others. It would have meant nothing if it hadn’t been for the break, the piece of news that made Flynn feel optimistic. All week he and his team had been talking to Roussel’s buddies: four detectives knocking on doors and nobody could come up with a reason why Roussel had got himself iced. He was a good guy, worked hard, and his girlfriend loved him. No drugs, no debts, no bad habits. Buddy Roussel was an upstanding young man and now he was dead. It was a shame, and two hundred people had attended his funeral on Friday.
But this morning Leo Flynn had had a piece of good news. The state troopers in Revere had found themselves a two-bit hood who’d gotten killed the same way—a silver nail up through the occipital bone. They’d almost blown it because at first they thought the guy, Sal Procopio, was a floater, since he’d been dragged from the water at Revere Beach early Tuesday morning by a good citizen who had been making out with his girlfriend and happened to see Sal bobbing around in the surf. Sal had been tagged as a floater and stayed in the morgue all week because there was trouble finding his next of kin: parents dead, brothers and sisters spread out across the country.
Then on Friday the medical examiner in Boston had been using Sal to show his students what to look for in drowning victims and, lo and behold, it seemed Sal Procopio hadn’t drowned after all. Further exploration turned up the mess in his brain—the cone-shaped slice an ice pick can make. They even found the hole at the base of the skull, nearly swollen shut by Sal’s time in the water. By then the troopers were left with egg on their face, which was why they had gotten more active with the Revere cops than usual, tracking down Procopio’s chums and bar pals. And this had led to the second detail that caught Flynn’s attention and had him driving up to Revere. Procopio had been spending time with a guy named Frank—last name unknown—a French Canadian from Manchester who’d disappeared. Leastways, nobody could find him. But for Flynn this wasn’t so terrible, because where there were two dead guys killed the same way, they’d probably find a third and maybe a fourth and already he’d had the M.O. sent throughout the East.
In the meantime, Leo Flynn wanted to talk to Procopio’s pals. He wanted to find out what Frank looked like. And he even looked forward to walking along the beach to see where Sal had gotten himself iced. It was a sunny day and Flynn thought he would buy himself a cigar as a way to cut down smoking. He’d walk along the sand and think of the times he’d come to Revere as a kid with his parents and big sister. The salt air would be good for his cold.
—
The girl sat on the chrome counter, kicking the heels of her bare feet against the wooden door of the cabinet beneath her, making an iambic drumlike sound that echoed against the kitchen’s metal surfaces. She was watching Frank LeBrun pummel a heap of bread dough about the size of a beer case, hitting it hard, then picking it up, spinning it around, and flinging it down on the countertop. He wore a white shirt, white apron, and a white cap. Afternoon light slanted through the kitchen windows from the southwest, a Technicolor brilliance from the vast lapis lazuli bowl that seemed to curve over the school. The light reflected from the hanging pots and pans, the aluminum doors of the three large refrigerators, and the chrome on the stoves so the whole kitchen flickered and gleamed. It was Wednesday of Jessica’s second week, and while she was getting used to Bishop’s Hill, she didn’t like it any better.
“I don’t see why you can’t call me Misty,” the girl said. Her peroxided hair was in two pigtails and her figure was hidden by an oversized University of New Hampshire sweatshirt.
The man laughed, keeping his back to her. “It’s not your name.”
“Maybe not legally, but it’s still mine. It’s the name of my soul.”
“That’s pretty
But this morning Leo Flynn had had a piece of good news. The state troopers in Revere had found themselves a two-bit hood who’d gotten killed the same way—a silver nail up through the occipital bone. They’d almost blown it because at first they thought the guy, Sal Procopio, was a floater, since he’d been dragged from the water at Revere Beach early Tuesday morning by a good citizen who had been making out with his girlfriend and happened to see Sal bobbing around in the surf. Sal had been tagged as a floater and stayed in the morgue all week because there was trouble finding his next of kin: parents dead, brothers and sisters spread out across the country.
Then on Friday the medical examiner in Boston had been using Sal to show his students what to look for in drowning victims and, lo and behold, it seemed Sal Procopio hadn’t drowned after all. Further exploration turned up the mess in his brain—the cone-shaped slice an ice pick can make. They even found the hole at the base of the skull, nearly swollen shut by Sal’s time in the water. By then the troopers were left with egg on their face, which was why they had gotten more active with the Revere cops than usual, tracking down Procopio’s chums and bar pals. And this had led to the second detail that caught Flynn’s attention and had him driving up to Revere. Procopio had been spending time with a guy named Frank—last name unknown—a French Canadian from Manchester who’d disappeared. Leastways, nobody could find him. But for Flynn this wasn’t so terrible, because where there were two dead guys killed the same way, they’d probably find a third and maybe a fourth and already he’d had the M.O. sent throughout the East.
In the meantime, Leo Flynn wanted to talk to Procopio’s pals. He wanted to find out what Frank looked like. And he even looked forward to walking along the beach to see where Sal had gotten himself iced. It was a sunny day and Flynn thought he would buy himself a cigar as a way to cut down smoking. He’d walk along the sand and think of the times he’d come to Revere as a kid with his parents and big sister. The salt air would be good for his cold.
—
The girl sat on the chrome counter, kicking the heels of her bare feet against the wooden door of the cabinet beneath her, making an iambic drumlike sound that echoed against the kitchen’s metal surfaces. She was watching Frank LeBrun pummel a heap of bread dough about the size of a beer case, hitting it hard, then picking it up, spinning it around, and flinging it down on the countertop. He wore a white shirt, white apron, and a white cap. Afternoon light slanted through the kitchen windows from the southwest, a Technicolor brilliance from the vast lapis lazuli bowl that seemed to curve over the school. The light reflected from the hanging pots and pans, the aluminum doors of the three large refrigerators, and the chrome on the stoves so the whole kitchen flickered and gleamed. It was Wednesday of Jessica’s second week, and while she was getting used to Bishop’s Hill, she didn’t like it any better.
“I don’t see why you can’t call me Misty,” the girl said. Her peroxided hair was in two pigtails and her figure was hidden by an oversized University of New Hampshire sweatshirt.
The man laughed, keeping his back to her. “It’s not your name.”
“Maybe not legally, but it’s still mine. It’s the name of my soul.”
“That’s pretty
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