“No one is supposed to be in this part of the building,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said. “We didn’t realize. We had a free moment and I guess we got carried away. We’ve never been in the State House before, and it’s really interesting.”
“If you come back during the week, you can take a tour,” the guard said. “I’m going to have to ask you to go back to the Great Hall now.”
“We should be getting back anyway,” I said. “Our break time is over.”
Diesel pocketed the key. We took the elevator to the second floor and went back to the reception. The guests were still seated. Chamber music could faintly be heard over the crush of conversation.
“Watch this,” Morty said. “I could do it with my eyes closed.”
A cheer went up from across the room.
“I got one!” someone yelled.
“Am I good or what?” Morty said.
We went down to the employee locker room, changed back into our own clothes, and left through a door that led to Hancock Street. We walked Hancock to Mt. Vernon, and Mt. Vernon to Joy. The house number that appeared on the mosaic was on the first block between Beacon and Mt. Vernon. We stood on the sidewalk and stared at the redbrick town house. Four floors, plus a garden level. Not in terrible condition, but not newly renovated, either.
There weren’t any lights on in the house. Either no one was home, or else someone went to bed early. It was too dark to read the bronze plaque by the door.
“It must be a historic house,” Morty said. “They always have plaques on them like that.”
Curiosity got the better of me, and I crept up the steps to the small front stoop to better see the writing on the plaque.
“It says this is a historic house designed by William Butterfield in 1880,” I whispered. “Its name is The Key House, after its first occupant, Malcom Key.”
I touched the plaque with my fingertip and felt the trapped energy. “It’s the plaque,” I said, motioning Diesel to come take a look. “I can feel the energy.”
Diesel examined the plaque and felt around the edges. “I can’t just remove it,” he said. “It’s cemented into the brick.”
“I’m hungry,” Morty said. “I had some of them hors d’oeuvres, but I never got my baloney sandwich.”
Diesel looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to hand you over to your son in a half hour. Let’s go back to the car, and I’ll figure this out later.”
We walked to the car, and Diesel drove to Beacon and double-parked in front of a small grocery store. I ran in and got Morty a loaf of worthless white bread, half a pound of baloney, and a bag of chips, and I was back before the police spotted our illegally parked car.
Diesel skirted the Public Garden and pulled in behind the Four Seasons Hotel. Morty’s son was already there.
“He’s not so bad,” Morty said. “I’m sort of looking forward to going home. I got a nice television in my room, and I got my baloney.”
We handed Morty off, and Diesel got back into the stream of traffic, driving away from Beacon Hill.
“Where are we going?” I asked him.
“As long as we’re here, I thought I’d check on Deirdre Early. There are a few things I’d like to talk to her about.”
“Such as?”
“Hitting people in the head, threatening you, Anarchy.”
“All good topics of conversation,” I said. “Maybe you want to take five or six Advil before knocking on her door.”
Diesel turned onto Commonwealth Avenue, and we immediately saw the fire trucks a block away, parked in front of Early’s house. He pulled in behind one of the trucks, and we sat there for a moment looking at the disaster in front of us. Early’s house appeared to be gutted. Windows were blown out. The exterior was soot-stained. The roof was partially collapsed.
“I warned her she was going to self-combust,” I said to Diesel.
His smile was grim. “That would be the hoped-for scenario.”