Authors: Robert B. Parker
I put the folder down for a moment. At twenty-two he was five years younger than Hunt McMartin, the guy who'd ID'd Ellis Alves. And the same age as McMartin's wife, who had also gone to Andover. This smacked of clue, but it had been so long since I'd found one that I remained cautious. The rest of the stuff was about how Clint was likely to be an all-American this year, and how Iie was planning to join the pro tour after graduation. His won-and-lost record was there, some xeroxed clippings, all laudatory, a head shot, and several action shots of Clint. He was wearing his kerchief in all of the action shots.
I sat for a bit and thought about the Andover connection and listened to the sounds of city traffic below my window. While I was thinking, Hawk came in with lunch.
"Nantucket Bay scallops are in," Hawk said. "Thought we ought to have some."
"What made you think I'd be hungry?" I said.
Hawk snorted and didn't bother to answer. He took out a bottle of dry Riesling, some plastic cutlery, two containers of broiled scallops, and a pint of coleslaw. I dug a corkscrew out of my desk drawer and, while Hawk opened the wine, I rinsed out two water glasses in the sink.
"Wine for lunch makes me sleepy," I said.
"Don't have to drink none," Hawk said.
He poured some in one of the water glasses and looked at me.
"I don't wish to offend you," I said.
Hawk grinned.
"'Course you don't," he said and poured some wine into the second glass.
We were quiet for a time while we sipped a little wine and sampled a couple of the bay scallops. The pint of coleslaw was communal. We took turns at it.
"Take a look at this," I said and handed the sports info folder to Hawk. "This is the guy that gave Melissa Henderson his letter sweater."
Hawk read through it. When he came to the pictures he stopped and studied the head shot.
"A brother," Hawk said.
"Sort of," I said.
"Suppose he met Melissa's parents?" Hawk said.
"Don't know."
"If he did," Hawk said, "you suppose he was wearing the do rag?"
"Looks like a trademark to me," I said.
"He tell you anything useful?" Hawk said.
"Started out pretending he didn't know Melissa," I said.
"Okay, so we know he ain't smart," Hawk said.
"He's not friendly either," I said. "He also says he never talked to the cops, but his coach says a detective who sounds like Miller, the State cop that busted Ellis, talked with him, the coach, not long after the murder and asked about Stapleton."
"So somebody knew about him right after she died," Hawk said.
"But either Stapleton's lying, or nobody talked to him."
"You talk to the cop?"
"Yeah. He wasn't friendly either. And he never mentioned Stapleton."
"Might want to talk to him again," Hawk said. "Sound like somebody lying."
"Almost certainly," I said. "Cops always talk to the husband or the boyfriend in a case like this."
"So why he lying?"
"Be good to know," I said.
"And how come the cop… whatsis name?"
"Miller."
"How come Miller don't mention Stapleton," Hawk said, "and Stapleton's name never come up in the transcript?"
I didn't even know Hawk had a copy of the transcript.
But I was used to that. Even I never really knew Hawk.
"That'd be good to know, too," I said.
"And who looking to get you run off the case?"
"That'd be dandy to know."
I swiveled my chair a little and looked out my window and sipped my wine. It had rained hard last night and cleared before dawn. The morning sun was bright, and outside my window everything in the Back Bay looked clean and morally alert.
"Another thing that bothers me," I said, "is that Stapleton went to Andover three years behind Hunt McMartin and coincident with McMartin's wife."
"They the people ID'd Ellis?"
"Yeah."
"So Stapleton's girlfriend get killed, and by coincidence people he went to prep school with ID the killer and nobody mention that?"
"Not to me," I said. "And it's not in the trial transcripts."
"'Course not everybody go to Andover know each other," Hawk said.
"True," I said.
"Still a coincidence," Hawk said.
"Un huh."
"You like coincidences?"
"I hate them," I said. "How about you."
"Got no feeling on it," Hawk said. "You the detective. I just a thug."
"You're too modest," I said.
Hawk grinned.
"Didn't mean to say I wasn't a great thug," he said.
"Another thing that's bothersome," I said, "is even though, according to the ME, there's no proof of rape they found no semen, for instance-everybody automatically refers to the fatal event as a rape and murder."
"That 'cause the alleged perp is a brother," Hawk said.
"And all you guys think about is ravaging our women."
"Not all," Hawk said. "Sometimes we think 'bout eating fried chicken."
"While ravaging our women?" I said.
"When possible," Hawk said. "What did she die of?"
"Strangulation."
"Manual?"
"No, some kind of ligature."
"Ligature," Hawk said. "Easy to see how you got to be a detective. I assume they never found this here ligature."
"Nope."
"And they didn't find her clothes?"
"Nope."
"They ever establish a, ah, prior connection between Ellis and the deceased?"
"Nope."
Across Berkeley Street from my office the tourists were posing with the bear outside of FAO Schwarz. The coffee shop on the first floor must have changed the grease in the frialator. There was a clean smell to it as it drifted up from the alley vent.
"They ever establish how Ellis got out to Pemberton?" Hawk said.
"The eyewitnesses said he was driving an old pink Cadillac."
"Yeah, that's what we drive," Hawk said. "They ever find the car?"
"Nope."
"They get the license number?"
"Nope."
"But there was one registered to Ellis."
"Nope."
Hawk ate the last scallop. I turned back to the desk and took a healthful bite of coleslaw.
"So," Hawk said, "Alves borrows or steals a car one night, an inconspicuous old pink Caddy. He drives out to Pemberton in his inconspicuous car, where there ain't no black folks, and the cops pay attention to any that they see. He cruises around in his inconspicuous car until he spots a white girl on a busy street, drags her into his inconspicuous car in front of witnesses, drives her somewhere, takes off her clothes and strangles her, though he maybe doesn't rape her, dumps her body in the middle of the Pemberton Campus, and rides on back home with her clothes and the aforesaid ligature in his inconspicuous car, so in case the cops stop him he can incriminate himself."
"He could have dropped the clothes off in a Dumpster somewhere."
"Why take them at all?" Hawk said.
"I can't imagine," I said. "Ellis has spent half his life in the criminal justice system. He'd know better than to be caught with stuff like that."
"He'd leave them right where they fell," Hawk said.
"Sure, unless there was something about them that would incriminate him."
"Like what?" Hawk said.
"If she fought him enough to draw blood."
"But she didn't."
"According to the coroner's report there was no blood under her fingernails," I said. "No fend-off bruises on her arms. In fact, there's no sign of her putting up any resistance."
"And Ellis didn't have a mark on him," Hawk said.
"Maybe he took her to his home and undressed her there."
"And then killed her and drove all the way back out to Pemberton with her dead in the car? Or drove her out naked in the car and killed her there?"
"Don't make any sense," Hawk said.
"No, it doesn't."
"So who would take the clothes?" Hawk said.
"Someone who didn't know what they were doing and panicked."
"Don't sound like my man Ellis," Hawk said.
"No, it doesn't."
We were quiet. The scallops and coleslaw were gone. There was about one glass each left of the wine. Hawk picked up the bottle.
"Don't keep so good once it's opened," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Better finish it up," Hawk said.
"We'd be fools not to," I said.
Hawk poured out the wine, and we sat in the quiet office and looked out at the bright morning and finished it.
"Can you find out if a guy named Bruce Parisi, currently living on Hutchinson Road in Arlington, has a record."
"Sure."
"And, if he does, and I'll bet he does, get me whatever you can on him."
"Sure, I'll call you back."
"No, I'm in the car," I said. "It's easier if I call you."
"Well, a car phone?"
"Modern crime fighter," I said.
It was a bright, windy day at the rim of the Mystic lakes. I turned left off Mystic Street and onto Hutchinson Avenue and drove across the slope of a pretty good-sized hill parked a little downhill from the house and across the street. It was a white colonial with green shutters and a screened porch on the side. It sat further uphill from the road. A long hot top driveway ran up past the screen porch and widened into a turn-around in front of a two-car garage set back of the house. The Chevy wagon was in the turn-around.
I sat with the motor idling and scanned the dial for music. My favorite, Music America, had been taken off the local public radio station by the airheads who ran it. I listened occasionally to one or another of the college stations, but they tended to play fusion, and the DJs were usually painful. I hit the scan button and watched it go around the dial without finding anything I wanted to hear. While I sat with the scanner scanning, the front door opened and a man came down the front steps looking like he was going to a reception at the British Consulate in a blue Chesterfield overcoat and a gray homburg hat. He got in the Chevy wagon, backed down the long driveway, and headed out past me toward Mystic Street. I let him turn the corner and U-turned and drifted along behind him. I could afford to lay back and let him get ahead of me. If I lost him, I knew where he lived. When you have that luxury, tailing is a breeze. We went along Mystic Street, turned onto Medford Street, and went through West Medford into Medford Square. He went down an alley between two buildings. I pulled up across from the alley entrance next to a "No Standing" sign and waited. In a minute or two he came out of the alley and went into a store front. The sign in the front window said "Parisi Enterprises." I picked up my car phone and called Rita Fiore.
"I'm sitting outside Bruce Parisi's office in Medford Square," I said. "What do you have on him."
"Been arrested three times," Rita said. "Loan sharking twice, once for strong arm stuff: he contracted some goons to help break a strike."
"Where's Eugene Debs when you need him," I said.
"There's something might be interesting, though. Last time he was busted, two years ago for loan sharking, the arresting officer was a State Detective named Miller."
"Tommy Miller?"
"Yes," Rita said. "Wasn't he the man who arrested Ellis Alves?"
"Yes," I said. "He was."
"Is it interesting?"
"Yes, it is."
"You want to tell me what you're doing?"
"If I knew, I would. But I don't, so please don't embarrass me by asking."
"Fine," Rita said. "Have a nice day."
We hung up. My car wouldn't last ten minutes where I was. I swung it across the street and down the alley behind Parisi Enterprises. There were three parking spaces back there. A sign on the back of the building said "Reserved for Parisi Enterprises. All Others Will Be Towed." There was a car in each space. I parked directly behind the maroon Chevy. I didn't want Parisi leaving before I did anyway. I took my.38 out and looked to see that there were bullets in all the proper places. I knew there would be, but it did no harm to be careful. And I'd seen Clint Eastwood do it once in the movies. Then I put the gun back on my hip, got out of the car, and strolled up the alley to the front of the building.
Parisi Enterprises didn't have a lot of overhead. The office was furnished with two gray metal desks, a gray metal table, and two swivel chairs. There was an empty pizza box on the table, and several days' worth of the Boston Herald scattered on one of the desks. The other desk held a big television set on which a talk show host was examining the issue of cross dressing with a bunch of guys in drag. Parisi had folded his coat on the empty swivel chair and put his gray homburg on top of it. He was seated behind the newspaper-littered desk talking on the phone. His hair was black and combed back in a big Ricky Ricardo pompadour that gleamed with hair spray. That he had been able to wear a hat without messing his do was a tribute to the holding power of whatever he sprayed on it. He didn't look too tall, but he was fat enough to make up for it. Under his several chins he wore a white spread collar attached to a blue striped shirt. His tie was blue silk, and his blue double breasted suit must have cost him better than a grand because it almost fit him. He crooked the phone in his shoulder when I came
"Wait a minute," he said into the phone, "a guy came in."
He spoke to me. "Whaddya want?" he said.
"You Bruce Parisi?" I said.
"You a cop?" he said.
"No."
"Then take a hike," he said. "I'm on the phone."
"Hang it up," I said.
"Fuck you, pal."
I walked over to the wall and yanked the phone wire from the phone jack. Parisi looked as if he couldn't believe what he had just seen.
"What are you, fucking crazy, you walk in here to my office and fuck with me?"
He let the phone fall from his shoulder as he stood and his hand reached toward his hip. I hit him with all the left hook I had handy and knocked him backwards over the swivel chair and into the wall behind it. The swivel chair skittered on its casters like something alive, the seat spinning and crashing into the desk as Parisi slid down the wall and landed on the floor, with one foot bent under him and the other tangled in the chair. I got a hold of his big pompadour and dragged him to his feet and slammed him face first against the wall. On his hip was a Berretta.380 in a black leather holster, the skimpy kind of holster that allows the gun barrel to stick through. I took the Berretta out of the holster and dropped it in the pocket of my coat and stepped away from him. He didn't move. He stood with his face pressed against the wall, his hands at his sides.
"Gimme a day, two at the most, I'm working on a thing. I'll have the money by tomorrow," he said.
"I'm not here about money," I said.
"What do you want?" he said into the wall.
"I want to know why four stiffs came to my office and threatened me if I didn't drop the Ellis Alves case."
"I don't know," he said. "Why should I know."
I stepped in close to him and dug a left into his kidneys. He gasped and sagged a little against the wall.
"You sent them," I said.
"I don't even know who you are," he said.
"My name's Spenser. You know a guy named Tommy Miller?"
"Yeah."
"You sending the sluggers to my office got anything to do with him?"
"I don't know what you're…"
I hit him again in the same kidney. He made a kind of a yelp and his knees sagged. He turned toward me and slid his back down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his fat legs splayed out in front of him.There was blood on the corner of his mouth. It took him a couple of tries to speak.
"Yeah. Tommy said he wanted you roughed up. I owed him a favor. I sent out some guys."
"Why'd you owe him a favor?"
"He, ah, he helped me out when I got nabbed."
"How?"
"Got rid of some stuff."
"Evidence?"
"Yeah."
"What are friends for," I said.
"No harm done," Parisi mumbled. "Nobody roughed you up. We was only going to scare you."
"If you scare me again," I said, "I will come back and kick your teeth out."
"No trouble," Parisi said. "No trouble."
"Sure," I said and walked out.