I think of him flirting with my sister in Miami. Benton swore the two of them started something when we were there earlier in the summer, and I wonder how I could have missed the cues. I watch him return the radio to the charger as Rosie calls unit 164 and passes on the message.

I check my phone for any further updates about when my sister is set to land at Logan. I’m about to send Lucy a message about my inability to show up at the airport in light of what’s just happened, but I’m distracted again when Marino’s cell phone rings through the SUV’s intercom.

“What can I do you for? What’s up?” A male voice fills the car, and Officer Roberts sounds hyper and too cheerful.

“What’s up is you.” Marino isn’t nice about it. “I see you bird-dogging me and need you to peel off and get the hell away.” He sounds vicious.

“You’re one to talk, all lit up like the Fourth of July. You know what they say. Monkey see, monkey do—” Unit 164 fires back as if he’s having a grand time, and Marino interrupts because now he’s really angry.

“Turn your fucking lights and fucking siren off, Roberts. If I need a meat puppet you’ll be my first damn call,” Marino snaps.

If he had a handset and could hang up with a slam, I’m sure he would. But he can’t. He presses a button on the steering wheel to end his tirade.

“I’m not sure what he was responding to,” I puzzle. “I’ve not heard anything on the radio that might hint we have a possible homicide in the park.”

“He knows something big is going on there. He may not know what but everybody out here knows something’s up. The radio silence is deliberate, and then he sees us go by, and that’s his excuse to fall in behind me,” Marino growls.

I remind him that it might not have been the best idea to turn on his own lights and siren. Certainly it’s attracting attention.

“Well that doesn’t mean you follow me like a damn parade. It’s not a damn party or a spectator sport,” Marino talks at the top of his voice. “Everybody wants to be a damn detective until they have to do paperwork, deal with lawyers, get sued, get called out at all hours and all the other bullshit we put up with.”

I can see the patrol car in the side mirror, dropping back, receding into the distance. The red and blue strobes have gone dark, the siren ended in a whimper. Unit 164 slows and turns left on South Street as we flash, pulse, yelp and wail through a well-lighted stretch of restaurants, coffee shops, taverns and breweries.