“People drink this shit in England?”
McNulty finished stirring his tea.
“You had a tea party in Boston, didn’t you?”
Larry took a sip and put his cup on the table.
“They were throwing it into Boston Harbor.” He pushed the cup away. “Should have fuckin’ stayed there.”
The dog stayed on his bed, unable to work out from Larry Unger’s body language and tone of voice whether he was a friend. Yorkie took his cue from McNulty’s response. So far, that was positive. McNulty took a drink and let out a satisfied, ah. Unger wasn’t fooled.
“You can, ah, all you want. Still tastes like shit. Haven’t you got any coffee?”
McNulty leaned back in his chair.
“What’s on your mind, Larry?”
That brought them back to where Larry came in. He repeated himself.
“You got fuckin’ arrested?”
McNulty didn’t move.
“You gonna sack me?”
Larry sighed.
“You’re in America. I’d fire your ass, not sack you.”
McNulty still didn’t move.
“You gonna fire my ass?”
Larry sidestepped the question.
“You saved the dog?”
McNulty waved a hand at Yorkie.
“Lap of luxury he’s living in now.”
Larry looked at the dog.
“What kind of dog is that?”
McNulty told him and braced himself for the obvious.
The producer laughed.
“A Yorkshire Terrier? It gets better.”
McNulty folded his arms. “What’s the problem?”
Larry turned serious for a moment.
“The problem is your breaking into the film lab after I told you to drop it.”
“I went in to save the dog.”
“Save that for the cops. Did you start the fire?”
McNulty shook his head.
“It was set to blow once everyone was out. Rigged to the phone.”
“Did you see anyone?”
Another shake of the head.
“Not after this skanky-looking guy closed up the place and took most of the film with him. Big spools. A lot of footage.”
Larry rested his elbows on the table.
“See any of it?”
McNulty looked at Unger and considered his answer. He remembered F.K.’s comments about hiring the cameras out and wondered how much Larry wasn’t telling him. He decided not to mention the three frames he’d seen before the explosion.
“The rest burned up.”
Larry shrugged.
“Never mind. Probably isn’t connected anyway.”
McNulty let him think that. The producer had other things on his mind.
“Look at it this way. Hero cop saves dog while making a hero cop movie.”
“I’m not a cop.”
Neither of them believed that. They both knew McNulty had never been able to leave being a cop behind. That’s why Larry had hired him. Because he still acted like a cop and could make Alfonse Bayard act like a cop as well. All the other stuff, the security, the police liaison, the traffic control—that was icing on the cake. Larry had employed him because at heart he still wanted to do the right thing. The right thing now had dropped an opportunity in their lap.
“And John Wayne wasn’t a cowboy. Look how that worked out.” He leaned back in his chair and draped one leg over his knee. “Play this right and the publicity goes bigger than industry-wide.”
McNulty pulled a sour face. “Really?”
Larry held his hands out wide to show the size of the headlines.
“Yorkshire Terrier saves Yorkshire Terrier.”
McNulty sat up straight.
“If I even sniff the press labeling me The Yorkshire Terrier I’ll burn your lab down. It’s bad enough, that other Yorkshire cop getting named The Resurrection Man.”
Larry rubbed his hands together.
“He didn’t save a dog.”
“But he was caught on camera.”
Larry stopped rubbing.
“Is there footage of the rescue?”
McNulty slapped the table. Yorkie jumped and hid in the corner.
“I joined your outfit for quiet and anonymity—not to be splashed all over the papers.”
Larry looked embarrassed that he had to bring this up.
“Vince. You joined Titanic Productions because you slapped some kid in Maryland and lost your job.”
The room went quiet. The atmosphere turned frosty. McNulty hadn’t told Larry about that. He hadn’t told the producer about a lot of things. He didn’t speak. There was a time for talking and a time for listening. Right now, it was time to see how much Larry Unger knew. Interview technique. Stay quiet. Create a void. Some people can’t help filling the void. Larry was one of those people.
“What? You think I was going to employ you without checking?”
McNulty didn’t speak.
“Look, Vince. You slapped a pedophile in Yorkshire. Big deal. I’d have slapped the little fucker, too. Fired. You missed the job. I get that, too. Band of brothers and all that. Then this Northern X thing brings you back into the fold. Great. You feel like a cop again. They pull a few strings. Over you come. Savage PD. Maryland. But then you hit someone else. A wife-beating bully, but it’s still assault. Bang! There goes another job. You want to keep a low profile but still feel like a cop. So here you are. Technical adviser on a cop movie. Win-win situation.”
McNulty took a drink of his tea and kept quiet. Against his better judgment Larry had a drink of tea as well. His mouth was dry. He didn’t like confrontations. He glanced at the dog then back at McNulty. He softened his tone.
“You’re among friends here. Titanic Productions is one big happy family.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
“I’ve employed the same crew for more than ten years. Mostly. Any new blood that comes in usually stays. You think that’s because I pay more than anyone else? Shit. You’ve seen your paycheck. No. It’s because they feel valued with me. They feel secure. They’re family.”
McNulty let out a sigh. That’s exactly how he’d felt since working for the production company. It wasn’t a replacement for the boys in blue, but it came close. And family was something he’d never really had. He still didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. Larry saw the look on McNulty’s face and knew he was getting through.
“You don’t have to hide. Nobody’s tracking you down.”
The atmosphere thawed. The warmth in Larry’s tone wooed the dog. Yorkie came over and sat under the table, then curled up on the floor between the two men. Larry rested his hands on the tablecloth.
“We’re family. We help each other.” Then Larry couldn’t keep the self-serving movie producer down any longer.
“And this news story. It’ll be good for the family.”
McNulty snapped out of his reverie.
“You mean good for the movie.”
Larry nodded.
“Same thing.”
McNulty twirled a “whoopee” finger in the air.
“Me being paraded like a dog-rescuer.”
“You are a dog-rescuer. What’s the harm in selling it?”
“Selling being part of your job.”
Larry gave a sad little smile, as if it pained him to say what he was about to say.
“Publicity. Lot of people see it.” He turned sideways in his chair. “Crag View might have destroyed her papers. Made it hard for you to find her.”
He stood and looked down at McNulty.
“But if your sister sees this. Maybe she’ll find you.”
NINETEEN
McNulty took the dog for a walk before breakfast. Not because he was thinking of the Yorkshire Terrier but because he needed to clear his head. He hadn’t slept much the night before, visions of the sister he hadn’t known swimming around his drea
ms. A pale skinny girl he wouldn’t recognize now, even if she hadn’t grown or changed or moved to America. He struggled to remember her face because she hadn’t been his sister back then; she was just another girl at Crag View. Whenever he thought of her it was always in the context of the surroundings. The office. The bench seat. The slap. Take those away and her face was as blank as a mannequin’s. So why would she recognize him?
Cool morning air helped blow the cobwebs away. He crossed Quincy Shore Drive onto Wollaston Beach. It was peaceful away from the road. The tide was out. Half Moon Island and Seal Rock stood out against the bay, fading like ghosts in a thin mist that was already clearing. It was going to be another beautiful day. The dog scampered along the beach, kicking up spouts of water in the shallows. McNulty turned south and the dog overtook him.
Susan McNulty. It wasn’t the name she was using now, or he’d have found her already. She was five years old when adoption uprooted her from the Yorkshire orphanage. She’d be, what? Thirty-five now? Would she remember the name she’d started out with? Had they changed it right away? Was it even the name she’d been registered under at Crag View? McNulty had never known her surname, but surely it would have been mentioned.
The slap. Mr. Cruckshank. The confrontation. If the headmaster had been part of something bigger, maybe he’d changed her name right from the start. McNulty’s breaking his nose had just given him more reason to hide who she really was.
The dog ran across the narrow channel that was Blacks Creek, flowing under the bridge into the sea. McNulty skipped across the shallow stream and managed to keep his feet dry. The beach curled away to the east past a children’s playground and a grassy park. Trees swayed in the offshore breeze. The clapboard houses of Shore Avenue stood out beyond the trees. McNulty headed in that direction.
Traffic had been light passing the motel. It was lighter still on the residential street. A couple of people setting off for work. A car turning in from the coast road. There were no other dog walkers. The picnic area leading up from the beach was empty. A tattered Stars and Stripes fluttered in the breeze.
McNulty followed the tarmacked path and stood beneath the flag. The Stars and Stripes always looked glamorous to him, going all the way back to his John Wayne days, watching the American icon in all those Sunday afternoon movies. The colors were bright and proud and uncorrupted by racist groups and skinheads like the Union Jack. It stood for strength and honor and decency.
The car that had turned off the coast road drove past the park gates on Shore Avenue. There was a dusty pickup parked near the gate. The sun started to bleed through the mist as the day began to warm. Yorkie sat beside him and scratched his ear. The walk had brightened him up. The fresh air had cleared McNulty’s head even if it hadn’t brought any solutions. It was time to head back for breakfast before the day’s filming began. The car stopped farther along the road and turned around. The dog lifted one leg and began to lick its balls.
“Now then scratch-knacker. Time to eat.”
The dog’s ears pricked up and it stopped cleaning itself. McNulty snapped his fingers because he’d seen dog owners do that sort of thing and set off toward the gates. He’d had enough of the beach and was going to walk back along the road. The dog trotted beside him. Without a collar there was no leash but McNulty didn’t need to call out any of those Crufts commands. He didn’t know how to get the dog to heel anyway. He held the gate open and the dog went through.
The car was coming back along the road. Regular speed—neither dawdling nor speeding. The sidewalk was on the other side of the road. McNulty followed his Highway Code and looked both ways before crossing. The car was still a safe distance away and not traveling too fast. He whistled at the dog and broke into a jog. The dog followed.
They were halfway across when the engine revved and the car sped forward. The squeal of tires snapped McNulty’s head around. The car came straight for him, burning rubber. It raced along the road, building up speed.
Thirty feet.
McNulty was caught out in the open.
Twenty feet.
There was no cover ahead, just the dusty pickup near the gate.
Ten feet.
McNulty dived behind the pickup. The dog ran across the road. The car drove straight at the pickup then veered left. It screeched across the road and mounted the curb. The dog yelped. McNulty stood up. Then the car screamed away toward Quincy Shore Drive and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
McNulty was shaking. He had to lean against the pickup to recover. The dust settled but he couldn’t see the terrier. He tried calling his name but his mouth was too dry. He doubted it would know its new name anyway. He scanned the shrubs of the house on the corner. He crossed the road and checked beneath the bushes where it might have landed. There was no blood. That was good. But there was no noise. That was bad. If Yorkie had been injured he would be yelping. If he was frightened he would bark. Silence meant he could do neither.
McNulty stood up straight and let out a heavy sigh. He looked both ways and then went into the garden. Still no sign of the Yorkshire Terrier. When he heard the quiet little bark to his left, he turned and dropped to his knees. The dog ran into his arms and licked his face. McNulty blew out his cheeks—the last thing the dog had been licking was its balls.
TWENTY
They were filming secondary characters at Quincy Medical Center on this day so Alfonse had gone into Boston to do some publicity. That meant that apart from coaching a couple of uniform patrol extras and arranging traffic control on Whitwell Street, McNulty wasn’t needed. He took advantage of the free time by driving up the coast to Marina Bay. He parked behind the Chantey restaurant and walked to “C” Dock. Slip 10 glinted with reflected sunlight, the water rippling shards of light along the hull of The Helen of Troy.
McNulty glanced along the side of the boat then stepped over the stern rail and knocked on the stateroom door. The dog didn’t like the way the boat was moving. He sat on the dock and watched sparkles dancing across the stern. From his low angle he lost sight of McNulty and let out a plaintive little bark.
Helen Kozora opened the door, then peered over the stern.
“I see you’ve brought your friend.”
The sun was hot and high in a powder-blue sky. Helen squinted at the brightness then backed into the relative cool of the main cabin. McNulty made a clicking noise with his tongue and called the dog’s name. It appeared that Yorkie did indeed recognize his name because the dog summoned his courage and scampered onto the boat. Helen watched the terrier circle McNulty’s feet.
“I hope he’s house-trained.”
McNulty adjusted to the sway of the deck. “This isn’t a house. It’s a boat.”
Helen pointed to the door. “It’ll be the last boat he ever sees if he shits on my carpet.”
She turned and picked up the local newspaper from the counter.
“He survived the fire. Can he swim?”
McNulty took the paper from her and straightened the front page. There was a photo of fire engines hosing down Bridgewater Photo Lab and an inset of a smudge-faced dog. The headline was big and black and spread across the page.
MOVIE COP SAVES DOG
“I thought you were just going to ask a few questions.” Helen took the paper from him after he’d read the story. She folded it so the photo showed and pointed at the smoking photo lab. “Not set the place on fire.”
McNulty took a sip of the iced tea she’d given him.
“I didn’t set the place on fire.”
She touched the inset photo.
“You did save the dog though.”
Yorkie wagged his tail. The dog was getting used to people talking about him. McNulty stroked the terrier’s ear and took another drink.
“I’m looking for a good home for him. You want a dog?”
Helen snorted a laugh. McNulty shrugged.
“At least Larry didn’t go with his headline.”
Helen s
at down with her own drink.
“Larry planted the story? Let me guess. Free publicity.”
McNulty shrugged.
“He wanted to run with, Yorkshire Terrier Saves Yorkshire Terrier.”
“Christening you The Yorkshire Terrier?”
“I told him I’d burn him out.”
Helen put the paper down.
“You’re not a Yorkshire Terrier?”
“I’m not a movie cop either.”
Helen leaned back and crossed her legs.
“Ex-Cop Working As Technical Adviser On Cop Movie Saves Dog? That headline’s not going to work. Brief and to the point’s what’s needed. Even if it’s not strictly accurate.”
The dog curled up under the coffee table and went to sleep. McNulty tapped the photo of the smoking building.
“Well how’s this for accurate? Whatever Bridgewater was doing, it was doing more than just processing thirty-five-millimeter film.”
“You didn’t ask me what else they were doing. Just if I knew somewhere that developed thirty-five millimeter.”
That pricked McNulty’s curiosity.
“Go on.”
Helen twirled one hand in the air.
“You got inside. Were they still doing a little cooking in back?”
“Cooking?”
She feigned snorting drugs off the back of her hand.
“Crystal meth. Chemistry. You know. Breaking Bad?”
McNulty remembered the test tubes and Bunsen burners and realized why the chemicals had been so flammable. That accounted for one thing, but it wasn’t the thing he was thinking about.
“The guy who set the fire. He legged it with half a dozen reels of film. Stuff he didn’t want to burn. Stuff he didn’t want me to see.”
Helen slumped in her chair. “Oh. So they’re still doing that as well then.”
McNulty put his drink down. “Doing what?”
Helen took a long deep breath then let it out slowly.
“You remember I said I’d done things I wasn’t proud of?”
Helen Kozora hadn’t been her stage name. It should have been because it was a lot more glamorous than her porn-star name. Desiree Love was as bad as Mark Wahlberg’s Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights. In the end it wasn’t the name that was her calling card. She used to do something really cool with shoelaces and a bottle of Budweiser. No matter how much McNulty begged, she refused to tell him what.
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