“Sir? I’m not a field agent.”

Bolton pointed his finger at him. “Send someone, then. Send two agents, and bring him back.”

“Under arrest, sir?”

“For questioning. Where’s he staying?”

“His secretary said he was staying at the Marriott.”

“There’s a but here. I can feel it.”

Erdham nodded. “He never checked in there.”

“Four agents,” Bolton said. “I want four agents on the next plane to Cancun. And bring his secretary in, too.”

“Yes, sir.” Erdham picked up a phone as the RV turned on to the expressway.

“They’ve all gone for cover, haven’t they?” I said.

Bolton sighed. “It appears so. Jack Rouse and Kevin Hurlihy can’t be found. Diedre Rider hasn’t been seen since her daughter’s funeral.”

“What about Burns and Climstich?” Angie said.

“Both deceased. Paul Burns was a baker who stuck his head in one of his own ovens back in seventy-seven. Climstich died of a coronary in eighty-three. Neither left descendants.” He dropped the photo into his lap and stared at it. “You look just like your father, Mr. Kenzie.”

“I know,” I said.

“You said he was a bully. Was that all?”

“How do you mean?”

“I need to know what the man was capable of.”

“He was capable of anything, Agent Bolton.”

Bolton nodded, leafed through his file. “Emma Hurlihy was committed to the Della Vorstin Home in seventy-five. Before that, there was no record of metal illness in her family, nor did she evidence any disturbing behavior until late seventy-four. Diedre Rider’s first arrest for drunk and disorderly occurred in February of seventy-five. After that, she was getting picked up by police on regular basis. Jack Rouse went from being a slightly corrupt corner-store owner to the head of the Irish Mafia in five years. Reports I obtained from the Organized Crime Bureau as well as BPD’s Major Crime Unit say that Rouse’s rise to power was allegedly the bloodiest in the history of the Irish Mafia here. He attained power by killing anyone who got in his way. How did this happen? How did an extremely low-level bookie get the stones to become a made man overnight?”

He looked at us and we shook our heads.

He turned another page in the file. “District Attorney Stanley Timpson, now here’s an interesting guy. Graduated near the bottom of his class at Harvard. Reached only the middle of his law school class at Suffolk. Failed his bar twice before he finally passed. The only reason he got in the DA’s office at all was because of Diandra Warren’s father’s connections, and his early performance evaluations were low. Then, starting in seventy-five, he turns into a tiger. He earns a reputation, in night court mind you, for refusing to cut deals. He graduates to superior court, more of the same. People begin to fear him, and the DA’s office starts throwing him felony work, and his star continues rising. By eighty-four he is considered the most feared prosecutor in New England. Again, how did this happen?”