Blunt Darts

architecture is three- and four-story attached brick town-houses, many with beautiful bowfront windows. The population is a mixture of upper middle class, young professionals, gays, blacks, Greeks, Cubans, and a dozen other racial or ethnic minorities. The main condominium developers moved from Back Bay and Beacon Hill to the waterfront, somewhat leap-frogging the South End because of its streetside drug trade and derelicts that are somehow never brought under control. Accordingly, each block is torn between gentrification and degeneration.
    The newspaper offices were over a Greek restaurant in the middle of one block. I found a parking space and trudged sweatily up the stairs.
    There was no air-conditioning, but by the bustle of activity in the one large cavern you’d never guess that the staff was troubled by the heat. About ten men and two women were telephoning, typing (old Standards, most not even electric), editing, or jabbering crossdesk or cross-room.
    A man about twenty-five came up to me. “Can I help you?” he said without expression.
    I decided to try a smile. “Mo Katzen at the Herald said I might find Thomas Doucette here.”
    He smiled back. “I’ll get him for you.” Apparently trading on the news fraternity does open doors.
    I watched him walk to the back of the newsroom. He tapped a thirtyish, slim man with short-cropped blond hair who was bent over a spread of papers. My emissary pointed me out, and the blond man nodded and came over, hand extended.
    I’m Thom Doucette. T-H-O-M if you’re from the Herald, too.”
    I wasn’t sure if Doucette’s remark was an inside Joke or an acknowledgment of the staff spelling capacity of which Mo had complained. I laughed politely and shook hands.
    “My name is John Cuddy. Mo thought you might be able to help me with a story I’m following up.”
    “Happy to if I can. Mo sat at my table at the last Boston Press luncheon.” Doucette gave a quick frown, was one of two who would.”
    I nodded. “It’s kind of confidential.” I glanced quickly around the room. “Is there some place private we could talk?”
    Doucette regarded me for a moment, then said, “Let me make a call first.” He turned and moved to a vacant phone. His call was quickly concluded and he came back smiling. “All set. There’s a park two blocks from here. It’s not private, but it’ll be a hell of a lot quieter and probably cooler than this place.” He moved past me toward the door.
    “That’s probably the least amount of time Mo’s ever been on the phone in his life. What’s your secret?”
    Doucette turned and gave me a sly smile. “Mo did say you were a pretty good detective.”
    The “park” was in a traffic triangle perhaps fifty feet on a side. There were nine newly planted trees and four newly painted benches. One other bench was occupied by two men, one of whom smiled at me while the other frowned at him.
    Doucette and I took the farthest bench. There was very little traffic, and a robin played king of the hill to three sparrows in “our” tree. We had bought lemonades at a corner grocery and had just exhausted the subject of Mo Katzen as we settled onto our bench.
    “So,” said Doucette as he downed the last of his drink, “what’s the story you’re following?”
    “The death of Diane Kinnington. I’m investigating the disappearance of her son, Stephen, and...”
    I stopped because Doucette’s face had turned the color of dry putty, and I was afraid he was about to blow his lemonade all over me.
    “Shit,” he said, “you’re the guy who was at my parents’ house.”
    “That’s right. Your mother seemed pretty upset.”
    “She said it was a man and a woman. But she said they were from the school department.”
    “No one misrepresented anything,” I said quickly. “The woman I was with is a schoolteacher. Stephen was one of her students this year. I’m afraid your mother never let me introduce myself.”
    Doucette gave a short laugh, and some of his color began to return. “That’s like Mom. Always protective. Even to the point of getting the facts wrong.”
    I sat back on the bench. “What are the facts, Mr. Doucette?”
    “Thom, please.”
    “Thom.”
    He stared at the ground and licked his lips. “Did the judge hire you?”
    Easily answered, but I decided a fuller explanation might advance me. “No. Confidentially, Stephen’s grandmother, through that schoolteacher, hired me. So far as I can tell, the judge is hindering,