Durkin explained, "Yeah, Chuckie got his medal in Vietnam the same day I got mine. We met in the hospital." He looked over the bike, smiling like a proud father. "Sweet machine, huh Bourque?"

Eddie looked to the ground. He kicked a pebble, embarra.s.sed. "Uh, I've never ridden a motorcycle before."

"Never? Not one time?"

"Does renting a motor scooter on the Vineyard count?"

"Not one bit."

"Then never."

Tony shrugged and offered: "It's a f.u.c.kin rat bike, just ride it like you stole it."

"He probably needs some more specific instruction," Durkin said.

Tony frowned, thought it over and explained, "Down here on the right-hand side, you flip out this kick-start pedal, pull out the choke, and stomp here to fire it up-a.s.suming it starts."

"a.s.suming," Durkin agreed.

"Then ease the choke back a bit. This handlebar lever, here on the left, is the clutch. With your left foot, you have your gearshift. First gear is down and the next three are up."

"It's why I can't ride it," Durkin said, wistfully. "Can't shift the gears."

Tony continued, "Your right foot works the rear brake, right hand works the front brake."

Eddie's stomach was tightening. "Should I not use the front brake?" he said. "I don't want to fly over the handlebars."

Tony slapped his own forehead and cried, "That's a negative! This isn't the ten-speed you pedaled to school, boy! Most of your braking power is in the front. An old lump of scar tissue like me could ride all day on just the rear brake, but a virgin like you would depart this life with a mouthful of road salt. But don't forget to use your rear brake, too, and don't lock it up, but if you do lock it up, keep it locked up until you stop. If you let that rear wheel grab traction again in a skid, you'll do a high-sider."

Eddie didn't ask for a definition of high-sider-his brain was swimming with Tony's instructions. It was enough to know that a high-sider probably included the wail of an ambulance and six months of physical therapy.

"If something's in your way," Tony continued, "don't look at it. You'll get target fixation and bore right into the obstacle. Look for your opening instead, and you'll steer right into it. Okay? Any questions?"

The movie in Eddie's head was a full-color loop tape of his battered body turning cartwheels down Route 495 at seventy miles per hour.

"Is this even legal?" Eddie wondered.

Tony shrugged. "The bike's m.u.f.fled enough to not be a cop magnet, and the tires have just enough tread to pa.s.s. It's registered and inspected-though I think the sticker might be stolen. Whatever. Just ride like you're not afraid to be pulled over and you probably won't be."

"Don't I need a special license?"

He gave a backhand wave. "Eh, who knows? I've never had one."

Eddie thought about why he shouldn't take the bike-there were about a hundred reasons. But he couldn't keep taking cabs everywhere.

"I dunno, guys," Eddie said.

Durkin slapped Eddie on the back and sent him staggering two steps. "C'mon Bourque! Who wants to live forever?"

"Well, not forever, necessarily, but I was looking forward to the weekend."

Tony grinned. "I got what you need." He limped to the garage, reached inside the door and came back with a small can.

Durkin smiled. "Industrial degreaser," he explained.

Eddie didn't trust their smirks. "Am I suppose to use it on the bike?"

Tony flipped open a saddlebag and dropped the can inside, into a mess that looked like Eddie's junk drawer at home.

"This is a courtesy for the Department of Public Works," Tony said, "to help them scrub your grease spot off the road the next time this bike lays down in a curve." He slapped Durkin high-five and they both laughed.

Durkin traced the Sign of the Cross again. "Like good ol' Chuckie."

Eddie looked over the fresh scuff marks on the fuel tank, and frowned. "Durkin," he said, "exactly how did good ol' Chuckie die?"

Chapter 14.

The black "shorty" helmet on Eddie's head fit like an upturned mixing bowl, barely covering the tops of his ears. Durkin had also given Eddie a pair of round aviator goggles so he wouldn't lose an eye to a stray pebble or an unlucky b.u.mblebee.

The bike handled better than it looked, though it had taken Eddie a dozen harrowing laps around Tony's garage to understand that steering a motorcycle was a little counter-intuitive. He also had to train his foot to shift gears, and he had almost run over Durkin in verifying Tony's warning about "target fixation." Eddie's hands shook on the handlebars every time he thought about Durkin's friend, the late Chuckie, who had died on this bike-under it, actually.

But as he cruised the city's byways toward Lew Cuhna's newspaper office in South Lowell, Eddie enjoyed the warm wind on his face. He enjoyed the odd looks he got from motorists and pedestrians, who seemed to view him as something between nuisance and criminal. He could even learn to overlook the high-velocity grease splatter the bike's chain spit on his pants.

The Second Voice newspaper was in a former laundromat, with apartments on the second floor, overlooking a busy intersection on the outskirts of a commercial zone of big-box department stores. Not the best place for a news office-it was often a slow crawl through traffic to downtown Lowell, the center of city government and the arts community. Cuhna's building was painted light peach with white trim. The paper's name was stenciled in white letters in giant headline font on a picture window that looked into the office. The fluorescent ceiling lights were on inside, but Eddie didn't see anyone at work as he drove up. The digital clock at the bank across the street said that Eddie was three minutes early.

He threaded The Late Chuckie's rat bike down the alley between Cuhna's building and a wallpaper store, and then killed the engine next to a Dumpster. He left his goggles and helmet on the seat and walked to the front door. He was about to knock when he noticed that Lew Cuhna had taped an index card inside the window. It said: Side door. Wait til n.o.body's looking!

An arrow pointed to the left side of the building.

Cuhna's cloak and dagger personality was getting annoying.

Eddie walked down a concrete wheelchair ramp and around the side. The door there was gla.s.s, formerly the entrance to a diner.

Eddie looked around, made sure n.o.body was looking, grimaced at his own silliness in going along with Cuhna's note, and then went inside.

The old diner's breakfast counter was still in place, though the stools had been removed. There were no booths, either, just skinny L-shaped spots on the Linoleum, where the booths used to be.

The place was noisy. A radio on the counter was broadcasting the local afternoon talk show-guys yakking and laughing. Eddie heard a low whistling from another room, and, from deeper in the office, some clunky machinery.

"Hey Lew?" he yelled.

Nothing.

Eddie looked around again. The breakfast counter had been turned into a distribution center. Bundles of newspapers, bound by yellow plastic bands, were stacked chin-high. Two gray cabinets stood like sentries on either side of the door. Their drawers were open; a few manila folders were on the floor. Lew Cuhna was either messy, or had tried to find something in a hurry. The walls were covered with calendars given out free by local restaurants and insurance agents, cork bulletin boards papered with take-out menus and scribbles torn from notebooks, and a street map of Lowell, with circuitous distribution routes marked in pink, yellow and green highlighter.

Eddie turned off the radio.

He followed the whistling noise around the breakfast counter, through swinging double doors, and into a kitchen. The kitchen probably hadn't changed much since the building had been a restaurant; it was crowded with gleaming stainless steel appliances and countertops.

The whistle was coming from a round teapot on the stove. Eddie took it off the heat and turned off the flame. He noticed that Lew Cuhna had placed two ceramic mugs on the counter, a bag of chai spice tea in each.

Is he making me tea?

The teapot was nearly empty; most of the water had steamed out.

A side door led to a full bathroom, with sink and tub, a paper towel dispenser, no shower curtain and no mirror. The current edition of The Daily Empire was on the floor. The paper had come out in the early afternoon, so somebody had read it in here recently.

Eddie left the kitchen the way he had come in, walked around the counter again, and then into the main newsroom, a former laundromat. Eddie had to agree with what Cuhna had told him-the place had an overpowering smell of lemon detergent.

n.o.body was there.

The room was a clutter of former laundry-folding tables, now piled over in doc.u.ments, files, ancient telephone books, and newsprint. Most of the laundry equipment had been taken out, though there was still an oversized avocado-colored washer pushed against the wall, next to a whirling commercial clothes dryer with a digital countdown timer and a little gla.s.s porthole in the door. It was at work drying what sounded like a load of coconuts.

A row of steeply slanted tables against one wall drew Eddie's attention. They were old paste-up stations-the finest in 1980s-era newspaper technology, still in use at The Second Voice. Under this production system, a special printer spit news copy in paper strips, the width of a newspaper column. A paste-up artist-at this rinky-d.i.n.k operation, probably Lew Cuhna himself-would cut the strips of type with a razor knife to the proper lengths to fit on a newspaper page. Using hot wax as glue, the artist arranged the columns of type on cardboard sheets, leaving s.p.a.ces for the photos to be added later. The completed sheets then went to the camera room. Modern technology had done away with the whole setup; the job could be done more quickly on a computer screen.

A phone rang.

Eddie jumped. He slapped a hand over his heart in relief, feeling a tingle as a squirt of adrenaline upped his blood pressure. He had been invited to come here-there was even a note on the door telling him to come in-but he still felt like an industrial spy who had broken into a compet.i.tor's laboratory.

The ringing phone was on a receptionist's desk, near the front door. He considered whether he should answer. Cuhna obviously had ducked out in a hurry, not even bothering to shut off the stove. Maybe he was calling to explain. Would he have expected Eddie to answer the telephone in a foreign newsroom?

Eddie answered. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Second Voice?" said a woman in a clipped tone.

"Yes it's the right number, but-"

"You people owe my bridge club a terrific apology!"

Eddie said, "Ma'am, I'm not the person you want to speak with."

But the caller didn't want to hear any excuses from Eddie Bourque. She berated him: "We were expecting a photographer for our Pawtucketville tournament yesterday, and n.o.body from your arrogant little paper showed up."

Eddie grabbed a pen. "Uh-huh, uh-huh," he said, taking down the complaint. "I'll pa.s.s this message to the editor when he gets back."

"That's it?" she shrieked. "Our tournament is ruined, and you'll make it up to us by pa.s.sing a note?"

Eddie had fielded a hundred angry calls like this one during his journalism career. He had learned that it's not worth thirty minutes to explain why a paper with a tiny staff and ludicrous deadlines can't cover every neighborhood bridge tournament. But calls such as this allowed Eddie to exercise his G.o.d-given talent for sounding deathly serious whenever he wanted to, an ironic gift for a joker.

"Oh, I'll pa.s.s the note along," Eddie said gravely, "and when Mr. Cuhna gets the message, I expect he'll fire the photographer immediately. This newspaper doesn't tolerate mistakes like that. She's outta here."

A pause, then she repeated: "He'll fire her?"

"Neglect of duty is inexcusable, single mother or not."

"She has children?"

Eddie lowered his voice, like he was sharing gossip: "Ever since her husband pa.s.sed away, she's made one screw up after another. I'm sure that this will be the last one."

Her anger now in perspective, the woman decided she wasn't so unhappy after all, and tried to talk Eddie out of giving the note to Mr. Cuhna. Eddie hedged, let her beg for a minute, then promised to throw away the note, and hung up.

He was pleased with himself for getting rid of a complaint and saving Lew Cuhna a headache, when he realized he didn't know what to do-should he leave? Or put the tea back on the stove and wait?

Waiting didn't make much sense. If Cuhna had ducked out for just a moment, he would have been back already. And if some emergency had come up, he would have called, or at least left a note.

Eddie sat at the receptionist's desk to pen his own note, telling Cuhna to call to reschedule. He added his cell phone number at the bottom, and then looked around for some tape.

Bzzzzzzz!

Eddie jumped again.

The commercial clothes dryer was buzzing as its time had expired. Eddie watched the laundry inside spin over.

The note fluttered from his hand.

The dryer load spun once more and Lew Cuhna's face thumped against the gla.s.s.

Chapter 15.

"This one ain't a suicide, that's for d.a.m.n sure," Detective Orr said dryly. "Wounds around the neck clearly indicate strangulation."

Eddie didn't look at her. He sat on the front steps of The Second Voice and watched traffic, as he had for the past two hours.

He said, "The telephone cord was still around his neck when I found him." He stared at a small stone in the parking lot, relaxed his eyes and let his vision blur. "I unwrapped the cord, tried to get him out of there..."

"There was nothing you could have done, Ed."

"The body was hot to the touch. He felt bruised all over. He was f.u.c.king cooking in that thing."

"He was dead before he went into the dryer, Ed."

"Then why put him in there?"

"Because some people are sick," she snapped. She pulled out her notebook and flipped a few pages. "But more likely, to heat the body to make it impossible to determine when the crime took place. In this case, the medical examiner can't estimate the time of death based on body-heat loss."

"He must have died early this afternoon," Eddie said. "Our appointment was for two. He had water boiling for tea."