Five Classic Spenser Mysteries (12 page)

I kept the accelerator hard down and drove a lot too fast for the wet curving road. The first cross-road I came to I turned right and at the next I turned left and at a third I turned right again. There was no one behind us. I slowed to sixty.

I looked at Hawk. He had a wad of cloth pressed against the cut on his cheek. “Glass?” I said.

“Yeah, when the dude shot through the windshield.”

“Counterman worked for Costigan,” I said.

“Sort of a forward observer,” Hawk said.

I nodded. “And they covered the way out once they knew we’d gone in. So just in case the ambush didn’t work at the lodge …”

“Thorough bastards,” Hawk said.

“Be good to remember it,” I said. “There’s Band-Aids in the glove compartment.”

We were heading north on 410. “Anything in the house?” Hawk said.

I shook my head.

“We knew there wouldn’t be,” Hawk said.

“Yeah.”

Hawk reached the road atlas from the backseat and opened it in his lap. “We can pick up a major highway in Seattle and head east,” I said.

“Shit,” Hawk said.

“We knew she wouldn’t be there,” I said.

“Yeah.”

Hawk was dripping on the road map. The rain came steady and the windshield wipers beat their metronomic half-circle swipes.

Hawk had removed his jacket and thrown it on the backseat floor. But his shirt was wet and his jeans, like mine, were soaked through.

“What route we looking for?” Hawk said.

“Ninety,” I said. “Runs east all the way to Boston.”

“We going home?”

“I don’t know where we’re going.”

“Might make sense to get dry, maybe get breakfast, sorta regroup.”

“Soon,” I said. “Don’t want to show up too close to the lodge looking like a couple of guys spent the night in the woods.”

“We get the other side of Seattle,” Hawk said, “we stop and change in the car,”

I nodded. The wipers wiped. The wheels turned. The rain didn’t let up. In the parking lot of a Holiday Inn off Route 90 in Issaquah we got our extra clothes out of the trunk and changed awkwardly in the car, putting the wet clothes in a sodden heap in the trunk. Then we headed east again across the Cascade Mountains, through the unvarying rain.

“Costigan has more money than Yoko Ono,” I said. “He and Susan could be anywhere in the world.”

Hawk nodded.

“We haven’t got a clue,” I said.

Hawk nodded again.

“If she tried to reach us she couldn’t,” I said. “She doesn’t know where we are either.”

Hawk nodded.

“We need help,” I said. “We need to get someplace where if she has a chance to reach us she can. We have to find a way to know what we’re doing. We should go home.”

“Long ride,” Hawk said.

“Spokane,” I said. “There’s an airport in Spokane. We’ll fly out of there. We’ll use Leo’s credit
card and when we get to Boston we’ll hole up and get organized.”

“You ever been to the Spokane airport?” Hawk said.

“Yeah.”

“They got food there?”

“Sort of.”

“Good. I ain’t had anything since breakfast yesterday except that goddamned weasel food you bought.”

“Weasels don’t eat granola,” I said. “Weasels are carnivores.”

“So am I,” Hawk said. “And I don’t want to eat no more fucking seeds and dates.”

“Nuts too,” I said. “Hazel nuts.”

“Let Hazel worry ’bout them,” Hawk said. “I’m getting me a mess of good boondock airport food.”

“Probably get a meal on the plane too,” I said.

“Lawzy me,” Hawk said, “I done died and gone to heaven.”

“But,” I said, “you know what it’s like trying to get off the West Coast after noontime?”

“No harm we stop by and ask,” Hawk said. “Maybe pick up some grub. I yearning for some stuff ain’t good for me, you know. Something with a lotta cholesterol, maybe too much salt. Some additives.”

“Can always get that at an airport,” I said.

“Good to be able to count on things,” Hawk said.

When we got to Spokane Airport we bought four hamburgers and two coffees and ate them and sat all night in the Volvo. In the morning we went and washed up in the airport and had some more coffee and were first in line to board United Airlines 338 to Boston via Chicago.

At six forty-nine that evening we stumbled off the plane at Logan Airport full of booze and airline food and feeling like the last day of Pompeii.

“My car’s parked in the Central Garage,” I said.

“And you think the cops ain’t spotted it?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I also think that you can trust what the President says on television.”

We took the shuttle bus to the airport subway station and took the subway into Park Street Station.

“Got a friend,” Hawk said, “lives on Chestnut Street, on the flat of the Hill, near the river. She be glad to put us up.”

We walked across the Common in the pleasant fall evening. Ahead of us a middle-aged man walked, holding hands with a middle-aged woman. She wore a plaid skirt and a tweed jacket with the collar turned up and a long maroon scarf hanging loose around her neck. We went through the little archway at the Charles and Beacon streets corner of the Common and walked along Charles to Chestnut. Halfway down the flat of Chestnut Street, with Beacon Hill rising in a dignified
jumble behind us, we stopped and Hawk rang the bell at a glass door framed in white. There was no answer.

“She a stewardess,” Hawk said. “She travel a lot.”

“Cabin attendant,” I said. “Have you no sensitivity to minority nomenclature, you dumb jigaboo?”

Hawk grinned and rang the bell again. No answer. Beside the door was a small evergreen in a large pot. Hawk reached in among the dense lower branches and came out with a small plastic case. Hawk took a key from the case and opened the door.

“Second floor,” Hawk said.

We went up some stairs along the left wall. The stairs were walnut, the walls were raised panels painted white. The balcony was white too with elaborate turned risers. At the top Hawk took another key from the case and opened the apartment door. There was a living room that ran at right angles to the door and looked out onto Chestnut Street. Off the left wall was a kitchenette and beside it a door that opened into the bedroom. The living room walls were white. There was a pink couch, a gray Art Deco streamlined coffee table, two wing chairs, one pink, one gray. The brick fireplace had been painted white, and a Japanese
fan served to screen the firebox. The fan was pink with a gray pattern.

“Au courant,” I said.

“Yeah, Yvonne trendy,” Hawk said.

“She got a shower?” I said.

Hawk nodded and walked to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator.

“She got ’bout fifteen bottles of Steinlager beer, too, honey.”

“Lawzy me,” I said. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“Done died,” Hawk said. “Ah done died and gone to heaven. Haven’t you ever watched any Mantan Moreland movies?”

“Give me a beer,” I said. “I’ll drink it in the shower.”

At eight fifteen the next morning Hawk and I were eating fried egg sandwiches on whole wheat toast and drinking pot-brewed coffee in Yvonne’s sun-splashed living room.

“No way to know what Susan knows,” I said. “She will assume I got her letter and came out to California. After that she may not know anything.”

“She’ll know you won’t stop looking for her,” Hawk said.

We were both naked, our clothes churning through Yvonne’s washer-dryer. A double treat for Yvonne if she came home suddenly.

“Okay,” I said. “So she won’t expect me to be at home or at the office.”

Hawk nodded.

“So she’d try Paul,” I said.

“She figure you’ll stay in touch with him.”

“Yes. It’s a good time to call him. He’ll be asleep for sure. Once he’s up you can never get him.”

I called Sarah Lawrence and got the switch-board and asked for Paul’s dorm. After eight rings a kid answered. I asked for Paul. The kid went away and I could hear him holler in the background.
Then he came back and said, “He’s asleep.”

“Wake him up,” I said. “It’s very important.”

The kid said, “Okay,” in a tone that implied nothing could be so important as to wake Paul Giacomin up at eight twenty-five in the morning. There was more hollering and a long pause and then Paul said, “Hello,” in a voice thick with sleep.

I said, “Do you know who this is?”

He said, “My God, yes.”

I said, “Okay. Is it safe to talk?”

“Sure. What’s happening?”

“A lot. But first, have you heard from Susan?”

“No. But Lieutenant Quirk wants you to call him.”

“Quirk?”

“Yes. He called me up and left a message I should call him, so I did and he says if I hear from you that you should call him.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m with Hawk at … what’s the street address?”

Hawk told me and I relayed it to Paul. I also read him the number off the phone. “You and you alone are to know where I am. You understand. Except Susan, and her, only directly. No one calling for her, or anything. You understand?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

I told him, as briefly as I could.

“Jesus Christ,” he said when I was through.

“That will wake you up in the morning, won’t it?”

“Clears up the old sinuses,” he said. “Want me to come home?”

“No,” I said. “There’s not enough room here as it is and if Yvonne shows … No, you stay put.”

“You’ll get her back,” Paul said.

“Yes,” I said. “We will.”

“Kid’s okay?” Hawk said when I hung up.

“Yes,” I said. “Quirk wants me to call him.”

Hawk raised his eyebrows. “God damn,” he said. “Give you a chance to surrender?”

“I doubt it.”

“I doubt it too. But one thing about Quirk. He won’t cross your ass. He ask you to call him, he won’t have a trace on the line.”

“I know.”

The dryer clunked to a stop in the kitchenette and I went and got my clothes out and put them on still warm from the machine. Hawk dressed too.

“Let’s see what he wants,” I said and called police headquarters and asked for Homicide, and when I got it I asked for Quirk and in about ten seconds he came on the line.

“Spenser,” I said.

“I know that name,” Quirk said. “You are, I believe, wanted for violating the entire California penal code. You and your fucking soulmate appear
to have pissed off every law enforcement agency west of the Rockies.”

“It was nothing,” I said. “Hawk gets a lot of the credit.”

“I want to talk,” Quirk said. “Be on a corner of your choice and I’ll pick you up. Both of you.”

“Charles and Chestnut,” I said.

“I’ll be there at nine,” Quirk said and hung up.

At 9:02 a tan Chevrolet sedan pulled up at the corner of Charles and Chestnut. Belson was driving. Quirk sat beside him. Hawk and I got in the backseat and Belson eased the car back into traffic, heading toward the Common. Quirk half turned, rested his left arm on the back of the seat and looked at Hawk and me. His shirt was radiantly white, and brisk with starch. His camel’s hair jacket was fresh from the cleaners and fitted across his thick back without a wrinkle. His brown knit tie was knotted precisely the right size to highlight the small roll in his collar. His thick black hair was cut short and newly barbered. I’d never seen it when it wasn’t.

“You guys look like you shipped back here in a crate,” Quirk said.

“Clothes are fresh from the dryer,” I said. “Just need a little ironing.”

“So does your life,” Belson said. He turned at Beacon Street.

Hawk leaned back in the seat and folded his
arms and lapsed into stillness. The Public Garden was on our left with its ornate wrought-iron fence. The foot of Beacon Hill was on our right with its high-windowed apartments. Belson was thinner than Quirk, with graying hair, and the blue shadow of a heavy beard, an hour after he shaved. He was chewing on a dead cigar.

Quirk said, “Tell me your side of things.”

“What do you know?” I said.

“I know Hawk’s wanted for murder, and you for accessory after. I know you’re both wanted for jailbreak, assault on a police officer, two counts for you, more than I can remember for Hawk. I know you’re wanted for breaking and entering, assault—Christ, maybe a dozen counts—violation of the California hostage statutes, destruction of property, suspicion of arson, theft of a rental car, theft of two handguns … other stuff. I don’t have the warrants.”

“They missed some of the good stuff,” Hawk said.

“You,” Quirk said, looking at Hawk, “would do all of that stuff for any simple reason. Like someone paid you to. Spenser’s reasons would be more complicated. I want to hear his reasons.”

I looked at Hawk. “Anything you want left out?”

He shook his head, his face blank and peaceful.

“Okay,” I said. “Susan is in trouble.”

“Her too,” Belson said as if talking to himself. We were driving along Beacon Street outbound.

“She has taken up with a guy named Russell Costigan. She called Hawk and said she wanted to leave Costigan but couldn’t. Hawk went out to help her. Got set up, probably not by Susan, the cops and Costigan were in on an assault frame, but they underrated Hawk and one of Costigan’s people got killed. Hawk was jailed in Mill River, California, which is a company town with company cops and Costigan’s old man is the company.”

“Jerry Costigan,” Quirk said.

“Uh huh. So Susan got a letter to me telling me Hawk’s in jail. I go out and bust him out and we start looking for Susan. We had to roust some people at Costigan’s house …”

“Including Jerry,” Quirk said.

“Yes. But she wasn’t there and we had to look for her at the Costigan lodge in Washington State.”

“Which you burned down.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hawk murmured. “On purpose?”

“Yeah.”

“I like it,” Hawk said.

“But she wasn’t there either,” Quirk said.

“No. So we headed home to regroup.”

Belson stopped the Chevy at a red light where Mass Avenue crosses Beacon. Then he turned right and started across the bridge toward Cambridge.
Quirk rested his chin on his forearm. On the Cambridge side, Belson made an illegal left turn and headed out along the river on Memorial Drive.