School Days - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,1

as she came out of my building and rounded the corner, walking like a young woman. Pearl got off the couch and came over and looked out the window with me. She liked to do that. Mrs. Ellsworth got into a chauffeur-driven Bentley at the corner of Berkeley and Boylston.

"She can afford me," I said to Pearl.

Late summer was in full force in the Back Bay. But, August or not, it was gray and showery, and quite cool, though not actually cold. Most of the young businesswomen were coatless Under their Umbrellas. I watched as the Bentley, gleaming wetly, pulled away from the curb and turned right onto Boylston. The driver would probably turn right again at Arlington, and then go up St. James Ave to the Pike and on to the western suburbs, with his wipers on an interval setting. I watched for a bit longer as two young women in bright summer dresses, pressed together under a big golf umbrella, crossed Boylston Street toward Louie's. Summer dresses are good.

When they had crossed, I turned back to my desk and sat down and picked up Mrs. Ellsworth's scrapbook. Neatly taped on the cover, an engraved calling card read 'Lily Ellsworth,' with an address in Dowling. I opened the scrapbook and began to read. Pearl went back to the couch. She liked to do that, too.

Two seventeen-year-old boys wearing ski masks had walked into the Dowling School, a private academy they both attended, and opened fire, each with a pair of nine-millimeter handguns. Five students, an assistant dean, and a Spanish teacher were killed. Six more students and two other teachers were wounded before the Dowling cops arrived, and the kids had barricaded themselves in the school library with hostages. The Dowling Police kept them there until a State Police hostage negotiator arrived with a State Police SWAT team standing by. Negotiations took six hours, but at three in the afternoon, one of the boys took off his ski mask and swaggered out, hands in the air, smirking at the cameras. The other one had disappeared.

The captured boy was named Wendell Grant. After two days of questioning, he finally gave up his buddy, Jared Clark.

Clark denied his participation but had no alibi for the time, and was known to hang with Grant. After a few days in jail, Clark confessed. There was much more. Newspaper stories, transcripts of television and radio newscasts. Copies of police reports and forensic data; pictures of the boys. Neither was unusual-looking. Profiles of victims, interviews with survivors, and bereaved relatives. It didn't offer me much that was useful at the moment, though it would be a good source for names and dates later. And I didn't expect it to be a good source of facts, now or later.

When I got through reading the scrapbook, I called Rita Fiore.

"What do you know about a defense attorney named Richard Leeland?" I said.

"Never heard of him," Rita said.

"He's counsel for one of the kids who shot up the school in Dowling," I said.

"That kid shouldn't have a defense counsel I never heard of," Rita said. "But, I gather, at least he has you."

"His grandmother took your recommendation."

"Huh," Rita said. "That's who was asking. Everyone was so fucking discreet, I didn't know who the client was. How come they didn't hire me to help you or, actually, hire you to help me after they hired me?"

"Leeland was the kid's father's frat brother at Yale."

"Oh, God," Rita said.

"I know," I said. "Can you find out if he's any good?"

"Sure. I'll call the DAs office out there. What's in it for me."

"Dinner?" I said.

"At my house?"

"Sure. You get a date, I'll bring Susan, it'll be swell."

"You smarmy bastard," Rita said.

"You can't get a date?" I said.

"I had other plans," Rita said.

"I thought you were seeing that police chief from the North Shore," I said.

"I was," Rita said. "But he loves his ex-wife. You. Him. Every winner I find is in love with somebody else."

"Maybe that's not an accident," I said.

"Fuck you, Sigmund," Rita said.

"Or not," I said. "Susan's in North Carolina. I'll buy you dinner at Excelsior."

"How easily I settle," Rita said. "I'll meet you there at seven."

"Have your secretary make us a reservation," I said.

"My secretary?"

"I don't have one," I said.

Chapter 3

DOWLING IS WEST of Boston. High-priced country with a village store and a green, and a lot of big shade trees that arch over the streets. As I drove along the main street, I passed a young girl with