I shrugged. “Knowing Oscar, it was probably profane.”
Broussard nodded. “He said you two were major fuckups in most aspects of your lives.”
“Sounds like Oscar,” Angie said.
“But he also said once you both got it into your heads that you were going to close a case, not even God himself could call you off.”
“That Oscar,” I said, “he’s a peach.”
“So now you’re on the same case we are.” Poole folded his napkin delicately and placed it on top of his plate.
“That bother you?” Angie said.
Poole looked at Broussard. Broussard shrugged.
“It doesn’t bother us in principle,” Poole said.
“But,” Broussard said, “there should be some ground rules.”
“Such as?”
“Such as…” Poole removed a pack of cigarettes. He pulled off the cellophane slowly, then removed the tinfoil and pulled out an unfiltered Camel. He sniffed it, inhaling the tobacco scent deep into his nostrils as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and ground the unlit cigarette into the ashtray until it snapped in half. He placed the pack back in his pocket.
Broussard smiled at us, his left eyebrow cocked.
Poole noticed us staring at him. “I beg your pardon. I quit.”
“When?” Angie said.
“Two years ago. But I still need the rituals.” He smiled. “Rituals are important.”
Angie reached into her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Oh, God, would you?” Poole said.
He watched Angie light her cigarette; then his head shifted slightly and his eyes cleared and found mine, seemed capable of gaining entrance to the core of my brain or my soul with a blink.
“Ground rules,” he said. “We can’t have any press leaks. You’re friends with Richie Colgan of the Trib.”
I nodded.
“Colgan’s no friend of the police,” Broussard said.
Angie said, “It’s not his job to be a friend. It’s his job to be a reporter.”
“And I have no argument with that,” Poole said. “But I can’t have anyone in the press knowing anything we don’t want him to regarding this investigation. Agreed?”
I looked at Angie. She studied Poole through her cigarette smoke. Eventually, she nodded. I said, “Agreed.”
“Magic!” Poole said with a Scottish accent.
“Where did you get this guy?” Angie asked Broussard.
“They pay me an extra hundred a week to work with him. Hazardous duty pay.”
Poole leaned into the current of Angie’s cigarette smoke, sniffed it. “Second,” he said. “You two are unorthodox. That’s fine. But we can’t have you associated with this case and find out you’re exposing firearms and threatening information out of people, à la Mr. Big Dave Strand.”
Angie said, “Big Dave Strand was about to rape me, Sergeant Raftopoulos.”
“I understand,” Poole said.
“No, you don’t,” Angie said. “You have no idea.”
Poole nodded. “I apologize. However, you assure us that what happened to Big Dave this afternoon was an aberration? One that won’t be repeated?”
“We do,” Angie said.
“Well, I’ll take you at your word. How do you feel about our terms so far?”
“If we’re going to agree not to leak to the press, which, believe me, will strain our relationship with Richie Colgan, then you have to keep us in the loop. If we think you’re treating us like you treat the press, Colgan gets a phone call.”
Broussard nodded. “I don’t see a problem with that. Poole?”
Poole shrugged, his eyes on me.
Angie said, “I find it hard to believe a four-year-old could vanish so completely on a warm night without anyone seeing her.”
Broussard turned his wedding ring in half revolutions around his finger. “So do I.”
“So what have you got?” Angie said. “Three days, you must have something we didn’t read about in the papers.”
“We have twelve confessions,” Broussard said, “ranging from ‘I took the girl and ate her’ to ‘I took the girl and sold her to the Moonies,’ who apparently pay top dollar.” He gave us a rueful smile. “None of the twelve confessions check out. We got psychics who say she’s in Connecticut; she’s in California; no, she’s still in the state but in a wooded region. We’ve interrogated Lionel and Beatrice McCready, and their alibis are airtight. We’ve checked the sewers. We’ve interviewed every neighbor on that street inside their houses, not just to see what they might have heard or saw that night but to check their homes casually for any evidence of the girl. We now know which neighbor does coke, which has a drinking problem, which beats his wife, and which beats her husband, but we haven’t found anything to tie any of them to Amanda McCready’s disappearance.”
“Zero,” I said. “You really have nothing.”
Broussard turned his head slowly, looked at Poole.
After about a minute of staring across the table at us, his tongue rolling around and pushing against his lower lip, Poole reached into the battered attaché case on the seat beside him and removed a few glossy photographs. He handed the first one across the table to us.
It was a black-and-white close-up of a man in his late fifties with a face that looked as if the skin had been pulled back hard against the bone, bunched up, and clipped by a metal clamp at the back of his skull. His pale eyes bulged from their sockets, and his tiny mouth all but disappeared under the shadow of his curved talon of a nose. His sunken cheeks were so puckered, he could have been sucking on a lemon. Ten or twelve strands of silver hair were finger-combed across the exposed flesh at the top of his pointy head.
“Ever seen him?” Broussard asked.
We shook our heads.
“Name’s Leon Trett. Convicted child molester. He’s taken three falls. The first got him sentenced to a psych ward, the last two to the pen. He finished his last bit about two and a half years ago, walked out of Bridgewater, and disappeared.”
Poole handed us a second photo, this one a full-length color shot of a gigantic woman with the shoulders of a bank vault and the wide girth and shaggy brown mane of a Saint Bernard standing upright.
“Good God,” Angie said.
“Roberta Trett,” Poole said. “The lovely missus of the aforementioned Leon. That picture was taken ten years ago, so she could have changed some, but I doubt she’s shrunk. Roberta has a renowned green thumb. She usually supports herself and her dear heart, Leon, as a florist. Two and a half years ago, she quit her job and moved out of her apartment in Roslindale, and no one has seen either of them since.”
“But…” Angie said.
Poole handed the third and final photograph across the table. It was a mug shot of a small toffee-skinned man with a lazy right eye and scrunched, confused features. He peered into the lens as if he were looking for it in a dark room, his face a knot of helpless anger and agitated bewilderment.
“Corwin Earle,” Poole said. “Also a convicted pedophile. Released one week ago from Bridgewater. Whereabouts unknown.”
“But he’s connected to the Tretts,” I said.
Broussard nodded. “Bunked with Leon in Bridgewater. After Leon rotated back to the world, Corwin Earle’s roommate was a Dorchester mugger named Bobby Minton, who in between stomping the shit out of Corwin for being a baby-raper was privy to the retard’s musings. Corwin, according to Bobby Minton, had a favorite fantasy: When he was released from prison, he was going to look up his old bunkmate Leon and his wonderful wife, Roberta, and they were going to live together as one big happy family. But Corwin wasn’t going to show up on the door without a gift. Bad form, I guess. And, according to Bobby Minton, the gift wasn’t going to be a bottle of Cutty for Leon and a dozen roses for Roberta. It was going to be a kid. Young, Bobby told us. Corwin and Leon like ’ em young. No older than nine.”
“This Bobby Minton call you?” Angie said.
Poole nodded. “As soon as he heard about Amanda McCready’s disappearance. Mr. Minton, it seems, had consistently taunted Corwin Earle with vivid stories about what the good people of Dorchester do to baby-rapers. How Corwin wouldn’t be able to walk ten yards down Dorchester Avenue without getting his penis chopped off and stuffed in his mouth. Mr. Minton thinks Corwin Earle specifically chose Dorchester in which to pick up his homecoming present for the Tretts because he wanted to spit in Mr. Minton’s face.”