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apologize toyou, and you get all huffy and call me a brat. Very mature.”
    There was a loud honking behind them. She looked back and saw U.S. District Court Judge Henry Weedon looking at her as though to say, What gives?
    “Jesus, you’re blocking Judge Weedon,” she said. “You better move.”
    Jack waited for her to get out of the vehicle, but she didn’t move.
    “Go!” she ordered. “Come on!”
    “You better get out,” he said curtly.
    But she did not budge.
    “Just go, will you, please, before he gets really angry?”
    Reluctantly, Jack Devlin put the Cherokee into gear and eased it forward through the garage exit and out onto Congress Street. He drove a block and pulled over, waiting for her to get out. Again she did not move. They sat in a prolonged silence until finally he said, “I need to get moving. I have to be somewhere.”
    His tone was cool.
    She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. When she spoke, her tone was calm, her voice much quieter than it had been. “If you would let me ride with you, I would appreciate it,” she said. “There’s something I want to say.”
    He considered this, shifted the car into drive, and pulled back out onto Congress Street.
    “Just go wherever you’re going and I’ll catch a cab back,” she said.
    He drove in silence along Congress Street over to Cambridge Street, then to Storrow Drive. Finally, she spoke.
    “I want to say that I am sorry for what I said,” shesaid, her tone measured, careful. “It was an overheated atmosphere and I was angry that the meeting was destroyed … angry at BPD, and I blurted something that I shouldn’t have said, and I certainly should not have been staring at you when I said it because I realize you probably took it personally, and it was not intended that way. So I am sorry and I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
    He glanced across at her as he drove and could see by her expression that she was deadly serious. Her face was flushed still, and strands of hair were out of place and had fallen into her face. She brushed them away as she looked at him. There was no artifice about her.
    “Of course I will,” he said softly, graciously. She looked over at him and held his gaze, and he drifted into the passing lane, a cabdriver honking furiously.
    He shifted his eyes back to the road, and she looked out to her right across the Charles River toward Cambridge.
    “Where are we headed?” she asked.
    “Roslindale,” he said.
    “Whereabouts?”
    He hesitated. He was not sure whether he wanted her to know, but could think of no other response, so he told the truth: “Holy Name Church. Out on the parkway.”
    She knitted her brow. “What’s happening there?”
    “Mass,” he said, without shifting his eyes from the road ahead.
    “Mass?” she repeated, clearly surprised.
    He nodded.
    “In the middle of the week?”
    “Right,” he said.
    All right, he thought. She’ll make some wiseass anti-Catholiccomment, and when she does I’ll pull over and kick her ass out of here.
    But there was no comment. Merely a brief nod.
    Jack turned off Storrow Drive at the Kenmore Square exit and followed the ramp up to Boylston Street behind Fenway Park.
    “Pull over here,” she said. “I’ll run in and get us some coffee. Go ahead, pull over.”
    He did as instructed, and she disappeared into Dunkin’ Donuts, reappearing minutes later with two cups of coffee.
    “You know, I don’t have any money with me,” she said, not the least bit sheepishly. “My bag’s back at the office. Can I borrow a couple of bucks?”
    He wanted to laugh out loud but instead reached into his wallet and handed her a five. She ran back inside and paid for the coffee. When she was back in the Jeep, she sipped her coffee and spoke in a much brighter, more cheerful voice than before. “You know, it occurs to me that to get a cab—”
    He couldn’t help but smile. “Here,” he said, handing her a ten-dollar bill.
    “Great,” she said.