in dismissal of  Cronin knew
not what.

"Jesus, they pay no attention," he said.

"A couple of indiscretions is how it's viewed. He overstepped his  bounds, they
say. Once or twice. Nobody's perfect." He coughed.

"Look at the whole record, not just one or two blemishes. You see?  This is the
thinking. This is how they rationalize."

Deegan reached to his side and grasped a long hose that led to what  appeared to
be a larger oxygen tank at the foot of the bed. At the  head of the hose was a
mouthpiece, which he capped over his nose and  mouth and held there for a long
moment.
"You think you've damaged him, don't you?" Deegan asked.

"Some," said Cronin.

Deegan spit out his words.

"You're pissing in a big ocean with a tiny dick," he said derisively.

Cronin was taken aback momentarily. Then he said, "So how come the  reaction
from the powers that be?"

Deegan eyed him.

"Let me guess," said the old man.

"Heat from the Kennedys, of course. The cardinal, probably. The meek  and pious
Father Boyle. And the mayor."

He smiled.

"How'm I doing?"

Uncanny, thought Cronin.

"No, in fact, it's easy to dope out," Deegan said.

"There's a basic leftish constituency in the city. The do-gooder  crowd. They're
not powerful in numbers but they have muscle. The  Catholic left, basically.
They believe one thing: that they are  morally superior to thee and me and
everyone else." Deegan again  combination coughed and laughed.

"In my case perhaps they're right. In yours I don't know. But imagine  your
binding notion in life being moral superiority to the great  unwashed?"

He reached for the hose once again and let it revive him.

"This was Ray's crowd, the Flynn people," he said.

"We are poor and dedicated and we are better than you! Their attitude  shrieked.
And imagine when the president sent Ray to the Vatican.  Nearer my God to thee!"

Cronin took out his notebook and his pen.

"Put that away or get out," Deegan barked.

"I'll talk for your education only.

No quotations. Period."

Cronin held up his hands in a gesture of retreat. He put the notebook  and pen
back in his pocket.

"You believe he had a secret life," said Cronin.

"I know he did," said Deegan.

"The Evil One. Of course. I know it. He relied on me for guidance.  He confided
in me. He called upon me to review his financial dealings.  I knew him well,
which is why I acquired, through the years, a powerful  distaste for the man.
They ought to develop a scale to measure the  distance between reputation and
reality. His was more out of whack  than anybody ever, I'd guess."

"Was he always that way?" Cronin asked.
Deegan considered this. He cocked his large, ever-so odd-looking head  and
reflected upon it, a look of pleasure on his face. He liked this  question for
some reason. Wanted to do it justice.

"Did you know that he'd been a cop?" Deegan asked.

Cronin shook his head no.

"Most people don't know that," said Deegan.

"Most people, in truth, know little of him, except the aura. The halo  exempted
him from scrutiny through the years.

He didn't last long. It was up in Lowell, sometime in the fifties.  He'd just
gotten out of the service and needed work. He'd been an MP  in Germany and it
seemed a natural move. He lasted less than a year,  as I understand it. Some
incident. There was talk it involved a  woman. Other talk it was dough." Deegan
shrugged as if to say, What  does it matter?

"But that's how things so often are here, isn't it? There's a history,  but
nobody knows for sure what it is. There are intimations, hints,  shadows, a
background buzz, but no heart of the matter.

No meat. It's all so slippery so often. No paper, no records, and  nobody who
knows. And if they do know, they don't talk."

Deegan coughed and reached for the hose. He laughed and exclaimed,  "Welcome to
Massachusetts politics!"

Deegan shook his head.

"Yes, he was always like this and no he wasn't. He was straight when  he first
got involved in community organizing. This was after Lowell,  after he'd quietly
left the police force. He wound up in Boston  working for a veterans
organization building low-income housing. In  the sixties, he became a liberal
convert. He bought it all--women's  rights, affirmative action, forced busing,
unilateral disarmament--you  name it. And why shouldn't he have?

He found out that by being with these groups he got laid more than he  ever had
in his life! When he beat the booze he really went bad. When  he was a drunk,
his life revolved around booze. But when he stopped,  he looked around and
discovered women on a grand scale. He started  thinking with his dick!"

Deegan laughed.

"Jesus he loved the young ones, college girls. This was a few years  ago, now.
When he was in his fifties. No matter the cause they were  there:

hunger marches, demonstrations
against the banks on red lining, the Sandinistas, welfare, whatever.  But it all
turned ugly with the intern in his office, the girl who went  nuts, back twelve,
fourteen years ago. You don't recall? She was a  total political junkie. It was
all she cared about. Went to Emmanual  and worked in his office for an
internship. Beautiful girl. Gorgeous.  He said the only thing to do with her was
to 'jump on her and stay on  her." He was doing her in the office just about
every afternoon. A  stiff prick has no conscience. She'd do anything he wanted,
if you  follow me. When she graduated she was under the impression she was
going to go to work for him. She was into these hunger programs and  nutrition
in the cities and whatnot. The usual."

Deegan reached for the large hose again and breathed deeply.

"Naturally, he didn't hire her," he said.

"And she went nuts. Had to be hospitalized. Her parents wanted to sue  him but
he made some private settlement.

And you know who knew all about this? The Meek and Pious One himself:  Boyle.
Did he do anything about it? Nahh."

Deegan lifted himself from the sofa and shuffled slowly off to the  bathroom.

When he returned, he placed himself carefully in his seat.

"I don't mean to denigrate his political commitments," said Deegan.

"They were real. That's why he was such an enigma. He did God's work  and he
didn't steal at first, but he was always looking for  opportunities. He had
about him the air of a prospector."

Deegan leaned back and caught his breath, resting his head on the back  of the
sofa.

"When someone is smart and careful, the way the Evil One was for so  many years,
it takes a very long time for anyone in the political  community to figure out
that they've gone bad," said Deegan.

"So who knows when he did his first side deal. But about six or seven  years ago
there was a feeling I got that something was up. He'd bend a  rule here and
there--use campaign money on his vacation.

Some inquiries about IRS regulations. Hints. But enough. You see, he  had a
predisposition to go bad. Most don't. Most pols are straight.  Others who'd like
to take advantage don't have the balls. Very few  have the predisposition
and opportunity. He had both. When he started using Shelter  Coalition money for
campaign expenses, a few thousand here and there, I  raised it with him. Too
late. By that point, he thought of it all as  his own: he raised the Shelter
money and the campaign money and they  were all of a piece--to keep him in
office to continue doing God's  work. This was his view. With such a view,
anything one does is  kosher. Comprende?"

Cronin asked Deegan how the truth of what Stewart had been could be so  at odds
with the perception of him?

Deegan's face lit up. His splotched, pallid countenance took on a  glow. He
liked this question, too, in part because he saw it as  revealing a political
naivete on Cronin's part.

"Perception is reality in politics," said Deegan.

"People vote based on their perceptions of politicians. How they  perceived
Stewart may have had little to do with the reality, but what  does it matter?
Voters act on what they see, not on what is.

"Stewart was a niche player," said Deegan.

"In business it's all the rage now.

Find a product niche and you thrive. Stewart had the saint niche in  Boston, the
beyond-reproach niche, the sacred cow niche. His rise from  the gutter was a
story so ingrained in the political consciousness of  the city it was
unquestioned. He went unexamined and unchallenged for  years on the strength of
a myth. Ahh, but it was a myth the culture  fostered, wanted to believe, needed
to believe.

"The truth is that you can never really know whether a man with power  is liked
until he no longer has power. Then you know."

"What happened to the girl?" Cronin asked.

"Moved away," said Deegan.

"I heard she got out of the hospital and went to California with her  family."

"I don't understand something," said Cronin.

"Why have the Kennedys tried so hard to muscle my editors, even the  publisher?"

"He was part of the extensive Kennedy damage control network," said  Deegan.

"People always got it wrong about the Kennedys, saying they had such a  great
political organization.
That was never so, except in sixty when the old man bought the  election. They
always had weak opposition, that was their secret.  Except for Eddie McCormack,
of course. No. The Kennedys' secret was  not a political organization but a
ready-made, seamless damage control  network anchored by Church people. Always
anchored by the clergy."

Deegan took a quick hit on the hose.

"Think about it," Deegan continued.

"There's always a Roman collar around when there's a Kennedy in  trouble. Some
of them are sycophants, others are recipients of Kennedy  family largesse.
Stewart was part of the network, like Boyle. Both  got federal funding for
various pet projects: soup kitchens,  vaccination programs, community housing,
whatever. Federal funding  that came through thanks to the Kennedys. Stewart
profited handsomely  from his Kennedy association over the years. And the
Kennedys, well,  what can you say? Dole out federal bucks, keep the pumps primed
and  you've got a nice, tight network out there for when you stumble. And  if
you are a Kennedy you have stumbled, do stumble, will stumble. The  network
supplies the imprimatur of goodness when a Kennedy has been  naughty."

Deegan smiled.

"And then there are the comp licit journalists," he said, savoring  it.

"The ones whose careers have been helped along by their association  with the
Kennedys. They play their hands. Quietly. And so when a  Kennedy is in trouble,
the network rallies. There are testaments to  their piety--the cardinal;

recollections of the family sacrifice and suffering--the mayor;

indications of their good works for the least among us--Father Boyle;  and a
journalist to make sure its wrapped into a neat feature package,  with color
photos of the senator's new wife, of course--Johnson."

Deegan sucked some air down.

"You think he was shaking down more people than have been reported?"  Cronin
asked.

"Course. Course," said Deegan.

"My guess is he needed big money. For something, I don't know what.  He'd
disappear regularly from the hall, every month or so.

There was a messenger who'd deliver tickets from a travel agent to  Stewart's
office. The tickets were in some staffer's name. Las Vegas.  But then the
staffer would never leave. Stewart would take the tickets and go."

He pointed to the living room, toward a radiator against the wall.

"Reach behind there for me, like a good fellow," he said. Cronin went  into the
next room and did as instructed. He pulled out a package of  Marlboros hidden
from the nurse who daily visited Deegan. Matches were  tucked inside the
wrapper. Deegan reached down and switched off the  oxygen machine, something he
did each time he smoked to prevent an  explosion. He removed a cigarette, lit
it, and asked Cronin to return  the rest to their hiding place. He took a drag
and exhaled.

"Know who their latest suspect is?" Deegan asked.

Cronin shook his head.

Deegan smiled.

"You're looking at him," he said. He held the hose in place for a half  minute.

Cronin was indeed surprised, but masked it this time. He was  disappointed that
McCormack had not told him that. He wondered what  else McCormack was keeping
from him.

"Are you serious?" Cronin asked.

"Certainly," he replied.

"They told my lawyer. There are some personal files of Stewart's they
subpoenaed which show he owed me money. Which is true. For  consulting.
Forty-three thou. He never paid. This is going back  three years now.

He just wouldn't pay. It made me very angry. I wrote him a few nasty  notes--one
very nasty. One might read it as a threat. The feds found  it in his files."

"You know who hated Stewart to the core?" Deegan asked.

-L Cronin shook his head.

Deegan smiled and his eyes widened with delight.

"Your pal, McCormack."

"I don't get it?" said Cronin.

"Of course you don't," Deegan replied.

"He's told you everything but that, I suspect."

Cronin was unpleasantly caught off-guard.

"Don't be so surprised," said Deegan, cupping a cigarette in his  hand.

"It's relatively easy to figure out. I know the police department  well. There's
talk around. Process of elimination. Who
knows enough to get this stuff out there, who's willing to tell. I  made an
educated guess and your expression confirmed it for me. Thank  you very much,
and remind me to play poker with you in my next life."

Cronin did not want his silence to be read as confirmation that  McCormack was
his source.

"You're assumptions may be wrong," said Cronin. He smiled.

"Facial expressions don't always tell the full story."

Deegan wheezed and laughed.

"Too late, young man," he said.

"Cat's out of the bag. But who cares. I can't do any damage with that
information. At least, not any damage I'm interested in doing."

Cronin took a deep breath. Deegan was getting on his nerves. The air  was heavy
with humidity and, now, with the smell of cigarette smoke.  And Deegan was
saying things Cronin did not quite grasp. Cronin hated  being surprised about
his sources, hated learning things about them  that might effect their veracity
or their motives that he did not  know.

"So he's your source on this, eh?" said Deegan, savoring his  triumph.

"Ever wonder why? Ever ask him why he's been so free with information?  Or don't
reporters look to the source anymore? It used to be that was  a factor. A guy
had an ax to grind, well, maybe his inside dope wasn't  so good after all."

Deegan grabbed the hose and sucked down some air.

"The standards are different now, I take it," said Deegan, taunting  Cronin. But
the reporter had no interest in fighting this old man.

"Why did he hate Stewart?" Cronin asked.

Deegan smiled again, rather pleased with himself that Cronin had  acknowledged
his ignorance.

"You don't know, do you?" said Deegan.

"I don't know," Cronin acknowledged.

Deegan waved his hand in the air.

"There's no shame in it, really," he said.

"It is not well known. Very few people know it. Fewer know why."

Cronin was still, waiting.

"McCormack is a very intelligent man," said Deegan.

"Much smarter than the average cop. He was unusual in his  intellectual
curiosity. It made him stand out in the department. He worked his  way up
through the ranks. He earned a law degree and, essentially,  dedicated his life
to his work. You know, of course, he had no  children."

Cronin nodded.

Deegan coughed hard and fought to get his breath.

"Do you know the command structure?" Deegan asked.

"Generally," said Cronin.

"Commissioner, appointed by the mayor," said Deegan.

"Superintendent for each of four general areas. A cabinet of sorts to  the
commissioner. Then eight deputy superintendents. These are the  elite positions
of the command staff.

Theoretically, at least, in the twelve superintendents and deputy
superintendents you have the best and brightest of the uniformed force.  Most of
the time, it is from within these ranks that a new commissioner  is chosen. Rare
to do otherwise."

Deegan reached for the hose and applied the mask. As he did so, he  pointed
toward the living room and nodded to Cronin. The reporter  retrieved the
cigarettes, lit one, and returned the pack. Deegan  exhaled with delight.

"As you know, the current commissioner is among those exceptions," said  Deegan.

"Ernie Donohue is a pleasant man, a deeply religious fellow, and a  moron. He
has no business being commissioner and would never have been  chosen had not his
boyhood friend become mayor. What is not widely  known is this: Donohue was not
the mayor's first choice for the job.  McCormack was."

Cronin was stunned.

"You had no idea," Deegan said, smiling.

"Everyone assumed the mayor wanted a close friend as commissioner.  That's what
got written from day one. But it was wrong. The  department was too haywire for
anything but a pro. The mayor knew  this. He said the police department for him
could be like Vietnam for  LBJ. He talked around quietly to people in the
know--law enforcement  people, judges, lawyers, cops. And one name kept coming
up when he  asked about competence:

McCormack." Deegan wheezed and laughed.

"Nobody mentioned Donohue. Nobody!"
He reached for the hose and applied the mask to his face, waiting a  long moment
before resuming.

"So the mayor sits down after talking with quite a few people about  this and
thinks it through. First, he wants the best available person  because the more
successful the department is the better it makes him  look. Second, he expressly
does not want a close friend in the job  because that boxes him in if there's
ever trouble. If you're mayor you  can't distance yourself from an old pal whose
commissioner. And if  something is really screwed up, you can't fire him because
that's an  act of disloyalty. So he settles on McCormack. Privately, this is.

He's about to submit McCormack's name to the Council for confirmation,  but
before he does so he speaks confidentially with McCormack and  Stewart.
McCormack to make sure he will accept the position and  Stewart, as chairman of
Public Safety, to make sure he'll let it out of  his committee for a vote on the
floor.

These were anticipated to be two very simple discussions."

Deegan placed the mask on his face and sat back in the chair, breathing  deeply.

He appeared tired, and paler.

"McCormack was bowled over. According to the mayor, terribly moved. He
accepted, of course, said he would serve with the greatest of pride and  give it
his best.

The mayor told him to keep it quiet. McCormack asked permission to  tell only
his wife, and naturally the mayor agreed.

"Then the mayor spoke with Stewart, who reacted very badly. He didn't  know
McCormack, he said. He said he assumed all along it would be  Donohue. He
praised Donohue up and down, talked about how important it  was that the mayor
have someone he knew personally, like Donohue, in  that job. It went back and
forth, on and on. The mayor explained why  McCormack was the right choice.
Stewart was skeptical. Then hostile.  He grew agitated. Said he didn't know him,
didn't know if he could  trust him. The mayor asked him to think about it over
night. The next  day it was worse. Stewart was enraged. Said the mayor had
blindsided  him, given him no indication it was to be anyone but Donohue. They
argued in the office for a couple of hours. It got very heated but  Stewart
never backed down.

He said he'd bottle it up in committee, hold hearings, drag it out, and  make
sure
there was no floor debate or vote for months. The mayor knew ; he  could do it,
of course, and, in the end, Stewart won. The mayor backed  down. At that point
there was nobody else but Donohue. Nobody the  mayor trusted."

Deegan clamped the mask on his face and closed his eyes. He slumped  back in the
chair, seeming exhausted, and took in oxygen for several  minutes.

"I get tired in the afternoons," he said. He was subdued now and  seemed to take
no pleasure in the telling of the tale.

"The mayor called McCormack in and broke the news to him. He told him  the whole
story. Told him exactly why he wasn't getting it. Told him  Stewart had been
like a madman. The mayor asked whether there was some  history of a problem
between them. McCormack said there was not.  Though he told the mayor he
suspected that Stewart had some side deals  working and he thought perhaps
Stewart was afraid that if McCormack was  commissioner those deals might be
jeopardized." Deegan coughed from  deep within his chest; a nasty, raw sound.

"The mayor wanted to hear none of that, of course, and it was all  over," said
Deegan.

"McCormack went home to tell his wife. Evidently, she was heartbroken  over it.
Which, naturally, made it much worse for him. She had the  cancer by then.

"And, of course, McCormack is getting no younger at this point and not  exactly
a prime physical specimen, and he should, by all rights, have  some cushy spot,
but he is back out on the street doing murder  investigations after this," said
Deegan.

"He quit as chief of homicide out of disgust. Couldn't work for a  commissioner
who he knew shouldn't have the job. So he went back to  being one of the boys on
homicide. And one night he joined in a drug  raid a man his age shouldn't have
been on. Shotgun blast, his knee's  gone. Blown out. Constant pain. Thanks to
Stewart."

The air was thick and steamy. All of the windows in Deegan's  downstairs were
closed. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, a bluish  cloud slow to disperse. There
was a languor to the day. Deegan was  damp with perspiration. He was pale. He
looked unwell. The two men  sat together for a long time in silence. Finally,
Cronin broke it.
"Who hated him?" the reporter asked.

Deegan laughed.

"You mean who do I know about who hated him?"

Cronin nodded.

"Could be others, for all I know, but I'd have to put myself in that  column.

Your pal, Mack, of course. And this one will surprise you, perhaps  greatly: the
Meek and Pious One must be counted on that list." Deegan  thought about this for
a moment and then nodded his head with  certainty.

Cronin was jarred by this, shocked.

"Boyle despised him, in fact," said Deegan.

"Because Boyle, you see, is a true believer. He's like the Jesuits who  tramp
off to the third world to abet the Left. Social and economic  justice man. He'd
tear the whole goddamned building down and start  over again. To each according
to his need."

Deegan regarded Cronin.

"You are surprised by this, no?"

"I must admit I am," said the reporter.

"But it makes perfect sense," Deegan said. He was animated now,  excited that
there was perhaps a logic to all of this that had not been  explained before.

"Boyle knew," Deegan said.

"Don't you see? Boyle knew at least some of what was going on. He  kept the
books. He was in charge of the money. He knew. And he was  repulsed by it. And
he wanted Stewart's position. And you know what?  Now he's got it. Elected this
morning as chairman of the Shelter  Coalition. It's his show now."

Deegan held out his arms as though signaling that it was all so  terribly
obvious, as though to say it's right there in front of you as  plain as anything
could possibly be.

"Ask yourself who stood to gain the most by the Evil One's demise.  There's no
question that it was the Meek and Pious One."

Deegan began to laugh, shaking his head in disbelief as he did so. He  laughed
harder and harder and interrupted it only briefly to say to  Cronin, "And the
fuzz haven't got a fucking clue."

Frank Cronin considered Deegan. In a certain light, he seemed gnome  like
otherworldly.

"Maybe you're too cynical," Cronin said.

Deegan turned his head quickly to the side and regarded the reporter  with
suspicion.
"Cynical?" he said, with mock indignation.

"Cynical, you say?"

He knitted his brow and eyed Cronin.

"Is this naivete authenic or a posture?"

Cronin was silent.

Deegan waited a moment.

"Perhaps it is authentic," said Deegan, a trace of pity in his voice.  He took
hold of the lifeline and breathed deeply, then set it aside.

Cronin was startled by Deegan's gaze, which was now angry, glowering.  When he
spoke, he did so with an air of contempt.

"What is it that you are looking for?" he asked.

"Some sort of truth, is it?

Perhaps you seek an honorable man?"

His laugh was harsh, derisive.

"An honest soul?" He shook his head dismissing the notion.

"Not in this town. Not in this town. In this town everybody's got  something to
hide. Everybody's got an angle."

Frank Cronin had read the entire Post clip file on Boyle. There were  scores of
news stories in which he was mentioned, articles reflecting  his work on behalf
of the poor. There were stories where he was  involved in fighting for
low-income housing, for community health  centers, for integration of housing
projects, for school busing, for  AIDS hospice funding, for more welfare
funding, and virtually every  other liberal cause of the day.

But there were other stories as well, long profiles, most of which had  been
written several years earlier after Boyle had returned from Haiti.  The profiles
all struck the same thematic chords, all portrayed Boyle  as a courageous man of
principal who had dedicated his life to the  cause of the poor. He'd been
lionized as selfless, fearless, a man who  had willingly sacrificed his own
personal comfort and physical safety  for the greater good.

The most interesting profile of all, it turned out, had been written by  Howard
Berman back when Berman had been covering the political upheaval  in Haiti.

Berman's story offered the notion of liberation theology as an  explanation for
Boyle's
commitment to a revolutionary social and spiritual movement.  Liberation
theologists believed it their responsibility to minister not  only to the
spiritual needs of their flock but to their social and  political needs as well.

It often meant taking sides in nasty inter ethnic or interclass  struggles.

Through the subtext of Herman's article, Cronin got the impression that  beneath
Boyle's pious exterior lived a righteous fanatic.

Cronin recalled several instances when Berman had expressed privately a  measure
of distrust for Boyle. That night, after the paper had been  put to bed, Cronin
asked Berman about the priest.

"He's a strange mix," said Berman.

"I always found him to be cold and withdrawn.

He has this burning passion for populist issues and I've no doubt  whatever that
it's sincere, but his concern for the people gets lost  when he's dealing one on
one. People to him aren't individuals; they  are, collectively, a cause. He's
very awkward, you may have noticed.  He is not easy around people. And he is
utterly shameless in the way  he uses people. I hear from him only--and I mean
without  exception--when he wants something from me, usually coverage of some
story he's involved with."

"What did he do in Haiti, exactly?" Cronin asked.

Berman rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"That's the question. I'd love to know. I have my suspicions."

"What do you know and what do you suspect?"

"I know he was dedicated to the revolutionary cause, to prayerfully  resisting
the Tonton Macoutes and politically battling the vestiges of  the Duvaliers.
That he was a devoted follower of Father Aristide's. He  headed a health
project, worked with children with typhoid fever, which  was common, and
organized an immunization effort that didn't go  anywhere because the vaccines
were stolen by the army before they  reached their destinations. He was one of a
number of missionaries who  worked with Aristide. A very suspicious man,
Aristide. Paranoid and  virulently anti-American. Boyle was the only American he
trusted."

"Boyle became a liberation theologist while in Haiti?" Cronin asked.
"Before he got there," said Berman.

"Boyle had been down in Peru as a missionary for a couple of years and  came in
contact with Gustavo Gutierrez, kind of the father of the  liberation theology
movement. By the time Boyle got to Haiti he was  completely committed. He'd bend
my ear about it time and time again.  Early on, Rome supported the movement,
seeing it as a logical extension  of parish ministry, but through the years, as
it took on an  increasingly political hue, the Vatican began to crack down. That
was  fine with Boyle because it meant he was an outsider even within his own
Church, and he is most comfortable as an outsider, a provocateur  militating for
change."

"The Church leaders complained they were Marxists," said Cronin.

"And a lot of them were," said Berman.

"There were Marxist overtones to liberation theology movements in El  Salvador
and Nicaragua, certainly, and probably in Peru and Brazil,  too."

"And Haiti."

"And most definitely Haiti. They supported redistribution of the  wealth, land
reform. They were anticapitalist. What divided them was  the issue of violence,
whether force was appropriate and under what  circumstances. Some of the priests
were pacifists, but there were  others who argued that if their mission to serve
the people included  organizing others to take up arms against the oppressor,
then so be  it."

"And Boyle?"

"He was very careful," said Berman.

"He knew then that he would have a life after his missionary years and  I think
he knew that any involvement in violent acts would scar him,  diminish his
future effectiveness back home. But if I had to bet, I  would bet that he at the
very least looked the other way and perhaps  even abetted violent acts."

"Why do you say that?" Cronin asked.

"Because he would regularly disappear for days at a time, once for a  couple of
weeks, into the bidonvilles--the sprawling "I'm can cities'  that choked
Port-au-Prince and were populated by the wretchedly poor  souls. And after a
while, the pattern became obvious: he would  disappear and before he would
return, there would be some bit of  violence, an assassination of an army
or government official, a kidnapping of a wealthy business person or,  worst of
all, the neck lacing of an informant."

"You think Boyle condoned that sort of thing?" Cronin asked.

Berman considered this.

"I remember a ride in the back of a truck from the countryside back to
Port-au-Prince," said Berman.

"I had been out on a story and ran into him and he offered me a ride  back. The
roads are hopeless, of course, so traveling any long  distance can take all day.
We sat together chatting for, I don't know,  ten or twelve hours. And he seemed
more relaxed than at any time I  could recall. He talked incessantly of pep
la--'the people."  Everything was pep la. And the essence of what he said was
that any  act could be justified if it was for pep la."

"Any act?" Cronin asked.

"That was the message," said Berman.

"I don't remember his exact words. But you know what I do remember?"  Berman sat
forward as though recalling some long suppressed memory.

"We were talking about the neck lacing of a regional government  official in the
farming village we had just left. This was a youngish  guy with a family, a
nobody, a functionary. He had been burned and his  body left in the town square.
Horrible. The heat, the stench, covered  with flies, the widow screaming and
wailing. And I will never forget  the look on Boyle's face when we were talking
about that murder. He  said it had been demanded by pep la.

And then he smiled."
Bufalino was 2,800 miles away but he knew they were talking about him  or would
be soon. He had known since Dockerty was arrested that he was  under suspicion,
that his financial dealings with Stewart would soon be  revealed. Probably in
the press, he thought. They would leak to a  reporter and he would write that
they were looking into the possibility  that Stewart had links with organized
crime figures. Bufalino would be  named.

These thoughts had given him a migraine and prompted him to call  Kristee. He
tried to get these unpleasant notions out of his mind as  he reclined on the
sofa in his Sahara apartment living room. His tan  slacks were down around his
ankles and Kristee was on her knees between  his lizard-skin loafers.

Bufalino was explicit in his guidance to her. He instructed her at  various
points to slow it down or speed it up; to move harder, or  softer. Like others
in Vegas, Kristee did what Bufalino wanted. She  worked him as she had countless
times before. She was diligent and  patient and knew he would reward her for it.

Usually it was $150, though she had caught him in more expansive moods  when he
had given her double that and invited her to stay afterward for  a cocktail. She
had liked that. She liked the ambiance of his  suite--the musky maleness of it,
the chrome trim on the ultramodern  furniture; the wild splashes of color on the
huge paintings, the lush,  white, wall-to-wall carpeting; the sparkling
cleanliness of it all; the  spacious living room with its ersatz fireplace,
well-padded sofa, and  easy chairs; its oversized
color television; its smoked-glass coffee table. On one end of the  room sliding
doors led to a balcony looking out seven stories above the  hotel's pool, with a
view beyond to a sprawling emerald golf course  that looked somehow unreal in
the dusty brown of the desert. Kristee  was most comfortable in the living room,
where Bufalino usually held  their appointment. She found the bedroom, a
darkened space with  plum-colored draperies and bedspread, not altogether
comforting.

Bufalino leaned back on the sofa, his shirt unbuttoned and spread away  from his
chest to keep the shirttails out of Kristee's eyes. She could  smell his
cologne--an almost overpowering scent coming off the thatch  of black hair that
covered his abdomen, chest, and back. He looks like  a fucking gorilla, she had
thought the first time she saw him: squat,  powerfully built, and covered with
hair. Once, arriving early for an  appointment, she had seen him douse himself
with cologne, shaking the  contents of the dark green bottle onto his thick hand
and spreading it  across his chest and stomach, then between his legs.

Soon, she fell into a rhythm that she sensed pleased him and it was not  long
before his body stiffened and then, with a powerful shudder and a  bestial
grunt, he fell limp.

When she was done, she went into the bathroom and switched on the  overhead heat
lamp to get warm. On days when he liked her to work  naked she would soon be
covered in goose bumps from the blasts of  frigid air that filled the suite.

Bufalino kept the air-conditioning on full force. While it was often  well over
one hundred degrees in the desert outside, it was barely  sixty in Bufalino's
rooms.

In the bathroom, Kristee wiggled into a black mini dress from  Victoria's
Secret.

It highlighted her athletic figure. She was blessed with an appealing  form
which she had made even more attractive through rigorous aerobic  training. She
was five-six, slim and firm. She was not a striking  beauty, but she was
cute-too cute for her own taste. She preferred  glamorous over cute and was not
flattered when Bufalino had told her  she looked like the Flying Nun.

In high school she had become so proficient in aerobics that she had  become an
instructor, and had worked for a year after
graduation in a suburban Dallas health club, but it was not long  before she
realized that without a radical change she would be poor, or  on the verge of
poverty, for the rest of her life. She hated nothing  more than the poverty in
which she had been raised;

loved nothing more than money. In the two years she had been plying  her trade
she had learned the business well and prospered. She had her  own condominium in
the city and she drove a convertible. She worked  out nearly every day, was
selective about her customers, and had  repeatedly tested negative for HIV. All
in all, she was quite happy  with her life.

" Tfyou don't have plans, stay for a drink," Bufalino said, as she  -Lemerged
from the bathroom.

"If you don't have plans."

"Oh," she said.

"No. That sounds good."

Bufalino went into the bedroom and emerged a moment later with a gift  box

"A

little something for you," he said, handing her the box. She was  delighted.
Only once before had he surprised her with a gift and it  was when he had given
her tickets to some fight at Caesar's Palace that  she could have cared less
about.

She had taken a friend with her who was impressed with the ringside  seats.

"You didn't have to do this," she said.

"I wanted to," he replied. He smiled, flashing his pearl white, capped  teeth.
He was not unattractive, she thought. His eyes were an icy  blue, not warm, but
a nice color that looked good with his well-trimmed  black hair. His nose was
thick and long-- "like his dick," she had  once told a girlfriend who dissolved
in gales of laughter. His  complexion was imperfect, but not as bad when he was
tanned.

"It's so thoughtful," she said, as she lifted the lid and placed the  tissue
paper to one side.

"I can't tell you how nice this is."

She removed the garment and found that it was a black dress, identical  to the
one she was wearing. She held it up and laughed.

"Sit here," he instructed.

"Relax. I'm going to clean up, then we'll have a drink."
As he showered, Bufalino recalled a meeting with Stewart, seven years  earlier,
at which they had struck a deal. Bufalino had heard back then  from some of the
girls that Stewart displayed an eclectic sexual  appetite. Bufalino also learned
from his people on the floor that  Stewart dropped fairly large amounts of
cash--and it was all cash, he  never asked for credit--at the blackjack table.

Bufalino knew the casino's regulars and he made it a point of  introducing
himself to Stewart. They would have drinks when Stewart  came to town, usually
four to five times a year for three or four days.  Bufalino introduced Stewart
to some women whose particular talents  would, he knew, be well suited to
Stewart.

Three women who worked as a team became a favorite of Stewart's for  years
thereafter. Stewart came to like and trust Bufalino. Later, as  the years
passed, Stewart once drunkenly expressed an interest in young  men as well. With
well-concealed distaste, Bufalino arranged to have  Stewart's wishes fulfilled.

Stewart had grown too arrogant for his own good. The change had been  subtle but
noticeable to Bufalino, who paid attention to such things.  On his last two,
maybe three, trips to town, Bufalino noticed that  Stewart's appetite for
cocaine, always considerable, had grown. He  demanded more women and complained
about their willingness or ability  to satisfy his needs. Kristee had heard from
some of the girls that  Stewart had lately displayed a violent streak. Bufalino
saw that  Stewart had grown arrogant, that the affable manner he had effected
through the years was wearing off. Stewart had grown increasingly  militant in
his insistence that his share be raised. Twice in a year's  time he had called
Bufalino and demanded a bigger cut. Each time he  threatened to undo the
arrangement. Bufalino, while working gingerly  to calm Stewart down, seethed
with rage at the man's impudence. They  had an arrangement that was exceedingly
profitable for all concerned,  an arrangement that had been agreed upon in a
face-to-face meeting  between Bufalino and Stewart.

ufalino had learned a great deal about Stewart, more than Stewart was  aware.
Before proposing the arrangement, Bufalino had quietly had Stewart  checked out
in Boston. When he learned of Stewart's reputation as a  revered figure, he made
his proposal. Bufalino knew that Stewart  controlled the finances of a loose
conglomerate of shelters for the  homeless in the Greater Boston area. Each
shelter, Bufalino had been  pleased to learn through his research, maintained
independent accounts  at separate banks.

What Bufalino did not know, not that it mattered, was how Stewart made  the
money which he so freely distributed in Las Vegas. It was obvious  that Stewart
was running some sort of scam, an indication to Bufalino  that Stewart might be
receptive to his proposal. Bufalino had  explained to Stewart that he ran a
business which produced a  substantial amount of cash-he did not volunteer any
more details about  his business and Stewart didn't inquire further. As Bufalino
toweled  dry, he recalled the scene vividly. He and Stewart had been sitting in
his living room having coffee.

"My proposition is what I like to think of as just good business.  Old-fashioned
business," Bufalino had said. He had allowed himself a  tight smile.

"I've noticed in the business publications recently they sometimes call  it a
'win-win' situation. Meaning in such a deal as this I win and you  win also.
Both parties win. They write about this as though it's some  revolutionary
concept from the Harvard Business School.

"Win-win." It implies that there's a type of deal where somebody wins  and
somebody else loses."

Bufalino had paused for effect.

"Maybe there is," he had said, sipping his coffee.

"But short term only. Because in the long run, business
relationships--partnerships--only work when they are profitable for  both
parties. Notice the word I used? Partnership. I use it  deliberately. It's not a
word I use loosely. I can say truthfully,"  said a man whose life depended upon
deceit, "that I can count on one  hand the number of times I've entered into a
partnership. The reason  is trust. One little word that is a massive idea. Rare
is the man I  have met who I could trust."

Bufalino sat up straight on the sofa, then leaned forward and placed  his coffee
cup and saucer on the table in front of him.

"Phil," Bufalino had said, in a hushed tone, "you are a man I can  trust. As I
sit here, I look at you, look you directly in the eye
and I know you are a man I can trust. These are serious matters." He  had
paused, his gaze fixed on Stewart, to let the gravity of what he  was saying
sink in.

Bufalino was not like so many of the others. He was more intelligent,  and for
all the baseness with which his life had been filled, he was  more
sophisticated.

He wanted to convey a message without threatening or seeming to  threaten.

"Fuck me and you're dead," others would have said, but Bufalino would  never
stoop to such coarseness. He wanted those with whom he did  business to fear
him, certainly, but not to hate him. He had seen  others who were hated come to
unhappy ends, victims of accumulated  bitterness.

"These are very serious matters," Bufalino had continued.

"In my business, trust is everything. Without trust, there is nothing.  Worse
than nothing. Without trust there is hell, the deprivation of a  man's freedom,
confinement to a cage.

That is the result of a breakdown in trust. I know men who have met  that fate.

To me, it is worse than death. That is why trust is the soul of a  partnership.

Do you follow what I am saying?"

"Clearly," Stewart had replied quietly.

"And I can trust you, Phil? You assure me of that?"

"Absolutely," Stewart had said without hesitation.

"Absolutely."

Bufalino nodded as he hesitated for a moment to let Stewart's assurance  sink
in.

"Good," he had said.

Bufalino had risen and poured coffee for Stewart, then for himself. He  had
returned to the sofa and sat down.

"Our arrangement, as I envision it, is simplicity itself. My business,  as I've
said, generates amounts of cash that are awkwardly handled by  banks. I need
accounts where cash can be deposited and legitimized by  having been on deposit
in the accounts of an enterprise unlikely to  draw scrutiny from law
enforcement. Once the funds are deposited, I  need an arrangement where money
can then be easily dispersed, at the  behest of a single signatory. I assume,
given the nature of your  charitable work and your standing in the Boston
community, that you  have both accounts with reputable banks and relationships
with major  officials at those banks." Bufalino, of course, knew this was true.

Stewart nodded.

"Naturally," he said.

"I control the funds for
more than forty shelters and soup kitchens in the Boston area. I'm  chairman of
the Homeless Coalition and run all the fundraising. I also  personally sign off
on all major disbursements."

"And relationships with bankers?" Bufalino had asked.

"Too many," Stewart had said, with a laugh.

"Many of the banks contribute to us and a number of major players at  the banks
have become friends. They contribute to my campaigns, as  well. And I'm
embarrassed to say that though I've been meaning to  consolidate our accounts
for the sake of efficiency, we currently have  something like a dozen or more
accounts scattered around. There may be  as many as twenty, in fact. Accounts
were set up for different  shelters or different projects through the years and
we never  streamlined."

Bufalino, through his research, knew all of this, of course. He knew,  in fact,
that Stewart controlled the disbursements from no fewer than  twenty-three bank
accounts at seventeen different institutions. In  spite of his knowledge, he
listened patiently to Stewart, pretending  this was all new to him.

"Phil, I propose that you chose a bank executive whom you know and  trust. That
you call on this person for a private visit, perhaps in  your office. Perhaps
first invite them to accompany you to an event of  some sort where his public
association with you would be flattering to  him. I suggest that you tell him
this story, or something like it: you  say to your banker, "I have a friend, a
longtime friend, a boyhood  friend who went down the wrong path somewhere along
the line." You sit  with him comfortably, Phil, as you and I are now doing and
you say to  him something along these lines, you say, "My friend got mixed up
with  the wrong crowd. He makes his money on sports betting'-you could say  he
is a bookmaker, i-f you wanted.

"Illegal sports betting. Not huge amounts but he's made a comfortable  living
for his family, sent his three kids through college, and, in  fact, has a
daughter, his youngest, who is doing a residency in  neurology at UCLA Medical
Center. His family, needless to say, has no  idea that their income is derived
from illicit means. They believe  that my friend is in the food brokerage
business because for years he  has operated out of the office of a friend who
owns such a business."  You're opening yourself up to this person, Phil, and
you say, "I cannot reveal my friend's identity but I can tell you that  he is in
his advancing years. His health is not perfect. And he is  plagued with guilt
about his life. He has developed a burning desire  to help others. He wants very
badly to contribute to our shelters.  And, frankly, we need his money. You know
what the impact of the  economy has been to our fund-raising. The guilt-money of
the eighties  has all but dried up. Yet the need is no less urgent. Those poor
souls out there wandering the streets, thousands of them betrayed by  society or
by their own minds, desperately need help. At the very  least, we owe them
shelter and a hot meal. They need my friend's help.  But there's a hitch: He
will only donate in cash. He's afraid that  anything else would flag the IRS."
You say to this banker, "I want to  help my friend. I want him to be able to
contribute his money which  will, in turn, do a tremendous amount of good. I'm
asking you to make  it possible. I'm asking you to quietly pave the way for
regular  deposits of cash to be made into designated accounts which I have
already opened. No deposit will exceed $9,999, under the amount where  federal
notification is required. The deposits would occur every few  weeks or so. I
know I am asking you to look the other way on something  that is, technically
speaking, a violation of regulations. But I am  asking you to do it, in total
and complete confidence, only because I  know how much this money could help
people who are on the margins of  our society."

" Bufalino had paused. A slight smile had appeared on Stewart's  face.

"Quite a performance," he had said, admiringly.

"I wonder whether such an approach might work with one of your banker  friends?"

Bufalino had asked.

"I can't imagine that they would turn me down," Stewart had said.

"I can think of a couple who I am sure would do it with no problem."

It had begun modestly enough with a few thousand dollars a month being  washed
through a single bank. With Bufalino's couriers shuttling the  cash from Vegas
to Boston, over time, Bufalino pressed Stewart into  expanding the operation.

Stewart's routine had been to write checks disbursing the money to  several
different corporate shells, all of which were controlled by Bufalino.  Stewart
would divert his personal share into a private account he kept,  though it was
ostensibly a miscellaneous fund for the Shelter  Coalition. On average, one cash
deposit was made into each account  about every three weeks with each account
laundering about $160,000  annually. For seven years the arrangement had worked
flawlessly. Then  Stewart got greedy. Rather than negotiate a new deal, which
Bufalino  would have been willing to do, he simply doubled his take, announcing
it to Bufalino after the fact.

That act had broken their covenant. Bufalino had already taken steps  to
establish a backup operation through a businessman in Philadelphia  who had
access to various legitimate accounts. He moved to expand that  relationship
after Stewart's breech. Bufalino had nothing more than  harsh words for Stewart
at the time, and though he continued the  relationship he began cutting back on
the amount of cash he shipped to  Boston. He would never again trust Stewart.

When Bufalino had heard rumblings that Stewart had drawn the attention  of the
U.S. Attorney's office in Boston, he feared the worst: that  Stewart would offer
to testify against Bufalino in return for leniency.  This had alarmed Bufalino,
whose fear of incarceration was paralyzing.  Stewart knew little about his
operation, but he knew enough to convict  him of money laundering. And with
Stewart's reputation, Bufalino knew  he would be doomed in a federal trial in
Boston.

Bufalino gazes out across the golf course, past the dusty brown of the  desert
to the shimmering sun that bakes the distant landscape. He  thinks about Stewart
beating him out of the money, of Stewart deceiving  him. The idea seems so
preposterous to Bufalino. That a man such as  Stewart would outmaneuver,
outthink him, even for a moment, was  embarrassing. He did not know precisely
how much Stewart had embezzled  from him, could not know until the next
quarterly accounting of Empire  Realty Trust, but Bufalino's own calculations
put the figure somewhere  in the neighborhood of $550,000 to $600,000. Stewart
had not taken his share of that money, his fee; he had taken all of  it.

With thoughts of Stewart, there stirred within Bufalino an overwhelming  sense
of rage. Bufalino seethed. I must be made whole again, he  thought. He felt an
overwhelming compulsion to exact retribution. That  Stewart was dead was not
enough. Bufalino had to have the money back,  he had to win! He had been unable
to sleep nights, he had not been  himself. It was not the money itself, it was a
matter of pride. He had  to have the money.

But how to get it? Bufalino assumes it is in the safe, although he  cannot be
entirely certain of that. If it is not in the safe it is  surely lost to him
forever. He will not know whether the money is in  the safe until he sends
Kristee to Boston to visit Dockerty. She will  find out whether Dockerty
discovered the money, whether the police have  seized it.

There is a problem for Bufalino, and he contemplates it from his
air-conditioned perch high above the desert. If the money is there,  how does he
get it out? Who could get into the house and get out with  the money? Who could
possibly have a plausible reason for going into  Stewart's house? For taking
money out? Who would be willing? Who  could pull it off?

Bufalino thinks he knows.
Sloane felt their relationship had experienced a breakthrough. She  felt they
had reached a level of trust with each other that they had  never before
achieved.

Frank had been able to let down his guard with her as never before.

They were both aware of the change. At Sloane's house one evening  after a
dinner of pizza and Cokes, Frank had remarked upon it.

To Sloane, the difference was manifest in the ease with which he now  spoke to
her of his brother. On the occasions when she brought up the  subject of Chris,
he did not clamp down. He seemed far more willing  than ever before to lift the
lid off his past.

"That must have been wonderful, to be so close to your brother," Sloane  said to
him after they had consumed the pizza.

"It was," he said.

"Absolutely. But things were never the same after I went away to  college."

"How so?" she asked.

"When I first went to Dartmouth, Chris would visit just about every  weekend.

That first year he came on the bus every Friday up through Christmas.  Then it
was every other weekend. Then in my soph more year it was one  weekend a month,
and then, after that, well.. ."

He shrugged. She waited, determined not to press him.

"Chris had always been a timid boy, easily frightened, but now he
seemed afraid of his own shadow. His guidance counselor said he  seemed prone to
depression. His only happiness came from his music. He  was a fairly skilled
guitarist and I thought that if he pursued music  with some intensity it would
build his self-confidence. And he did  work hard at the guitar, but he let
everything else in school go. His  attitude wasn't very good and his grades were
terrible."

"Did you try and talk to him?" she asked.

"I talked to him time after time after time," said Frank.

"I talked with him on the phone, I went up to Coaticook to see him  numerous
times, I talked with teachers and administrators about him,  all people I knew
and they all understood his background and the  circumstances he'd grown up in
and they all bent over backwards for  him."

Frank shook his head, saddened by the memory.

"But he'd kind of drifted too far off track. He thought everyone was  down on
him, thought everyone compared him unfavorably with me, thought  no one took him
as an individual on his terms. He quit high school at  the beginning of his
senior year and went to work in a record store in  town."

Sloane had a pained look as she listened.

"It wasn't the greatest, but he seemed happy for a while. This was  around the
time I was graduating and things were going very well for  me. I had been chosen
in the National Hockey League draft by Boston  and I considered giving it a try.

But I had a great professor in math who convinced me that it would be a  dead
end. He urged me to go to business school at Dartmouth. He said  it would mean I
would have many choices of careers, and that I would  have a chance to make a
good deal of money and maybe be my own boss if  I found something I was really
good at. And he also said--he knew me  pretty well--it would give me the
wherewithal to help Chris out. That  really clinched it for me, so I applied to
Tuck and was accepted, and I  was excited about the prospect of going."

"So why didn't you go?"

"Because without any warning at all Chris announced he was moving out  west and
the whole plan kind of blew up in my face."

"Why?"

"Because I felt it my responsibility to go with him."
"That seems a bit extreme, doesn't it, Frankie? I mean, he was an  adult at the
time, wasn't he?"

"Something had gone wrong between us. I had not seen or felt it  happening, but
we had been drifting apart. I felt terribly, terribly  guilty. After graduation
I went back to Coaticook and I was startled  by Chris's appearance. He was
slight, as always, but he had taken on a  pallor that made him look sickly. He
seemed to accentuate this by  wearing all black just about all the time--black
jeans, black T-shirts  or sweatshirts, black boots. His outlook was dark and he
had about him  a kind of pseudo-sophistication. He was a seventeen-year-old kid
with  a world-weary attitude, as though he had been exhausted by life. He
resented the hell out of me because I had managed to escape Coaticook.  That's
all he talked about, when he talked. Much of the time I got  one-word responses
from him. Or merely shrugs.

"I think I knew throughout college that I should have brought him with  me to
Hanover, found a foster home for him there, or had him live with  me. Something.

To leave him behind was a very bad mistake. It was a betrayal."

"Chris and three of his friends had formed a band and one of the guys  knew
somebody who knew a club owner in Tucson. Somehow they got it  into their heads
that if they went out there they would get work in the  club and end up with a
recording contract. It was insane from the  beginning. I tried to be as
supportive of Chris as I could, but this  scheme was out of thin air."

"They were chasing a dream," Sloane said.

"That's not such a bad thing to do."

"Maybe," Frank said, sounding unconvinced.

"Anyway, I was supposed to start Tuck in September, but in August the  boys took
off for Tucson. I couldn't just let Chris go like that. I  did everything I
could to persuade him to stay. I told him we would  move to Hanover together,
that I would get him lessons with a member of  the Dartmouth music faculty, that
things would be great. He was  unmoved. So I had a choice: I could go to
business school or I could  follow my brother and do whatever I could to help
him."
"So you went to Tucson," she said.

"So I went to Tucson. Drove to Tucson. The boys in a beat-up old  Chrysler, me
in a well-used pickup I had bought after graduation.  Somehow I found out that
the Tucson newspaper was owned by a Dartmouth  alum. It was the only connection,
however remote, I had there, so I  went to see him. And he gave me a job as a
police reporter working  from six at night until two in the morning. It was my
illustrious  start in journalism.

"I wanted to get a two-bedroom place and have Chris live with me, but  he would
have none of that. The band members found a cheap rooming  house and all lived
on the same hall. They got work in the club they'd  been told about. But it was
as bar workers, hauling ice and beer,  cleaning up.

"Then, all of a sudden, the band broke up. Two of the guys headed back  to
Coaticook, and one stayed on in Tucson. Chris told me out of the  blue he wanted
to go to Boston, said he had heard a lot of new bands  were forming there. I
quit the paper, we packed up, got in my car, and  headed for Boston. To make a
new start."
O'Toole was startled when the silent alarm in the Stewart house was  tripped. He
had not seen anyone enter the house, had in truth been  dozing in the front seat
of his unmarked car, parked up the hill from  the house. It was a balmy night
and O'Toole was alone. McCormack had  insisted that the house be kept under
surveillance.

O'Toole beeped McCormack right away and the lieutenant called back  within a
minute on a cellular phone.

"Someone's inside," O'Toole said.

"Who?" McCormack asked.

"Don't know."

"Did you see anything?"

"Nothing out front," said O'Toole.

"He must have come in the rear."

"See a car or anything?"

"Not from my vantage point."

"Stay where you are," said McCormack.

"I'll be right there."

Patrick Boyle had parked on the side street at the rear of the Stewart  house.

Wearing a light windbreaker over a T-shirt, Boyle left his car and  approached
the Stewart property from the rear. He paused, gazing at  the gray. Cape
Cod-style house, then he set off across the yard,  brushing against the hedge.
He took the key that had been provided to  him and opened the back
door. He walked quickly through the kitchen and descended the stairs  to
Stewart's office. Unlike Dockerty, Boyle was not particularly  skilled with his
hands. He clumsily yanked the carpet tacks out,  slicing the rug in several
locations in the process. He was on his  knees working hard, sweating. Finally,
he had removed all of the tacks  along the front wall. He struggled to roll the
rug back the requisite  six plus feet.

Boyle worked the blade of the knife into slivers of space in the wood  floor
beneath the carpet, but several minutes passed before he was able  to remove
enough sections to see the outlines of the steel plate. He  unscrewed, then
removed the plate and set it aside. Boyle wiped his  face on his T-shirt and
paused before turning the dials on the safe.

"I Tow long have they been inside?" McCormack asked upon -I JL arrival  "Ten
minutes maybe," said O'Toole.

"You stay here," said McCormack.

"I'll cover the rear."

"Careful, Lieutenant," said O'Toole.

McCormack ignored the comment.

McCormack sat in the Crown Victoria, across the narrow side street and  down a
hundred or so feet from the rear of Stewart's yard. The  detective wondered for
a moment whether he had placed himself in harm's  way. He wondered whether there
might be some dangerous criminal,  someone like Dockerty, inside. He wondered
whether he should be  prepared for a violent confrontation. But he dismissed
those thoughts.  McCormack knew who was inside.

Boyle turned the dials to the numbers he had memorized and the safe  door pushed
up an inch or two. The priest opened the door and saw the  cash. He immediately
began removing the banded stacks of bills and  setting them in piles on the
carpet. Each time he thought he might  have reached the bottom, there appeared
another layer of money. He had  never seen anything like it. After removing
everything, he counted the  packs--fifty-seven in all, $570,000.
Boyle got up to leave and realized he had nothing in which to carry  his
treasure. He went upstairs to the kitchen and rummaged around in  the cabinets
until he found a plain brown paper shopping bag with  handles. He found a
grocery bag and placed it as a liner within the  shopping bag, returned to
Stewart's office, and filled it with the  money. It was nearly full and
surprisingly heavy.

Boyle placed the bag by the office door and set about the task of  closing and
locking the safe. He did so hastily, however, and failed  to use the tacks to
secure the carpet against the wall. He failed, as  well, to move the sofa and
coffee table back into position. In truth,  Boyle did not care whether anyone
discovered the safe. For him, it no  longer served any purpose.

McCormack watched as the priest, lugging the shopping bag, cut through  the
hedge and walked alongside the road. Boyle walked down a half  block and set the
bag down on the pavement next to a dark Ford Tempo.  Boyle fished keys out of
his pocket, opened the passenger side door,  and hefted the bag in onto the
floor of the car. As Boyle walked  around to the driver's side, McCormack pulled
up and got out of the  Crown Victoria.

Boyle glanced up, startled.

McCormack looked down through the window and saw the bag--and saw its  contents.

Both men stood still, silent, frozen for the moment. Finally,  McCormack looked
up across the roof of the car at Boyle. The priest's  expression seemed to be a
mixture of concern and annoyance. Most  people, confronted by police under such
circumstances, would be  frightened. Many would panic. Such was Boyle's
arrogance, however,  that he remained calm.

"You know, Father, we have laws against going into other people's homes
uninvited," said McCormack.

"It's known as breaking and entering. In this case, breaking and  entering in
the nighttime. And even worse, since you took something of  value, burglary.
People have been known to receive lengthy terms of  incarceration for such
crimes."

Boyle replied in a tone contemptuous of McCormack.
"I am here on a private business matter, detective," he said, "that is  none of
your concern."

"It's my concern when someone goes to the scene of a recent unsolved  murder,
spends time in the house, and then leaves with an awful lot of  somebody else's
money."

Boyle flashed a look of anger.

"On the contrary, detective, this is not someone else's money. This  money
belongs to the people, to the poor. As you're well aware, Phil  was chairman of
the Shelter Coalition and I am now his successor. These  are Coalition funds
which he kept at home for safety and convenience."  The priest gestured toward
the inside of the car.

"I'm merely retrieving those funds."

"Kind of strange to keep that amount of cash in someone's house,  wouldn't you
say?"

"Unorthodox," said the priest, "but I don't think that's a crime in  this
country, is it, Detective?"

Boyle broke into an arrogant smirk.

McCormack was impassive.

"He was mistrustful of banks. Detective," Boyle said.

McCormack thought for a moment.

"Who told you where to find the money, Father?"

McCormack asked.

"Who are you splitting it with?"

Boyle tried to conceal it, but a look of surprise appeared on his  face.

"It could be very messy," McCormack added, "if it became known who  tipped you,
who you're splitting it with. Who you're an agent for."

Boyle's face turned red, McCormack thought with embarrassment, but he  quickly
learned it was from anger. When the priest spoke, spittle came  from his mouth.

"And it could be very messy for you, Detective, if it was known how you  carried
a grudge against Phil ever since he deprived you of the  commissioner's
position.

Very messy if it was known how deeply you hated him, how much of a  motive you
had. What did you care? Your wife was dead and gone. Your  life had gone
haywire.

And you had to drag that leg around every day, a reminder of him. It  fits
together too nicely, Detective."

McCormack just stared at him, taking it all in. He made no reply.
"Leave it alone. Detective," said the priest.

"Nobody wants this pursued any further. The department brass is on to  you. They
want it to fade away. Everybody wants it to fade away. He's  gone. We both know
that he was a very bad man. He neglected his  duties, neglected his
constituency." Boyle glanced down into the  car.

"I'm going to rectify that, Detective. That's what I'm called to  do."

Frank Cronin and Howard Berman met after work at Doyle's Cafe in  Jamaica Plain.

After a lengthy discussion with McCormack at Larz Anderson Park, Cronin  had
phoned the paper and asked Berman to meet him. In the smoky bar,  they had
beers, and, to Berman's surprise, Cronin smoked a Marlboro  Light he bummed off
a waitress.

"What's with the butt?" Berman asked.

Cronin exhaled off to the side.

"Every once in a while," he said.

"It helps my nerves."

Berman was taken aback.

"Your nerves? I didn't know you had any. Since when is there a  problem with
your nerves?"

"There's a lot going on," Cronin replied.

"With Sloane?" Berman asked.

"With a lot of things," Cronin replied.

Berman sipped his beer and waited for Cronin to speak.

"This is bizarre," Cronin said, "but I know it to be true. I have it  from an
unimpeachable source. Last night, Patrick Boyle was seen  leaving the Stewart
home with a shopping bag full of money--hundreds of  thousands of dollars, I am
told."

"What!" Berman fairly shrieked.

Cronin nodded.

"It's true. Evidently there is a safe in Stewart's house that the cops  had not
found before. Dug into the concrete basement floor."

"This is nuts," said Berman.

"It's crazy. I don't believe it. You're guy has gone off the deep  end."

Cronin frowned.

"It's true, Howard," he said.

Berman finished his beer and leaned forward across the table.

"What the hell is going on here, Frank?"

"Stewart had some kind of scam going, some major scam
where he was laundering money," said Cronin.

"This must have been proceeds from that."

"So why wasn't Boyle arrested for burglary?"

"Because he claimed that it was Shelter Coalition money that Stewart  just
happened to keep at home and he was claiming it as the leader of  the
Coalition."

"And they believed him?" Berman asked.

"What choice was there?" Cronin asked.

"There was no proof to the contrary."

"But for God's sake he was taking something of great value out of the  house of
a man who was recently murdered, whose murder remains  unsolved. Christ! At the
very least, the very least they should have  taken him in for questioning,
gotten some answers on the record."

Berman shook his head in utter amazement.

"My God, Frank, what's going on here?

Who the hell was the cop who let him go." Berman asked the question  with a note
of incredulity in his voice.

Cronin looked away and suddenly it dawned on Berman.

"It was your guy," Berman said softly.

Cronin nodded.

"Jesus," said Berman.

"I don't like this, Frank. This doesn't feel good to me.

There's something wrong here. We've got to push on this thing. We  can't sit on
this. I don't care what the terms are with your man, this  goes in the paper.

We'll source it;

protect his name, but the incident itself has got to see the light of  day. It
has to. First, we need a quick piece on the facts of what  happened. We'll
source it. That Boyle entered the house, spent X  amount of time inside, and
came out with what sources estimate to be X  amount of cash."

"Why the rush?" Cronin asked.

"Because something as bizarre as this is going to get around, and if it  gets
around the swine from the Record will sniff it out," said  Berman.

"And the second thing we need to do?" Cronin asked.

"Is go deep on Boyle," said Berman.

"We'll do it as a profile of the heir to the Shelter Coalition mantle,  but we
want to look carefully at his, shall we say, dark side.  Agreed?"
Cronin nodded.

"Let's go," he said.

But the following morning when they met with Johnson to discuss the  stories,
the editor of the Boston Post nixed both ideas.

"He's dead and buried," said Johnson.

"We've done enough. More than enough.

We're through with the whole dirty business."

Johnson was emphatic. Cronin left the meeting while Berman remained to  argue
with Johnson, but it was no use. Johnson's mind was made up.  Berman and Cronin
had no way of knowing, of course, that Johnson's view  had been colored by a
visitor he had received at his home the night  before. A visitor who spoke to
Johnson about his pending application  for an annulment, a visitor with a stake
in there being no further  stories of the sort Berman and Cronin wanted done.
And after the  session at Johnson's home, the editor was hopeful and the visitor
satisfied. Father Boyle, in fact, left Johnson's house feeling rather  pleased
with himself.

Frank Cronin wanted to tell Sloane about a crucial moment in his life,  an
incident back in high school.

Chris had gotten picked on a lot in junior high and high school. Partly  it was
his size and his stutter, but it was also that he had a somewhat  effeminate
manner about him that invited ridicule.

It had happened after hockey practice one night. There was an  assistant coach,
a priest named Father Turgeon who for some reason had  if in for both Chris and
Frank. Turgeon was a huge man, noticably  bigger even than Frank. Turgeon had
played semi-pro hockey and had  been more of a tough guy than a skater. Frank
had always given him a  wide berth. In the scrimmage on this night, Turgeon
filled in for  another player and played opposite Frank. But Turgeon wasn't as
quick  as Cronin and Frank got the better of him.

After the scrimmage Frank noticed the priest in the stands talking with  Chris.

The shield of fiberglass surrounding the rink prevented Frank from  hearing what
they were talking about, but
it did not appear pleasant. Frank went over to them and asked what  was up.

"He sassed me," Turgeon had said.

Frank looked at his brother and asked if that was true. Chris said it  was.
Frank asked why. Chris looked down at the floor, reluctant to  answer. And then
he said, "He c-c-called me a faggot."

Turgeon called him a liar. Frank said he doesn't lie to me. Chris  never had.

Frank was very angry but he thought the smartest course would be to go  get the
head coach. Frank turned and began walking away, back toward  the ice, and was
almost at the gate when he distinctly heard this  priest call Chris a little
asshole.

He went back and confronted him and told him he didn't allow anybody to  talk to
his brother that way. Turgeon told Frank to go fuck himself  and started
storming off toward the locker room. As he did so, Frank  reached out to grab
his arm. He wanted an apology for Chris before  Turgeon went anywhere. Just as
Frank touched him, Turgeon wheeled  around and punched Frank, knocking him to
the ground.

After being knocked down, he had gotten up and moved toward Turgeon,  hunched in
a boxing crouch, his fists high. Then suddenly he shot a  left hand forward,
nailing the priest on the jaw, staggering him  momentarily. Turgeon dropped his
hands ever so briefly, but it was  long enough. Frank flashed a right, landing
it just above the priest's  eye, tearing the skin and sending blood down,
covering his eye.

Suddenly, players on the ice noticed what was happening and moved  toward the
boards, hurrying in single file through the gate leading out  to the bleachers,
jockeying for the best view. Coach Hunter saw what  was happening and rushed
over to intercede. But he was too late.

For at that moment, Turgeon threw a clumsy left which missed its target  and
allowed Cronin to bring a thunderous right hand that landed on the  priest's
cheekbone, snapping his head back. Cronin moved closer and  threw a quick left
followed by a right uppercut which landed full bore  on Turgeon's jaw, breaking
the bone and sending the priest crashing to  the ground, unconscious.
When the priest landed, he struck his head on the cement floor. He  was in the
hospital for some time after that. Frank had been suspended  from school and the
hockey team. And there had been a court session  where he had been charged with
assault. He had been very lucky that  his coaches and teachers stood up for him.

But he was placed on probation nonetheless, and was technically guilty  of a
felony. Because of that, he was forced to put off going to  college for a year.

The magistrate said if he kept his nose clean for a year he'd seal the  record,
so that it would be as if the incident never occurred.

Frank had applied for early decision to Dartmouth and gotten accepted;  now he
had to delay it for a year. That had pained him because he saw  going away to
school as his escape from the confines of Coaticook where  he was seen as the
poor, pitiable foster child.

So instead of going off to school, he did what his father before him  and his
father before him had done. He took a job as a logger and  headed for the big
woods.

He wanted to tell Sloane that the part of it that really frightened him  was
that there had been something within him urging him to keep  punching until he
had beaten the very life out of Turgeon.
Cronin could not sleep.

The story that was demanding to be written was in his head now, forming  and
reforming itself. In his mind he wrote it, then rewrote it, then  tore it up and
started over again. He had promised Berman that this  latest one would be his
finale, the story that told it all. He had  grown sick of it, of all the lies
and deceit. The city reeked of  dishonor. He was sick of the likes of Boyle and
Sears and Roy Johnson  and Deegan and sick est of all of Philip Stewart who
seemed larger now  in death than he had been in life.

Cronin was filled with nervous energy. After midnight he got out of  bed and
went for a long jog through the quiet streets of his  neighborhood. At home he
showered and changed. He drove to the Post,  arriving shortly before two A.M.
The city room was empty, save for the  night assistant city editor asleep at the
city desk. The scanners were  on low to avoid disturbing his slumber. In
Cronin's far corner of the  room, all was quiet. He was wide awake and felt not
the least bit  tired.

He sat at his desk, slouching in the chair, his feet up on the desk,  thinking
the story through. Soon, he was sitting up, tapping an  outline onto his
computer screen. Then he began drafting the story. He  wrote in fits and starts,
shaping the first four hundred words of the  story. He wrote and rewrote for
ninety minutes with increasing  frustration. Each lead he drafted was clunkier
than the one before.  They conveyed little of the pathos at the heart of the
story. It was  close to four a.m. when he got up
from his desk and ambled upstairs to the cafeteria, bought coffee and  an apple,
and returned to his terminal. Then it occurred to him that  the story would work
far better if he wrote it not as a news story but  as a feature. He considered
this, working through the progression in  his mind. The story would have a
softer feel to it, but that might be  appropriate, he thought.

He started over and soon found a rhythm. This was it, he thought. It  was a
strange sensation, writing without notes, purely from material in  his head.
When he was finished, he did not reread what he had written,  as was his custom.

Rather, he shipped the story to Berman's computer and went home to go  to sleep.

When Howard Berman arrived later that morning, he sat down at his  terminal and
read the story.

Robert thought he had broken through. Things had never gone well for  him. It
seemed he had always had to struggle, with little to show for  it.

But then, in the spring of last year, Robert felt that he was on the  verge of
turning his life around. Or so it seemed for one sweet, brief  moment.

For years Robert had struggled with a substance abuse demon. He had  fought it
and been beaten down, time after time. But then, finally,  Robert seemed to have
it licked. He had been clean for nearly six  months, all through a dark and
bitter winter and into a bright and  glorious spring.

Robert's recovery was helped immeasurably when he became involved as a
volunteer aiding others fighting addiction. He proved a deft teacher,  an
inspiring example.

Robert dedicated his life to helping others who had suffered as he had.  And he
believed that if he continued to work with substance abusers, he  would have the
strength and motive to remain sober forever.

Robert's big break came when he was told about a job opening for a  counselor at
the city hospital substance abuse outreach program. The  head of the program
said Robert was perfect for the job.
According to a member of Robert's family, who wished to remain  anonymous,
Robert was the first choice of officials who ran the  program. The final hurdle
for the job was an interview with Councillor  Philip Stewart, chairman of the
Council committee that oversees the  outreach budget.

Robert's family members said that during the interview, instead of  being
quizzed about his abilities, Robert was bluntly told by Stewart  that he would
not be given the job unless he paid Stewart $10,000 in  cash.

Robert told Stewart that he did not have anywhere near that amount of  money.

Stewart said he would give him one week to raise it.

Robert was unable to do so.

Stewart was murdered four weeks ago. Police have questioned a  disgruntled
former city employee, Mick Dockerty, in connection with the  case. Dockerty has
not been charged with the murder.

Law enforcement officials are currently investigating what they believe  to be
links between Stewart and organized crime. Officials have  evidence indicating
that for seven years Stewart participated in a  scheme to launder cash generated
by organized crime  activities--including gambling and the drug trade. Officials
believe  Stewart laundered funds through an account ostensibly intended for the
Shelter Coalition.

In the wake of Stewart's death, the Post reported that the United  States
Justice Department had investigated allegations that Stewart had  extorted tens
of thousands of dollars from a North End catering  company.

Arlene DiMasi, who with her husband, Gabriel, owns Napoli Catering,  said during
an interview with the Post that Stewart had extorted  approximately $19,000 over
a seven-year period. She said that Stewart  told her that if they did not pay
him they would lose their city  contract.

The Post subsequently reported a second apparent scam run by Stewart in  which
the former councillor extorted funds from a Boston transit  company owner with
a city contract by convincing the businessman that the payments were  actually
linkage funds for the homeless.

Raymond Wright, owner ofWrightways Transit, holds a city contract to  transport
special needs students in the public schools. Wrightways  principle function is
to transport physically and mentally handicapped  children to and from school.

According to Wright, and banking records, Wrightways paid an account  under
Stewart's control some $54,000 over a three-year period.

Added to the list of Stewart transgressions is now the case of Robert.  A family
member says that after the extortion demand by Stewart, Robert  grew depressed,
then despondent. Within weeks, he was back on the  substance that he had
struggled so valiantly to defeat.

On the night of June 2, 1992, Robert went to the attic in the apartment
building where he lived. He tied a thick rope to a rafter and hanged  himself.

Robert is not his real name. The young man's family requested that his  true
identity be protected. But he died, says a member of his  immediate family, "at
the hands of Stewart." The late councillor, said  Robert's family member, "might
as well have put a bullet in his  brain."

Robert's relative, who lives in the Boston area, said Robert was  precisely the
kind of person Stewart had a reputation for helping.

The murder of Councillor Philip Stewart has thus far stumped law  enforcement
officials. Dockerty, formerly of Roslindale, once worked  as a guard at the Deer
Island House of Correction. He was alleged to  have beaten an inmate who later
died. Hearings into that death chaired  by Stewart resulted in Dockerty's
dismissal.

Police investigators have said they have few clues in the case. Police  say that
Stewart was on the screened-in porch of his Moss Hill home on  the night of June
26 listening to a Red Sox-Yankees game while drinking  a can of Moxie and
smoking Pall Mails. He was shot twice at  point-blank range. He was wearing
slacks, a golf shirt,
and a sleeveless sweater. Police have said the crime scene was  undisturbed.

Berman sat at his terminal, a cup of coffee in one hand, a half-eaten  bran
muffin on his desk. He was dressed in dungarees and a work shirt  and his hair
was still wet from his morning shower. He was  clean-shaven. He read the story
for a third time. Every so often he  would strike a single key and move farther
down into the text. Once he  got past the midpoint in the article, Berman sped
up his reading.

He went back and read the story again. Rarely did a story produced by  one of
his reporters jar him, but this one did. Berman was touched by  the poignancy of
it, revulsed by Stewart's base indecency. How  terribly, terribly sad that this
young man had come to such an end.  Stewart, Berman thought, had been a vile
man.

So this was the story Cronin had said he was working on. It was a  giant spike
through the heart of what remained of Philip Stewart's  legacy.

Cronin arrived at noon to review the article with Berman. They went  into his
office and closed the door. Outside the glass wall, reporters  and editors
buzzed through the room, discussing stories, arguing,  fighting over
assignments.

Berman sat down behind his desk and Cronin took the seat opposite.  Berman's
tone was heartfelt.

"Frank, this is a sensational story," he said.

"You've done an unbelievable job. You can imagine when I read it, I  mean, I was
floored. I had no inkling. I mean, how did you find this  guy?"

Cronin looked down, staring at the floor for a moment.

"I have an arrangement, Howard, with the source," said Cronin.

"I've given an ironclad guarantee that I won't talk about the source in  any way
or about Robert in any more detail than is in the story. I  made that agreement
to get the story and I feel bound to stick by  it."

Berman nodded.

"No problem," he said. Then he thought for a moment.

"No problem with me," he added.

"But I wonder what Roy will say. My suspicion is he'll have problems  that the
story hangs on a single source. You cite 'a' family member,  'the'
family member. Never family members, plural. So before we go in to  see Roy,
let's cover a few things."

Cronin nodded.

"How good is your source?" Berman asked.

"There could be no better source on this story," Cronin replied.

"A member of the family?" Berman asked.

"Yes."

"Not some distant cousin?"

"No, Howard, not some distant cousin."

"Parent, sibling, spouse?" Berman asked.

"A member of the immediate family," said Cronin.

Berman seemed annoyed.

"Frank, I'm trying to prepare you for the editor of the newspaper,"  said
Berman.

"He won't like this line of yours. Let's not forget that as the editor  he is
entitled to know who the source of your information is.

The Post policy is that if he asks you must answer him."

Cronin shrugged.

There was an edge in Berman's voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"You don't care?"

"It means there's nothing I can do about his desire to know my source,"  said
Cronin.

"I cannot reveal my source. I cannot reveal anything more about Robert  than is
in the story."

"You know the rules," said Berman.

"An editor is entitled to know the identity of a source."

"That policy is enforced on a selective basis," said Cronin.

"He can invoke it or not. Nothing's written in stone. Either you  believe my
story is right or you don't, Howard. That's what it comes  down to."

Berman studied Cronin's face. The reporter seemed impassive.

"Nobody has more faith or trust in you than I do, Frank," said Berman,  meaning
it.

"That's not the issue. To get the story in the newspaper, Roy's got to  give his
OK."

erman and Cronin sat silently in Roy Johnson's office while the editor  of the
Post read the story. He did not appear
happy. He removed his glasses and looked up at Cronin.

"Very moving," he said.

"It's a tragedy." He shook his head, seeming genuinely touched.

"I wonder though .. ." he said, his voice trailing off.

"Are we being fair?"

"To whom?" asked Berman.

"To Stewart, of course," said Johnson.

"Many good people cherish his memory. Are we fair to that memory?"

"What's unfair?" Berman asked.

"Is the implication fair, I wonder," said Johnson.

"In a very real sense Stewart pushed this kid to his death, Roy," said  Berman.

"I don't disagree," said Johnson.

Suddenly, Johnson switched gears. He placed his hands together,  fingers
stretched out, as though about to pray. He tapped his hands  against the front
of his face and then spoke.

"The single source issue again," he said. Johnson glanced hopefully at  Berman.

"Have we raised this?"

"Ah, yes," said Berman.

"And?" Johnson asked.

"And it's something I can't reveal," interjected Cronin.

"I made a commitment. I reveal the source's identity to no one. I  reveal
nothing more about Robert than is in the story."

That trademark calm again, thought Berman, who was now quite nervous  himself at
the palpable tension that filled Johnson's office.

Suddenly, Johnson was flushed with anger.

"You've got one source," he said, his face reddening.

"And this newspaper is supposed to supply the definitive destruction of  this
man's reputation less than a month after he's put in the ground on  the basis of
a single source which you refuse to identify in the  privacy of this office to
the editor of this newspaper."

Johnson, leaning forward in his seat, glared at Cronin.

Berman wanted to intercede, but was frozen for the moment, groping for
something appropriate to say.

Cronin nodded.

"It makes me sound completely unreasonable, doesn't it?" Cronin said  in a soft
voice.

"But consider this. Many times in the past we have published stories  where the
source was a step or two or three removed from what we were writing  about. Very
infrequently do we have a member of the family of someone  we're writing about
as the source on a sensitive story. But here, we  have one. What more do you
want than my absolute assurance that the  source is unimpeachable? That the
story is accurate in every  detail?"

"Have you considered the damage this will do to Stewart's legacy?"  Johnson
asked.

Cronin did not respond.

"It will be the definitive destruction of the man. Mark my words,"  said
Johnson.

"Are you sure that's what we want here?"

"Why not?" Cronin replied without hesitation.

Johnson stiffened.

"Because we're not in the demolition business," he replied, spitting  out his
words.

Cronin screwed up his face as though he didn't get it.

"But we're supposed to be in the truth business," said Cronin.

"And the truth is that he was an evil man . "

"He had a dark side," Johnson interrupted.

But Cronin plowed on, ignoring the editor.

"He hurt people. He was a fraud. He was greedy, venal, corrupt. This  story
illustrates that. It's the truth."

"The truth is a tricky thing, Frank," said Johnson.

"It is also true that he did God's work for the Shelter Coalition ..  ."

"Like stealing their money and using it to launder mob cash," said  Cronin.

Berman froze. Cronin's subtly mocking tone seemed dangerously close to  some
invisible line. But it seemed to strike Johnson in the gut. He  sat back in his
seat and placed his hands behind his head. Had he  given up? Berman wondered.

"It's overkill," said Johnson. He turned toward Berman, ignoring  Cronin, and
said, "Let's hang on to it. Think about it a few days. All  right, gentlemen?"

Ordinarily, this was the final word, a signal to Berman and Cronin to  leave.

Berman rose but Cronin did not move. Both editors looked at the  reporter,
waiting for him to speak.

"I think we need to run the story, Roy," Cronin said quietly.

"We may do that," said Johnson dismissively, "but I think we need to  turn it
over in our minds before we decide."
"We have the story now," said Cronin.

"It's an exclusive. It's the best story we've had on this case. We  don't sit on
stories like this. In the time I've been at this paper  it's never happened. Why
now?"

Johnson looked closely at Cronin. He did not seem so much angry as  curious.

"I'm uncomfortable with the story and would like to sleep on it,"  Johnson said.

With that, the editor stood up abruptly, a clear signal they were  dismissed.

Berman moved to the door. Cronin did not budge from his seat.

"We should run the story, Roy," said Cronin.

"Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. It should run. It must run. We have  an
obligation to get it out there."

"Come on, Frank," said Berman, who wanted nothing more than to get  himself and
his reporter out of johnson presence.

"And you should know that if we aren't going to use the story, I'll  take it
elsewhere," he said.

"Oh, Christ!" said Berman.

Johnson stood motionless, then sank slowly into his chair.

"What's that supposed to mean, Frank?" the editor asked.

Johnson's secretary suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, "but there's been a shooting in  Roxbury,
Howard, and they need you on the desk."

"I'll be back," Berman said.

"Don't anybody do anything they'll regret," he said, catching Cronin's  eye.

After Berman left, there was an awkward silence in the room until  Johnson
repeated his question.

"What's that supposed to mean, Frank?"

Cronin spoke carefully, his words measured.

"It means, Roy, that if we're not going to run the story I'll go to the
Phoenix, the Ledger, somewhere, to make sure the story sees the light  of day.
It's an important story and we both know it. A crucial piece  of the Stewart
puzzle.

People have a right to know about it."

Roy Johnson pulled himself forward in his seat. He was red-faced with  anger.

"You mean to tell me that you're threatening me that..."

Cronin cut him off.

"I'm not threatening anyone," he countered.
"I'm merely telling you my contingency plan."

He paused and stared hard into Johnson's eyes.

"Especially in view of you're having been compromised on the story."

Johnson was thunderstruck. He turned purple with rage at the  accusation. He
pulled himself forward and pointed at Cronin, jabbing  his finger in the
reporter's direction.

"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to, mister?" he demanded.

Cronin was still. He did not blink.

"This story is too important to have it compromised at this stage,  Roy," he
said.

Johnson could barely control his fury. And he grew even more furious  as he saw
Cronin's placidity. He was about to dismiss Cronin from his  office, to suspend
him again, perhaps even fire him when, suddenly,  from deep within, Roy Johnson
felt the sharp stab of his conscience. In  a moment of sheer panic, he pulled
himself back and looked at Cronin in  horror. He thought in a flash of
Gabrielle, of the annulment  application, of Boyle's intercession on his behalf.

My God, Johnson thought, he knows! In a situation where most people  would be
paralyzed by anxiety, Cronin was composed. He knew. He had  to know.

Johnson had somehow convinced himself that the conflict was no  conflict, that
he could be an even-handed judge of stories even as he  was privately in Boyle's
debt. The test of whether something was  wrong, he had always believed, was
whether one would be embarrassed by  its being known publicly. Johnson suddenly
felt deeply humiliated.

How could he know? How could he have found out? But that didn't  matter now.
What mattered was the truth and Cronin knew. He was a  reporter, after all, a
digger;

he knew many things.

Suddenly, Berman was back. The city editor glanced from one man to the  other
and wondered what had transpired during his absence. Berman was  pleased Cronin
hadn't been thrown out of Johnson's office.

"So where are we?" Berman asked.

Johnson regarded Berman. Johnson was deflated. He wanted
the meeting to end. He wanted Cronin out of his sight. Johnson  turned to Berman
and asked, "So what should we do?"

"If you're asking me, I have no problem with the story," said Berman.

"Yes it's a single source, but this is Cronin we're talking about. He  says the
source is A-one, gold." Berman shrugged.

"How can you do much better than a member of the immediate family?"

"You're saying we run it?" Johnson asked.

"Absolutely," said Berman.

"A great story from our best reporter with a top-shelf source? How can  we go
wrong?"

The following morning the story ran on the Metro Front of the Boston  Post. Not
putting it on page one was Johnson's way of saving face on  the matter. Cronin
did not care where it ran, so long as it ran. He  was pleased when he saw it.

Even more pleased over the ensuing days when it became clear what the  public
reaction was. A few Stewart diehards denounced the story. But  in general, the
people of Boston were aghast. The story was the  subject of extensive follow-ups
on radio and TV news reports. Radio  talk program lines were jammed on the
subject with one caller after the  next expressing horror at the rank nature of
Stewart's corruption.  Thousands of Bostonians found it hard to believe that
they had been so  completely fooled by Stewart. There was astonishment that he
would so  brazenly steal and that he had somehow lived another life without even
the slightest detection.

What had been left of Philip Stewart's reputation was now in shreds.  Frank
Cronin, understanding this, at long last felt a measure of  satisfaction.

The story caught Detective McCormack's eye for another reason. He read  the
article over and over again and, still, there was a small portion  of it that
did not make sense to him. He went to Sloane's office and  they sat at her
conference table.

"You've read this?" he said, placing the article on the table.

"So sad," said Sloane, shaking her head in sorrow.

"To be so admired in public and such a monster otherwise. It all has a  rather
eerie quality to it, the whole thing, don't you think, Mack?"

McCormack nodded, but that was not what he had in mind.

"Did anything in particular about the article catch your eye?" he  asked.

She considered the question.

"Other than the obvious--the tragedy of the young man's life--nothing  really,
Mack, why?"

McCormack smoothed the newspaper out on the table in front of him. He  reached
into the breast pocket of his sport jacket for his reading  glasses and put them
on. He was moving in an oddly deliberate manner,  close to slow motion.
Something is askew here, she thought.

He spread the paper out with both hands and leaned forward over the  table for a
better view of the print. He began to read.

"Police investigators have said they have few clues in the case. Police  say
that Stewart was on the screened-in porch of his Moss Hill home on  the night of
June 26 listening to a Red Sox-Yankees game while drinking  a can of Moxie and
smoking Pall Malls. He was shot twice at  point-blank range. He was wearing
slacks, a golf shirt, and a  sleeveless sweater. Police have said the crime
scene was  undisturbed."

McCormack stopped reading and looked up at Sloane. He removed his  glasses and
held them out to the side in his right hand.

"Anything strike you?" he asked.

She'd been sitting with her arms crossed, listening carefully.

"Nothing, really, Mack," she said.

"Though the Moxie can seems an odd bit of detail."

"Did you know about it?" McCormack asked.

"Know what about it, Mack?"

"That it was there?"

She thought a moment.

"No, I don't think I did, really. If it was in the report I missed  it."

She held up her hands as if to say, what does it matter?

"Did you know about the radio?" he asked.

"Yes, surely," she said.

"It was stated in the report that there was a side table with radio,
cigarettes, and matches."

"But the report said nothing about a baseball game on the radio," said
McCormack.

"The radio was off when the body was found."

She felt chilled, suddenly, a vague sense of foreboding. She
sounded annoyed when she spoke.

"What is it. Mack? What's your point?"

McCormack watched her closely. He asked, "You didn't tell him about  the Moxie
can?"

"I did not know about the can," she said, "until now. I would have  guessed that
you had told him, but by your tone I see you didn't.  Surely another
investigator did tell him."

McCormack shook his head.

"No," he said softly, strain evident in his voice.

"You can't be certain of that, Mack," she asked.

He chose his words carefully.

"I was the first person on the scene after the body was discovered. I
personally put the empty can into an evidence bag, marked it, sealed  it. When I
left the house, I put it into the trunk of my car with some  other items. When I
got downtown, I retrieved the other items, but not  the can. It evidently rolled
under a box in the corner when I was  driving. I forgot about it. Until this
morning when I read about it.  I went out to the car and it was still in my
trunk."

Sloane's eyes narrowed as she listened. She responded coolly.

"The EMTs preceded you," she said.

"Surely they saw it."

"I called them both this morning," said McCormack.

"Frank never talked with either one of them."

They met that evening at Larz Anderson Park. McCormack had called and  said it
was extremely important that they talk. When Cronin arrived,  McCormack and
Sloane were waiting for him on a bench past the skating  rink. The night was
hot.

McCormack's shirt was soaked. His tie askew. Sloane looked composed  but worn.

Both seemed withdrawn. When he saw their eyes, he knew why they had  come. Both
were frightened. McCormack held a copy of the Post. He  handed it to Cronin with
the final paragraph of his story circled in  red.

"We'd like you to tell us how you came to know these details," he  said.

Cronin held the paper and looked from McCormack to Sloane before  looking down
at the newspaper. He glanced at the paragraph. He looked  from McCormack to
Sloane and back.
They were both sitting, looking up to where he was standing, waiting
expectantly.

"A source," said Cronin.

Sloane stared at him. McCormack looked away. The detective spoke with  sadness.

"That's impossible," he said.

McCormack turned back and looked up at Cronin.

"I never told anyone about the can. It wasn't in the report."

Cronin sat down on the bench beside Sloane. He leaned forward, elbows  on his
knees, his head resting on his hands.

"Not you," said Cronin.

"I had another source. Have another source. The only living soul who  would know
for sure about the can and the Sox game."

He turned sideways and looked at them, then looked away again.

"My source," said Cronin softly, "is the person who killed Philip  Stewart."
McCormack's kitchen was spotless. The table, against an open window,  was set
with one place, a small plate, a bowl, knife, fork, spoon, and  paper napkin.

There was not a dirty dish or utensil or glass or pot or pan to be  seen. The
sink, white enamel, gleamed. The counters, on either side  of the sink and to
the left of the refrigerator and stove, were shiny.  The room was done in yellow
and white--yellow curtains, white stove,  refrigerator. The wallpaper contained
a pattern of small, yellow and  white flowers, carnations and daisies. There was
a captain's chair in  front of the single place setting and two other chairs
around the  table. The floor was linoleum, white and yellow squares, as gleaming
as any on a TV commercial. There was a small portable television set  on top of
the refrigerator. In a corner, leaning upright, was a wooden  cane. On a side
wall was a photograph of McCormack's late wife. On  the counter next to the
microwave, Cronin saw a copy of his story about  Robert.

As soon as they had arrived, McCormack had filled a copper tea kettle  and set
it on the stove. Their drive from Larz Anderson to McCormack's  had been brief
and wordless. Now they sat silently waiting for the  kettle to whistle. In the
meantime, McCormack set out cups with a tea  bag in each. He placed a bowl of
sugar on the table alongside a quart  of milk.

When Cronin had broken the news, Sloane and McCormack had been  profoundly
shocked. Sloane had felt sick to her stomach at first.  McCormack experienced a
flash of dizziness. Both were speechless. What  could they say? How could it be
possible?
When the initial wave of shock had passed, bloane had gathered them  together
and insisted they go somewhere private. She suggested  McCormack's and he
assented.

They needed a place to talk, she had said, away from officialdom. There  was
already in place an unspoken agreement that this news would be  shared with no
one.

The water boiled and McCormack filled each of the three cups and set  the kettle
back on the stove. Sloane was the first to speak.

"There's lots that needs learning. Mack," she said, "and Frank will be  our
teacher. So let's set about it, shall we?"

There was no question that Sloane was in charge now. On the inside,  she was in
a state of turmoil. But on the exterior, she was collected,  confident.

"One raises the most obvious question," said Sloane.

"Not that one expects you're prepared to answer, but if you don't mind,  could
you tell us who your man is?"

"You know I cannot do that," said Cronin.

"And why the hell not?" asked McCormack.

"To protect your source?" The word dripped with sarcasm.

Cronin looked down into his tea and did not respond.

"We could end this right here, Frank, if you would simply tell us who  it is,"
said McCormack, impatience in his voice.

"We're talking about a capital crime.

Doesn't that weigh against journalistic codes? A man has been  murdered, you
know who the killer is, yet we're sitting around having  tea?"

This tack would go nowhere, Sloane knew.

"There's a great deal one would like to learn, Frank," she said.

"Such as how this came to be. And when? He approached you, I suppose,  for
whatever reason." .

McCormack was vexed. He half laughed in frustration.

"This is not complicated," he said.

"It is simple. A murder has been committed. We"--he indicated Sloane  and
himself--"are responsible for bringing the killer to justice. This  is our sworn
duty. You know who the goddamn killer is. I don't think  you have any choice,
legally or morally, but to tell us who it is."

Cronin sipped his tea. He rose from the table and walked back and  forth across
the room, hands in his pockets.

Sloane tried but was unable to smile. She felt unsettled and
hoped she didn't sound it.

"What can you share with us," she asked, as brightly as she could,  "that will
allow us to put the pieces together in the sort of tidy  package for which
lawyers and policemen have such a fondness?"

Cronin leaned against the counter, looking at her, struck by her  beauty, her
straight white teeth, thick, dark hair, her pretty legs,  primly crossed. Cronin
reached across the counter and picked up the  Post containing his story about
Robert and placed it on the table  halfway between Sloane and McCormack. She
searched his face for an  explanation.

"What's this got to do with the killer?" McCormack asked.

"Everything," he said.

Sloane and McCormack looked at each other. McCormack took a deep  breath.
Sloane, strands of her hair falling out of place onto her  forehead, turned back
to Cronin.

"Everything," she repeated.

Cronin nodded his affirmation.

"And by everything you mean what, exactly, Frank?" she asked.

"That the story and the killer have everything to do with each other,"  he said.

She leaned forward solicitously.

"I don't mean to be tedious, Frank, but I'm awfully thick at the moment  and
being a lawyer I do like things spelled out rather explicitly. You  understand?"

He nodded.

"So help me get all of this information straight in my dull but orderly  little
lawyer's mind," she said.

"You mean to say, I take it, that the story and the killer are  related?"

"Yes," he said.

"So that would mean that whoever provided you with the information on  the story
claims to be the person who took the life of Councillor  Stewart. Is that
correct?"

"Yes."

"I see," she said, turning and looking at McCormack.

She stirred her tea, reflecting for a moment.

"Your man, Frankie," she asked.

"Young or old, black or white, rich or poor, insane or not?"

Cronin was impassive. Remarkable how he can sit without
speaking and not be made uncomfortable by the awkwardness of the  silence, she
thought. A trick he learned as a reporter, no doubt.

"My curiosity is killing me," she said.

"I want to learn, Frank. Truly I do. I want to understand your man.  Why is
always the ultimate question, isn't it? Why does a person kill?  The categories
are few and the parameters narrow. Who commits murders?
In the city they kill for drugs. For money. For the fun of it.

Husbands kill wives. Drunks kill their pals once in a while. What  else is
there?"

Sloane pushed her hair back on the side. Her eyes widened and she  extended her
hands to her sides, palms up.

"Go look at my caseload," she said.

"That's what it consists of. Do I exaggerate, Mack?" she asked,  turning toward
the detective.

He shook his head.

"But this, this is different," she continued.

"I wonder about this man and who he is and what drove him to this."

"What does it matter?" Cronin asked.

"It matters," she said.

"In the eyes of the law and the eyes of God. It matters why he took  the life of
another."

He shook his head.

"I can't help you," he said.

"I'm sorry."

Sloane nodded.

"But I believe you can, darling," she said, unembarrassed at the term  of
affection she used in McCormack's presence.

"You can go and talk with your man and ask him our questions yourself.  And you
can return and enlighten us. And perhaps, through you, we can  make some
progress."

Cronin placed his teacup on the counter next to the sink. McCormack  got up,
rinsed it out, and placed it in the dishwasher.

"You would have to begin by telling him he will be treated fairly under  the law
if he turns himself in," said McCormack.

"You might urge him to come in."

Sloane frowned.

"But you need not pressure him," she said.

Cronin saw no alternative but to agree. He said he would make a phone  call and
set up a meeting. He left the apartment and walked three  blocks to a
convenience store. He was about to use the pay phone  there, thought better of
it, and walked across the street to a gas  station. He went into the phone booth
there. He was back shortly with  the news that a meeting was set for
that evening. He knew, of course, that he would be followed. He did  not expect
that it would be McCormack, but he was sure other detectives  would be on his
tail. And he was just as sure that their plan was to  wait until he arrived at
the meeting place, and then arrest the killer.  Sorry, Frankie, no choice in the
matter. You understand.

At home, Cronin shaves, then showers. He is about to dress but he  feels
fatigued and lays down on his bed instead. He shuts his eyes and  relaxes his
body. He wakes with a start, glances at the clock and sees  he has been asleep
twenty-five minutes. He dresses in gray slacks,  loafers, a blue button-down
shirt, a quiet green rep tie, and a blue  blazer.

It is dusk when he drives along the Jamaicaway headed downtown. He  drives at a
moderate speed and soon spots the unmarked cruiser tailing  him. He changes
lanes a number of times and the cruiser, a dark blue  Crown Victoria, does the
same.

Though it is three cars back, Cronin can plainly make it out to be the  police.

He speeds up and it does the same, slows down and it follows suit.

He has been briefed by McCormack and Sloane on how to behave with his  man, on
what to ask and how to query him, on when to apply a bit of  pressure and when
to back off. He crosses Brookline Avenue and drives  on to the Riverway, the
sprawling hospital district to his right, the  leafy Emerald Necklace to his
left. He goes left on to Boylston Street  and stops at a light a block from
Fenway Park. He can see the huge  scoreboard in right field and notes that Mo
Vaughn is coming to bat. It  is the middle of the game and the streets outside
the park are deserted  except for vendors selling peanuts and Red Sox pennants.

The light changes and Cronin pulls forward, and as he does so, through  his open
window, he hears the swelling roar of the crowd. He switches  on his radio--he
knows readily what station the Sox are broadcast  on--and hears Joe Castiglione
reporting that Vaughn has lifted a  towering blast into the seats in
straightaway center field, the deepest  point in Fenway.

He enters Storrow Drive and sees that the unmarked cruiser
follows. Are there other officers in the area? Nearby, perhaps, but  none on his
tail, he can see that. They will not think he is aware of  being tailed and, for
that reason, he believes they will have one car  following and another as
backup, for the apprehension.

It is pleasant along Storrow Drive, with the Charles River to the left.  He
swings off Storrow at Arlington Street and cuts across Beacon Street  and
Commonwealth Avenue. He goes right on Newbury Street then  immediately turns
into the Ritz parking garage on the left. He leaves  his keys with an attendant
and walks across Newbury and enters the Ritz  lobby by the side door. He has
already phoned a reservation in his  name into the Ritz Cafe for that evening.
He is expected.

But when he enters the building, instead of going left into the Cafe,  he walks
unobtrusively across the lobby and ascends the single flight  of stairs in the
back right corner.

The police have stopped farther up on Newbury, past the garage, and  double
parked in front of an art gallery. As soon as Cronin enters the  building, one
of the detectives gets out of his car and walks up the  block to follow him. The
detective enters the hotel only a minute  after Cronin, but, already, it is too
late. The officer looks around  and does not see his quarry. He walks down to
the far end of the lobby  and enters the bar. He peers around but does not see
Cronin. He goes  to the Cafe and looks around the room. The maitre d'hotel asks
if he  might help the gentleman. The officer says he is looking for his  friend,
Cronin. Ah yes, says the headwaiter, he has a reservation and  is expected
momentarily. Perhaps the gentleman could wait in the  lobby?

But Cronin has used this precious time wisely. He has walked along the  hushed
and carpeted corridor on the second floor that connects the  hotel to the Ritz
condominiums. He has descended another staircase in  the lobby of the residence
building, a full half block from the hotel,  and he has slipped out the side
door and walked briskly across  Commonwealth Avenue. Once across, he disappears
into a maze of side  streets on the flat of Beacon Hill and slowly wends his way
down to the  Charles Street MBTA station, where he catches a train. Forty
minutes  later, he arrives home.
The following morning they are back, by prearrangement, at  McCormack's.

Everything is the same. The kitchen is spotless and bright. The story  about
Robert lays on the counter. McCormack pours coffee this morning  instead of tea.

No mention has been made of the previous night. McCormack and his men  had been
puzzled when they lost Cronin. Had he intentionally slipped  them? Had it been
inadvertent? Had Cronin gone somewhere in the hotel  to meet his man?

Sloane was again in charge. She appeared tired. Her hair was still  wet from her
shower, shiny black and neatly clipped. She wore a  sleeveless tan shift, her
muscular arms in evidence.

"Tell us about your man, Frank, why don't you," she began.

"What's up with him?

I suppose he must be in terrible turmoil carrying this burden around.  He is
tormented, I'm sure."

Cronin considered this and shook his head.

"No," he said.

"Not much if at all. I wouldn't say he's totally at peace with  himself, but
he's reconciled to it. He feels justified."

Sloane jerked her head to one side in a look of surprise.

"Justified?" she said.

"How's that?"

"This is going to sound strange to you," he said, "but this is the  explanation
he offers. I convey it to you as best I can."

And with that, Cronin, speaking as the killer's advocate of sorts, told  them of
Hammurabi's Code.

In the early days of the twentieth century, a small group of French
archaeologists digging in the dust of Iraq unearthed a spectacular  stele of
black diorite. It was more than seven feet high and nearly  that wide at its
base. At the top is a carving of Shamash, a Sun God,  sitting on a throne. The
carving shows Shamash handing a code of laws  to King Hammurabi of Babylon.

Chiseled into the stone below the carving of Shamash and Hammarubi are  the 285
provisions covering civil, criminal, and commercial law that  comprise the code.

It was one of the earliest established bodies of law in the history of  man,
Cronin explained. And it remains the earliest and best preserved  codification.

The significance of the code would be hard to overstate. For what  Hammurabi did
was not merely to issue a series of random
rules, but to codify laws into a coherent whole, into a system based  on logical
principles.

Hammurabi did this, Cronin continued, after consolidating the various  kingdoms
of Mesopotamia under Babylonian rule. He gained a reputation  for competence as
both an administrator and a warrior. He was also  considered a champion of
scholars and writers, and he was far ahead of  his time. Under the Code of
Hammurabi, women could own businesses, buy  property, and if a man divorced a
woman she was entitled to the return  of her dowry and he was required to pay
child support.

Sloane listened intently. She was amazed by Cronin's ease with the  material. It
didn't sound to her at all as though he had heard this  pitch from his man the
previous night and was now passing it along. She  recalled, in fact, earlier
conversations with him in which he had  mentioned various aspects of Babylonian
history and culture. It had  been an area of interest to him in college, he had
once told her.

The Code of Hammurabi was best known through history for its severity,  he said.

The punishment for many offenses was death. For Hammurabi's was a  system based
on lex taleonis-the law of retribution.

"This principle is frowned upon by our society, but it is one with  exceedingly
deep roots in human nature," said Cronin.

"The desire to see that one who harms us is harmed in like degree is  woven into
our souls. In our culture, though, we've fled from that.  It's considered a
baser instinct today. But if you look back across  the historical spectrum, you
find we are the most lenient society in  history--before or after Christ. More
than any society in history, we  permit grave injustices to go unpunished or
minimally punished."

Cronin stopped and gazed down at the table. He looked from McCormack  to Sloane,
studying her closely, then sipped his coffee. It was  cool.

Sloane could not take her eyes off him. She gave him a quizzical  look.

"You're on his side, aren't you, Frankie?"

He did not reply, did not dispute her.

"You're writing a prescription for anarchy," said McCormack.
Cronin turned toward the detective.

"What recourse did Robert's family have?" he asked.

"Under our laws."

"Well," said the detective, fumbling for an answer.

"They could have brought in evidence of the attempted extortion of  Robert.
Presented that."

Cronin shook his head at the lameness of the answer.

"They've lost a member of the family because of Stewart," said Cronin,  his
anger rising, "and their recourse under our system is they get to  sit down with
an FBI agent or police detective who couldn't be bothered  with their case and
say that Stewart attempted to extort them. And the  lawman says, "Well, doesn't
seem like much evidence to me. The word of  a kid with a shaky history against a
vaunted member of the City  Council." So the answer to my question is they had
no recourse. They  swallow the bilge and keep quiet is their recourse."

Cronin drummed his fingers on the table, slowly, quietly.

"To be forced to accept this unspeakable fate is barbaric. Yes, one  must accept
the normal hurts of life. But grave assaults on a person  that alter the course
or quality of one's life? Then there's a right  to strike back. If for nothing
else than to retrieve a part of  ourselves that has been taken away. What about
the man who kills the  rapist of his daughter? The woman who walks into court
and fires six  rounds into the man who sexually abused her son? Sometimes what
is  taken from us is so precious that we have a moral right to take  something
back in return."

"And so what is it that Robert's family should be able to take from  Stewart?"

McCormack asked.

"His life?"

"More than that," said Cronin.

"His life, yes, but of what great value was that?

He was an older man and not well. I don't suppose he would have lived  an awful
lot longer. I think something more valuable should be taken  from Stewart: his
reputation. His legacy. Those are enduring things.  Immortal things, so much
more precious, in some ways, than life.

"We ought to understand why rational people commit acts that are  considered
irrational under our civil and moral laws," Cronin  continued.

"In fact, what could be more rational than to respond proportionally to  someone
who has broken your life. Robert's family would be considered  outlaws, immoral
for acting
against Stewart. In fact, it was Stewart who was immoral. It was  Stewart who
broke the laws and violated the public trust year after  year after year. And
yet he is seen here as the victim. I say Robert  is the victim. Sometimes laws
are unjust. Sometimes a person's  conscience dictates that they act outside the
civil law."

"Unfortunately," said McCormack, "we don't get reimbursed every time  we're
nicked."

Cronin looked at McCormack in astonishment.

"Nicked?" he said, his face and neck reddening.

"You call that getting nicked?

It's a catastrophe. Stewart took away the most important thing in that  family's
life; destroyed a boy's life, robbed him of whatever fighting  chance he might
have had, and that's getting nicked?"

He was furious. He drew himself up to his full height, his fists  dangling at
his sides. The veins in his neck bulged. Both McCormack  and Sloane were taken
aback.

"You just don't get it, Mack," he said.

"This boy who was the object of such love is gone. Forever."

Sloane's hands trembled.

She went to her office and made a phone call to the head of the Public  Records
Division for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. She told him  that she needed
whatever information was available on one Christopher  Cronin. She spelled it.

She did not have a middle initial or an address, she said. She said  she
believed he had died sometime in the previous year. She said the  matter was
urgent.

Twenty minutes later, he phoned her back. Three men named Christopher  Cronin
had died the previous year. Two were in their eighties. One  had been
twenty-three years old.

The twenty-three-year-old, she said. That's the one. The man said  he'd been
afraid of that. Unfortunately, it was one of those cases  where the records were
virtually nonexistent. No exact date. No  cause. Only that he had been buried at
St. Joseph's Cemetery in  Boston.

Sloane made a second call, this one to the cemetery office. She spoke  with an
older woman there who kept the records. Sloane
explained what she was looking for and the woman said it would take a  few
minutes to find.

Sloane drove rapidly through the city streets, outbound on Storrow  Drive along
the Charles River, past Fenway Park, out along the Riverway  past Jamaica Pond.

She turned into the entrance off the parkway and pulled in behind a  small stone
administrative building.

Inside, there was a reception area and a small office. The woman with  whom
Sloane had spoken on the phone was the only person there. Sloane  introduced
herself. The woman was businesslike. She asked Sloane for  identification, which
Sloane provided.

"You understand these are private records, property of the  archdiocese," she
said.

"These aren't open to the public, though we always cooperate with  police.

Diocesan policy."

Sloane said she appreciated the help.

"Though, in truth, we rarely get requests for any of these records,  really,"
she said.

"Usually people come in here looking for the location of a plot.  Perhaps it's a
long-lost relative, old friend, whatever."

Sloane was tense.

"You have the information I phoned about?" she asked.

"Right here," said the woman, indicating a large, dark green  cloth-bound ledger
book spread open on a table.

"You see, we note the name and the plot," she said.

The woman pointed out the entry for Christopher Cronin. On a single  line was
listed his name and number of his burial plot. There was also  a notation near
the end of the line which appeared to be "OH."

"What does this mean, here?" Sloane asked, indicating the notation.

"Other burial," said the woman.

"We have always kept records of other members of the same family that  might be
buried here. OH 307 means there's a relative in section 307.  Each section of
the cemetery contains three rows of eight plots,  twenty-four in each section."

"I wonder," said Sloane, "do you by any chance have other information  you keep
elsewhere? Anything at all might be helpful
to me. Date of death, cause of death, that sort of thing?"

"We're not required by law to display any of this information, you  know," the
woman said.

"The Archdiocese policy is to aid law enforcement, though we are not  required."

"I understand perfectly," said Sloane, "and I do so appreciate your  help, but I
would dearly love to see your other records."

The woman thought a moment.

"When you return from viewing the grave, perhaps," she said, "but I  have files
that must be dealt with right away."

"Of course," said Sloane.

With instructions from the record keeper, Sloane drove on a windy,  unpaved road
around a small stone chapel to a section shielded by tall  oaks. Section 307.
She looked at the name, Jocelyn Cronin, and her  heart ached. She thought of the
woman Frank had so lovingly described,  thought of the tragedy of her early
death, of two boys being left alone  in the world. She placed her hand on the
stone, a grayish hue flecked  with black. She thought of her own mother and how
deeply she loved  her, how unthinkable her death would be.

Sloane sighed as she walked away. She soon found section 327, the  newest part
of the cemetery. It was distinctive in its fashion, with  newer headstones, more
flowers for the more recently dead. She saw a  headstone taller and thinner,
more elegantly chiseled than the others  nearby. Most were a light gray, while
this was in charcoal. The  inscription read simply, Christopher Cronin,
1969-1992. She thought of  the boy Frank had described. She thought about the
precious child,  feverish, who would lie on the laps of his mother and brother;
she  thought of the little boy who was moved like a piece of furniture, from
one home to the next and on and on after the death of his mother;

she thought of a stuttering boy, effeminate, an outcast who found  refuge in his
music. And last of all she thought of Frank and what he  had lost. In this
ground beneath her feet was all that he had loved in  his life. They were in
boxes, both of them, covered now by dirt, under  tons of ground, gone forever
and ever.

She returned to the office and asked, once again, to see the other  records.

The woman hesitated.
"Please," said Sloane.

"It would be so very helpful."

"Come with me," said the woman. She retrieved a set of keys from the  desk
drawer and led the way outside and around to the rear of the  building. She
unlocked the steel door, snapped on a light, and  descended a half dozen steps.
The woman unlocked another door and they  entered a large cool room. On all four
walls were shelves, floor to  ceiling, and ledger books neatly arranged, with
notations on their  spines. The room was poorly lit.

"May I see the entry on Jocelyn Cronin first?" Sloane asked.

The woman reached down a lower cabinet. She pulled out a dusty ledger,  sought a
particular page, and handed it to Sloane. Sloane read the  entry. Jocelyn Cronin
had been buried in February of 1975. It noted  that she had suffered an
accidential death, that it had been in  Coaticook, Quebec. It stated that she
was survived by a husband and  two children, Francis and Christopher Cronin.
Sloane lingered over the  entry for just a moment.

"If I could see Christopher Cronin, please," she said.

The woman led the way off to a dark corner of the room. She reached  for a
flashlight on a table and aimed the beam at a particular shelf.  She moved the
flashlight down, down, then stopped. She reached up and  lifted a hefty volume
and placed it on the table. She thumbed through  it and ran her finger down a
page.

"Here," she said.

"This is the main set of books. It's more complete. The set upstairs  is just
there to guide people to the right plots. Here it is."

Sloane moved directly in front of the book and leaned over for a better  look.

The line was halfway down a page. Each entry was written in blue ink.  Chris's
entry indicated that he had been born on May 1, 1969, and died  on June 2, 1992.

It indicated that his home was Boston and that he was survived by a  brother. In
the column under the heading "Cause of Death," there was a  blank space. Sloane
thought that curious. Every other entry included  a cause--N for natural, A for
accidental.

"I wonder why this is blank," Sloane said, pointing it out to the  woman.

"Seems curious when all the others are filled in."

The woman looked more closely and suddenly tensed.
"Sometimes a mistake is made," she said.

"I must head back upstairs so if you're done .. ."

Sloane was about to close the book when she noticed some initials at  the
extreme right end of the line on which Chris's entry was written.  The initials
were tucked by the binding of the book and difficult to  read. They were written
in black. Sloane aimed the beam of the  flashlight at the initials. They
appeared to be "boh."

"This notation here," she said to the woman.

"What does it signify?"

The woman reached for the ledger and literally attempted to pull it out  of
Sloane's hands.

"Excuse me!" said Sloane, yanking it back.

"I am examining this record."

The woman was flushed with anger.

"These are private records and I hereby order you to leave. I've been  more than
courteous but you must leave."

Sloane shook her head.

"No," she said.

"Those initials. What do they mean?"

"Please leave," said the woman.

"You .. ."

Sloane's face darkened. She moved toward the woman.

"Tell me what it means, damnit!"

The woman paled. She looked stricken. The room was hushed. Sloane  moved so
close her face was only inches away from the woman.

"By own hand," said the frightened woman.

"BOH is 'by own hand." He committed suicide."
By the time Sloane returned to her office, Frank had already spoken  with
McCormack. Cronin agreed that he had no alternative but to do  what Sloane and
McCormack had asked--to convey to the killer their  desire that he turn himself
in. Cronin had two conditions: that he  chose the place and that only Sloane and
McCormack know anything about  Cronin's association with the killer. McCormack
agreed.

McCormack told Cronin he needed to carry a small audio device which  would allow
McCormack to stay in touch with him and permit Cronin to  call for help, if
necessary. Cronin was reluctant but McCormack  insisted.

The meeting would take place that night on a golf course in a Boston  suburb.

This was not a charade Cronin was dragging them through. Since he  could not
utter the words that spoke the truth, he had to have them see  with their own
eyes, to reach the truth on their own.

Cronin, Sloane, and McCormack drove together in McCormack's Crown  Victoria out
to the suburb. The sun had just gone down. During the  drive, Cronin guided
McCormack from the Mass Pike to back roads that  led to a small development that
bordered the golf course. Sloane was  silent for all of the twenty-five minute
trip. The development was set  in a heavily wooded area. The night was warm and
when they turned into
the parking lot, the only sounds were sprinklers watering the lawns.

The agreement was that Cronin would walk through the woods and across  part of
the golf course to reach the cabin; that McCormack would come  if summoned.

Sloane, unarmed, was to remain in the car.

"Good luck," said McCormack as Cronin was about to start off through  the woods.

Cronin nodded.

Frank Cronin looked at Sloane, searching her eyes, but she turned away,  unable
to meet his gaze. I love you, he thought, and surprised himself  as he almost
involuntarily voiced the words aloud.

He headed off, through a thicket of trees, across one fairway, through  the
rough and more trees, across another fairway, past a marsh and,  finally, to the
woods where the cabin was located. Cronin entered the  cabin. It was a single
room, sixteen by twenty, which had originally  been a satellite maintenance
shed. Now it was nothing more than a pine  box with Cronin inside. There was a
single wooden stool next to an  empty, upside down nail barrel, which served as
a table.

There was a stubby candle and a book of matches. Cronin lit the candle  and
dripped wax on to the wooden table. When it pooled, he stood the  candle up,
anchoring it in the soft wax. The candlelight cast a warm  glow at its center
but an eerie light beyond a few feet. Shadows were  distorted. Cronin's head,
cast against the ceiling, seemed freakish,  monstrous.

The sound of crickets surrounded the cabin. In the distance, he  thought he
heard a screech owl. He placed his face in his hands.

Oh, dear God, he thought, what have you done to me? He thought of her  and
Chris, when he was a baby. He thought back to before that when it  was just him
and his mother on Cape Cod at that place, he forgot the  name and even the town.
But he remembered that summer, remembered  those days, long and glorious days
with her.

He had had her all to himself! What sweetness it had been. He  remembered how
happy she had been when the baby was born. He thought  of them as the perfect
family, in absolute harmony. And they had been.  He was not recalling it with a
false fondness. It had been the truth.  They had, in
this life, on this earth, enjoyed true bliss. It had been theirs,  they held it,
grasped it to their breasts and treasured it. And in a  fleeting moment, it was
gone. Forever.

And he knew that now.

Everything in his life had turned brittle and been smashed to  smithereens.

It was all too much for him, the thoughts, the stinging pain of those  memories.

He sat on the stoool and tears streamed down his face and he began to  sob
quietly at first, then he began to shake and cried harder, beyond  his control.

He had forgotten that he was wearing the audio device that McCormack  had placed
on him.

In the car, at the first sounds of weeping, McCormack had made a move  to go to
him, but Sloane had held him back. She, too, cried, but only  briefly. She
quickly gathered herself.

McCormack and Sloane set out through the woods walking slowly, feeling  their
way through the darkness. Soon their eyes adjusted and the  moonlight guided
them through the woods and across the golf course.  McCormack moved along as
best he could, but in uncertain terrain his  leg weakened quickly and the pain
was sharp.

Sloane was fit and strong and moved easily while McCormack would step  forward
with his left leg, then move his right leg in an awkward,  dragging motion.
After only a few hundred yards his knee was on fire.  In a few minutes, the
cabin was in sight, perhaps eighty yards away.  They could see the yellow light
spilling out the half-open door.

McCormack spoke in a gentle tone to Cronin over the wire. He asked  whether
Frank was all right. Cronin said he was OK.

"Is the man who killed Stewart in the cabin, Frank?" McCormack  asked.

There was a long pause. Then Cronin replied, "Yes."

Sloane and McCormack advanced on the cabin. They entered and Sloane  saw Frank's
tear-streaked face, his eyes swollen, the man she loved,  broken.

McCormack looked around the tiny room that contained the killer and saw  that
Frank Cronin sat on the stool, alone.
Sloane was awake all night. At first light she drove to McCormack's  house. He,
too, had been awake throughout the night. He made coffee  and they talked. They
made a pact.

At 8:30 A.M." Detective Thomas McCormack drove to the retirement board  and
signed seven pieces of paper that began the formal processing of  his retirement
from the Boston Police Department. Later that morning,  as a courtesy, he
visited briefly with the police commissioner to tell  him he was through. He
said he was too tired to continue.

McCormack turned over all of his files, including a sanitized version  of the
Stewart case, to his deputy. Early that afternoon, he returned  home, packed a
large suitcase, locked up his apartment, and got into  his car. He drove out of
Boston, headed west to California. He  thought maybe he'd go back out and visit
his sister in San Diego. But  he'd take his time. He would meander, stopping off
here and there,  taking in the sights. He hoped the drive would consume a month,
maybe  two. In that time, he would make or receive no phone calls. He would
make sure no one in the world knew his whereabouts.

He knew that the whispers when he was gone would be that he had been  forced out
for failing to crack the Stewart case. He was sure that's  what the papers would
say. But he didn't care.
Susan Sloane submitted her resignation at nine A.M. to the district  attorney.

She did it in person. She told the DA that she was worn down from the  job, too
tired to continue. She met briefly in her office with her  closest and most
trusted assistants, had a tearful good-bye, turned her  files over, and left.

Late that afternoon, a courier arrived at her home. He had her sign  for a
package, handed it to her, and drove away. She ripped open the  Federal Express
envelope and found another envelope with her name on  it, scrawled in Cronin's
handwriting. Her heart beat harder as she  tore open the envelope, raced to the
terrace, and sat down to read.

My dearest Susie,

I have such terrible regrets in my life.

I regret that I did not find you in a different place and time and
circumstance.

What love we have had for the briefest whisper. I love you with all of  my heart
and soul and I have prayed to God to provide some chance for  us to be together
in our lives, but my prayers, I fear, cannot now be  answered.

I regret that what I have dared to imagine cannot be realized. For I  have
imagined a life together for us. A life of great beauty and  peace. Have you
imagined it, too? In my mind I have seen us on summer  days on a deserted beach,
talking and planning. Savoring the greatest  of life's pleasures--anticipation
of future happiness. I have imagined  children. A boy and a girl, bright and
lively and demanding and so  well and fully loved that their lives burst with
promise. A family.  Loving one another as well as we can and forgiving each
other our  mistakes and misdeeds.

All is lost now because I failed at the one truly significant mission  in my
life--caring for my brother, Chris. I loved him more than I  loved my own life.

Our mother entrusted me with that sacred task and I failed. I failed  her. I
failed Chris. I failed myself. Now I have failed you.

The Greeks recognized hundreds of years before the
birth of Christ that there is only one thing God cannot do.

"This only," wrote one of the Greek thinkers, "is denied to God: the  power to
undo the past."

The past is fixed, carved into the stone of history. It cannot be  altered. I
live with mine, at times obsessed by it.

I'm sorry you could never know my dear mother.

She would have loved you, I am sure.

You must be wondering: why?

I can only say that something inside compelled me to do it. Whether it  was the
memory of my mother's passionate plea to me, I do not know. It  was not
something I did on the spur of the moment. I considered it  carefully over time.
That makes me more culpable legally, I know.  Premeditation. Morally, too. But I
cannot trim here. I can only tell  you the truth and hope that in the telling
you understand.

I don't expect you to sanction what I have done, but I hope that in  your
condemnation of my act that there is some understanding. It would  pain me to
think that you would not try, at least, to place yourself in  my position for a
moment, to understand what drove me to it.

Chris was my responsibility. I tell you now that I did the best I  could and it
was not good enough. Things went spinning out of control  so many years ago. It
seems like a lifetime ago, now.

He was such a good boy. I loved him so. I can honestly say that now.  He was
getting himself back on track. He had been beaten down by it  for so long and
then, suddenly, he fought his way back. The  counselor's job was perfect for
him.

He would have helped a lot of people. He said in his note that he  considered
coming to me for the money to pay Stewart. But he decided  against it because he
felt I had too strict a moral code and would not  give him the money.

Ironic, isn't it?

He said in the note that he begged Stewart for the job. He offered to  pay him
in installments over time. He offered more money than Stewart  asked for. He
said the job
meant saving his own life. He said Stewart laughed at him.

I cannot confess this sin I have committed, A priest friend reminded me
recently that to receive absolution in the confessional, one must be  truly
remorseful. I am not. I wish I were. But I would do it over  again. I am sure
that is not what you wish to hear from the man you  love and who loves you so
hopelessly. But it is the truth.

Had we lived in an earlier time, what I did would have been neither a  sin nor a
crime. More than 2000 years ago, under the Code of  Hammarubi, revenge was
sanctioned in the civil law and by the gods.

So I look back upon what I did knowing that at some moment in time--on  this
earth, beneath this sky, under the gaze of this God--there were  men who were
wronged who struck back and were not condemned for it; who  killed and did so
with the approval of the state and the gods.

So I go on with my life such as it is. I am mournful, but don't  imagine that I
am tormented by what I have done. I am not. I am no  Raskolnikov skulking around
in terror, tormented each day by the vile  act that he has committed.

I must say that the deepest regret I feel is the shame of having been  involved
in such a deception. I deceived Howard, though I never wrote  a word in any of
the stories that wasn't absolutely accurate. They  were good stories that
unmasked Stewart for what he was.

I very much regret having deceived Mack, though I think I did not have  a
choice.

I never placed anyone else in serious jeopardy. No other person was  ever in
danger of being tried, never mind convicted, for this crime.  Dockerty spent a
few days in jail, but he was held on a weapons charge  unrelated to the killing
anyway. It is important to me that nobody  else endured suffering intended for
me.

Worst of all, of course, is that I deceived you, whom I love. I know  that it
means you will never again trust me
and that makes me sadder than I have ever been. As you read this, I  am bound
for foreign lands. Within a week, I will send you an address  through which I
may be reached. If it is your wish that I return to  face charges, I will do so.
I know enough about the law and this  particular situation to know that there is
no evidence that could ever  convict me. Except, ironically, this letter. What
you do with it is  up to you.

Please know that I love you, and that I ache for you each moment of  every day,
saddened immeasurably by the thoughts that we will never  experience what might
have been.

With all of my love, Frank

She looked out over the pool and the garden, out beyond the pond to the  trees.

She felt the burning in her eyes. She went to the house for a pack of  matches
and walked slowly down the slope to the pond, to the spot by  the tree where she
had seen him swimming that night not so long ago.  She knelt on the grass and
lit a match. She held the flame beneath the  letter until the paper had caught
fire.

She turned it this way and that, letting the flame climb up the sheets,
consuming his words. When the flame approached her hand she let the  letter
flutter to the grass where it soon burned itself out. There was  only ash now
and she took it and she scattered it upon the water.