Joe tried not to listen. He trusted that Conroy would pull it off. Conroy knew which strings to pull. He’d take care of the whole thing. No big deal. In time everyone would come to realize that this whole bookie thing was no big deal.
So why did Joe feel so aggrieved? It could have been worse, after all. The Monkey’s was not the only place Joe had ever picked up an envelope or put down a few bucks on a puppy or on his badge number. For Christ’s sake, if they had followed Joe around with a camera, Walter Cronkite would have shat in his CBS trousers. As it was, no one was going to throw Joe under the train for stopping by The Monkey’s once or twice. So it wasn’t the accusation that was so troubling to Joe. It was the sense of unseen forces, the infuriating awareness that he would never quite understand what had gone on here. He wasn’t fucking smart enough to figure it all out, to see the connections, the complexities. Why on earth had Walter fucking Cronkite come to Boston? Why the key shop? Why him? Joe thought he had it sometimes, that the truth was about to come shivering through, but it never quite did. So the answers hovered out there in the air somewhere, just out of sight. He was like a kid. He could hear it in the way they spoke to him, that pizzicato pick-pick-pick tone the deputy had lectured him with—Detective Daley, you’ve embarrassed this en-tire department in front of the en-tire country. It was precisely the pissy tone Joe used with his own kid when he did bad. Now the adults were meeting behind closed doors to pass sentence on him. Well, so what could he do about it? He was not Michael or Ricky or Conroy. Guys like Joe had to just hold on to what they knew, cling to the catechism that had worked for cops for a hundred years. Rule one: Keep your mouth shut when you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut. He leaned his forehead against the wall, mashed it against the dusty ancient plaster. What he wouldn’t give to have Mikey’s brain just for an hour or two, just to see things clear, to figure out what he should do, then he could happily go back to just bulling his way ahead without all this worry and frustration. The decision, the right decision, would already be made. But he would never have that kind of peace. Joe was forty-two; he was what he was.
Conroy came out of the room and marched up to Joe with his arms extended in a conciliatory way. A reassuring smile. Everything was taken care of.
“How bad?”
“Not so bad, boyo, not so bad. You’ll keep your job—”
“My job! Jesus, Bren! For Christ’s sake, I’m just the fucking errand boy.”
“Keep your voice down—”
“Half the department’s on the sleeve, you know that!”
“This is the New Boston. Maybe you haven’t heard.”
“What fucking new Boston?”
“Just keep your voice down, Joe. You’ll keep your job and your lieutenant’s rank. But you’re off the detective bureau.”
Joe shook his head and sniffed at the injustice of it.
“Joe, what did you expect? You’re lucky you’re still in Station Sixteen. You know where they wanted to send you? Roxbury. How would you like that, chasing spooks all day?”
“Jesus, Brendan. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“Show up in uniform for last half tomorrow.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“Be smart, son. Report in uniform for last half tomorrow.”
“And do what? Walk a beat?”
“Yes.”
“For how long? What, am I gonna walk a fucking beat the rest of my life?”
“No. You’re going to be patient and do what I tell you. You’re going to take the deal and lie low, play the game. This is just politics. It’ll blow over. Remember, boyo”—Brendan hoisted a thumb over his shoulder toward the hearing room—“they come and go; we stay. You think your old man and I didn’t look out for each other?”
Joe shook his head. Whatever.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Alright, then. What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“Show up in uniform for last half.”
“Attsaboy.”
“Brendan. When am I gonna be a detective again?” Conroy patted Joe’s meaty cheek. “When the time comes.”
8
A little before eleven, the cold deepened. A frigid current streamed past. Long strings of Christmas lights stirred on snow-shagged trees.
The baby Jesus trembled in his wheelbarrow. Long way from Bethlehem.
Joe stomped his feet, paced in circles. His shoes were the only thing that fit him. His pants and shirt collar were unbuttoned. The whole damn uniform had shrunk. He’d have to ask Kat to let the pants out a little. The wool overcoat was good, at least. But the exposed parts, his nose and ears and eyes, were singed. He kept an eye on the Union Club across Park Street. They’d got to know him there the past few nights, and they were pretty good about letting him come in out of the cold. The bartender even stood him a nip before he closed up every night. In a few minutes he’d go across and warm up a little. He could keep an eye on the crèche from there for a while.
This was Joe’s penance, standing guard over the Nativity scene on Boston Common overnight. The same punishment befell a lot of cops in Station Sixteen at Christmastime, but in the case of Joe Daley, with his televised humiliation and his demotion and his obdurate swagger, the assignment struck his brother cops as particularly laughable. Not that Joe meant to stand there all night. After midnight, he would relocate to the lobby of the nearest hotel, the Parker House, leaving his Lord and Savior to fend for Himself. He would circle past the manger scene a few times during the night and check in from the call box on Tremont Street, but he did not mean to freeze to death out here guarding a fucking doll collection.
At 10:55—Joe knew the time precisely because he was counting down to eleven o’clock when he would walk across to the Union Club to warm up—there was a loud smash from the bottom of the hill, somewhere on Tremont. It was glass shattering, but in the cold the noise was a dull crack, like the snap of a heavy branch. A smash-and-grab, probably, or drunks down on Washington Street. Joe took off running as fast as he dared on the icy downhill. He had to admit, as much as he wanted to call himself a detective, this was the sort of police work he was meant for. This was Joe at his most natural. He was a good reactor, he could impose himself on a situation, he could make things right, or at least make things better. Detective work was infuriatingly slow and irresolute. It was Miss Marple stuff, not police work. This—running like hell after a bad guy—was police work.
Meanwhile, in the manger all was peaceful. The wind shivered the statuettes and the tufts of grimy hay. The Virgin Mary listed fifteen degrees to starboard.
From the top of Park Street, the direction opposite the smashing glass, came Ricky. He was slightly out of breath. He wore a wool cap and leather jacket and Jack Purcells. His hands were plunged deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. In the Common he took a few mincing slide-steps over the ice to the Nativity scene and stood before it. Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin. He glanced around, then one by one he turned the statues around so they would see nothing, Mary, Joseph, the Magi, a donkey, two sheep, a family of very pious and awestruck Bakelite bunnies. He would leave no witnesses. When he’d rearranged the others, he lifted the baby Jesus out of His straw bed. “Now who left you out here in just a diaper?” he asked the child, who stared back with a conspiratorial beatific smile. He tucked the statue under his arm like a football and strolled off, his sneakers crunching in the snow.
There was a soft knock and Amy, still in her work dress, went to the door. “Who is it?”
“The Strangler.”
“Very funny. What do you want?”
“Um, to strangle you? That’s, you know, what I do.”
“Sorry, not interested.”
“Come on, just a little?”
“I said no. Go strangle yourself.”
“That’s how I got through high school. Come on, help me out.”
She opened the door a crack to see Ricky posing cheek to cheek with the statue of the
Christ child. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.
“Precisely.”
“Does this mean I’m dying?”
“No, no. He just came to visit.”
“Oh, thank God. I mean, thank You.” Amy stood back to let him pass. “I suppose you have an explanation.”
“Yes. I found Jesus.”
“Ha, ha. Let me guess. That’s the one Joe is supposed to be watching.”
“Exactamente.”
“And what do you intend to do with…Him?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I thought maybe you could hold on to Him for a while.”
“Like a hostage.”
“No, like a good-luck charm. That’s His job, you know.”
“You’ll rot in hell for this.”
“Anything for a scoop, Aim. You want the story? I’ll give you an exclusive: ‘Jesus Statue Stolen; Brazen Theft Right Under Dumb-Ass Cop’s Nose.’ Now, if that doesn’t move paper, then I give up.”
“You know, you Daleys aren’t nearly as fascinating to anyone else as you are to yourselves. Why don’t you leave poor Joe alone? He’s got enough trouble.”
“Come on, this is news. The public has a right to know.”
“Sorry. We’re a family newspaper. We don’t blaspheme.”
Ricky wandered over to the dining room table, which was covered with papers, manila folders, handwritten notes, photos of women bloody and contorted. “What’s all this?”
“It’s work. Try it sometime.”
“Hey, I work.”
Amy sniffed.
“Since when are you covering the Strangler thing?”
“They assigned the story today. We’re reviewing it, me and Claire.” Claire Downey was the other girl reporter at the Observer. The paper liked to team them up. They were good, and the two-girl byline was a novelty, especially on crime cases.
“Hasn’t that story been written to death? What’s the new angle?”
“Between us?”
“Between us.”
“The angle is that BPD screwed up the investigation.”
“Did they?”
“All I know is I’m looking through these reports and even I can see the mistakes. The crime scenes, the interviews, the leads they’ve missed—it’s a disaster, Ricky. Well, you can read it in the paper, same as everyone else.”
He picked up one of the photos and examined it idly. It showed a room, a stained carpet, various marks and arrows drawn on it. “Maybe you’d better keep this little guy. You might need Him.” He propped the statue on a counter.
“Just take it with you. I’m not stashing your stolen property.”
“Now that’s blasphemy.”
“No, that’s your…work. I wish you wouldn’t bring it here.”
Ricky frowned. But he was feeling buoyant at the thought of Joe and the empty manger, and he did not want to argue. Ricky was determined not to acknowledge her sour mood, not to become snarled in it. He shuffled to the refrigerator. A few eggs, a block of American cheese, a loaf of Wonder bread. “You know what you need, Miss Ryan? A wife.”
“The job’s yours if you want it. You know that.”
“Maybe just for tonight.” He came to her and put his arms around her waist. “I’ll be the wife. You can be the Fuller brush salesman.”
She forced a smile but it faded.
“What?”
“You know what.”
He groaned.
“Don’t worry, Ricky, we won’t talk about it. It’s late.”
“It’s not that late. Come on, let’s go somewhere. Down to Wally’s. We’ll have a drink, hear some music, take your mind off things.”
“Ricky, some people have to get up for work.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Maybe I should go.”
“No.” She laid her head on his chest. “You can stick around if you want.”
Ricky blinked uncertainly. He was not used to seeing Amy unnerved. He was not used to—and had no interest in—comforting her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“The Strangler stuff? Those pictures?”
She shrugged.
“Come on. Did you read the paper today? The police commissioner says the odds of getting attacked by the Strangler are two million to one. Two million to one! The whole city’s in a panic—for what? You’re more likely to get run over by a car.”
“I know, I know.”
She felt his collarbone against her forehead. Under her hands, Ricky’s lower back was hard as a shell. He had a little boy’s wiry body. It felt unbreakable.
“Ricky, maybe we could just stay in tonight.”
“Nah, I need to get out. Come on. One beer. You can sleep when you get old.”
Amy felt with the tips of her fingers for the furrow at the center of Ricky’s back. She traced the backbone as it rose to the flat of the coccyx, and her anxiety receded.
“I never thought you were a worrier, Aim.”
“I’m not a worrier. I don’t care about the Strangler.”
She felt Ricky tap her shoulder blades in mock comfort. The gesture conveyed there, there and at the same time stop hugging me, let me go. A little chill went through her. Ricky was a consummate faker, but tonight he could not even be bothered to fake for her. He just wanted a playmate. Maybe that was all there was to Ricky, at least that was as much of him as Amy would ever have. Was it enough? A sentence repeated in her mind: I don’t know if I can do this anymore. But she did not say it. Probably she never would say it. She would never possess him, she knew that. Ricky was nimble and sheathed in an athlete’s confidence, and of course he was a man; he was not available to be possessed. She wanted him anyway. And if he never married her? Was it worth spinsterhood, did she want him even at that price? Yes, she thought. Yes yes yes yes yes.
“Ricky, I love you, you know.”
“Okay.”
“No, the correct response is ‘I love you too, Amy.’”
“I love you too, Amy.”
She squeezed him. Yes yes yes. Maybe a few months earlier, she might have felt differently. But now she and Ricky were entangled. And in the year of the Strangler, well, even if all Ricky had to offer was his charm and his good strong back, Amy thought it might be enough. She had a sense that the city’s mood—the Strangler hysteria, all that mean, selfish, instinctive fear which everyone seemed to feel—carried with it an insight. What was happening in Boston was a passing revelation: The Strangler had taught them there was no safety inside the herd. Everyone was vulnerable. Death could strike out of a clear blue sky, like Oswald’s bullet. If that was true…then yes yes yes, she did want him, at any price.
“Come on, let’s go. We’ll hear some music, you’ll feel better.”
“Okay,” she said.
He bustled around, gathering up her coat and purse before she changed her mind. He held up the statue. “Bring Him?”
She shook her head.
“Right, there might be a cover.” Ricky turned to place the statue back on the counter carefully. “You know, for a second there I thought you were going soft on me.”
“Never,” she said to his back.
9
Suffolk Superior Court, Thursday afternoon.
There was a sense in the courtroom at times like these that they were not adversaries. They were a team, fielding their different positions—judge, lawyer, clerk—working together toward a common goal. The outcome of the case was certain. All that remained was the tying up of loose ends, reading the correct words into the record. It was an unspoken awareness. You tended to feel it when weekends or holidays loomed, in summer especially, on Friday afternoons when everyone was anxious to bug out. A certain contented lassitude crept into the lawyers’ voices. They referred to one another with amiable, anachronistic formality as “my brother.” The familiar formulas spilled out of their mouths quickly and with evident pleasure. They were insiders, technicians, and they were wrapping up.
Michael—w
ho relished these moments of teamwork, these truces—spoke without notes, one hand resting in the pocket of his suit coat, JFK style. “It is a hard case, obviously, and the Commonwealth is not unsympathetic to the situation Mr. and Mrs. Cavalcante find themselves in. But then, they are all hard cases and this is all settled law. Like most of these old tenements in the West End, the Cavalcantes’ building was taken by the government in a proper exercise of its power of eminent domain. As tenants in the building, the Cavalcantes’ lease was immediately terminated by operation of law and they became tenants by sufferance, with no standing to raise these sorts of Fifth Amendment or Article Ten objections.” Michael heard the facile, bloodless tone in his own voice, but hadn’t they been through the drill before with these old West Enders? It occurred to him there might be time for a haircut that afternoon, and his pace quickened again. “However, to touch on the merits of the plaintiffs’ claims: First, there is no merit to the argument that the government’s use of its eminent domain power is improper merely because it benefits a private developer. If Farley Sonnenshein can make a buck rebuilding the West End, then so be it. The project still serves a valid public interest by converting a blighted area, a slum really, into a new neighborhood of obvious benefit to the city. As for the claim that the Cavalcantes have been inadequately compensated for the costs of moving, that’s really something they can take up with the Redevelopment Authority. As the court is well aware, the Authority has gone to great lengths to assist West Enders in relocating to new homes. The bottom line is that, without a valid legal claim, we can sympathize with the Cavalcantes but we can’t do anything to help them. They simply have to move. The whole point of eminent domain is that sometimes a few will be called upon to make sacrifices for the common good. ‘Ask not’ and all that.”