Dorothy walked up and introduced herself as Detective Breton from Boston Homicide, and the little girl said she was Tiffany Artles. "MD" on her name tag, but she was not using the t.i.tle. Like she was embarra.s.sed. Or patronizing.

All that did was further p.i.s.s Dorothy off. If you're a G.o.dd.a.m.n doctor with a G.o.dd.a.m.n degree, use your G.o.dd.a.m.n t.i.tle. She wasn't G.o.dd.a.m.n threatened.

Stupid people. Though for all she knew, Tiffany Artles's MD was from Hah-vuhd.

It just showed how the city, as liberal as it was, really didn't give a rat's a.s.s about the death of a black boy. If it did, no green-around-the-ears cashmere coat would've been sent.

Look at her, actually shaking as she opened her doctor's bag. Of course, it didn't help that Dorothy was glaring at her. She knew she wasn't being fair, but she didn't give a d.a.m.n about that, either.

"Has the shooting team been down here yet?" Artles asked.

Little, tinkling voice. Smooth, shiny chestnut hair. It took all of Dorothy's will not to mimic her.

"No, I don't think so. Not that anyone would tell me anything."

"Okay." Artles's voice rose even higher. "I just wanted to know if I should move the body or-"

"The paramedics did CPR," Dorothy snapped. "His shirt is open, and those are bruise marks on the chest. They obviously tried to revive him. They must have moved him at that time, because the splatter patterns are not consistent with the position of the body. See here . . . all the blood on the tabletop. Looks to me like he fell forward, and then the EMTs turned him over. I know the photographer has come and gone. So just do what you need to do."

Dr. Tiffany regarded Julius's inert body. Her lip curled. "I'm sorry. I must look like a doofus. I just didn't expect to recognize the victim."

"They didn't tell you who it was?"

"No. Just that there was a shooting in Pharaoh's Genie and there was a fatality." She looked at Dorothy. "I saw him play a week ago. I took my younger sister to the game. What a waste!"

She bent down. "Okay." Talking to herself. "Let's see what we've got."

Dorothy kneeled next to the young woman, who cradled Julius's head, then moved it to the side to scrutinize the gunshots at the temple. "Two graze wounds. They run into one another, but you can see two distinct ellipses. The right one's a bit deeper than the left, but to my eye, it doesn't look like either is the cause of death. There is bleeding, but it's not excessive, not like you'd see in arterial bleeding."

She lifted Julius's limp arm.

"No rigor, obviously. No way there'd be, this soon . . . When did the call come in, Detective?"

"About an hour ago. Maybe a little longer."

"So time of death isn't in question." Artles examined the arm. "There are two bullet wounds in the arm. In and out and not at close range. I'd say judging by the entrance wound, the distance was in the fifty-to-seventy-feet range. To hit him in the head, the shooter must have been good or lucky or both and have had a clear field. No one else was killed, right?"

"No."

"The size of the holes . . . I'd say a thirty-two, something like that." She focused her blue eyes.

"You'd be right. Detective Wilde is taking the ammo down to Ballistics as we speak. We found some sh.e.l.ls down below." Dorothy stood up and pointed. "Right there, at the left-hand corner of the dance floor. So we're talking maybe a forty-five-degree trajectory."

"I'll measure the angle of the pathway between entrance and exit wound, see if you're on target. This shot"-she showed the wound to Dorothy-"this one tore through the muscle, so I don't really have a clean tunnel to work with. But the bottom one was in and out." She lowered his arm. "As far as his shoulder wound, the bullet appears to have entered right under his armpit, went behind the scapula, and . . ." With effort, she lifted up Van Beest's body just enough to peek under him. "Oh . . . it came out here, through the back of the neck. It probably blasted through the carotid. Although there's not a lot of lividity, pooling of the blood due to gravity-"

Tiffany Artles stopped herself. "You know what lividity is."

Finally, Dorothy graced her with a smile. "Go on, honey, you're doing fine."

Tiffany smiled full force. "This is my second day on the job, Detective Breton. I guarantee you that if the powers-that-be had known it was someone semifamous, they would have called a senior ME."

"But who cares if it's just another black boy being shot up?"

"It's not that, Detective. White or black, this was called in as a case where the cause of death was easily determined. There was no need to wake up the boss. Except when it comes to someone famous . . . someone who might make the papers."

She stood up and snapped off her gloves. "I can't say for sure which shot was the fatal one until he's opened up."

"When do you think that'll be?"

"Probably soon because of who he is . . . was. I'd say maybe two to three hours. They'll want to dispose of the autopsy quickly because the papers will want answers." She gave Dorothy her card. "I don't know if I'll be doing the cutting. I suspect not. But you can call me anyway."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Tiffany smiled weakly. "So I'll tell the guys in the wagon to take him to the morgue-unless you need to examine him for forensics."

"Techs and I checked out what we needed. Photographer has the postmortem shots." As Dorothy got to her feet, her kneecaps cracked. "How about we let the poor boy rest in private?"

7.

McCain walked Marcus through the club and out. The air was bitter, burning McCain's throat and lungs with each inhalation. Flashes of light danced through the inky sky, from the blinking strobe bars atop emergency vehicles, the hazy streetlamps, cops' flashlights, the intrusive winks of cameras. McCain hadn't walked more than a few steps before a microphone was shoved in his face.

That Hudson guy-night-shift drone on one of the local stations.

"Derek Hudson, Detective. Can you tell us what's going on inside?"

McCain regretted keeping his shield pinned to his coat. "Not really." He pulled the brim of his cap over his ears and kept a firm hand on Marcus's arm while scanning the area for an empty cruiser.

Just as McCain got past Hudson, a young woman pushed her way to the front, a face McCain didn't recognize. She was covered head to toe in outerwear and had to lower the scarf around her mouth to talk. "Liz Mantell from CNN. We've seen lots of gunshot victims being taken away on stretchers. What led up to the shootings, Detective?"

Her teeth were chattering as she spoke. A minute of exposure and already the bottoms of McCain's feet felt like ice. And this without winds coming off the Back Bay. Even in the dim light, the reporter's nose was bright red. McCain felt sorry for her, shivering in single-digit temperatures. But not that sorry.

"No comment."

She tagged along. "So there definitely was a multiple shooting?"

"Nothing has been confirmed."

"What about members of the basketball team from Boston Ferris being involved?"

"You tell me."

She noticed Marcus. Smiled prettily. "Are you from Boston Ferris?"

"You got it half right," McCain said. "He's from Boston. Excuse me."

Finally spotting an empty car, McCain dragged Marcus over, flashed his gold shield, asked the uniform there if he could borrow the backseat. Liz Mantell dogged his a.s.s, a video cameraman picking up her valiant attempt to get the Big Story.

"Are you on the basketball team?"

McCain didn't let Marcus answer. He opened the back door to the cruiser, lowered the boy's head, and pushed him inside.

"Is he a suspect, Detective?"

McCain didn't answer and slid in next to Marcus.

"A morgue van has just pulled up," Mantell persisted. "How many fatalities were there?"

McCain smiled and shut the door, almost taking off the reporter's fingers. The interior was as dark and icy as a crypt. He stretched over the seat, managed to switch on the ignition. Cold air spilled out of the vents. Within a minute the air turned tepid.

McCain turned to Marcus, who'd buried his face in his suede gloves. Finally, the boy looked up. "I'll tell you what I told Mama. Nothing. 'Cause I didn't see anything."

"You weren't with Julius?"

"No, I wasn't with Julius. He was upstairs being b.u.t.t-wiped by some shoe company conglomerate."

"Isn't that against NCAA rules?"

"Not if he didn't take anything."

"You think he paid for his own drink?"

Marcus frowned. "That is not the bling the board is concerned about."

"But if someone reported him, Marcus, he could get into trouble, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. But who's gonna report him?"

"Someone from the opposition."

"No one from the opposition is going to report Julius for copping a couple of free drinks. You don't get rid of a guy that way. That's a chickens.h.i.t way."

"Killing him is better?"

Marcus rubbed his temples. "Of course not. It's horrible, it's . . . I'm sick to my stomach. I play ball so I don't have to deal with the bangers. I do my job and they leave me alone. They respect my game, man. I worked hard so they can respect my game. I can't believe . . . Mick, I just want to go home. Please let me go home. I need to sleep."

"Just do me a favor. Tell me your version of what went down."

Marcus's sigh was long and weary. "I was sitting near the dance floor. Just hanging, you know. Talking up this girl."

"A Ducaine girl?"

"No, she was a local girl. I think she went to BU. Julius was hanging, too-making play with the ladies. I don't know every girl that was hanging on him. There were lots of them, that much I could tell you. It p.i.s.sed Pappy off. The girl attention wasn't the issue. It was the fact that Julius humiliated Ducaine when he came back after being slammed. He and Pappy got into words."

"Who's Pappy?"

"Pappy is Patrick Delveccio. Ducaine's power forward."

"Was he the one that took Julius down on the court?"

"No, that was Mustafa Duran. He plays off the bench. He's known as the enforcer-for playing rough. Hey, no big deal. That's his job. But what happened last game went way way beyond." beyond."

"What was he doing when Julius and Pappy got into words?"

"Mustafa wasn't at the club. He knew what would happen if he showed his face."

McCain stopped himself from pulling out his notebook. "What would happen?"

"Man, you can't do something like that on court without consequences."

"What kind of consequences?"

Marcus frowned. "C'mon, Micky. You know what it's like. If you don't defend yourself out there, you get slammed. Guys'll try all sorts of s.h.i.t on you 'cause they think they can get away with it."

"So what kind of consequences are we talking about?"

"Not a gun, if that's what you think. I'm talking about on-court payback. You throw out an elbow when the refs aren't looking. And even if they are looking, after a dirty foul like that . . . hey, no one's gonna say anything."

"But we're not talking on court, Marcus. We're talking here. What do you think Julius would have done if Mustafa had showed up?"

"Well, he didn't show up, so the whole thing's conjecture."

"Who started the fight, Marcus?"

"No fight." The kid looked up. "Just a few words."

"What kind of words?"

"Julius was talking trash, okay? And Pappy was talking trash back. But there were lots more of us than there was of them. Things got a little heated. I think there was some pushing, but that's it. Ducaine left. Then Julius took a couple of girls upstairs, and that was the last I saw of him."

"What he do once he got the girls upstairs?"

Marcus looked puzzled. "Are you asking me if he did them at the club? That, I couldn't tell you. As far as I know, they were just arm candy, so he could look good to the corporates."

McCain took out his notebook. "You know the names of the girls?"

Marcus thought a moment. "No, not really."

McCain waited.

"I think I heard someone call one of the girls Spring. They were tall-the girls. One was about my height. I think they might be ballplayers, but not from Boston Ferris. I know all the girls from Boston Ferris."

"Who else went upstairs with Julius?"