“I told you he wouldn’t tell me scarcely anything the person said. He wouldn’t discuss it in detail, and legally I can push this, Benton. I have a right to face my accuser, and in this case the accuser is the person who’s lying about me on that recording. I want to hear it for myself—with my own ears. There are no legal grounds for withholding that recording from me unless you think I’m implicated in a federal crime. And last I checked, disturbing the peace wasn’t.”

This is exactly what Benton wants me to do—to threaten him in a confrontational offended way that doesn’t really reflect my true feelings. What I mustn’t do is treat him like my husband when it comes to this particular matter, which ironically he wouldn’t know about in the first place if we weren’t a couple. He needs to be Special Agent Benton Wesley this moment and I need to be the Chief, and we’ve been down this road many times.

He turns another page in the carte des vins. “I think we should have white wine,” he says. “But it depends on what you want to eat. We’ll have just enough to taste and cork the rest for later, after we finally get home.”

“It would take nothing more than a Freedom of Information Act request. But it’s stupid to make me go through that. I was thinking about fish. Something light.” I open my menu without picking it up as he reaches down next to his chair and finds his briefcase.

He places it in his lap, and I hear the bright snap of the locks again.

“Remember what my eighth-grade teacher said to me?” He pulls out his wireless headset in its zip-up case. “Good ol’ Mr. Broadmoor …”

“Who declared that one day you’re going to get what you ask for and be sorry,” I finish the anecdote for Benton, one he repeats often when he’s sure it applies to me.

“It won’t be pleasant and I’d rather spare you.” He unzips the small black case. “But as you know, the laws about nine-one-one recordings are rather murky in Massachusetts. There’s no statute that tells me you can’t listen. You’re right about that.”

He hands the headset to me and I put it on. He places his phone in the middle of the table, and touches several prompts on the display. I hear static and clicking in stereo. Then:

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher is a woman, and I recognize her voice from the chronic radio chatter in my life.

“Hello. It’s not exactly an emergency but I think the police should know that one of our esteemed public servants is disturbing the peace in front of God and everyone in Harvard Square.”