“Hey-hey. If it ain’t numero uno persona non grata with the Boston Police Department. Been pulled over recently?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t. You’d be amazed what some guys here want to find in your trunk.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. Being at the top of the police department’s shit list was not where I’d planned to be at this point in my life.

“You can’t be too popular,” I said. “You’re the one who put the cuffs on a fellow cop.”

“Nobody’s ever liked me,” Devin said, “but most of them are scared of me, so that’s just as good. You, on the other hand, are a renowned cream puff.”

“Renowned, huh?”

“What’s up?”

“I need a check on a Cody Falk. Priors, anything to do with stalking.”

“And I get what for this?”

“Permanent friendship?”

“One of my nieces,” he said, “wants the entire Beanie Babies collection for her birthday.”

“And you don’t want to go into a toy store.”

“And I’m still paying serious child support for a kid who won’t talk to me.”

“So you want me to purchase said Beanie Babies, as well.”

“Ten should do.”

“Ten?” I said. “You’ve gotta be—”

“Falk with an ‘F’?”

“As in flimflam,” I said and hung up.

Devin called back in an hour and told me to bring the Beanie Babies by his apartment the next night.

“Cody Falk, age thirty-three. No convictions.”

“However…”

“However,” Devin said, “arrested once for violating a restraining order against one Bronwyn Blythe. Charges dropped. Arrested for assault of Sara Little. Charges dropped when Miss Little refused to testify and moved out of state. Named as a suspect in the rape of one Anne Bernstein, brought in for questioning. Charges never filed because Miss Bernstein refused to swear out a complaint, submit to a rape examination, or identify her attacker.”

“Nice guy,” I said.

“Sounds like a peach, yeah.”

“That’s it?”

“Except that he has a juvenile record, but it’s been sealed.”

“Of course.”

“He bothering somebody again?”

“Maybe,” I said carefully.

“Wear gloves,” Devin said and hung up.

Cody Falk drove a pearl-gray Audi Quattro, and at nine-thirty that night, we watched him exit the Mount Auburn Club, his hair freshly combed and still wet, the butt of a tennis racket sticking out of his gym bag. He wore a soft black leather jacket over a cream linen vest, a white shirt buttoned at the throat, and faded jeans. He was very tan. He moved like he expected things to get out of his way.

“I really hate this guy,” I said to Bubba. “And I don’t even know him.”

“Hate’s cool,” Bubba said. “Don’t cost nothing.”

Cody’s Audi beeped twice as he used the remote attached to his key chain to disengage the alarm and pop the trunk.