society? Maybe something about ‘respect for authority’ or ‘a citizen’s duty to obey the law’?”
“Yeah,” Misco said. “Now that you mention it, there’s a couple of things I’d like to clear up.” He looked at Nick. “That big yellow tape you found on the door? That’s not for decoration— that means it’s a crime scene and you’re not supposed to go in.
If you look real close, you’ll find it actually says that right on the tape: police line—do not cross. But maybe you couldn’t see that because it was so dark and all.”
“Look, Detective—”
“No, you look. I told you I didn’t want your help and you wouldn’t listen; I told you not to come back, but you did it anyway. Do you always have this much trouble following instructions?”
Donovan let out a snort.
“Shut up,” Nick whispered.
“When you crossed that crime scene tape you violated the law, and that’s why I had you arrested. And I could press charges against you if I wanted to, but I’m not going to—you know why?”
“Because you don’t know how?”
“Because of this man here,” Misco said, nodding at Donovan. “Agent Donovan vouched for you and he told me about some of your . . . quirks . He tells me you’re a professional and that, believe it or not, you actually know what you’re doing. Personally, I don’t see it—but I’m taking his word for it, and I’m dropping the charges against you out of respect for him.”
“You respect somebody besides yourself?” Nick said.
“Shocker.”
“As a matter of fact I do, Polchak. I respect the FBI, and I respect fellow law enforcement professionals like your friend here. What I don’t respect is a guy who pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong—even after he’s been told not to.”
“Are we done here?” Nick said. “Because I really need to go somewhere and have a good cry.”
“Get out of here,” Misco said. “It was a pleasure meeting you , Mr. Donovan.”
When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Donovan said, “Well, Nick, I just hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“You make me sick,” Nick grumbled. “ ‘Fellow law enforcement professionals’—I’m surprised the two of you didn’t go out for a couple’s massage.”
“You’re just jealous,” Donovan said. “Hey, I don’t see your car. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Yes,” Nick said. “As a matter of fact you can.”
***
“You gotta be kidding,” Donovan said. “Are you trying to get me arrested too?”
They sat parked across the street from Pete Boudreau’s house in Upper Roxborough; the yellow crime scene tape barring the front door was clearly visible from the street.
“I’m not going inside the house,” Nick said. “I’m just picking something up.”
“What?”
Without bothering to reply, Nick exited the car and crossed the street. He walked around to the left side of the house and surprised an older woman trimming her shrubs with an old pair of wood-handled garden shears. Nick held up one hand and said reassuringly, “Don’t mind me—just a pervert passing through.” He walked along Pete’s hedge to the living room window, then squeezed between the bushes and retrieved the manila file folder he had dropped there the night before.
As he passed the old woman again she squinted at him suspiciously. “Does that belong to you?” she asked.
“It does now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law—and I always obey the law.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a list of all the people in the neighborhood who need to mind their own business. Have a nice day.”
Nick climbed back into Donovan’s car and set the folder on his lap. Donovan nodded at the folder. “What’s that?”
“That’s the reason Pete Boudreau is dead,” Nick said. “I left my car about three blocks from here—let’s swing by and pick it up on the way.”
“On the way to what?”
“I’m hungry,” he said. “You’re buying me breakfast.”
9
B ill—it’s
“Yeah,” Misco said. “Now that you mention it, there’s a couple of things I’d like to clear up.” He looked at Nick. “That big yellow tape you found on the door? That’s not for decoration— that means it’s a crime scene and you’re not supposed to go in.
If you look real close, you’ll find it actually says that right on the tape: police line—do not cross. But maybe you couldn’t see that because it was so dark and all.”
“Look, Detective—”
“No, you look. I told you I didn’t want your help and you wouldn’t listen; I told you not to come back, but you did it anyway. Do you always have this much trouble following instructions?”
Donovan let out a snort.
“Shut up,” Nick whispered.
“When you crossed that crime scene tape you violated the law, and that’s why I had you arrested. And I could press charges against you if I wanted to, but I’m not going to—you know why?”
“Because you don’t know how?”
“Because of this man here,” Misco said, nodding at Donovan. “Agent Donovan vouched for you and he told me about some of your . . . quirks . He tells me you’re a professional and that, believe it or not, you actually know what you’re doing. Personally, I don’t see it—but I’m taking his word for it, and I’m dropping the charges against you out of respect for him.”
“You respect somebody besides yourself?” Nick said.
“Shocker.”
“As a matter of fact I do, Polchak. I respect the FBI, and I respect fellow law enforcement professionals like your friend here. What I don’t respect is a guy who pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong—even after he’s been told not to.”
“Are we done here?” Nick said. “Because I really need to go somewhere and have a good cry.”
“Get out of here,” Misco said. “It was a pleasure meeting you , Mr. Donovan.”
When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Donovan said, “Well, Nick, I just hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“You make me sick,” Nick grumbled. “ ‘Fellow law enforcement professionals’—I’m surprised the two of you didn’t go out for a couple’s massage.”
“You’re just jealous,” Donovan said. “Hey, I don’t see your car. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Yes,” Nick said. “As a matter of fact you can.”
***
“You gotta be kidding,” Donovan said. “Are you trying to get me arrested too?”
They sat parked across the street from Pete Boudreau’s house in Upper Roxborough; the yellow crime scene tape barring the front door was clearly visible from the street.
“I’m not going inside the house,” Nick said. “I’m just picking something up.”
“What?”
Without bothering to reply, Nick exited the car and crossed the street. He walked around to the left side of the house and surprised an older woman trimming her shrubs with an old pair of wood-handled garden shears. Nick held up one hand and said reassuringly, “Don’t mind me—just a pervert passing through.” He walked along Pete’s hedge to the living room window, then squeezed between the bushes and retrieved the manila file folder he had dropped there the night before.
As he passed the old woman again she squinted at him suspiciously. “Does that belong to you?” she asked.
“It does now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law—and I always obey the law.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a list of all the people in the neighborhood who need to mind their own business. Have a nice day.”
Nick climbed back into Donovan’s car and set the folder on his lap. Donovan nodded at the folder. “What’s that?”
“That’s the reason Pete Boudreau is dead,” Nick said. “I left my car about three blocks from here—let’s swing by and pick it up on the way.”
“On the way to what?”
“I’m hungry,” he said. “You’re buying me breakfast.”
9
B ill—it’s
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