Barkley watched as they crossed the street and disappeared into the Brompton Arms. Like most things in the Combat Zone, the Brompton would be whatever you wanted it to be. A mouse of a man worked a small desk in the lobby, renting rooms on the first two floors by the half hour. The middle floors were let month to month, mostly to girls and pimps. The top floor was where the photographer Toney had his studio. Barkley got out of his car, hard shoes scratching as he followed the couple up the Brompton’s short run of steps. He thought about going inside but settled for copying down the names on a row of doorbells set into a panel by the front door. Then he checked his watch and walked back to the street.
Next door to the Brompton, someone had shoehorned in a greasy Greek joint called Five Faces. Barkley ordered a Coke from a young woman with a lazy eye. He was the only customer in the place and watched while a smooth-skinned man with thin fingers and a bent nose worked a long knife over a shank of lamb.
“Gyros.”
He grinned and offered a curling piece to Barkley, who took a pass. The counterman shrugged and popped the lamb in his mouth, then set about fixing chunks of broiled meat onto metal skewers. The place smelled like fried onions with more than a hint of decaying rat. Barkley figured they had one or two fat ones caught in a trap somewhere and was glad he’d passed on the food.
He took a booth by the window, sipping his soft drink and nursing a mild hangover while he flipped through a stack of photos. There’d been no word from Tommy. Barkley had called the house, but no one picked up. He’d thought about heading over but didn’t see the point. His partner said he’d turn up an address; Barkley just needed to give him some leash. Besides, there were enough loose ends that needed tying up. He looked out the window as Neil Prescott got out of a cab. The kid from Harvard hustled across the street.
“Thanks for coming down.”
“No problem.” Prescott took a seat across from the detective. He was bundled up in a pearl gray topcoat with a cashmere scarf and a blue Oxford button-down underneath. Barkley didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone who looked so young.
“You want a Coke? Something to eat?”
Prescott shook his head and kept his hands clasped tightly on the table. Barkley let him sit. He’d taken statements from Prescott and his buddy, Jesus Sanchez, on the night Harry Fitzsimmons was murdered. Barkley usually liked to do follow-ups at the station, but he wanted to get another look at the block and Prescott seemed okay with meeting here.
“Bother you being back?”
Prescott shrugged. Why should it bother him?
“Ever been down here before that night?”
“First and last.”
“I bet.” Barkley pulled out a notebook. “Mind if I take notes?”
“Go ahead.”
Barkley turned to a fresh page and wrote down the time and date. “We wanted to meet with Sanchez as well, but I couldn’t get hold of him.”
“Zeus? He lives in Kirkland.”
Barkley wrote down the name. “Is that a dorm?”
“We call them houses, but, yeah, same thing. I stopped in before I came down here, but he wasn’t around.”
“Any idea where he might be?”
Another shrug. “A couple of guys saw him around noon. Said he might have taken off.”
“Taken off?”
“He was pretty shook up. We both were. Thanksgiving break’s coming up, so he might have cut out early.”
“You think he headed home?”
“Zeus is from Hyde Park. You could check. Knowing Zeus, he might have just gotten in his car and drove.”
Barkley made a couple more notes. “Okay.”
“He wouldn’t have left if he thought you still needed him.”
“Sure.”
“Zeus was tight with Harry. A lot closer than me.”
“How you doing with everything?”
“I’m fine. Well, as fine as . . . whatever. You know what, Detective, I’d just like to get this over with.”
One buddy dead. Another, out of pocket. Barkley couldn’t blame him.
“Harry lived with you?”
“I told you guys. He rented out the other bedroom. Couple blocks from campus.”
“Did you know his little brother, Daniel?”
“Saw him once or twice. He was bunking in with Harry. I think he had a sleeping bag or something on the floor.”
“Ever talk to him?”
“Like I said, Harry and I didn’t hang out much. The night in the Zone was Zeus’s idea. Said it was part of playing football at Harvard.”
Barkley had already heard about the football players’ ideas on team building and didn’t really give a shit. “Daniel still living at the apartment?”
“He moved out last week. Harry wasn’t happy about it, but I guess the kid found another place to stay.”
“Any idea where he’s living now?”
Prescott shook his head. Barkley scribbled a little more. “Okay if I send some officers over to look through Harry’s stuff?”
“You won’t find anything.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Harry was a straight shooter. Didn’t drink, smoke, chase women. He only went with us cuz Zeus pushed it.”
“Part of the team-bonding thing?”
“He was big on that stuff. Probably why he took off after Zeus. Harry would have figured it was the right thing to do.”
Barkley flipped his notebook shut. “Mind if we take a walk?”
“I heard on the radio you guys have a suspect?”
“We have someone we need to speak with.”
“How so fast?”
Barkley shrugged. “People down here like to rat each other out. Keeps us in business.”
The kid nodded like he knew, and Barkley let him pretend. “Ready?”
Darkness was dropping over the Combat Zone, the seedy blocks along Washington transformed into a valley of blinking sin. Barkley and Prescott walked together, past hard-core bookstores and strip-bar sleaze, rap booths that smelled like latex and jerk-off peep shows, triple-feature movies with titles like Spiked Heels and Black Tights, The Depraved, and Flesh Gordon. Barkley stopped outside the Pilgrim Theater. The front door creaked open, letting out a waft of boozy music and a thin black man who was a dead ringer for Diana Ross. He gave Barkley a glance before drifting across the street, where he leaned against a building and dug a spiked heel into the wall.
“That a guy?” Prescott said.
“Does it matter? Now, where, exactly, was your car parked?”
“Right about here.”
“You sure?”
“I remember seeing the pizza joint.” Prescott pointed in the general direction of King of Pizza.
“And the woman who grabbed your buddy’s wallet?”
Prescott pointed. “Came from over there.”
“Where exactly?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t get a good look at her?”
“No.”
“But she walked right past you?”
“She must have. Look, there were a lot of people floating by, a lot of scenery, you know?”
“I understand. It would just help if we could find the girl.”
“Zeus said she had blond hair. Came in quick, grabbed the wallet, and ran.”
“Is that how you remember it?”
“All I know is there was a commotion, Zeus yelling and then he was gone. Harry told me to stay with the car and took off after him.”
“I ask cuz usually the girls will stop and talk for a while. It’s only if they see no one in the car is buying that one of them might try for a wallet.”
“All I can tell you is what I saw.”
“Sanchez. He’s a running back?”
“I’m a running back. Zeus is an offensive lineman.”
“Not too fast, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“I was just thinking a football player should be able to run down a working girl. On top of everythi
ng else, she’s probably in heels. Know what I’m saying?”
“Zeus isn’t real quick. And if she was gonna lift a wallet, she probably wasn’t wearing heels, right?”
Barkley winked and shot Prescott with his index finger. “Fucking Harvard education. Come on.”
They walked back down Washington and stopped at the corner of LaGrange, a half block from the alley where Harry Fitzsimmons was killed.
“Sanchez and Harry ran down here?”
“Yeah.”
“And the next time you saw them was when?”
“Not until Zeus came back down the street. Then we heard the yelling.”
Barkley pointed his chin toward the alley. “Mind if we take a peek?”
“Why?”
“I just want to see the layout again. Helps me sometimes.”
“I’d prefer not to. I mean, I will if you really think it’s important . . .”
“Forget it. We’ve got more than enough for now.” Barkley stuck out his hand and the two men shook.
“Can I ask you something?” Prescott said.
“Go ahead.”
“No one ever told us how he died.”
“Harry was stabbed.”
“I know, but . . .”
“You wanna know if he suffered?”
“I guess, yeah.”
Barkley shook his head and lied. “ME says it was quick.”
Prescott nodded but didn’t say anything.
“You need a lift?”
“I’m good.”
“Had your fill of cops, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t blame you. Enjoy the break.”
Barkley watched the Harvard kid walk off. Then he unsnapped the strap on his holster and started down LaGrange. Someone was tucked behind a collection of trash cans pushed up against the side of the Brompton Arms. Whoever it was had been watching and listening to every drop of his conversation with Prescott. Barkley cleared the cans and pivoted, pinning the eavesdropper up against the building.
“Fuck, man, that hurts.”
“It’s supposed to hurt.” Barkley leaned against one of the cans until a ninety-pound Asian kid popped out the other side. He was wearing white painter’s pants, a jean jacket, and high-top red Cons with one of the soles pulled away from the bottom so his sock was peeking through. Barkley waited until he stopped rolling and planted a shoe on his chest.
“You wanna tell me why you’re so interested in police business?”
“Come on, man. Get off me. Police brutality, police brutality.”
The cries were met with a collective yawn from the Zone. Barkley removed his foot and helped the kid up.
“What’s your name?”
“Kenny Soo.” The kid pointed to a wooden box, its contents spilled out across the narrow street. “You need a shine?”
“I need you to tell me why you’re so interested in my conversations.”
“I was here the night of the murder. Saw it all.”
“You saw what?”
Kenny Soo’s eyes danced. He thought he had Barkley hooked and maybe he did.
“I work the corner.” Soo pointed vaguely. “See everyone come and go. Everyone.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“Girls. They come out before the night shows start. Get their heels polished.”
Barkley hadn’t thought about that. Now that he did, it made sense. Soo dropped his eyes to Barkley’s thirty-dollar Florsheims.
“I did them this morning,” Barkley said.
“You need it bad, boss.”
“Next time. Who else do you see out here?”
“Johns, pimps.” Soo tapped his head with his finger. “Crazy people.”
“Bet you see plenty of that.”
“Plenty.” A thin bruise ran along Soo’s jawline, collecting in various shades of purple and yellow under his left eye and filling the white around the iris with bright red blood.
“Who beat you up, Kenny?”
“Asshole pimp. A girl I know gonna give him the drip.”
“Good for you.”
Soo smiled clean and white and Barkley thought he might very well grow up to be a vicious little fuck. Smart, too. Barkley pulled out his photos.
“You wanna help?”
Soo rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.
Barkley chuckled. “Come here.” He found an empty doorway and laid out his pictures. Soo squatted with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms.
“Smoke?” Soo held out his hand, two fingers extended in a twitch. Barkley lit a cigarette and gave it to him. The kid smoked while he studied.
“You recognize anyone?”
Soo looked up, neon glitter reflecting off the sharp angles of his face. “How much?”
Barkley toed one of the photos. “Tell me what you know?”
“I was a block away when the murder happened.” Soo pointed at the picture of Harry Fitzsimmons taken from Harvard’s freshman face book.
“You saw him?”
“I’m on the street all day, boss. All night. Remember lots of faces.”
“And you saw him?”
“He and his pals were in the Naked i.”
“His pals?”
“These two.” Kenny touched photos of Sanchez and Prescott. “Big man on campus, just another dick down here. Ha, ha. They were drunk, I think. Which one’s dead?”
Barkley nudged Harry’s photo. Kenny took a final suck on his cigarette and flicked the butt away, letting smoke drift from both nostrils. “Too bad.” If Neil Prescott was a pup, this kid was fourteen going on forty.
“What else did you see?”
“Seen him.” Soo tapped a mug shot of Walter Price, taken a year and a half ago when he was popped for possession. “He was out all night. Walking up and down. Talking to lots of girls.”
“And you’ve seen him before?”
“Many times. Grade-A asshole. Number ten.” Soo held up ten fingers.
“Where were you when the murder happened?”
“I told you. Block away. Two blocks away. Lot of yelling, police cars. I come running down.”
Barkley noticed Soo’s English went in and out, becoming a little more fractured as he got excited. Or maybe it was just a game he was playing. Barkley bent down and picked up the photo of Price. “So you didn’t actually see this guy near the alley?”
“No.”
“Did you see any of these other guys running down into the alley?”
“Too far. I only got there when the police showed up.”
Barkley pulled out a twenty and slipped it into the hungry curl of Soo’s palm. “Thanks, Kenny.”
“That’s it?”
“What else can you do for me?”
“Eyes and ears, boss. Eyes and ears.”
Barkley pulled out another twenty and wrapped it around his business card. “All right. You see these guys, especially number-ten asshole, you give me a call.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Don’t approach him. Just call.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Okay, Kenny. I gotta get going.”
“What about him?” Soo nodded at the only photo left in Barkley’s makeshift lineup. It was a shot of Daniel Fitzsimmons taken from his first year on Latin School’s track team.
“You know him?”
“He here yesterday. I noticed cuz he was with beautiful Asian girl.” Kenny rolled his eyes. “I think I love her.”
“This kid was here? Where?”
“King of Pizza. Talked with the girl. Then he talked to Mr. Toney.”
“Toney?”
“Photographer. Lives upstairs.” Soo lifted his chin toward the back side of the Brompton.
“Fuck me.”
Soo thought that was funny as shit. Barkley, not so much. He gave Kenny another twenty and watched him leave, the sole of his sneaker flapping against the pavement as he went. After that, LaGrange grew quiet. Barkley ducked into the alley where Harry
Fitzsimmons had died, finding the exact spot and crouching so he was eye level with the bloodstains, dark smears on brick running crooked into each other and down across the pavement. He imagined the football player staring at the breathing holes in his chest, wondering how they got there, then scanning the alley, every inch of it precious while his life leaked away and Death came calling. A footstep cracked on LaGrange, the murmur of voices, then a woman’s laugh that dissolved to a hum.
Barkley walked out to the street, stopping at the Brompton again to lean on Toney’s buzzer. No answer. He found a pay phone bolted to the side of a building on Washington and called Tommy, who didn’t bother with a hello.
“Where are you?”
“Combat Zone. Why?”
“I’m getting us an address. Gotta be tonight or we might not get him at all.”
“I’ll pick you up at your place.”
“What did you find in the Zone?”
“It’ll keep. What time?”
“Swing by around ten.”
Barkley hung up and dropped two more dimes. Cat McShane picked up on the first ring.
“It is alive.”
“Funny. I got your report on the autopsy. Thanks.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“My partner’s got a line on our suspect.”
“And yet . . .”
“I don’t know. Something’s bothering me.”
“Join the crowd. I went over to Boston City today. Talked to a doctor about Daniel Fitzsimmons.”
“I’m listening.”
Cat told him about Daniel’s missing brain scans, her climb to the roof, and Lawrence Rosen’s leap off it.
“You telling me you think Daniel Fitzsimmons was responsible for that?”
“No. Rosen committed suicide.”
“So what’s your point?”
“You asked me to look into Daniel’s case. This is what I found.”
“What if I told you Daniel was sitting in my skull right now, sitting there and watching my every thought?”
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