“Certainly I don’t see myself that way,” I said. “Quite to the contrary, Teun. Maybe I’m just more reserved because I have to be. Maybe I’m more self-contained because I always have been, and no, it’s not my tendency to publicly confess my sins. But I don’t look around and judge. And I can promise I’m much harder on myself than I’d ever be on you.”

“That’s not been my impression. I think you size me up and down and inside out to make sure I’m suitable to train Lucy and won’t be a pernicious influence.”

I could not answer that charge, because it was true.

“I don’t even know where she is,” I suddenly realized.

“Well, I can tell you. She’s in Philly. Bouncing back and forth between the field office and her new apartment.”

For a while, music was our only conversation, and as the beltway carried us around Baltimore, I could not help but think of a medical student who also had died in a suspicious fire.

“Teun,” I said. “How many children do you have?”

“One. A son.”

I could tell this was not a happy subject.

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Joe is twenty-six.”

“He lives nearby?”

I stared out the window at reflective signs flowing by, announcing exits to Baltimore streets I used to know very well when I studied medicine at Johns Hopkins.

“I don’t know where he lives, to tell you the truth,” she said. “We were never close. I’m not sure anyone has ever been close to Joe. I’m not sure anyone would want to be.”

I did not pry, but she wanted to talk.

“I knew something was wrong with him when he started sneaking into the liquor cabinet at the tender age of ten, drinking gin, vodka, and putting water in the bottles, thinking he would fool us. By sixteen, he was a raging alcoholic, in and out of treatment, DUIs, drunk and disorderlies, stealing, one thing after another. He left home at nineteen, skipping around here and there and eventually cut off all contact. To be honest, he’s probably a street person somewhere.”

“You’ve had a hard life,” I said.

14

THE ATLANTA BRAVES were staying at the Sheraton Hotel on Society Hill when McGovern dropped me off at almost seven P.M. Groupies, old and young, were dressed in baseball jackets and caps, prowling hallways and bars with huge photographs in hand to be signed by their heroes. Security had been called, and a desperate man stopped me as I was coming through the revolving door.

“Have you seen them?” he asked me, his eyes wildly darting around.

“Seen who?” I said.

“The Braves!”

“What do they look like?” I asked.