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By Root 509 0

raping her when she was eleven years old. While her mother was dying of cancer in the hospital. She finally told her boyfriend, he told somebody else. Ended up she hired another kid to kill her father. For five hundred bucks. Drilled the old man right in his driveway. Everybody pleaded guilty. The kid who did the shooting got a jackpot sentence, seven to twenty–one years. The radio talk shows took calls from freaks who said the little girl should have told the social workers—that is, if it "really" happened. Some people thought the father got what was coming to him. Not many. The judge sentenced her to a year in jail.

"Yeah. I know about it."

Her eyes burned. A little girl asking a priest if there really was a god. "Burke, do you think the little girl did anything wrong?"

"Yeah."

Belle's face twisted. "What?"

"She hired an amateur."

"The lawyer… the one who pleaded her guilty?"

"Not the lawyer. The shooter."

Her face calmed, but she was still struggling with it. "But he killed the guy…"

"He wasn't a pro, Belle. Left a trail Ray Charles could follow. Talked about it to everyone who'd listen. Kept the gun. And he opened up when they popped him. You hire a killer, you buy silence too."

She took the cigarette from my mouth, pulled on it. "I'd like to break her out of that jail."

"Forget it, Belle. She wouldn't go. The kid's no outlaw. She's a nice middle–class girl. It wasn't simple for her—she didn't work it through. She still feels guilty about the guy getting killed. Incest, you don't just walk away from it like if a stranger raped you. That was her father. He's dead. Her mother's dead. She's gonna need a lot of help—she can't go on the run."

Tears spilled down her face. "My mother saved me from that."

"I know," I said, holding her.

126

TEN–THIRTY. I put on a dark–gray suit, black felt hat. I hated to rip the sleeve, but I had to make the sacrifice. Belle did a neat, clean job. "I'll sew it back together later," she said, concentrating, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

"I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"I'll be here."

I kissed her. Her lips were soft. I slipped my fingers around her neck, pulling at the necklace, making it bounce against her chest, coaxing a smile.

"Me and Pansy, we'll have a beer, watch some TV."

127

PAULO'S ISN'T one of those new restaurants in Little Italy. It was built when they were working on the third chapter of the Bible. When Morelli started working the police beat as a reporter, he would eat there every day. His mother came over, made sure her son was eating the right food. Marched right into the kitchen, told them what was what. They still have a couple of dishes on the menu named after her.

He was there when I walked in at eleven, sitting in a far corner. I started over to him. Two guys with cement–mixer eyes got in my way. I nodded over to Morelli's corner. One of the guys stayed planted in front of me; the other turned, caught the signal. They moved aside.

Morelli had a thick sheaf of papers next to him, glass of red wine half empty. I sat down. The waiter came over, looking at me like I was his parole officer.

"What?"

"Veal milanese. Side of spaghetti. Meat sauce. No cheese."

"No cheese?"

"No cheese."

"No wine?"

"No."

He moved off, mumbling something in Italian. When he came back, he had my food. Morelli had linguini with white clam sauce. The waiter said something to Morelli, moved off again.

I cut into the veal. It was perfect, light and sweet. We ate quietly, talking about the magazine he worked for, his kids, the neighborhood.

The waiter cleared the plates. "You want a hot fudge sundae?" he asked me.

"Tortoni," I said.

He bowed. I never saw a guy do that and sneer at the same time before.

When we finished, I lit a smoke, waiting. Morelli leaned forward. "We have a deal?"

I nodded.

He spoke quietly, one hand protectively guarding his papers. "You want the whole package or just the bottom line?"

"Bottom line."

His finger traced a path through the bread crumbs the waiter left behind on the white tablecloth. "Sally