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one day while trolling the aisles of the Christmas Tree Shops with Dawn.
    “Always good to see you, Jake.”
    “You, too, Father. What’s up? I have something going on right now.” The tension of their last conversation buzzed between them like a family secret.
    Dawn smiled, got up, patted Father on the knee. “I’ll leave you two be. Brendan, Daddy needs to talk to Father. Go play in the back, okay, honey?”
    Brendan took off without argument.
    “What can I do for you?” Jake asked.
    Dawn walked into the house. “Stop by anytime, Father,” she said through the screen door.
    “Thanks.” To Jake: “I’m having some trouble at the parish again. I need you to stop by when you can.” He was referring to St. Paul’s in Southie, a church Jake had attended since his baptism, walked away from after confirmation, went back to in adulthood, but had totally given up on since the little-girl case. Then there was that last conversation he and Father John had, Jake’s faith once again in question, and he was sure he wasn’t going back.
    “Threats?”
    “Yeah, but maybe it’s more than that this time.”
    “What do you mean? I kinda got my hands full right now.”
    “That’s your case,” Father John commented, “the one in the papers?”
    “It is.”
    “Well, I don’t want to bother you, then.” Father John stood, took a good look at Jake, slapped him gingerly on the right shoulder. “I have a couple to meet in fifteen minutes, anyway.” The priest looked toward his car. “Young and eager to get married. You know the type. They live in the next neighborhood over. I’ll let you be.”
    “Father, you okay? You come all the way over here to just leave?” Jake sensed something. He noticed how the priest had looked away when he mentioned meeting the young couple. Jake was no kinesics expert, but had been to several conferences on the interpretation of body language and facial expressions. The priest was anxious. Jake had known Father John all his life—and he had never mentioned reading about one of Jake’s cases in the newspaper. Did he have information?
    “Fine, Jake. Fine. Just stop by the parish when you get a minute, promise me.” Father reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He offered one to Jake (who refused), took it for himself, struck a match, and then took a long, powerful pull, exhaling slowly away from Jake.
    “Of course. But I’m here now. What’s going on?”
    The case of the Unknown DB was about to take its first major turn, as Jake Cooper knew it would.
    Father John said, “It’s Deacon Patrick O’Keefe, Jake. He’s—”
    “Hold on a minute, Father.” Jake’s attention was diverted by Dickie racing up in front of the house, chirping to stop. “What was that about the deacon, Father?”
    “Nothing, Jake. It can wait. Come by and see me when you have time.” Father took another drag, watched Dickie get out of his car, stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe, put the unfinished butt back into the pack for later.
    Dickie must have something good. Jake had made it clear earlier not to call him unless it was important. Plus, that stakeout. Why was Dickie here?
    “I need to speak with my partner, Padre, sorry.” Jake stepped off the porch. He and Dickie shared eye contact.
    “I understand,” Father said.
    “What is it, Dick?”
    Dickie waited until the priest was out of earshot.
    “Well, Mr. Cooper, we were right.”
    Jake was impatient. Dickie liked to have fun when he had information. Jake hated it. “Let’s have it, Dickie? Spit it out. I’m busy here.”
    “Jake, our DB wasn’t the Northwestern girl, Alyssa ...”
    “What?” Jake said as Dickie flipped through pages in his notebook.
    “Alyssa … ah, here it is. Alyssa Bettencourt.”
    “That’s what you get when you use a damn missing-persons flyer to identify a corpse.” Jake waved to Father John as the priest got into his car and backed out of the driveway. Father made a gesture