I stared up at the various incarnations of Evandro Arujo. Injured. Young and scared. Blighted and ruined. Gaunt and barren. Petulant and dangerous. And I knew, beyond any doubt, that I’d seen him before. But I couldn’t place where.

I rifled through possibilities:

On the street. In a bar. On a bus. In the subway. Driving a cab. At the gym. In a crowd. At a ballgame. In a movie theater. At a concert. In—

“Who’s got a pen?”

“What?”

“A pen,” I said. “Black. Or a marker.”

Fields held up a felt tip and I snatched it, pulled a photo of Evandro out of the laser printer and started scribbling on it.

Lief came up and looked over my shoulder, “Why you drawing a goatee on the man, Kenzie?”

I stared down at the face I’d seen in the movie theater, the face in a dozen photos Angie had taken.

“So he can’t hide anymore,” I said.

24

Devin faxed us a copy of Evandro Arujo’s photo from the set Angie’d given him and Erdham fed it into his computer.

We crawled north on 95, the RV stuck in a midday traffic snarl as Bolton said, “I want an all-points issued on him immediately,” to Devin, then turned and barked at Erdham, “Punch up his probie’s name.”

Erdham glanced at Fields and Fields hit a. button and said, “Sheila Lawn. Office in the Saltonstall Building.”

Bolton was still talking to Devin. “…five eleven, one hundred sixty-three pounds, thirty years old, only distinguishing mark is a thin scar, one inch long, on his upper forehead, just below the hairline, shank wound…” He cupped his hand over the phone. “Kenzie, call her.”

Fields gave me the phone number and I picked up a handset and dialed as Evandro’s photo materialized on Erdham’s screen. He immediately began to punch buttons and enhance the texture and color.

“Sheila Lawn’s office.”

“Ms. Lawn, please.”

“This is she.”

“Ms. Lawn, my name’s Patrick Kenzie. I’m a private detective and I need information on one of your parolees.”

“Just like that?”

“Excuse me?”

The RV lumbered into a lane that was moving an inch or two faster per minute and several horns blared.

“You don’t think I’m going to reveal anything about a client to a man claiming to be a private investigator on the phone, do you?”

“Well…”

Bolton was watching me as he listened to something Devin said, and he reached out and grabbed the phone from me, spoke into it out of the corner of his mouth while still listening to Devin through his other ear.

“Officer Lawn, this is Special Agent Barton Bolton of the FBI. I’m assigned to the Boston office and my identification number is six-oh-four-one-nine-two. Call and verify who I am and keep Mr. Kenzie on the line. This is a federal matter and we expect your cooperation.”

He tossed the phone back to me and said to Devin, “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she said. “I feel chastised. By a man with a name like Barton no less. Hold on.”