Free Hardware by Linda Barnes Page A

page. Slaughter in Bosnia, the umpteenth series of Senate hearings on organized crime, remembrances of the Warsaw Ghetto.
    It took two runs through the Metro section to find mention of my crime. It rated barely two inches of column space on page 26, under the fold. Frank must have escaped unscathed. Injuries would make for more drama, greater detail.
    I found my hand wandering to the phone, caught it and brought it back.
    Dammit, I wanted to call Mooney.
    Mooney is my main contact with the Boston PD. He used to be my boss. He’s achieved his dream job: lieutenant in charge of homicide. My fingers inched toward the phone buttons, hesitated. It wasn’t like I could provide blinding insight. I’d never seen the shooters, wouldn’t be able to ID the vehicle. I could point the police at Frank, but the cops would have done a routine door-to-door.
    It came down to personal loyalty to Sam, compounded by a question of law and order. A question, also, of getting in trouble. I felt like a gawky adolescent, deciding whether or not to tattle on a schoolmate: Judy’s smoking in the girls’ room.
    Where was Sister Xavier Marie when you needed moral guidance?
    I telephoned area hospitals and inquired about gunshot wounds. The paper hadn’t mentioned injuries, but half of what they print is filler and the other half is dubious. That’s what cops tell me.
    Most gunshots are admitted to Boston City Hospital. It’s got location, location, location, as the realtors say. I used my social engineering skills to determine that none of their bullet-ridden patients was a tall, gaunt white man. It galled me that I didn’t know Frank’s last name.
    When the phone rang I jumped, expecting Mooney. Our knack for reading each other’s thoughts helped when I was on the force. Now that I’m off, it scares me.
    Sam’s deep baritone sounds soothing even when his words don’t.
    â€œJust checking,” he said.
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œYou know.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYour line’s been busy.”
    â€œIs this the loyalty oath part, Sam?” I said icily. “My mother once told me the great grief of my grandmother’s life was that she never got to testify before the House Committee on Un-American Activities. She used to rehearse her speech in front of the mirror, telling HUAC how they ought to be ashamed of themselves, hounding good Communists when they could sink their teeth into J. Edgar Hoover without half trying.”
    â€œWhat are you trying to tell me, Carlotta?”
    â€œI have a bad attitude about loyalty oaths.”
    â€œYou feeling okay?” Sam asked. “Otherwise?”
    â€œBruises. Do you know if our, uh, companion is also in good health?”
    â€œHe’s fine,” Sam said.
    â€œYou want to hire me now? To find out who wanted to waste your friend—or you?”
    â€œWhat I want to do is forget it. It had nothing to do with us. It wasn’t personal, Carlotta.”
    â€œWhen I get shot at, I take it personally.”
    â€œWell, do it on your own dime. If you’re dying to find out which gang we ticked off, waste your own time and money. Leave me out of it.”
    â€œSuppose I need to find Frank,” I said. “Suppose his junk doesn’t do squat when I plug it in?”
    â€œHe’ll find you,” Sam said. “He’ll want to know that the computer’s okay. That it didn’t get hit by a stray round.”
    â€œWhat about me?”
    â€œHe asked after your health.”
    â€œShould I be flattered?”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œWhat’s Frank’s last name?”
    â€œHe doesn’t use it.”
    â€œHe serve with you in Vietnam?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œSomething about the way you both hit the ground together. Like teamwork. Like you both knew the ropes.”
    â€œCarlotta, neighborhood we grew up in, we didn’t have to visit Southeast