Rescue

not talking about the dog. Fucking Irene. She has to give her fucking hound a taste of the take-out. I tell her, ‘Irene, the fucking spices are gonna be too much for it,’ but no, she has to give her little ‘lovebug’ some of the curry shit even I could barely eat.“
    “Tragic, Harry. The Greeks should have done a play on it.“
    “Wasn’t Greek.“
    “Sorry?“
    “Wasn’t Greek food. It was fucking Indian.“
    I left Harry contemplating the unfairness of life.

    Driving away from the house, I was feeling pretty good. I tried a pub in one of the northern suburbs for lunch, finding a pay phone to call George-Ann and leave the news with her answering service. Then I bought a Boston Globe from the honor-system box by the phone and brought the paper back to the bar to read while I waited for a turkey club sandwich. The place had Bass ale on tap, so I ordered a pint. Halfway trough both the pint and the first section of the Globe, I stopped cold.
    The story hadn’t made the front page, or even the third one, since no firearms or allegations of gang involvement or racial overtones jumped out at you. There was a grainy photo, though, showing a light-colored van that I knew was actually and its dark-colored lettering that was actually blue, van belonged to the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office, it was parked alongside the Fort Point Channel, which flows into the harbor by South Boston . The miniheadline ofthe story read UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN FOUND IN CHAEL. There weren’t many details: A couple of casual night fishermen casting from a bridge noticed the body floating near some rocks, the face disfigured pretty badly. The kind of story that gets three inches one day and maybe a mention the next, usually to the effect that “police officials have no further leads on the identity of the victim or the cause of death.“ The kind of story you barely even read anymore, Except for one thing.
    In the right foreground of the grainy picture, a bit fuzzy because the photographer was focusing cm the van, you could just see a faded plastic daisy sticking up from an antenna. The story didn’t say anything about a little boy with a birthmark
    When my sandwich came, I ate every bite, but there didn’t seem to be much taste to it.

    Not stopping at my office, I drove directly to South Boston . The Homicide Unit is located in the old Broadway police substation. Our then-mayor reopened some substations a few years back, despite the budget problems, to give the citizens in underserved neighborhoods a greater sense of security. Since all the officers in the Southie one are plainclothes detectives who don’t ride the streets, however, it’s kind of hard to see where the greater security comes into play.
    I walked down the hallway with lockers on either side of me and up to the medium blue door with the dark blue sign that says in white letters HOMICIDE UNIT. I rapped on the door before going in, although I didn’t hear anybody tell W to enter, and I’m ever more convinced I’m the only one who bothers to knock.
    Usually the place is crawling with men in sports jackets and the occasional suit and one woman in a blazer and skirt» typing and yelling and sometimes even laughing in front & the pale blue walls and cork bulletin board. That day the# was only one man sitting in an old, black-padded armchair talking into the receiver of an older black phone. He was * little younger than I am, with a ruddy complexion and thoS 8 puffy, unformed features all newborns and some jaded cops seem to share. His name was Guinness, and I’d run into him on a case a while back. There are twenty-one detectives in Homicide, seven three-officer teams. Of all the cops I’d met in the unit, the only two I couldn’t stand were Guinness and his lieutenant, a guy named Holt.
    Guinness hung up and stared at me. “Your fucking rabbi’s not around.“
    I figured he meant Robert Murphy, a black lieutenant. “How about Bonnie Cross?“
    “She’s out, too. Maybe you didn’t hear, half the unit’s over in Rox’, account of the Zulus and the Ubangis went at it pretty good last night.“
    Roxbury was a predominantly black neighborhood. “Love to hear you say that when Murphy’s here.“
    “Well, he isn’t. What do you want?“
    “Can you tell me who drew the woman in the Fort Point Channel?“
    “The floater by the bridge? I did, as a matter of fact. Thank Christ she was pretty fresh. Nothing worse than a ripe floater.“
    “Can you give me any