The Front Read Free Page A

sight until we’re gone,” she says as a customer walks in.
    â€œHow much?” Win refers to the bottle of olive oil he’s still holding.
    More customers. Almost five p.m., and people are getting off work. Pretty soon, it will be standing room only. Stump sure as hell isn’t a cop for the money, and he’s never figured out why she doesn’t retire from the department and have a life.
    â€œIt’s yours at cost.” She gets up, walks to another aisle, picks out a bottle of wine, gives it to him. “Just got it in. Tell me what you think.”
    A 2002 Wolf Hill pinot noir. “Sure,” he says. “Thanks. But why the sudden kill-me-with-kindness act?”
    â€œGiving you my condolences. Must be fatal working for her.”
    â€œWhile you’re feeling sorry for me, mind if I get a few pounds of Swiss, cheddar, Asiago, roast beef, turkey, wild rice salad, baguettes? And kosher salt, five pounds would be great.”
    â€œJesus. What the hell do you do with that stuff? Throw margarita parties for half of Boston?” As she stands up, so at ease with her prosthesis, he rarely remembers she has one. “Come on. Since I feel so sorry for you, I’ll buy you a drink,” she says. “One cop to another, let me give you a little advice.”
    They collect empty boxes and carry them to the storeroom in back, and she opens the walk-in refrigerator, grabs two diet cream sodas, and says, “What you need to focus on is motive.”
    â€œThe killer’s?” Win says, as they sit at a folding table, walled in by cases of wine, olive oils, vinegars, mustards, chocolates.
    â€œLamont’s.”
    â€œYou must have worked a lot of cases with her over the years, but she acts as if the two of you have never met,” he says.
    â€œBet she does. I don’t guess she told you about the night we got so ripped, she had to sleep on my couch.”
    â€œNo way. She doesn’t even socialize with cops, much less get drunk with them.”
    â€œBefore your time,” says Stump, who’s older than Win by at least five years. “Back in the good ole days before an alien took over her body, she was a kick-ass prosecutor, used to show up at crime scenes, hang out with us. One night after a murder-suicide, the two of us ended up at Sacco’s, started drinking wine, got so wasted we left our cars and walked to my place. Like I said, she ended up spending the night. We were so hungover the next day, both of us called in sick.”
    â€œYou must be talking about someone else.” Win can’t envision it, has a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You sure it wasn’t some other assistant DA, and maybe over the years you’ve gotten the two of them confused?”
    Stump laughs, says, “What? I’ve got Alzheimer’s? Unfortunately, the Lamont you know never goes to crime scenes unless television trucks are everywhere, hardly ever sees a court-room, has nothing to do with cops unless she’s giving them orders, and doesn’t care about criminal justice anymore, only power. The Lamont I knew may have had an ego, but why wouldn’t she? Harvard Law, beautiful, smart as hell. But decent.”
    â€œShe and decent don’t know each other.” He doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly so angry and territorial, and before he can stop himself, he nastily adds, “Sounds like you have a slight touch of the Walter Mitty syndrome. Maybe you’ve been a lot of different people in life, because the person I’m drinking a cream soda with is short and fat, according to Lamont.”
    Only thing short about Stump is her dark hair. And she’s certainly not fat. In fact, now that he’s paying attention, he has to say she’s pretty damn buff, must work out a lot, has a great body, actually. Not bad looking. Well, maybe a little masculine.
    â€œI’d appreciate it if you didn’t stare at