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with his hand—thumb and pinky out, other fingers folded to make a pretend phone, and put it to his ear—to call him.
    Jake and Dickie had somewhat expected this development.
    “Tell me something I don’t know here, Dick? What’s the punch line?”
    “That corpse was frozen. And you were right. She was thawed and then her face beaten post-mortem.”
    Jake found himself staring at the weeds overtaking the cement walkway leading up to his porch, thinking, hands in his pockets.
    “The body is that of a young female,” Dickie continued. “She’s eighteen. She was, rather. Blond. Blue eyes. And get this, there was DNA—blood—found on her face that does not belong to her.”
    Silence from Jake. Then: “Male or female?”
    “Female.”
    “So we now have a positive ID on our Unknown, then? That what you’re telling me?”
    Dickie shuffled about. “Yes, yes. Hold it. … Her name is … Lisa Marie Taylor. Graduated from North Cambridge Catholic High in June. Spent part of the summer with relatives in Dover, New Hampshire. We’re on it, but that’s all we got right now, Kid.”
    “How’d you ID her?”
    “She was reported missing five days ago.”
    “The doc say anything else?” Jake keyed a note to himself into on his iPhone— Dover? A link? “Any connection yet, Dickie, between Bettencourt and Lisa Marie?”
    There was something else. Possibly the first major lead. But Dickie wasn’t giving it up. Not yet. He was still waiting to hear from the lab. Nothing worse than getting Jake’s hopes up only to let him down.
    “Doc Kelsey wants us there first thing in the morning, Jake. She’s still working things out.”
    “Alyssa’s body is nearby. We need to find her.”
    “I put Rookie and a blue on it.”
    “Find out where Rookie grew up—isn’t he from New Hampshire?”
    “Not sure.”
    “You know what this means, Dick,” Jake said. He looked to the left of Dickie. Stared off into the empty space between his house and the nearby woods. “Means we got ourselves a serial who favors young blondes.”
     

 
    8
     
    Friday, September 5 - 8:02 A.M.
     
    Mo Blackhall was in the squad room early, waiting for Jake to show up.
    At one time Mo was a church-going family man who treated his wife, Colleen, as if no other woman existed. They took cruises every year to Alaska or the Caribbean. Mo bought her expensive jewelry for birthdays, Christmas and anniversaries. He never missed a day of work. Out on the brick, there was not a smoother cop than Mo Blackhall. The guy knew Southie as well as the Irish ganstas running it. But his attitude had changed at some point. Mo got quiet. Then Colleen drifted as he started coming home late, disappearing on weekends. Three years ago, Colleen got fed up. Met an FBI agent. Took off. Thing about it was, Mo didn’t give a shit.
    Jake stopped before opening his office door. Tore off the note Mo had left. Crumpled it.
    I need this shit now.
    Mo was one of those old-fashioned cops. Bred from the traditional school of ill-tempered Irish law enforcement still hanging on from the sixties. Of Scottish descent, a touch of the accent still there, Mo had heard his share of Austin Powers-Fat Bastard jokes. The truth was, Mo had packed on a few pounds. With his crooked and caved-in nose, he could not escape his youth as a welterweight boxer. Mo became friends with former world champ Marvin Hagler, who grew up and lived in Brockton, after working a death threat case against the former champ. Mo didn’t talk about his boxing days and no one ever asked. But Jake knew Mo had thrown a few fights in his day when money was short.
    Jake’s former rabbi sat behind a mahogany desk. The dust was so thick you could write your name. Papers were scattered all over the place. Mo chewed on an unlit cigar. Stared at Jake as he pushed open the door angrily, walked in.
    It was time, Jake knew, that he and Mo got a few things out in the open. Jake had been stewing over their last conversation. He needed