Part 81 (2/2)

”Same old,” Bubba said.

Nelson, as they spoke, was in fact taking my place on the rooftop across from Scott Pea.r.s.e's place. He'd just returned from Atlantic City, where he'd fallen in love with a c.o.c.ktail waitress who'd loved him back until he ran out of money. Now he was back in town, willing to do anything for a little cash and a chance to go back to his c.o.c.ktail waitress and run out of money again.

”Does he still fall in love with every woman he sees?” Vanessa asked.

”Pretty much.” Bubba rubbed his chin. ”So we're clear, sister, here's the deal: I'm going to stick to you like crabs.”

”Like crabs,” Vanessa said. ”How appealing.”

”You'll sleep at my place,” Bubba said, ”eat with me, drink with me, and I'll be with you in court. Till the mailman goes down, you're never out of my sight. Get used to it.”

”Can't wait,” Vanessa said, then s.h.i.+fted on the bench. ”Patrick?”

I turned fully in the captain's chair, looked over at her. ”Yeah?”

”You've decided not to guard my body?”

”We have a past relations.h.i.+p. That means I'm compromised emotionally. Makes me the worst choice for the job.”

She looked at the back of Angie's head as Angie turned onto Storrow Drive. ”Compromised,” she said. ”Sure.”

”Scott Pea.r.s.e,” Devin said the next night at Nash's Pub on Dorchester Avenue, ”was born in the Philippines to military parents stationed in Subic Bay. Grew up all over the globe.” He opened his notebook, leafed through it until he found the correct page. ”West Germany, Saudi Arabia, North Korea, Cuba, Alaska, Georgia, and finally, Kansas.”

”Kansas?” Angie said. ”Not Missouri.”

”Kansas,” Devin repeated.

Devin's partner, Oscar Lee, said, ”Surrender, Dorothy. Surrender.”

Angie narrowed her eyes at him, shook her head.

Oscar shrugged, picked his dead cigar out of the ashtray and relit it.

”Father was a colonel,” Devin said. ”Colonel Ryan Pea.r.s.e of Army Intelligence, designation cla.s.sified.” He looked at Oscar. ”But we got friends.”

Oscar looked at me and jerked his cigar back at his partner. ”Notice White Boy always says 'we' when he talks about me and my sources?”

”It's a race thing,” Devin a.s.sured us.

Oscar tapped some ash off his cigar. ”Colonel Pea.r.s.e was Psych Ops.”

”Which?” Angie said.

”Psychological Operations,” Oscar said. ”Kind of guy gets paid to think up new ways to torture the enemy, spread disinformation, generally f.u.c.k with your head.”

”Was Scott his only son?”

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