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Deegan downed his beer quickly, and slid Ben’s in front of himself. “You don’t need this shit, son. It’s bad for you. Now what do you want?”

“Some information.”

“My name can’t be used. Me and Gallagher were real clear on that. And keep your goddamn camera to yourself. I’m like a Boston version of Deep Throat. You got that?”

Ben said that he did.

Deegan leaned forward, his eyes sharp even though his face was filled with broken blood vessels. “You’re smart to get me early. Past two o’clock, I don’t make much sense to myself.”

“What can you tell me about Jimbo McGuire?”

“One, to keep your goddamn voice to a whisper if you’re gonna talk about that son-of-a-bitch. Two, don’t call him Jimbo to his face. He thinks he’s all grown up.”

“You hear anything about him being behind killing Peter?”

“The first piece of advice was my only freebie,” Deegan said. “Let’s see some cash.”

Ben put a twenty on the table, but kept his hand on it. “Tell me something I don’t know and it’s yours.”

The old man began talking, speaking clearly enough, but so that he couldn’t be heard more than a few feet away. He rattled off history: McGuire’s juvenile record, his protection from Clooney, the rape case in Stanford. Ben held on to the money.

“What’s McGuire up to now?” Ben asked.

“I’m just an old fart cop, I don’t know high finance. But that’s what I hear he’s trying to do.”

“Go straight?”

The old man laughed. “Not in his frigging genes to do that. Came back from Stanford all pumped up with these ideas about himself. I’d guess he wants to mix his talent for hurting people with bigger returns. Real estate, construction, all sorts of stuff.” Deegan shook his head. “That financial stuff always threw me, I was better at dealing with the simple shit, people shooting each other.” Deegan brightened, and looked at the money in Ben’s hand. “One thing I can tell you is to watch your ass if he knows it’s you. He’s a real good hater, comes to it naturally. He decides you’re pissing in his soup, he’ll come right after you.”

“Bad news, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s part of the new generation, all right. He never got picked up for it, but there were rumors around before his uncle hustled him off to college that he went in on one of those home invasion things. Sort of shit that the Jamaicans do, but Irish kids are supposed to know better. Blew into Derrick Coughlin’s home, killed him, beat the wife, killed her, and then was moving on to the kids when one of them saw the sense of telling McGuire where Mommy and Daddy hid a big suitcase that they were never supposed to touch. It was the cash from an armored car heist.’’

“He was never charged?”

“The two guys rumored to have gone in with him, Donny and John Gendron, they never got to testify,” Deegan said. “McGuire didn’t even get arrested, far as I know. Right after, his uncle got him out to California. The story goes that Patrick Clooney used to have a full head of black hair until his nephew became a teenager. It’s strange, I seen the two of them together myself: Clooney is kinda disgusted by some of the things his nephew does, but he still takes care of him.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “Does that include buying off someone on the force?”

“You haven’t got enough money in your bank account for me to talk about that.”

“Do you know Calabro or Brace? Are they clean?”

Deegan hesitated, then said, “I know them and I think you heard me the first time. As for McGuire, all you’ve really got to take away from our little drink here is that if he loses his temper with you, get the hell out of town. Him and his uncle clean up good.” He winked. “Seems Donny and John’s car blew up with them in it.”

Ben slid the twenty over.

CHAPTER 12

“THAT’S ALL YOU’VE GOT?” KURT SAID, LOOKING THROUGH THE prints. “So what?”

Ben laid his palms up. Inwardly, he seethed. “I know you’d like to see a few shots of him wiring up bombs. So would I. But he’s not doing it.”

Kurt rubbed his face, looking sour. He looked over at Sarah, whose face was unreadable. “And what’s this I hear that Ben interviewed a source without you, Sarah?”

“We’ll work it out,” she said.

Ben sighed. “It was a matter of me doing it alone or wasting another day.” He explained about Deegan’s drinking.

Kurt shook his head. “Let’s keep our strengths in front of us here. Ben, you’re the photographer. Sarah’s the reporter. We’ve already had one disaster with Peter trying to take on your work. Don’t repeat his mistake. And Sarah, check out a pager. Now tell us what you learned, Ben.”

He went through it with them, and both of them sat forward when they heard about the Gendron brothers. “Blew up, huh?” Kurt said. “Let’s see if we can get photos of those two and follow this up, Sarah.” Kurt pursed his lips. “What was your read, Ben? Was Deegan suggesting that Boston Police were letting it slide with McGuire?”

“I couldn’t get a straight answer.”

“That’s what we pay Sarah for,” Kurt said.

Ben glanced at her and he saw he had his work cut out there, too.

I don’t need this shit,
he thought. He said, “If we’re done here, I’d just as soon get out and keep following McGuire.”

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” Kurt said. He held his gaze on Ben for a moment, before shifting his attention to Sarah. “I want you to be extremely careful with what you share with the cops. And, Ben, I want you to connect with Lucien. It looks like he might have that interview with Senator Cheever this afternoon. We’re looking pretty thin for this issue and I’ll have to lead with the prison ladies if you’ve got nothing else for me. You think you can contain yourself to taking pictures?”

“I’m getting pretty good at containing myself,” Ben said.

Kurt smiled. “Lucky for me. Then you and Sarah should work out your problems. Find out what McGuire wants, find out what he’s doing, find out what Peter could have dug up that McGuire wanted to hide. Sarah, are you up for interviewing him?”

“We don’t have anything solid on him. It would be a fishing expedition.”

“So go fish.” Kurt said. “Get me a story.” He pressed the intercom and told Lisa he was ready for his next meeting.

“Guess it must have seemed pretty funny when I asked you to lend a hand,” Sarah said, minutes later in the hallway.

Ben followed her into her office. “Get over it. I called you, you didn’t answer. Leave your cell phone on if you want me to involve you every time I have a brainstorm. Where were you anyway?”

“Personal business,” she snapped.

Ben leaned onto her desk and said, “Listen, Sarah. I know that you’re hurting. But for me it’s also personal business that my best friend got killed. And it’s personal business that I can’t see my children until we figure out if I’m on someone’s hit list for God knows what reason. Have you got that?”

“Have you
got
that I don’t give a shit? There wasn’t enough left of him for me to even say good-bye, never mind show Cindy that her daddy was gone. She still doesn’t believe it, and, frankly, neither do I.”

“Then where were you yesterday, if you’re so damn anxious?”

“Church,” she said, shortly. She glanced at Ben and said, “Don’t look at me so carefully, I’m not some sort of zealot. Cindy wanted some way, some formal way of going to talk to her dad. She didn’t want to go to the cemetery, that scared her. So I turned off the phone and took her to church.”

“Did it help?”

Sarah rubbed her eyes. “I think so. She cried, but she seemed calmer later. I felt a little better, too. Afterwards, I interviewed a former teacher who can take care of Cindy in my apartment. Cindy seemed to like her and I needed to get it settled.”

“Did you?”

“I did. So I’m fully in business. Call me with interview ideas. Call me with contacts.” Sarah put her hand out. “Just call me.”

Ben shook her hand. “Got it.”

On the cab ride to the senator’s town house, Ben noticed Lucien was wiping his mouth, but a faint sheen of sweat kept reappearing on his upper lip.

“Nervous?” Ben asked as they started up the stairs.

“Wouldn’t you be?” Lucien looked at the beautiful redbrick building before them, and back at the lush beauty of the Boston Gardens. “This is old Boston, this is one of the most powerful guys in the country, and I’ve got to ask him what he thinks about our pictures of him playing with some chick. I get something out of him, then I’ve got a story that’ll make my career. I screw it up, I get an enemy who can shut me down.”

Lucien stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at Ben, apparently looking for a different perspective. A way to make everything OK.

Ben thought of Father Caldwell, standing at that press conference with the flashes popping repeatedly, freezing the sweat on his brow for posterity. Ben said, “Cheever has more to fear from you than you do from him.”

Lucien raked his fingers through his hair as Ben pushed the doorbell to Cheever’s town house. “Does he know that?”

A receptionist let them in and walked them up through the town house to a small waiting area on the second floor. She offered them coffee and after they declined, she went back to work on her computer. Cheever kept them waiting for about fifteen minutes, and then came out saying, “Gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Come on in.”

The senator chatted briskly with Lucien as he escorted them into his office. “It’s lucky you caught me in town,” he said. “Just keeping
track
of my schedule is a huge task in and of itself.”

Ben automatically checked out the window, seeing where Peter must have parked the van on Beacon Street to have gotten the angle. The senator’s office was dominated by a huge mahogany desk, photos and paintings of Boston scenes from the turn of the century, and a beautiful globe on a floor pedestal. Cheever’s school and military affiliations—Harvard and the Army—were prominent. Photos of his family, two handsome boys and a rather imperious looking wife, flanked him on each side as he sat behind his desk.

Cheever said, “I was devastated to read about Peter Gallagher. He certainly kept me hopping over the years, but I always liked the man personally and respected his professionalism.”

Suddenly, the senator fell silent and Ben looked up to see him staring directly at him. “What’s your name again?”

Ben told him.

The senator stood. “My god, I didn’t recognize you without the beard.” He reached out to shake Ben’s hand. “I didn’t realize
Insider
would be sending over such a famous photographer. I want to thank you personally for what you did to stop that lunatic Johansen. Bad enough that it got as far as it did, at least we conservatives don’t have his success hanging over us.” The senator shook his head. “Believe me, it’s tough enough being a Republican senator for Massachusetts without nuts like Johansen around to pull the public’s impression of the right even further off center.’’

“That’s how you see yourself, Senator?” Lucien began. “Just about center?”

“Little further right than that,” the senator chuckled, and they began a traditional political interview. Ben wandered about the room as they did so, capturing shots of the senator. Cheever was an easy subject. Too easy, actually. Long familiar with having the camera lens pointed at him, Cheever posed constantly. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves; he made his points using his hands for emphasis; he even positioned himself so the photos of him with Ronald Reagan and George Bush were evident, if slightly out of focus.

Ben could see the pictures in his head. Although he knew the senator would have been pleased, the shots were too staged. Everything in place, including the looks and moves of a former athlete blessed with intelligence and drive: black hair going gray, friendly blue eyes that Ben saw he could change at will to convey anger, sadness, indignation, commitment, and resolve. Lots of resolve.

After fifteen minutes of a steady delivery of views and statistics, the senator looked at his watch. “Well, I appreciate you two coming in.”

Lucien took the manila envelope from his briefcase and Ben lined up the shot. “Senator,” Lucien said. “There’s one more thing that we’d like to discuss with you. As you may remember, Peter brought up the rumors about infidelity. Given the Clinton scandal and the weight the character issue played in your own election campaign …”

“I’ll tell you what I told Gallagher,” the senator began, his voice suddenly hard.

But then he stopped.

Lucien pulled out the three photographs and the senator said, “What’s this?” The senator looked through the photos, his face suddenly unreadable.

“This is your evidence?” the senator asked. Ben noticed a slight relaxation of the man’s shoulders. Relief, possibly. Cheever glanced up at Ben. “I would have thought you were above this kind of thing.”

The senator turned his attention back to Lucien and spoke in a slow, patronizing voice. “Yes, I sometimes have meetings up in these offices just as we are now. I sometimes serve wine, just as we are now drinking coffee. And, yes, sometimes the people who come to see me on state or federal business are women—and sometimes those women are young and attractive.”