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  ‘But how is that possible?’

  ‘We engrave each one individually, Mr Rigotti. We name them.’

  ‘You give your guns names?’ said Rigotti, incredulous.

  ‘Yes, sir. You said the rifle in question was engraved with the lettering BH. I believe you said the letters were on the lower left-hand corner of the stock.’

  ‘I thought that was part of the make and model number.’

  ‘No, sir,’ contradicted Blackmore. ‘The BH refers to its name – “Ben Hur”. I remember Ben personally – the Claro walnut stock, the rosewood forend tip and pistol grip cap with maplewood spacers and diamond inlay. Beautiful weapon, sir, one of our best.’

  Jesus, thought Rigotti, trying to dismiss the ridiculousness of the whole concept of naming a Goddamned gun to concentrate on the task at hand. If Blackmore is right, then I have just stumbled onto something bigger than the rifle’s namesake.

  ‘Hold up, Mr Blackmore. Forgive me for my ignorance but if this weapon was purchased in Nevada, wouldn’t the state have a record of . . .’

  ‘Our laws are a lot different to yours, Mr Rigotti,’ interrupted Blackmore. ‘Clark County – minus Boulder City I might add – is the only county which requires registration of a gun and that law applies to handguns only. All other counties have no registration of any guns whatsoever.’

  Which was a whole other story in itself, thought Rigotti, before waiting for Blackmore to continue.

  ‘A person must hold a Nevada hunting licence to hunt game animals in this state but there are no laws about carrying a gun over the border – and if Ben Hur is in Massachusetts, sir, then I would suggest he was most likely stolen from his original owner and driven into your fine eastern enclave unnoticed.

  ‘Of course, I know you folks like to slap a law on anything more threatening than a water pistol,’ the opinionated Blackmore continued, referring to the fact that Massachusetts had some of the most stringent gun laws in the nation. ‘But any non-resident can transport rifles and shotguns into or through Massachusetts if the guns are unloaded, cased and locked in the trunk of a vehicle. And they can physically possess an operable rifle or shotgun while hunting with a Massachusetts licence.’

  Rigotti would check this later – but memory and intuition told him Blackmore was more than likely right, and if that was the case then . . .

  ‘Do you know the identity of the original owner, Mr Blackmore?’

  ‘Well of course I do, sir. Haven’t you been listening? We are an extremely efficient operation, Mr Rigotti – a family business that likes to get to know our customers so that we might service their needs with care and proficiency.

  ‘In fact, the purchaser in question is an old client, sir. We may not see him as often as we would like, but I know he can still split a hair with a pistol from a good one hundred feet away, and shoot a Goddamned mountain lion smack between the eyes without . . .’

  Lovely, thought Rigotti before interrupting, ‘And that purchaser is . . . ?’

  ‘Not the deceased ex-lawyer and not her TV star husband, that’s for sure. Ben Hur’s owner is a local man, Mr Rigotti, a skilled marksman by the name of Jason Nagle who is a respected businessman in his own right.’

  ‘What does Mr Nagle do, Mr Blackmore?’

  ‘Well, I am not exactly sure, but I know he runs his own company, and that his appreciation of a fine weapon – regardless of its cost – is evidence of his financial stability and excellent Goddamned taste.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rigotti, his mind now racing a hundred miles an hour. ‘And this Mr Nagle, did he leave his contact details?’

  ‘Well, of course he did, Mr Rigotti. Like I said we . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rigotti, not wanting the man to lose momentum. ‘I’m sorry. I can see you run a very respectable business, Mr Blackmore, and obviously I want to correct my paper’s mistake by clarifying the information you have so kindly provided. I’d like to speak to Mr Nagle. And if you could give me his telephone number, Mr Blackmore, I would be happy to make sure the Tribune made amends by . . .’

  ‘I am afraid I cannot do that, sir – at least not without Mr Nagle’s permission. But given you seem conducive to making amends, I may deign to make contact with him and ask him if he is good enough to give you a call.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t give me his details, Mr Blackmore? Because I am happy to save you the trouble and call him direct.’ It was worth a shot.

  ‘No, sir,’ said an adamant Blackmore. ‘I am afraid that would be both highly inappropriate and bordering on illegal given all of our contracts of sale come with a privacy clause. But I shall get back to you as soon as possible, as long as Mr Nagle is willing.’

  Seconds later Blackmore was gone and Rigotti was ten minutes behind in his deadline. But for once, Wiseman would have to wait. Something else was brewing – something big, Rigotti could feel it.

  19

  The first thing David noticed was the strange green light that permeated the scene before him, casting shadows on the three ‘players’ now sitting at the far end of a dining room table and making them appear anaemic, lifeless, dead. He knew some videos gave off a bile-coloured tinge, as if someone had placed a film of emerald cellophane over the camera lens, but this was more like the inhabitants of the thirty-two inch screen had been lit with the sickly hue on purpose – as if the illumination befitted the drama, which in the end, he supposed, it did.

  They were in Arthur’s office – David, Sara, Nora and Arthur, and further away from the TV which Nora had placed on Arthur’s desk, Doctor Jeffrey Logan and Katherine de Castro were seated in a second row of wooden guest chairs Nora had commandeered from David and Sara’s offices. They were silent – just like the trio on the screen before them – the only noise emanating from the ‘home-made’ production being the occasional chink of silverware against china. The inhabitants were sitting with their heads down, as if determined to concentrate on their meals, as if hesitant to lift their heads until . . .

  ‘J.T.,’ said a voice out of frame, a voice David recognised immediately, despite its lack of any trace of the happy intonation his memory had impressed upon him.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ replied the boy, his chin rising slightly towards the unseen figure stage right.

  ‘Did you finish your biology project?’ asked Stephanie, still beyond the camera’s eye. She must have been serving from a side table, thought David, or perhaps collecting some napkins from a drawer.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘And the DNA bases – are you sure they were in the right order?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the boy, his eyes seeming to flick towards the front of the room before looking ‘off-screen’ towards his mother once again. ‘Adenine in yellow, thymine in green, guanine in red and cytosine in orange.’

  ‘And the adenine attaches to the thymine while the . . .’

  ‘Guanine connects with the cytosine,’ finished J.T. robotically.

  ‘I know. Are you trying to lecture me?’ she asked, her words paced as if in rhythm, the syllables broken up as if she wanted to sound them out individually for effect. ‘I was dux of my high school, you know, and could have just as easily chosen medicine over law – if I had so desired.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ replied the boy, his voice still a monotone drawl but now with an edge of . . . sadness. ‘I did not mean to . . .’

  ‘Stephanie, really,’ said the man at the head of the table at last. Doctor Jeffrey Logan was still wearing his ‘work clothes’ – a crisp blue shirt teamed with a subtle but expensive gold-striped tie. The on-screen Logan placed his knife on the table, while using his left hand to gesture rather animatedly in the air.

  ‘Is this really necessary? It is my birthday, for Christ’s sake. I have no doubt J.T. has done a stellar job as always,’ he said, pointing the fork towards his son who sat to his right with his shoulders hunched, his hands now forming fists around his glinting silver cutlery.

  ‘Just for once do you think you could s
it down and behave civilly? Just tonight could you try to . . . ?’

  ‘I took it apart,’ she said then, finally entering the picture.

  David found himself gasping. Her skin was so pale – her complexion so insipid – that he almost did not recognise her.

  ‘What?’ asked J.T., his eyes flicking forwards again, his question not so much one of surprise but acceptance.

  ‘I took it apart,’ she confirmed.

  She was in the shot proper now, her right hand resting on the back of a so far silent Chelsea Logan’s chair. Chelsea had not moved an inch since this family ‘sideshow’ began. Her head was still down, her eyes set determinedly upon the centre of the table before her.

  ‘I was not sure of one of your connections so I took it apart,’ said Stephanie, talking to her son but staring directly at her husband as if defying him to argue, her hands clenching, her long neck contorting in strands.

  ‘Jesus, Stephanie,’ said Logan, before rising from his seat to confront her. ‘The boy is just a child. He works so hard. It will take him hours to rebuild it.’

  There was silence, and the Logan on the TV screen looked towards his son who, or so it appeared, could not think of anything else to say. And then, in what appeared to be an extremely out-of-context gesture, Logan sat back down and reached across the table for the silver gravy boat before him. Chelsea appeared to be following his hand with her eyes, as if mesmerised by the inappropriateness of his action.

  ‘J.T. is sorry,’ said Chelsea, her voice an unexpected bark. ‘He’s sorry, Mom . . . and he will build it again, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the boy. David could have sworn he was crying.

  When Stephanie then looked at her son, David found himself leaning forward onto the edge of his chair, needing desperately to read the emotion in her face. But the lighting was too severe, the shadows too deep, and within seconds Stephanie Tyler had left the frame again.

  ‘Here,’ she said, after a time, re-entering the picture to hand her husband a long package wrapped in brown paper and string.

  Logan took it, slowly, deliberately, turning it over in his hands. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s your fucking birthday present, you ingrate,’ she said, the first time David had heard her answer with any sense of ‘spirit’ – causing his heart to rise and sink at the very same time.

  On the video Jeffrey Logan untied the string and removed the paper, fold by fold, to reveal the long, deadly weapon that would eventually take the life of the pale, thin woman beside him.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked again.

  ‘It’s your fucking birthday present, you ingrate . . . I mean,’ she hesitated, as if annoyed at herself for using the same sentence twice. ‘It’s a Goddamned walking stick . . . no . . .’ She faltered again. ‘It’s a Goddamned umbrella. What the hell do you think it is?’

  ‘Stephanie,’ said Logan, looking at the weapon with disgust, his right hand moving over its grip, his left palm running along the base towards the trigger. ‘You know how I feel about guns.’

  ‘And you’re not getting it, Jeffrey.’ And then, just like J.T. had done previously, her eyes flicked to the front of the room, before she turned back to her husband again.

  ‘Hear everything, listen please,’ she said, deliberating on every word. ‘Maybe even . . .’ she paused, ‘. . . decipher the conundrum.’

  Logan looked at her in genuine confusion.

  ‘I may know how you feel about guns, but I also know how I felt about a certain reptile-skin handbag,’ she said, the retort sounding both ridiculous and (considering the preposterousness of the situation before them), appropriate at the same time.

  ‘So the next time I ask you for an alligator accessory you can, in the very least, go shoot the fucker yourself.’

  And then she shocked everyone in the room – both in the past and in the present – by plunging towards her husband, snatching the gun and swivelling it quickly, sharply, a full ninety degrees to her left.

  ‘Do you understand me?’ she said, as her only son, thirteen-year-old J.T. Logan, looked up to stare down the barrel of the very same weapon he would use against her mere weeks down the track.

  ‘Oh, Mom!’ said Chelsea, her own tears now cutting swathes down her pale lime green face.

  ‘Enough, Stephanie,’ said Logan, shooting a glance at his daughter before returning his gaze to his wife. ‘Please!’ he said, until she finally lowered the gun. ‘I understand. I am sorry.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she snapped. ‘No, you don’t,’ she said again and this time with determination. ‘But I promise you, one day, that you will.’

  And then the screen went fuzzy with that crackly grey haze that signified the ‘show’ had finally come to an end.

  David hung his head in his hands before, after what seemed like a very long time, rose to his feet and turned to the man behind him. ‘Your son needs an attorney, Doctor, and a good one at that.’

  He could feel Sara’s gaze upon him.

  ‘You’ll do it then?’ asked de Castro, also rising to meet David’s eye.

  ‘Yes,’ said David, answering her but looking directly at Doctor Jeff. ‘For after seeing that tape, I could not live with myself if I didn’t.’

  20

  ‘Well, this is totally ass about face,’ said Detective Frank McKay, leaning on the fingerprint counter in Boston Police Headquarters’ booking section, looking across at J.T. Logan who was having his photograph taken across the other side of the room.

  ‘You mean the kid being arraigned before he is processed,’ said Joe Mannix, sliding sideways to avoid the now overpowering smell from Frank’s ‘leaking at the edges’ lunch.

  ‘I mean the whole fucking charade,’ said McKay. ‘Jesus, Chief, the kid is barely out of diapers. Look at him,’ he said, gesturing at the terrified looking boy now blinking at the flare of the photographer’s flash. ‘He looks like he could barely hold a baseball bat let alone fire a big-game hunting rifle.’

  Frank was right. J.T. Logan was small for his age – a skinny, awkward-looking kid whose good looks were marred by his obvious lack of confidence. Joe had noticed it the first time he saw him – in that oversized T-shirt with the blood spatter swallowing his narrow olive-skinned face. It was almost like the boy was ashamed to take up the small space in the universe that he did, like he was embarrassed to even be here, like he had done the world a disservice the minute that he was born.

  ‘The kid isn’t much older than Joe Junior,’ said Frank then, referring to Joe’s oldest son.

  ‘Not much,’ said Joe, the thought having occurred to him at least once over the past few days. ‘Why can’t I help but think that this whole thing has gotten away from us, Frank?’

  ‘Because it has, Chief,’ said McKay. ‘Which means we just gotta take it back.’

  Frank was right and Joe knew it, but at this stage, given they had not even had a chance to question the boy who was now giving his full name, address and other personal details to the booking officer, he had no idea as to how this might be achieved. He knew Cavanaugh had stepped up in court, largely because he was livid at Carmichael’s blatant manipulation of the judiciary process, but he did not know if his attorney friend would be willing to take this any further, given his relationship with the kid’s mother and the way that she had died.

  ‘You want a soda, kid?’ asked Joe as the officer went to lead J.T. back towards a juvenile holding cell. The boy had just been digitally fingerprinted – a new ink-free process which detected oils on the offender’s hands – and would be held in a juvenile cell until the Sheriff’s Department organised his transfer to the maximum security juvenile detention unit in Plymouth.

  By law, juveniles in the state of Massachusetts were not to be held ‘behind bars’, which meant the juvenile cells – set apart from their adult counterparts, also by law – had what Joe considered to be much more intimidating solid doors, with small glass windows at adult eye level. Another example of bureaucracy gone insane, t
hought Joe, another example of laws being made for the hell of it, without any regard for the individuals involved.

  ‘It’s okay, Officer Blunt,’ said Joe to the heavy-set policeman now holding J.T. by the elbow. ‘We’ll watch him until the sheriff’s van arrives.’

  Blunt nodded, before leading the kid to where Joe and Frank were sitting next to a drink machine in a far corner.

  ‘My attorney told me not to talk to anyone,’ said J.T., looking up at Joe, his voice still a high-pitched squeak – months, maybe even years, away from breaking.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Joe. ‘We can just sit if you like. While you down a Coke and we take a load off.’

  J.T. nodded.

  ‘How’s the shoulder?’ asked Joe, a random question.

  ‘What shoulder?’ asked J.T. as he took a seat across from Joe, a look of genuine confusion in his wide brown eyes.

  ‘Your right one. I thought you hurt it.’

  ‘No. The policeman didn’t pull me when he brought me here, if that is what you are asking.’

  ‘It was, and that’s good to know, kid,’ said Joe.

  J.T. nodded again, before accepting the Coke from Frank.

  ‘What about your ears?’ asked Joe after a pause.

  ‘They’re sore,’ said the boy.

  ‘Are they still ringing?’ asked Joe, probing that little bit further.

  ‘A little.’

  And Joe nodded as they all took a sip of their sodas.

  ‘You love your mom, son?’ asked Joe – another question, completely out of the blue.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said J.T. without drama or hesitation.

  ‘Me too, kid,’ said Joe just as evenly. ‘Me too.’

  ‘It’s a fake,’ said David the moment he had shut the door behind their two obviously satisfied visitors. The others simply stood there, saying nothing – three of the people David respected most in this world, staring at him in blatant disbelief.

  ‘It’s a fake,’ he said again, as if to make sure they had heard him the first time. ‘It was a set-up, a forgery, a scam.’