“Say no more,” Richie said.
“Yet another aspect of Boston that you don’t miss at all.”
“All of that is canceled out by what I do miss.”
I felt myself blushing. I wished I could travel through the phone. “Jeez,” I said, “you do know how to lay it on thick.”
“How are you, Sunny?” he said. “How has your day been?”
“Well, for starters, I took that Dylan Welch job.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What changed your mind?”
“His mother,” I said. “She showed up at my office this morning, offered me more than triple what Bill did.”
“Holy crap.”
“I know.”
“I realize that a mother’s love is boundless,” he said, “but that’s a hell of a lot to pay to find somebody who’s probably in a hotel room somewhere, eyeball-deep in cocaine and hookers.”
“We call them sex workers, Richie.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, I’m not so sure it’s that simple,” I said. “Most people don’t love Dylan Welch as much as his mother does. It’s very possible he’s hiding from one of them. Or…”
“One of them found him.”
“Yep.”
Richie was quiet for several moments. Anybody else, I would have asked if he was still there. But not Richie. That was just how he was—he never spoke before organizing his thoughts. Traffic moved a few more inches. I gazed at the car infront of me—a minivan with a bumper sticker that saidMy Other Car Is a Broom. Good thing she decided to take the van.
Richie said, “Maybe you shouldn’t be involved in this case.”
I stared at my phone. That wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. “What?” I said. “I’ve been involved in cases like this since you’ve known me.”
“I know.”
“It’s me, Richie. It’s what I love.”
“And you’re great at it,” Richie said. “But there’s a reason why cops retire early.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“True. Your job is more dangerous.”
It was my turn to go quiet.
“I worry about you, Sunny.”
I forced a laugh. “I haven’t managed to get myself killed yet.”
“You almost did,” he said. “Back in July.”
