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with a tightening of his neck muscles.
    “You want to move him out of his own house already?” Marshall said, stroking his upper lip to a point with his thumb and index finger.
    “Marshall, I’m happy to go back to what I was doing this afternoon.”
    “What was that?” Cooley asked.
    “Sitting on my sofa watching an HBO documentary about baseball’s golden days.”
    “Tell us what you have in mind,” Marshall said.
    Harvey turned to Moss. “I know a broker in town that deals in executive transfers. I’ll see what she’s got lying around. What do you drive?”
    “Range Rover.”
    “Not anymore.” Harvey pivoted his head to Marshall. “You must know someone in the car business in Providence.”
    “Max Malise is an old friend. Malise Motors.”
    “What kind of cars?”
    “Subarus, Hondas.”
    “Good. Call Max tomorrow morning and tell him you want to rent two nondescript cars from him in your name. Tell him you’ll turn them in in a few days for two more. And that you might keep doing that for a while. If he asks you why, don’t tell him. Have the first two cars delivered to the players’ parking lot tomorrow morning. Make sure they have tinted windows.”
    Harvey thought of his five-shot Smith & Wesson .38 Detective Special sitting in a lockbox on the highest shelf of his closet in Cambridge. Good thing he’d gotten requalified two months ago at the firing range in the basement of the Cambridge Police headquarters—he’d scored 267 of a possible 300. His concealed firearms permit was valid only in Massachusetts, though. Rhode Island didn’t honor Massachusetts permits, so it might take weeks to get a Rhode Island pistol permit if he didn’t have someone run major interference for him with the AG’s office. He wondered if Detective Linderman, who headed up the Rudy Furth investigation fifteen years ago, was still with the force. Harvey’s mind was on fire.
    “Moss,” he said, “I don’t know what your autograph policy’s been—”
    “Cool is very good about autographs,” Marshall said with paternal pride.
    “Not anymore. Until this blows over. I’m sorry. Also, I don’t know where you hang out after hours—”
    “I got a couple bars where I know the owner—”
    “Well, you’re going to have to change your routine for now. If there’s really somebody out there who wants to whack you in the knees, or worse, we’re going to make it hard for him to find you. Are you with me?”
    Cooley looked at Harvey as if he were an oncologist with bad news.
    Felix said, “What about the ballpark? Talk about being exposed. We’ve got a ten-game home stand.”
    “The park’s where he’s going to be safest. Especially since, unlike, say, Wrigley Field, there’re no buildings outside that would give anyone a shot at Moss.”
    “I don’t want to become too hysterical, Professor,” Marshall said, listing a bit as he spoke so the lawn jockey didn’t come between them, “but what about a guy on the roof of this place with a high-powered rifle and a telescopic sight? …Sorry, Moss, but we’ve got to cover the possibilities.”
    “First, Marshall, you’re going to eliminate all access to the roof, if you haven’t already. That aside, there’re just too many opportunities to be seen, especially with a rifle, which can’t be concealed from forty-five thousand potential witnesses. And then there’s the problem of getting away. You think it’s easy to get out of a stadium in the middle of a game after shooting someone? Gentlemen, if someone’s going to take a crack at Moss, it’s going to be where he can go one-on-one, with the element of surprise completely on his side and the getaway assured. Where Moss is vulnerable. Going in and out of his home, in and out of the bars or restaurants where he’s known to hang out. That’s why we’ve got to change everything about your routine, Moss. Your habits.”
    “Damn,” Cooley said.
    “Hey,” Harvey said, trying to leaven the mood with a