While Phil added, “How about we go inside, Mr. Sgarzi. Talk where it’s more private.”

Sgarzi sighed heavily, then unlocked his door and led them inside.

Cramped one-bedroom, D.D. observed. Definitely a bachelor abode, given the ratio of TV size to non–garage sale furniture items. Tidy enough, though. Sgarzi might be living lower on the economic ladder, but he’d made some effort with the space. Countertops were clean; no dirty underwear littered the floor.

State-of-the-art Mac laptop was set up on a TV tray in front of the threadbare brown sofa. His office, she was guessing. Where he could brave the new frontiers of digital reporting, while keeping up on the Bruins.

“You talk to Shana Day yet?” he demanded to know, coming to a halt in the middle of the living space.

“Why don’t you take off your coat and stay a while?” Phil suggested.

Sgarzi shrugged. “Sure, I got nothing to hide. Fact, you guys want something to drink? Water, beer? Hell, let’s hang for a bit. We can talk crime. You know my uncle was a cop? At least till he ate his gun. Does Shana Day get that mark on her record? Still killing, after all these years.”

Sgarzi shed his coat. Then, true to his word, he crossed four steps to the kitchen, banged on the faucet and poured two glasses of tap water. He handed them over without ceremony, then stared at them expectantly.

Without his coat, he shrunk in size, like Superman without his cape. Not a tall guy, probably just a hair over five-nine, but he still carried himself a certain way. Like he was steeling himself for a blow that had yet to come, and was determined not to flinch. Had he always been like this? D.D. wondered. Or was this what losing most of one’s family did to a man?

“How old were you when your cousin died?” she asked.

He shot her a glance. “You mean was murdered? Fourteen. I was fourteen.”

“Same age as Shana Day.”

“Are you asking if I knew her? Because of course I knew her. I lived in the same neighborhood as Donnie. That’s how it was back then in Southie. Families, even extended families, lived close. Grew up together. Took care of one another.”

Sgarzi’s tone was intentionally flat, but D.D. still caught a faint trace of emotion. Nostalgia. Regret. Back in the day when he’d felt secure in his place in the world. His family, his neighborhood, his world.

“You hang out with Shana?” Phil asked evenly.

“Nah. She was trouble. Everyone knew that. And not the good kind of trouble, either, you know, a reputation worthy of street cred. Shana . . . She was freaky scary. Like a dog gone bad. Kids . . . Most of us who had any sense stayed clear.”

“Except Donnie.”