His partner on the ground reached out and grabbed for my leg. The whole thing was as undignified and unpretty as it gets. I kicked at the man on the ground and nearly got the .45 from the other’s hand. I head-butted him and knocked him back a step. He would not let go, gritting his teeth and using both hands. I held the gun with one hand and reached around his neck to pull him down in a headlock. His partner bit my ankle.

It was that kind of thing.

Jemma honked the horn some more. Someone new screamed. I thought I heard Pearl barking from up in my bay window. The gun went off again.

And then it was all quiet. Jemma honked the horn two more times, and then, seeing her attacker was down, crawled outside and behind me. The ankle biter was bloody but unbowed as he got to his feet and behind the wheel of the black sedan. The key warning dinged inside until he slammed the door and started the engine.

I was catching my breath in the headlights. The other man lay busted and bleeding against the curb as the car squealed out and headed west at about ninety. I put my hands on top of my head like a sprinter, my right hand still clutching the .45.

“He’s dead,” Jemma said. “Bloody hell. He’s dead.”

I closed my eyes and lowered my hands, placing the .45 on the ground. The man lay in the street, his dumb, narrow eyes staring into nothing. Police sirens sounded in the distance. There had probably been a few 911 calls. I wondered how my neighbors felt about me now.

“Jesus Christ, Spenser,” she said.

She started to cry. I put my arm around her and waited for the cops.

They arrived thirty seconds later. Thirty minutes later, a patrol officer told me that Sergeant Belson requested my presence at headquarters.

“Terrific,” I said.

41

I WAS BROUGHT to a slick room with a slick laminate conference table at the police headquarters in Roxbury. Everything about Boston Police Headquarters was slick. It reminded me of a conference center in an airport Hyatt. I waited at the table for maybe thirty minutes before Frank Belson walked in wearing a damp raincoat along with another homicide cop named Lee Farrell. Belson said Quirk was on vacation.

“I didn’t know Quirk took vacations,” I said.

“I think he spends the time rearranging his tool shed,” Farrell said.

Farrell set a digital recorder on the table. He wore an old pair of Dockers and a red-and-white-striped golf shirt. It was very wrinkled. When he sat, he exposed navy socks worn with moccasins.

“Are you sure you’re gay?” I said.

“I played Celine Dion all the way here,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Sounded nice with the siren.”

“I thought all gay men had style.”

“No,” Farrell said. “We just like other dudes.”

“Ah.”

Belson took off his raincoat and sat at the head of the table. His always bluish-tinged jawline was now black with a full day’s growth. He probably shaved with a weed whacker. The rain and dampness of his clothes had deepened the smell of cheap cigars on him. It was fortunate that the city had instated a no-smoking policy when they opened the new digs.

“So,” Belson said. “Tell us about the stiff.”

“Well, they forgot to introduce themselves while trying to kill me.”

Farrell snorted. Belson gave him a hard look and Farrell broke into a small grin.

“Can I see your belt?” Belson said. “Like to know where you’re adding all those notches.”

“They tried to take a woman by force,” I said. “When I tried to stop them, they pulled a gun on me. When I tried to disarm the man, he pulled the trigger and shot himself. The other one ran.”

“And you didn’t know them?” Farrell said.

“Nope.”

“Never seen ’em?” Belson said.

“Nope.”

“Who is the woman and why were you with her?” Farrell said. He had pulled out a legal-sized yellow pad. He kept eye contact while jotting down notes. It was quite a talent.

“Jemma Fraser,” I said. “But you know that. You just came over from talking to her. That’s why you left me for thirty minutes without coffee.”

Belson shrugged. “So the broad worked for Rick Weinberg, and since the son of a bitch was found without his head,” he said, “she needed some protection.”

“He didn’t show up without his head,” I said. “It was just his head that showed up. They found the rest later.”

“And this broad was missing.”

“Woman,” Farrell said. “You straight guys wonder why you don’t get laid more.” He tapped his pen on the paper. Since the last time I’d seen him, he’d bulked up a little and shaved the blond mustache. He looked much younger and healthier.

“She said she was being pursued,” Belson said.

“That’s what she told me, too,” I said. “I met her at Copley Place and drove her back to my apartment.”

“Did you not believe her at first?”

“Nope,” I said. “Would you?”

Belson let out a long sigh and then leaned back in the slick office chair. He set a pair of scuffed brown loafers on the edge of the table and stared up at the ceiling. “What’d this Fraser woman tell you?”

“She was about to tell me something of importance before those two tried to throw her into their car.”

Belson nodded. He looked to Farrell. Farrell’s eyes looked over me, and he waited a beat. “Nobody has told you, then.”

“Told me what?” I said.

“Jimmy Carlucci is the dead one,” Farrell said. “We think he was working with his brother, Tommy. You don’t know the Carlucci brothers?”

“Sounds like a used-car dealership.”

“They were a couple of young hotshots,” Belson said. “Real up-and-comers in the life. You know?”

“Quirk always served me coffee before bringing bad news.”

“We’ve spoken to the DA,” Farrell said. “We don’t have to hold you, in light of the Carluccis’ record.”

“Okay,” I said. “So it’s you that knows these guys.”

“Yeah,” Belson said. “I’ve known these shitbirds since they were stealing ATMs out of bars in the South End. They used to run with this half-Irish, half-Cuban fuckup. Named Carlos or Carlito. Shit, I don’t remember. But their pal ended up in a little alley off Tremont. They wedged his body in a one-foot space and covered him up with garbage bags.”

“You make the case?”

Belson shook his head.

“Frank, you’re leaving out the best part,” Farrell said. He rubbed the wide place under his nose as if he still had the mustache. “You want to tell him, or do I?”

“No, wait,” I said. “I love the suspense.”

Belson stood up and stretched his legs. He felt for his shirt pocket and pulled out a wet cigar that looked like he’d extracted it from a cat box. He stuck the limp, brown mass in the side of his mouth. “You just aced Gino Fish’s nephew.”

“You’re gonna need some help,” Farrell said.

“I have someone.”

“Hawk?”

“My protégé.”

“Where’s Hawk?” Belson said. The cigar vice locked in his jaw.

“Miami.”

“You sure you want to bet your life on that Indian kid?” Belson said.

I didn’t answer. Z was not Hawk.

“Call him,” Farrell said. “Because I’ll lock you up myself if you try and leave here by yourself. Christ, it’s three a.m.”

“Where’s Jemma?”

“Next room,” Belson said.

“She’s coming with me.”

“Of course, why not make the target even bigger,” Belson said. He walked to the door. “Terrific. For someone who quotes poetry and shit all the time, I wonder about your common fucking sense.”

“You’re not alone.”

Belson made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and indigestion. He shook his head and left the room, not bothering to close the door. His steps were soft and silent on the industrial carpet. Farrell turned back to me. “You doing okay?”