bright and trusting. He couldn’t
have been more than six years old.
“Hello,” Stone replied. “I may be in the wrong place. I’m looking for Detective Sanchez.”
“Mom!” the boy shouted. “She’s here,” he said. “I’m Carlos. I have the flu.”
“Carlos, get back in bed!” Sanchez’s voice was unmistakable, though the tone was softer than Stone was used to.
A moment later, Sanchez was standing in front of Stone. She was dressed in chinos and a loose blouse, and he barely recognized
her. The difference wasn’t so much in the way she was dressed, it was in her face. She normally wore her hair pulled back
from the temples, giving her face a severe, angry look accentuated by the scowl she wore as a permanent expression of contempt
for the world. Now her hair was down and her features were relaxed. She resembled less a bitter cop, more an attractive middle-aged
woman.
She recognized Stone, and her expression changed. She morphed before his eyes into the angry woman he knew from their time
together. “What the hell are you doing here, Stone?” she demanded.
“I heard you were sick,” he said. “I brought chicken soup.”
The boy, who had disappeared for a moment, was standing behind Sanchez now. “I don’t like chicken soup,” he said.
“I asked you to get back in bed,” she said to him.
“Aw, Mom,” he replied sullenly. He headed back into the house.
She looked back at Stone. “This is my personal, private space,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”
Stone stood his ground. “We need to talk.”
“He’s adopted.”
Carlos was in the family room, watching television, and Stone was alone with Sanchez in the kitchen. He was sitting at the
table; she was cleaning the breakfast dishes. The question had been unspoken. He was glad she’d answered it without his having
to ask it, though; he wasn’t sure he’d have had the guts. It was clearly a question she had to address fairly often. She was
a single cop in her fifties. A six-year-old calling her
Mom
didn’t fit.
“He’s normally in school, but he woke up this morning with a fever, and the woman who takes him in the afternoon isn’t available
this morning.”
“Seems like a cute kid,” Stone said.
“He was two when he came to this country. Now you’d never know he lived anyplace else. Funny how the world works that way,
isn’t it?” she said. “Time moves on; kids forget the bad.”
“Is he your only child?” Stone asked.
“I had a daughter,” she replied. “She was murdered. So was my husband.”
He had no idea what to say. “That’s why you became a cop.” It was the only thing that came to mind.
She glared at him. “Yeah. That’s why I became a cop. And that ends our discussion of my personal life. You wanna talk work,
fine, but talk quickly. Then I want you out of here. You shouldn’t be here in the first place.”
“Fair enough,” Stone said. “Let’s talk work. Why would the IRA kill a Boston mob boss?”
She sat down across from him at the kitchen table and stared at him warily. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not stupid,” he replied. “I know how to use the Internet.
Padre Pio
. It’s a form of torture used by IRA enforcers. Named after some Spanish monk from the 1960s who had the stigmata—bleeding
from the palms and feet where Jesus was nailed to the cross. IRA enforcers tie their victims’ hands together and shoot clean
through, so it looks like they’ve been nailed to the cross. They say they save it for people who’ve betrayed the cause. So
why was it used on Murphy?”
She tilted her head. “Not bad,” she said grudgingly. “But I gave you that one.”
“Fine, you gave me that one. I thought that was what partners did—they gave shit to each other.”
“Keep your voice down,” she ordered him. “If my son hears you swear, it’ll be the shortest partnership in departmental history.”
“It already has been,” he
have been more than six years old.
“Hello,” Stone replied. “I may be in the wrong place. I’m looking for Detective Sanchez.”
“Mom!” the boy shouted. “She’s here,” he said. “I’m Carlos. I have the flu.”
“Carlos, get back in bed!” Sanchez’s voice was unmistakable, though the tone was softer than Stone was used to.
A moment later, Sanchez was standing in front of Stone. She was dressed in chinos and a loose blouse, and he barely recognized
her. The difference wasn’t so much in the way she was dressed, it was in her face. She normally wore her hair pulled back
from the temples, giving her face a severe, angry look accentuated by the scowl she wore as a permanent expression of contempt
for the world. Now her hair was down and her features were relaxed. She resembled less a bitter cop, more an attractive middle-aged
woman.
She recognized Stone, and her expression changed. She morphed before his eyes into the angry woman he knew from their time
together. “What the hell are you doing here, Stone?” she demanded.
“I heard you were sick,” he said. “I brought chicken soup.”
The boy, who had disappeared for a moment, was standing behind Sanchez now. “I don’t like chicken soup,” he said.
“I asked you to get back in bed,” she said to him.
“Aw, Mom,” he replied sullenly. He headed back into the house.
She looked back at Stone. “This is my personal, private space,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”
Stone stood his ground. “We need to talk.”
“He’s adopted.”
Carlos was in the family room, watching television, and Stone was alone with Sanchez in the kitchen. He was sitting at the
table; she was cleaning the breakfast dishes. The question had been unspoken. He was glad she’d answered it without his having
to ask it, though; he wasn’t sure he’d have had the guts. It was clearly a question she had to address fairly often. She was
a single cop in her fifties. A six-year-old calling her
Mom
didn’t fit.
“He’s normally in school, but he woke up this morning with a fever, and the woman who takes him in the afternoon isn’t available
this morning.”
“Seems like a cute kid,” Stone said.
“He was two when he came to this country. Now you’d never know he lived anyplace else. Funny how the world works that way,
isn’t it?” she said. “Time moves on; kids forget the bad.”
“Is he your only child?” Stone asked.
“I had a daughter,” she replied. “She was murdered. So was my husband.”
He had no idea what to say. “That’s why you became a cop.” It was the only thing that came to mind.
She glared at him. “Yeah. That’s why I became a cop. And that ends our discussion of my personal life. You wanna talk work,
fine, but talk quickly. Then I want you out of here. You shouldn’t be here in the first place.”
“Fair enough,” Stone said. “Let’s talk work. Why would the IRA kill a Boston mob boss?”
She sat down across from him at the kitchen table and stared at him warily. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not stupid,” he replied. “I know how to use the Internet.
Padre Pio
. It’s a form of torture used by IRA enforcers. Named after some Spanish monk from the 1960s who had the stigmata—bleeding
from the palms and feet where Jesus was nailed to the cross. IRA enforcers tie their victims’ hands together and shoot clean
through, so it looks like they’ve been nailed to the cross. They say they save it for people who’ve betrayed the cause. So
why was it used on Murphy?”
She tilted her head. “Not bad,” she said grudgingly. “But I gave you that one.”
“Fine, you gave me that one. I thought that was what partners did—they gave shit to each other.”
“Keep your voice down,” she ordered him. “If my son hears you swear, it’ll be the shortest partnership in departmental history.”
“It already has been,” he
Similar Books
