Free Dancer in the Flames by Stephen Solomita Page A

them as they headed for the showers.
    ‘You ever hear of a mutt named Mark Dupont?’ he asked. When both men shook their heads, he continued. ‘Dupont’s been upstate for six years on a rape charge, but he’s back now. I saw him last night. Guys, Dupont’s the real deal, a genuine bad boy, and I’m lookin’ for an excuse to violate his parole.’
    ‘You got a mug shot?’ O’Malley asked.
    ‘I’m gonna print some up after I finish my workout. But I gotta warn ya, just in case you should run into him, Dupont’s a born cop fighter. He won’t go down easy.’
    Boots watched Velikov and O’Malley exchange a look of keen anticipation, thinking that not only did their shoulders begin at the tops of their ears, but the veins in their necks were as thick and juicy as night crawlers.
    After a shower, Boots went directly to the squad room where he endured the congratulations of his fellow detectives while he pulled up Dupont’s mug shot and printed two dozen copies. Although more than a hundred uniformed officers were assigned to the Six-Four, in Littlewood’s experience only a select few had more than a passing attachment to the craft of policing. The rest confined their ambitions to the magic pension and the lifetime medical benefits that came with it.
    His task completed, Boots carried the photos to the first floor and distributed twenty copies to various cops as they emerged from the muster room, including O’Malley and Velikov. He made the same pitch to each. Dupont was a violent criminal; his entire life was about mayhem of one kind or another. If they could please mention him to their snitches, maybe get a line on his current activities, Boots would be ever so grateful.
    Boots followed the last of the cops he briefed out to the sidewalk in front of the precinct. It was just after four o’clock and the sun was headed for the horizon. Still, the day was warm enough for Boots to shrug out of his coat and store it in the trunk of an unmarked car before heading off.
    From the Six-Four, Boots drove to Our Lady of Mount Carmel, a Roman Catholic church on Havemeyer Street in a mostly Italian section of Williamsburg called the Northside. Mount Carmel was familiar ground. Boots had attended the primary school, served as an altar boy, been baptized and confirmed at Mount Carmel. He knew most of the priests by their first names and only confessed to a Franciscan monk named Leonzo Gubetti. It was Father Gubetti he went in search of, trying him first in the rectory before tracking him down in the church’s vestry. Boots was hoping to get in and out in a hurry, but when he finally came face to face with the priest, he found the monk’s gaze sharp and accusing.
    ‘Who have you been speaking to?’ Boots asked.
    ‘Connie Palermo,’ the priest replied.
    Boots stepped into the room. ‘Vinnie’s the reason I showed up this afternoon. That and I want to confess. What with Easter coming on Sunday, I figure I’ll get it over with.’
    Father Gubetti liked to play the jolly friar, and he was perfect for the part, with his bald dome, broad belly and florid complexion. But not this time. This time he was pissed and no mistake about it.
    ‘Ah, yes, Boots Littlewood’s annual confession. Everything should come to a stop – ba-boom – because Detective Littlewood is finally ready to confess.’
    ‘Leo, if you don’t stop busting my chops,’ Boots threatened, ‘I’m gonna walk out the door. In which case, you’ll never know what happened to Vinnie.’
    The priest slid a purple stole off a hangar, kissed it, then settled it on his shoulders. ‘Threatening a priest? A heinous sin requiring immediate atonement lest you perish unexpectedly and be consigned to the bowels of hell. Follow me, child.’
    Boots sighed. ‘I can’t wait to hear the penance.’
    Father Gubetti led Boots to a small office where he set a pair of straight-back chairs face to face. Boots wasn’t crazy about this arrangement, having grown up with the