Gull: “And that’s true?”
Larsen gave Gull’s shoulder another pat. “I’m not worried, Franco.”
Gull: “You really think you can clear things up.”
Larsen: “There’s nothing to clear up.”
Gull: “Nothing?”
Larsen: “Nothing.”
Milo said, “Cold bastard. He’s not gonna spill, so much for this.”
Sam Diaz’s chair squeaked. He said, “Want another drumstick?”
“No, thanks.”
“Maybe I’ll try one of those orange bars, the vanilla half looks pretty creamy.”
On the monitor, Franco Gull ran his hands through his curls. “Okay, I sure hope so. Thanks, Albin.”
He rose to go.
“No, no, no,” said Milo. “Stay put, you idiot.”
The remaining maid collected her young charges and left.
Larsen stayed Gull with a hand on Gull’s cuff. “Let’s sit for a while, Franco.”
Gull: “Why?”
Larsen: “Enjoy the air. This beautiful park. Enjoy life.”
Gull: “You’re finished with patients for the day?”
Larsen: “I am, indeed.”
Ninety seconds. Neither of them talked.
At a hundred thirty-nine seconds, Sam Diaz said, “Approaching male. From the Roxbury side, again.”
Another figure, well in the distance, was crossing the park diagonally, from the east. Striding across the lawn, passing just north of the play area, and continuing into the shadow of the Chinese elms.
Diaz aimed the camera at him, zoomed in.
Good-sized man, broad-shouldered, barrel chest. Blue silk shirt turned teal green by the monitor, worn untucked over blue jeans.
Dark hair combed straight back. Graying mustache, but Raymond Degussa had shaved off his soul patch.
Milo said, “Bad guy, get ready for anything, Sam.”
He unsnapped his holster but didn’t remove his gun. Unlatching one of the ice-cream truck’s rear doors, he got out, closed the door quietly.
I turned back to the monitor. Gull and Larsen remained silent. Gull’s back was to Degussa as Degussa made his way over to the picnic table. Larsen saw Degussa, but didn’t react.
Then Franco Gull turned, and said, “What’s he doing here?”
No answer from Larsen.
Gull: “What’s going on, Albin—hey, let go of my sleeve, why are you holding me back, let go, what the hell’s going on—”
Degussa made a beeline for the table. Was six feet away, reaching under his shirt, when Gull broke free from Larsen’s grasp.
Larsen just sat there.
Degussa pulled out a small gun, toylike, pointed it in Gull’s direction. Probably a cheap .22, you could throw them away and buy another on the street for chump change.
Five feet from Gull, nice clean target. I thought about Jack Ruby picking off Oswald. Where was Milo?
Gull ducked and shoved Larsen in the path of Degussa’s gun and screamed, “Help!” as he dropped to the grass and rolled away. Diaz’s camera remained narrowly focused.
Degussa circled around Larsen to get a good shot at Gull. Larsen ducked, helping him along. Gull had tried to get up, but he was caught—legs stuck under the picnic bench, torso twisted.
He placed his hands atop his head, creating a useless shield.
Degussa leaned over the bench.
Aimed.
Crack. The sound of a single pair of hands clapping once.
A hole appeared on Degussa’s forehead—black tinted deep brown by the monitor, the same shade as Degussa’s customized Lincoln. His mouth dropped open. He frowned. Annoyed.
He lifted his gun arm, still trying to shoot. Let it drop. Tumbled face-first onto the table. The .22 flew out of his hands and landed on the dirt. Albin Larsen dove for it. The man could mobilize when needed.
Sam Diaz said, “Oh, man, I should be out there.”
“Where’s Milo?”
“Don’t see him—I’m calling for backup, then I’m outta here, Doc. You stay inside.”
He got on the police radio. I watched Albin Larsen bend and retrieve Degussa’s gun. Gull had freed his legs, and he swung them at Larsen, missed, sprang up, turned to run.
Larsen examined the gun, then aimed it, turning his back to the camera.
Crack. Crack. Two bursts of applause. Two holes materialized on the back of Larsen’s sport coat, within an inch of each other, just right of the center seam.
Diaz was saying, “Another one just went down, this is Code Three Plus, friend.”
Larsen straightened. Stretched his neck, as if plagued by a sudden pinch. The spot on his jacket became a brown stain. His right hand reached back, scratching an itch.