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Hawthorne squinted. Seated under a tree and faintly illuminated by a light at the corner of Adams Hall was a boy in a sweater smoking a cigarette. The boy held it very precisely between his thumb and index finger, inserted it slowly into his pursed lips, and inhaled deeply. Then he slowly exhaled one, two, three smoke rings.
“Is that a Gauloise?” Hawthorne called out.
The boy leapt to his feet, sprinted away several yards, and then stopped. “Yes, it is,” he said.
“I thought I recognized the smell. I used to smoke them in Paris, even though the first several made me dizzy.”
“Would you like one?” asked the boy, turning. He appeared about thirteen, slight and with long red hair. He was trying to keep his voice calm but it squeaked nonetheless.
“No, thanks. I quit when my daughter was born.” Hawthorne’s voice faltered.
“You going to report me?”
“Not tonight. It’s too late for reporting. Have you seen anyone else out here?”
The boy leaned against a tree and smoked his cigarette. “No, nobody. Why?”
“I thought I saw someone leaving Adams Hall. You’re positive?”
“Absolutely . . .” The boy paused. “You’re the new boss.”
“Headmaster, yes.”
“I heard you speak this morning.”
“Oh? How did I seem?”
“Okay, I guess. I wasn’t sure if you were serious. You know how it is—you hear a guy’s scam, then you just wait and see. You going to let students smoke?”
“That’s not in my hands. There are laws against it, insurance regulations.”
“So I’m going to keep getting caught.”
“I expect so. Do you really need to smoke?”
“I’m an addict,” said the boy with some pride. He stood with his hands on his hips and the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. His hair fell across his forehead in a wave.
“If you get desperate for a cigarette and you can’t have one without getting caught, then come to me. We’ll go for a drive and you can smoke. I like the smell of Gauloises.”
“I don’t always smoke Gauloises. I just got lucky.”
“Well, whatever you’re smoking. If I’m not too busy, we’ll go for a spin.”
“I bet you won’t.”
“Try me,” said Hawthorne. “How come you’re out so late?”
“I don’t sleep much and I like to see what’s going on. I don’t mean I’m a Peeping Tom but I hate just lying there staring at the ceiling.”
“What about the night watchman?”
“He’s usually drunk and asleep. You’d have to step on him to get him up.”
“What’s your name?”
The boy hesitated, then said, “Scott.”
“I’m Jim Hawthorne.”
“I figured that.”
“What do you see when you wander around?”
“All kinds of stuff. Tonight I found a dead cat. D’you want to see it?”
“A dead cat?”
“Yeah, it’s been hung. It’s Mrs. Grayson’s cat, the housekeeper. It’s always poking around. Not anymore, I guess. You see that pile of firewood? It’s past that, over by those trees.”
Hawthorne followed the boy across the grass toward a clump of pines. Scott was small for his age, barely over five feet tall. As he led the way, he lit another Gauloise and the strong smell drifted back to Hawthorne, who had an immediate recollection of sitting with Meg in Les Deux Magots and spending a great deal of money for a small cup of coffee.
The cat was fat, gray, and very furry. It had been hung from a low branch with a piece of yellow twine. Its pink tongue protruded from between its gray lips. Hawthorne touched it. The cat was stiff and must have been dead for quite a while. It swung slowly in a circle.
“Pretty fucked up to hang a cat,” said Scott.
Hawthorne didn’t disagree. He took out his Swiss Army knife to cut it down. “You have any idea who did it?”
“Nope, but I bet I’ll find out.”
Three
Detective Leo Fly
Despite the cold, Fly
Fly
All Fly
Fly
Roussel had neither quarreled with nor bad-mouthed anybody. He and Bridget went to the Avalon about twice a month and the bouncers never had a complaint against him. He’d been happy the whole evening and when he’d left the club around twelve-thirty he was relatively sober. That’s when he’d gotten ice-picked, just outside the club, walking beneath the trees with his arm around Bridget’s shoulders on the way to his car.
Roussel was from Manchester, New Hampshire, but he’d worked for a restaurant-supply company in Boston for several years. He had a thousand friends. Bridget Bo