“You grew up here, right?” Sanchez asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you know him?”

“Murphy?” Stone thought about his answer. “Everyone knew him. He was one of Whitey’s guys back in the day. He had a rep as being nicer than most, but still dangerous. You ever deal with him?”

Sanchez shook her head. “Not really. I watched him get grilled after a bust back in the nineties, but that’s it.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought he was smart. One of the smartest I’ve seen.” She opened the door and slid out of the car; Stone did the same. She looked around the front of the building. A young man from the coroner’s office was leaning against his van, a gurney at his side. Piled loosely on top of the rolling stretcher were two empty black vinyl body bags. “Not smart enough, I guess.”

She started walking toward the doorway and Stone fell in just behind her. As he walked, it dawned on him that the exchange was the longest conversation they’d had since they’d become partners.

The stench in the Body Shop was overpowering. It was a warm day for April in Boston, and the aluminum-lined building seemed to trap the heat. Sanchez could feel the sting of oil and gasoline in her nostrils, but the odors were swallowed up in the sickly sweet aroma of death and decay. It smelled like rotten meat boiled in sour milk and honey. She clenched her jaw so as not to betray her nausea. She’d been on the force long enough to understand the double standard-men could show their disgust at a crime scene, but for women it was viewed as a sign of weakness.

“Any word on the time of death?” she asked Stone as they walked through the front-counter section, past a couple of uniformed officers acting as bored sentries, and back around into the garage bays.