Robert B. Parker's Hot Property E-Book

Mike Lupica

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Spenser Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 361

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'Spenser's back with a vengeance' Best Thriller Books Spenser investigates a case that hits dangerously close to home in this latest installment of Robert B. Parker's beloved series. Spenser is waiting out the latest Boston snowstorm when he gets word that Rita Fiore has been shot. Rita's always been a tricky one: flirting with Spenser for years, she's an ever-present figure that transcends friendship in Spenser's circle. But at the end of the day, Rita is family. And family will always be protected. Both a pitbull in the courtroom and provocateur outside it, Rita is no stranger to controversy. But as one of the city's toughest lawyers, Spenser knows that there's no short list of suspects who might want to enact revenge. With Rita's life hanging in the balance, it's up to him to get to the bottom of things, even if it means unearthing some unsavory secrets that might just lead him into an age-old game of lies and deceit.

Leseprobe

JOIN OUR COMMUNITY!

Sign up for all the latest crime and thriller

news and get free books and exclusive offers.

BEDFORDSQUAREPUBLISHERS.CO.UK

Critical Acclaim for Robert B. Parker

‘Parker… writes old-time, stripped-to-the-bone, hard-boiled school of Chandler… His novels are funny, smart and highly entertaining… There’s no writer I’d rather take on an aeroplane’ Sunday Telegraph

‘Parker packs more meaning into a whispered “yeah” than most writers can pack into a page’ Sunday Times

‘Why Robert Parker’s not better known in Britain is a mystery. His best series featuring Boston-based PI Spenser is a triumph of style and substance’ Daily Mirror

‘Robert B. Parker is one of the greats of the American hard-boiled genre’ Guardian

‘Nobody does it better than Parker’ Sunday Times

‘Parker’s sentences flow with as much wit, grace and assurance as ever, and Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist’ Newsday

‘If Robert B. Parker doesn’t blow it, in the new series he set up in Night Passage and continues with Trouble in Paradise, he could go places and take the kind of risks that wouldn’t be seemly in his popular Spenser stories’ New York Times

For Taylor McKelvy Lupica.

My one and only.

1

It was early February and snowing again in Boston. I felt as if it had been snowing since Thanksgiving. Or perhaps since the autumn equinox. The TV meteorologists, talking excitedly every night about more record snowfall numbers, and about ten more inches than we’d gotten ten years ago, continued to treat the whole thing like porn.

Hawk,beingHawk,hadhisownanalysisofthecity’scurrent weather conditions, void of any statistics about dew points and barometric pressure.

‘Climate change,’ he said, ‘has now officially worn my ass out.’

‘Ittookawinterlikethistogetyouthere?’I said.

‘Been building up to it for a while,’ he said. ‘Feeling like I’m living at the damn North Pole finally took me over the edge.’

I stared out my window at the latest storm, the snow blowing sideways across Boylston Street. The morning news shows had already announced another round of school closings. People were being advised to stay off the Pike and the expressway and take public transportation if possible. They were also telling nonessential workers to stay home. I imagined people all over the greater Boston area declaring themselves more essential than the pilot landing a plane at Logan.

IrememberedaCarlSandburglineaboutfogbeingonsilent haunchesovertheharborandthecitybeforemovingon.Maybe fog.ThesnowinBostonwouldn’tmoveon,fromtheHarboror anywhereelse.Theysaidtherehadn’tbeensnowfalllikethisin tenyearsinBoston.Ithadreachedthepointwherejustgoingfor donutshadstartedtofeelasifitoughttobeoneofthosecross-country events in the Winter Olympics.

Imademyselfasecondcupofmyowncoffeeandcontinued reading The Globe at my desk. Despite the weather, they were stilldeliveringthepapertomydoormostmornings,ifacouple hourslatesometimes.IknewIcouldjustaseasilyreaditonline, that it was a generational thing to refuse to do so. But it was a personal choice, as was continuing to use a landline.

‘I’m actually surprised that phone on your desk isn’t a rotary,’ Susan Silverman once told me.

‘Don’t think I didn’t consider that,’ I said. ‘You can get them for thirty-nine ninety-nine on Amazon. I checked.’

‘T-Mobile will never take you alive,’ she said.

‘By the way,’ I said. ‘You know what never lost messages and texts like my iPhone One Thousand does? My old rotary phone.’

Susan had smiled and said, ‘We really are going to need a much bigger complaints box.’

IhadtheSportssectioninfrontofmenow,taking consolation in the fact that even with a new Ice Age upon us, pitchers and catchers would soon be reporting to the Red Sox spring training home in Fort Myers.

It meant that before too very long I would be experiencing thesightandsweetsoundoflinedrives,onradioandTV,coming off the bat of Raffy Devers, our team’s young star. It had taken some doing, but I had finally come to grips with the fact that Mookie Betts was never coming back to the Sox from the Dodgers.

Ihadnowgivenmyheartto another.

‘They nearly added a fifth level of grief where you and Mookie were concerned,’ Susan had said the night before at dinner.

Hawk had been with us, at Sorellina on Huntington Ave.

‘Howmanyyearsisitnowyoubeentalkingaboutone pint-sized baseball player getting traded like he was your first dog run away from home?’ he said.

‘Itwasaverypainfulbreakup,’Isaid.

‘Not for him,’ Hawk said.

I had then broached the idea of Susan perhaps taking a trip with me to the west coast of Florida when the Sox commenced playing spring-training games.

‘I’dratherjustpaytheransom,’she said.

‘Whatifithasn’tstoppedsnowingbythen?’Isaid.

‘I’ll just have to risk it,’ she said.

It had been an extremely slow winter for me professionally,soslowthatI’dbeguntowonderwhentheglowingjobreportsthepresidentkepttalkingaboutweregoingtoapplytome again.

The last investigation I’d worked had been for Rita Fiore, work for which I had refused payment.

Rita had ended a relationship with a lawyer from another firmrightbeforeChristmas,atwhichpointhehadnotjustbeen an extremely bad sport about it, but also threatened to release naked pictures of her as a form of retaliation.

‘Stop me if you’ve heard this one,’ Rita said. ‘But I once again put my money on the wrong horse’s ass.’

‘Boy,’Isaid.‘Whocouldhaveeverseensomethinglikethat coming?’

‘Maybe the reason I keep making poor choices is because you continue to not choose me,’ Rita said.

‘But I remain devoted to you in other meaningful ways,’ I said.

‘Nameone.’

‘Well,Ialwaystellmenwhoinquireaboutyouravailability thatwhiletheyneedtogetinline,thegoodnewsisthattheline moves,’ I said.

‘Don’t be mean,’ she said.

She told me that day that the pictures were just one of her concerns. She also believed the guy had begun stalking her. She’d waitedtoolong,shesaid,tohavethelockschangedathertown houseonJoyStreet,andwascertainhe’dusedhiskeytogetinsideonatleastoneoccasion,possiblymorethanthat.Iaskedif he’dtakenanything.Shesaidshedidn’tthinkhehad;hehadrearranged things just enough to let her know he’d been there. And, in the process, make her feel violated.

‘Canyougethimtostop?’she asked.

‘You’re in luck,’ I said. ‘As convincing men not to behave badly remains one of my specialties.’

‘I keep thinking that one of these days I might experience someofyourotherspecialtiesifIcatchyouinaweakmoment.’

‘I have no weak moments,’ I said. ‘Just a stubbornness that canneverbeartobefrightenedatthewillofothers.’

‘Which tough guy said that?’ she asked.

‘Jane Austen,’ I said.

2

The lawyer’s name was Donald Harrigan, he of Harrigan and Sons, a white-shoe Boston firm, whiter than the endless snow of the Boston winter, a firm I assumed had started locking in clients around the time when the Mayflower landed.

It had taken me only a few days of following him around to realize that he was indeed following Rita. I wasn’t certain if he might be moving up on something more dangerous, and how much of a threat he actually posed, but I wasn’t going to wait around to find out. Mostly what I wanted to uncover was how andwherehehadstoredthesepictures,andtomakesurethatat some point they didn’t end up splashed all over social media from here to Nepal.

Eventually there came the Friday night after Rita had first called me about him, and Hawk and I were waiting for Donald Harrigan inside his own Beacon Hill town house when he arrived home from the office.

‘Whatthefuck,’he said.

‘Nottomaketoofineapointofthings,Donald,’Hawksaid, ‘but the one fucked here appears to be you.’

‘Weareheretocollectanyandall,ah,compromisingphotographs of Rita Fiore,’ I said.

‘Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout,’he said.

Therewasstillsnowontheshouldersofhisovercoat.Hecasually hung it on a rack near the front door.

Whenheturnedbacktous,Hawkhadalreadymovedacross the room. He then effortlessly backhanded him across the face, the sound like the crack of a baseball bat, the force of the blow putting Donald Harrigan on his ass.

Hawkkneltnextto him.

‘Rita’smyfriend,’hesaidsoftly.‘Beenafriendtomytrusty sidekickhereevenlongerthanme.Sowhatyou’regoingtodo, Donald, is go get those pictures of her off your phone or your laptoporyourdamniPadorwhereverthefuckyoustoredthem away.You’regoingtogetyourselfupanddothatlippity-lop,or the next time I hit you it will be hard enough to turn you into a Democrat.’

Harrigan put his hand to his mouth, took it away, saw the blood on it.

‘You can’t just come into my house—’

Hawkreachedtowardhim.Harriganflinched.ButallHawk did was touch a finger to Harrigan’s bloody lip.

‘Shhhh,’Hawksaid.‘Now,let’sstartwithyouhandingover your phone.’

‘I’m not giving you my phone.’

Hawksmiled,andshookhisheadsadly,andbackhandedhim again, putting him on his back this time.

While Harrigan was on the floor, now looking more than a littleglassy-eyed,hefumbledinsidethejacketofhispinstriped suit and handed Hawk the phone.

‘Passcode,’ Hawk said.

Harrigan told him without hesitation. Hawk sat back down in the chair next to mine and began tapping away.

To me, Hawk said, ‘You delete pictures from this, dirty or otherwise, you delete it from all his devices.’

‘Andyouknowthis how?’

‘Everybody except a Luddite like you knows,’ Hawk said.

‘Yeah, well, at least I know what a Luddite is.’

Harriganwasseatedonhiscouchbythen.Hawkwalkedover and handed the phone back to him.

‘Wherearetheprintedcopies?’Hawksaid.

‘There aren’t any.’

‘Sho’ there are,’ Hawk said pleasantly.

He turned to me.

‘I’m betting Donald here is an old-school perv,’ Hawk said.

‘Agreed,’ I said.

‘Just so you know,’ Harrigan said. ‘Rita wanted me to take those pictures of her.’

Isaid,‘Andnowyou’regoingtogivethembackbeforeIget some swings of my own in, Donald. And you need to know in advance that I hit harder than my friend.’

‘Do not,’ Hawk said.

‘Do too,’ I said.

Harrigan looked at me, then back at Hawk. There was still blood on his lip that had spilled down to his chin.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

‘Ithinknot,’Isaid.

‘Have it your way,’ he said.

We followed him up the stairs and into his bedroom and watchedhimtakedownaMonetprintfromthewall.Therewas a safe behind it. Harrigan worked the combination, opened the door, and came out with a manila envelope. Handed it wordlessly to me. Some of the photographs inside were in color, some in black-and-white.

Old-school prints, indeed.

‘Is this all of them?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.

IhandedtheenvelopetoHawkandgrabbedHarriganbythe lapelsofhisjacket,pullinghimcloseenoughtomethatIcould smell his cologne.

‘Youneedtounderstandtheconsequencesofyoulyingtous about this,’ I said. ‘Because if you have lied, your life at that point will become vastly more difficult than it currently is. Are we clear on that? Nod if you understand what I just told you.’

He nodded.

‘And if you ever go near Rita Fiore or her home again, we will be back,’ I said.

We left then. When we were inside Hawk’s new Jaguar, Hawk said, ‘Maybe I should hold on to the envelope, just for safekeeping.’

‘Because there might be something in those pictures you haven’t already seen?’

‘YougotnowayofknowingwhetherRitaandIactedonour mutual attraction or not,’ he said.

‘More like something I intuited,’ I said.

‘Sowhatyougonnadowiththepictures?’

‘Make a fire when I get home,’ I said.

I could see him smiling as he noiselessly put the car in motion.

‘Your loss,’ he said.

Rita had once again insisted on paying me when I told her what Hawk and I had done, and once again I refused.

‘Justmyluck,’shesaid.‘Youstillwon’ttakeyesforananswer.’

Sincethen,Ihadsteadfastlyremainedintheranksoftheunemployed. And like the snow, my winter of discontent showed no signs of ending anytime soon.

‘Prettysureyoustolethediscontentline,’Susan said.

The snow outside came harder. They were predicting six moreinchesbytheendoftheday.Iwasalreadystartingtothink about how far I would be willing to walk in these conditions to get lunch when Martin Quirk called.

‘Somebody shot Rita Fiore,’ he said.

3

I felt my chest constricting like a fist closing.

‘Maybe a hit,’ Quirk added. ‘Maybe not. Too early to tell.’

‘Is she—’

Hecutme off.

‘No,’hesaid,thentoldmewheretomeethimattheCritical Care Center, on Fruit Street.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can get to my car,’ I said. ‘It’s in back of my building and I may need to dig myself out.’

‘You’re at your office?’

He’dcalledonmycellinsteadofthelandline.

‘Yeah.’

‘One of my cars will pick you up in five minutes,’ Quirk said.

I told him I’d be waiting downstairs and called Hawk. Then I didgodownstairstostandinthecold,feelingamuchtighterfist aroundmyheartasIwaitedforQuirkandconsideredthe possibilitythatRitaFioremight die.

Itookgreatpride,andhadfromthetimeIhadbeenraisedby myfatherandmyunclesandtaughtself-reliancealmostassoon as they had taught me how to read, to be afraid only of things I could not control.

But I was afraid now.

Quirk, Frank Belson, Hawk, and I were in the waiting area of the Mass General Trauma Center. It was part of Mass General, andpartofthehospital’sGunViolenceUnit,whichhelpedwith that kind of violence only after the fact.

‘You know where she lives on Beacon Hill?’ Quirk said to me.

‘Joy Street.’

‘What are the odds, Rita ending up with an address like that?’

Hesaidtherehadbeenagymbagfoundnexttoher.Inodded.

‘She works out at Beacon Hill Athletic,’ I said. ‘She was probablyonherwaythere.’

‘Maybeahalf-mileawayfromherhouse,’Belsonsaid.‘On Friend.’

‘She took me with her there one time. Was a Rita thing, for her own amusement. Taking me. Her way of fucking with the tight asses,’ Hawk said.

The short trip from my office to the hospital in Quirk’s car hadfeltlikeabobsledrun,evenasslowlyasthecopbehindthe wheelwastryingtodrive.Andtherehadbeenafewdetoursbecauseofsomestreetsthathadn’tbeenplowed.Butwehadmade it, if not as soon as I wanted to.

Shewasstillupstairsinsurgery.Quirk,beingQuirk,had just come back downstairs, even though he wasn’t supposed to be upstairs. But it sounded as if he’d gotten close to the operating room.

Somehow he already knew that the bullet had missed Rita’s heartandliver,butthattherehadbeensignificantdamagetoher stomach and intestines. A lot of blood loss, almost too much to save her, in the snow. He said she was likely alive because a FedEx driver happened to come around the corner practically before she’d hit the ground, and had decided not to wait to call 911,makingthedecisiontodriveherstraighttotheemergency room himself.

‘TurnsouttheguyisaformerEMT,’Quirksaid,‘andknew what he was doing.’

TheFedExguysaidhe’dactuallyseentheshooter’sgunstill outthewindowofsomekindofblackSUV.Assoonashesaw that, and Rita on the ground, he started blowing his horn like a madman,spookingtheshooterenoughthathedidn’tgetoffanother shot, just gunned the SUV and headed in the other direction instead, his car nearly sliding into a snowbank.

‘Secondshotwouldprobablyhavefinishedher,’Quirksaid. ‘Maybe been a head shot.’

‘Driver see anybody else in the SUV?’ I asked.

Quirk said, ‘He didn’t think so, but it all happened pretty freaking fast.’

‘Figures,’ Hawk said. ‘Pro hitter wouldn’t need a second guy. Loose end for him to worry about later.’

‘ItalkedtotheFedExguy,’Belsonsaid.‘Hegotherintothe back of his truck as carefully as he could, did his best to stanch thechestwoundwithhisfirst-aidkit.Thenhauledasseven in these conditions. Says he’s pretty sure he got her here in under ten minutes.’

‘Heroesstillwalkamongus,’I said.

‘FedEx,’ Martin Quirk said. ‘They live to deliver.’

‘Or deliver to live,’ I said.

4

Rita was still in surgery four hours later.

Outside, the snow kept falling. The plows kept plowing. The forecast had us getting four to six more inches into the night.OverinBeaconHill,detectiveswerestillcanvassingher neighborhood. Quirk pointed out that on a normal day, there probablywouldhavebeenmorepeopleonthestreetwithRitaat around eight-thirty, which is when it happened, people on their waytoworkorwalkingdogsoroutforarun,oroutforcoffee. Just not this morning and not in weather like this.

‘SnowdayinBeaconHill,’Quirksaid.‘Sofartheonlyone who seemed to see anything useful was that driver. Maybe the shooterhadplannedtoringherdoorbelllateranddoitthatway. Butthentherewasnobodyonthestreetexcepther,nobodybetweenhimandher,shitblowingaroundliketheinsideofasnow globe,andhedecidedtosavehimselfthetroubleandgetitdone right there.’

‘Iknowpeoplehatelawyers,includingtheirownsometimes,’Belsonsaid.‘Butusuallynotenoughtoshoottheirass.’

I smiled.

‘What’s so funny?’ Belson said.

‘Ritawouldbethrilledtoknowwe’restilldiscussingher ass,’ I said. ‘Even tangentially.’

Belson snorted and shook his head. ‘The shit talk just never stops with you,’ he said.

‘Yougotabetterideatofillthetimewhilewe’rewaiting?’I said.

‘Not even one close,’ he said.

Wesatanddrankcoffeeandwaited.Weallknewhowtodo it,thewaiting,becauseoftheliveswe’dallled.Thesesamemen had waited for me in the hospital along with Susan and Hawk, after the Gray Man had shot me and left me for dead in the Charles River. I had waited inside and outside Hawk’s hospital roomonceafterhehadbeenambushedandnearlyshottodeath, threeintheback,bymembersoftheUkrainianMob.Bothofus hadnearlydiedonthoseoccasions.Butitturnedout,onceagain, that we were both hard to kill, or perhaps just too stubborn to die.Nowwewaitedinthehospitaltofindoutifthesamewould betrueofRitaFiore,whoseworlddidnotinvolvebadmencoming for her with guns.

Weweretoughguys,Hawkandme.Quirkwasashardacop as I’d ever met, and Frank Belson was right there with him in that particular conversation. But they were as worried about Rita as I was. They were as scared as I was. But it was as if we were all locked in a competition, like one of those Iron Man competitions, to see who could hide it best.

It was tacitly understood that we were not just here out of friendship, our connection to her, or our shared history. There was even something more at work here because of how deeply personal an attack like this was, for all of us.

‘Maybeshecantelluswhoshethinksmightsendahitterafter her,’ Quirk said.

Thenheadded,‘Whenshewakes up.’

Hehadneatlyfoldedhisblackwooltopcoatonthechairnext to him. He was wearing a tweed jacket underneath it and a red silktieandbluebutton-downshirtwiththeBrooksBrothersroll to the collar. His big hands, what I knew were old ballplayer’s hands that looked more like bricklayer’s hands, thick fingers, madethepapercoffeecuphewasholdinglookastinyasashot glass.

Hawkspokelittle.Iidlywonderedatonepointwhenhehad spentalongertimethanthisinthepresenceofcopswithoutbeinginterrogated.NeitherHawknorIhadspokenofDonaldHarrigan while we waited, or what we had done to him on Rita’s behalf. There would be time for that later.

Whenshewoke up.

‘Somebody could have held a grudge from back when she was a prosecutor,’ Belson said.

‘TonyMarcusalwayssaythebestwaytosettleagrudgeisto wait,’ Hawk said.

‘Thatassholecouldteachamasterclassinit,’Quirksaid.

‘Waiting?’ I said.

‘Grudges,’ Quirk said.

Wetalkedaboutpossiblemotiveswhilewewaited.Itwasanotherwayoftakingourmindsoffwhatwashappening upstairs. Orwhatmight behappeningupstairs.Maybetheguyreallyhad been waiting to finish her with a head shot and didn’t get the chance. Maybe the snow coming hard and sideways the way it still was had simply made him miss enough that Rita was upstairs, and still alive.

‘Could be an old boyfriend with a grudge,’ Belson said. ‘Or a new boyfriend. We all love Rita. But the list of her exes could stretch from here to Providence and back.’

I did not look over at Hawk. He did not look at me, mostly because Frank Belson, who missed nothing, was sitting right here with us.

Quirksaid,‘FromwhatI’veheard,justaboutallofthemwho were ever with Rita were happy to have served.’

‘Weallknowwhatahot-shitdefenseattorneyRitais,’Hawk said. ‘But she hasn’t won them all. Maybe somebody who got sent up is playing the long game on a grudge.’

‘We can get a list of clients from Cone, Oakes,’ Quirk said. ‘Past and present.’

‘Bealotofnamesformetogothrough,’I said.

‘And well fucking worth it if you come up with the right one,’ Quirk said.

Hawk stood up and said he was going to brave the elements andtakeawalkovertotheDunkin’onCambridgeandgetbetter coffee than we’d been drinking, and donuts. I didn’t need morecoffeeatthispoint.Ihadenoughinmebynowtogooutside and start shoveling sidewalks myself.

Hawk came back about twenty minutes later with large coffees foreverybodyandaboxofdonutswithamixeddozen inside. WhenIopenedtheboxIsaid,‘Wait,youdidn’tbringsomefor everybody else?’

I saw a smile nearly cross Frank Belson’s face. Or maybe it was just the overhead hospital lights.

‘Admit it, Frank,’ I said. ‘I’m funny.’

‘I know you’re funny,’ he said. ‘I just don’t think you’re funny.’

Wedrankmorecoffeeandatedonutsandwaitedsome more. We all told stories about what a hot shit Rita really was, andnotjustinsideacourtroom.Quirkaskedme,andnot for the first time, how I had managed through the years not to give in to temptation where Rita was concerned, the way shekeptputtingitoutthereforme,andbasicallytellingmeto come andget it.

‘Easy,’ I said.‘Susan.’

I had called Susan at her office and told her I would update her between patients if anything changed with Rita. Somehow her patientswerealsobravingtheelementstoseetheirshrink.Neither rain, nor sleet…

‘Yeah,’ Quirk said. ‘I can see Susan being the one to shoot her.’

‘And then me,’ I said.

At about one o’clock the surgeon came down to where we sat, knowing that Martin Quirk, commander of the Boston Police Department, remained in our midst. ‘Dr. Harman’ was on her name tag. Tall, slim, Black, young.

‘You all should know that I’m not sure your friend would have made it if she hadn’t been brought here as quickly as she was,’ Dr. Harman said. ‘But I want you all to know that she came through the surgery very well.’

‘Define “verywell,”’Isaid.

‘She’s very strong,’ Dr. Harman said.

Shesmiledthenandadded,‘IknowMs.Fiore’sreputationas a lawyer. But even on my table, she has turned out to be a very formidable woman.’

‘Doc,’MartinQuirksaid,‘pardonmyFrench,butyouhave no fucking idea.’

5

The doctor asked about next of kin. I told her that Rita’s parents were both dead, and she had no siblings. There was, I added, an ex-husband or even two, but I was fairly certain Rita wouldn’t count them.

‘Otherthanthepeoplewithwhomsheworks,’Isaid,‘we’re her family.’

I had never thought about it that way until this moment. But knew I was right.

Dr. Harman said that Rita would likely be in the ICU for a couple days. Most of the substantial blood loss, she said, had been caused by the bullet piercing one of her arteries.

‘A major artery?’ I asked.

‘Inmyexperience,Mr.Spenser,’shesaid,‘therearenominor ones.’

She asked who would act as the primary contact for our group. Quirk said he would, and handed her his card. Dr. Harman stuckitinherpocket,lingeredjustlongenoughtosmilebriefly at Hawk, and left.

ItwasQuirkwhofinallyspoke,forallof us.

‘It’snotjustsomebodygoingafterher,’Quirksaid.‘It’slike somebody went after all of us.’

‘Vengeance is ours,’ I said.

‘No shit,’ Quirk said.

Hewasonhiswaybacktoheadquarters.Belsonsaidhewas headingovertoJoyStreet.Quirksaidhe’dcallmeiftherewas somethingnewtoreportonRita’scondition,andmaybeevenif there wasn’t.

When Hawk and I were on the street I turned to him and said, ‘Where’s Harrigan?’

‘You making the assumption I might know that already?’

‘Uh-huh,’Isaid.‘Youwouldn’thavemadeadonutrun in this weather even if Quirk and Belson had threatened to arrest you.’

‘Boy be at his office,’ Hawk said. ‘One hundred State Street. And you’re fucking welcome.’

His Jaguar was parked on Fruit Street, in a tow-away zone.

‘Has Harrigan been at his office all morning?’ I said when we wereinsidethe car.

‘Thoughtitwouldbesaltofustoaskhimourselves,’Hawk said.

I leaned back in the passenger seat and said, ‘In that case, drive on, Hoke.’

‘Don’t be starting that Miss Daisy shit,’ Hawk said.

‘I was just trying to lighten the mood with our usual racial irony,’ I said.

‘Youcanlightenthemoodwhenshewakesup,’Hawksaid.

He put the Jag in gear.

‘AndhowmanytimesIgottoremindyouthereain’tnosuch thing as racial irony when you look like me,’ Hawk said.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I could drive.’

6

The offices for Harrigan and Sons took up the eighteenth to twenty-first floors. There was a security desk in the lobby of the building. Hawk told the guard we were there to see the junior Mr. Harrigan.

Theguardreachedforthephoneinfrontofhim.

‘Names, please?’ he said.

I took out my private detective’s license and showed it to him, leaning down close, but smiling as I did.

‘He’s expecting us,’ I said. ‘A mutual friend of ours has been shot.’

Maybe it was something in my smile, which had about as muchwarmthastheday.Ormaybeitwasjustmebeingasbigas I was and up into his personal space.

‘Firstbankofelevatorsonyourright,’theman said.

As we walked toward the elevators, Hawk said, ‘I believe you scared that poor man nearly half to death.’

‘OnemorethingIlearnedfromyou,’Isaid.

‘Least you admit it,’ Hawk said.

On the twenty-first floor, it appeared that Harrigan and Sons was operating with a skeleton office crew because of the weather. Areceptionistwasatherpostwhenwecameoutoftheelevator. Shehadlongsilver-blondhairandoversizedblueglassesthatI could see matched the color of her eyes.

‘We’reheretoseetheyoungerMr.Harrigan,’Hawksaid.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked.

‘’Course we do,’ Hawk said.

He smiled at her. This one was different from the one he’d used on the guard downstairs. Her nameplate said ‘Ms. Brickey.’ I could see Ms. Brickey blush, or perhaps simply overheat – it happenedquitefrequentlywhenawomanwasthisclosetowhat I thought of as the essential Hawk, the full force and presence of him.

‘Corneroffice,’shesaid,hervoicesoundinghuskierthanit had originally. ‘Down the hall to your right.’

‘Thankyou,beautiful,’Hawk said.

As we walked away from her I said, ‘Pretty sure you’re not allowed to say that in the workplace.’

‘Not my workplace,’ Hawk said.

We entered Harrigan’s office without knocking. Harrigan wasbehindhisdesk.Hewaswearingasweatertoday,nojacket. Maybe it was dress-down day at the firm.

Hawk closed the door behind us, leaning back against it, arms crossed in front of him.

Therewasanold-schoolintercomonhisdesk,easily within his reach. Harrigan reached for it. But this time I was the one who moved quickly across the room, grabbing his wrist and shoving him back in his chair.

‘Whatthehell?’he said.

‘Somebody shot Rita Fiore a few hours ago,’ I said.

‘Wait… what?’ Harrigan said.

Heseemedtoshrinkfartherintohischair.Isatontheedgeof the desk, facing him. Outside his windows I could see that the day had darkened further just while we’d been inside. Pretty soonweweregoingtohaveasmuchdaylightastheydidinIceland.

‘Is she alive?’

‘She is,’ I said.

‘Which hospital?’

‘Youwanttosendherflowers?’Hawksaidfromacrossthe room.

Harrigan did his best to ignore him, then turned back to me.

‘Who shot her?’ Harrigan asked.

‘We don’t know that yet,’ I said. ‘It appears to have been a drive-by.’

‘Where?’

‘Nearherhome,’Isaid.‘Shewasonherwaytothe gym.’

Harrigangaveaquick,vigorousshakeofhishead,likea horse shooing away flies.

‘Wait,’hesaid.‘AreyouherebecauseyouthinkImight’ve had something to do with it? I mean, what the flying fuck?’

‘Wesureain’thereonaccountofwebeenmissingyou,Donald,’ Hawk said.

‘I’vebeenheresinceseveno’clockthismorning,’ Harrigansaid. ‘You can check downstairs. They scan your ID even if your name is on the door when you get up here.’

‘Whosaiditdidn’thappenbeforeseven?’Iasked.‘Justfor the sake of conversation.’

He looked around the room as if mulling some way to take back control of it. But Hawk was still at the door while I was looking down at Harrigan, who must have felt trapped behind hisdesk.Iwasprobablypreventinghimfromcallinghisdaddy.

‘Ihadnothingtodowiththis,Iswear,’he said.

‘And being an officer of the court, he’d never lie,’ Hawk said, more to me than to Donald Harrigan Jr.

I turned to look at Hawk, in his black leather knee-length coat,completelystill,lookingatHarriganasindifferentlyashe would have looked at a traffic light changing.

‘And lying would be wrong, wrong, wrong,’ I said, turning back to Harrigan.

TheintercombuzzedandHarriganlookedatme.I nodded. Hereachedforoneofthebuttonsatthebottom.

‘Hold all my calls, Christine,’ he said.

I resumed. ‘It was effectively an assassination attempt.’

‘On Rita Fiore?’

‘The same Rita recently stalked and threatened by you,’ I said. ‘Until you were dissuaded by us.’

‘Listen to me!’ Harrigan said, voice rising, sounding shrill. ‘Youhavethisallwrong.Iwasinlove withher!’

Inoticedafaintsheenofsweatabovehisupperlip.Hehadn’t moved from his chair but suddenly seemed out of breath.

‘Funny way of showing it,’ I said.

‘I didn’t have anything to do with this!’ Harrigan said once more.Hesoundedevenmoreshrillnow.Ihopedforhissakethis wasn’thiscourtroomvoice.‘Whateveryouthinkofme,I’mnot a violent person. And as crazy as I got over Rita, I’m not crazy enoughtoriskamurderrapbecausesherejectedme.Especially not after the two of you showed up and, ah, “dissuaded” me, as you put it.’

He was rocking slightly in his chair now, hands clasped in frontofhim.Helookedupatmeandsaid,‘Icalledhertoapologize,didshetellyouthat?Itoldhernottolaugh,butthatIhoped we could be friends again someday.’

‘Whatdidshesaytothat?’I asked.

‘Shewastheonewholaughed,’Harrigan said.

I stood up and walked back around his desk to where Hawk was standing. Hawk reached behind him and found the knob, opening the door.

Aswewalkedout,Harrigancalledafter us.

‘AreyougoingtotellthecopsaboutmeandRita?’hesaid.

‘No,’ I said over my shoulder. ‘But I might tell your daddy.’

7

Quirk called when I was making dinner for Susan and me at my apartment, saying that he’d just gotten off the phone with Dr. Harman.

‘Rita’s blood pressure dropped all of a sudden,’ Quirk said. ‘Whenitdid,herheartratewentthroughtheroof.Docsaid it was a common occurrence for a patient who nearly bled out thewayshedid.Whenshedidstartbleedingagain,itwasinthe area where they’d repaired the artery.’

He paused.

‘They had to take her back into the OR to stop it and stitch her up all over again.’

‘Is she all right now?’ I asked.

I saw Susan watching me.

‘Her heart stopped briefly,’ Quirk said. ‘When it did, they had to defibrillate her.’

‘So is she all rightnow?’ I asked again.

‘Docsayssheis,’hesaid.‘Theyputherbackunder,andsay they’re keeping her in the ICU for the time being.’

‘You back at the hospital?’

‘Just left,’ Quirk said.

‘Didtheyletyouatleastsee her?’

‘IcouldhavegottenupthereifIwantedto,’Quirksaid.‘But Ididn’tseeanypointinbracingthem.AndallIwouldhavegotten to do is look through a window and see a version of Rita none of us wants to see right now.’

Iheldoutthephonethen,soshecouldhearQuirk’sendofthe conversation.

‘What time do visiting hours start tomorrow?’ I said.

‘Whenwegetthere,’hesaid,thentoldmehealmost forgot, oneofherex-husbandshadshownupwhilehewasthere.Idon’t know who called him. Somebody did. Another ex-prosecutor from Norfolk County, the way Rita was.

‘All I’ll say is she sure can pick’em,’ Quirk said.

‘You talk to the guy?’

‘Whenhewasn’tcheckinghis phone.’

‘Frank learn anything in the neighborhood, by the way?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ Quirk said. ‘It finally stopped snowing.’

Then he said he was on his way home to have a scotch. Or three.

‘We are gonna get the bastard who did this, maith agus ceart,’ he said.

‘Good and proper,’ I said.

‘I didn’t know you spoke Gaelic.’

‘I learned that one from you.’

‘Among all the other things you learned from me,’ Quirk said, before ending the call.

I went backtocooking.Susancontinuedtowatchme.Ifshehad a specialty of her own in our kitchen, it was watching me.

PearltheWonderDogwasatSusan’sfeetwhileshewassipping Sancerre. As I cooked, we resumed talking about Rita, whom Susan had never liked, not even a little bit, because of what Susan called flirtatiousness on steroids. Occasionally Susan would refer to her as ‘Flora the Red Menace,’ and I’d be forced to point out how old that show was.

‘Almost as old as Rita,’ Susan had said.

Butnoweverythinghadchanged,maybe forever.

‘You’reconvincedthatthelawyerwiththedirtypictureswas telling you and Hawk the truth?’ she asked.

‘Iam,’Isaid.‘Asquicklyaswecouldhaveputabowonthis if he wasn’t.’

‘WouldyouratherIshutupnowandletyoufurtherdistract yourself with your cooking?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It would take more than cooking. Though I might be up for some distracting from you later.’

IwaspreparingwhatIhaddescribedtoherasahealthyItalian feast. Susan made the observation that healthy and Italian were generally an oxymoron. Not tonight, I told her. Turkey meatballs, Rao’s Homemade low-fat red sauce, a gluten-free pastamadewithcorn,brownrice,andquinoa.Roastedbroccolini on the side. I’d already held up the box and told Susan that the pasta was free of the top eight allergens.

‘Yeah?’ she’d said. ‘Name them.’

We both knew it was just more small talk to get us through the night. Another form of distraction. She had offered to drive overwithPearldespitetheroadconditionswhenIgotbackfrom the hospital. I’d told her she didn’t have to do that.

‘Yes,’ she’d said, ‘I do.’ And so had come.

She sipped. I was taking bigger sips out of my Johnnie Walker Blue and soda. It was still my first of the night. Maybe I would end up matching Quirk scotch for scotch, the three he said he might have, before I was through dinner. It seemed like a good night for that, after the worst day imaginable.

Susan and I ate at the oval-shaped French dining room table thatshehadfoundonanonlineantiquesstoreandinsistedIbuy. Itcouldseatuptosix,butneverhad.Imentionedtoher,andnot forthefirsttime,thatIcouldhavedonejustaswell,andforhalf the money, at Pottery Barn.

‘Weweregoingforeleganthere,champ,’shesaid.

‘Not to mention swellegant,’ I said.

‘That’s from an old movie, right?’ she said.

Isaid,‘Songis“Well,DidYouEvah!”ColePorter.Movieis High Society. A rare duet for Sinatra and Crosby. I could sing some of it, if you like.’

‘Pass the broccolini,’ Susan said.

Idid.ThenIcamearoundthetableandputmyarmsaround her, kissing her gently on the cheek.

‘Whatwasthatfor?’shesaid.

‘You being here,’ I said. ‘Or anywhere, for that matter.’

As we ate, Susan said I must have already formulated some kind of theory about the shooting.

I said, ‘Rita somehow angered or crossed the wrong person or found out something she wasn’t supposed to know. Perhaps without even knowing what it was, or who it was.’

‘Someone she knows?’ Susan said.

‘Or knows about,’ I said. ‘When she is awake, alert, and able, we will need to talk about clients, current and former, and former paramours, and come up with a list of suspects.’

‘“Paramours”?’ Susan said.

Ishrugged.‘Ihaveaswellegantwayofspeaking,whatcanI tell you.’

By now Susan had eaten perhaps a third of her gluten-free pasta. When she saw me eyeballing her plate, she wordlessly lifted it and handed it across the table, and, just like that, her pasta became mine.

‘Sometimeswethinkandactasone,’Isaid.

‘Scares the hell out of me, too,’ she said.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. More accurately, I continued eating while she watched, which seemed to fit our generaldiningdynamicperfectly.Neitherofushadever been uncomfortable with silence. Hawk had frequently noted that Susan and I could communicate better not speaking than couples who refused to shut up in each other’s presence ever could.

‘I’ve known Rita as long as I’ve known you,’ I said.

Susan reached across the table and put her hand on top of mine. ‘Just not nearly as well as she wanted to know you,’ she said. ‘Even before you met the girl of your dreams.’

‘Wewouldhavebeenallwrongforeachother,’Isaid.‘Rita and me, I mean. We were meant to be friends.’

Susan raised her glass. Somehow there was still wine left in it. Iraisedmyglass,whichnowcontainedmysecondscotch.

‘To Rita,’ Susan said.

We drank.

‘Iwillfindwhodidthis,’Isaidtoher.

‘Betyourass,’SusanSilvermansaid.

8

I hadn’t checked the online edition of The Globe before going to sleep. But Rita was on the front page of the print edition the next morning, as big and loud as she had always been, for as long as I’d known her. The news story was accompanied by a photograph of her that she would have found quite flattering, only because it was. The lead to the story was about the most prominent and flamboyant criminal defense attorney in Boston being shot, and on the street where she lived, in Beacon Hill. Assailant at large. Motive unknown.

Somehow the reporter had managed to get a quote from Martin Quirk himself, which I thought should have been a