Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Lullaby"
Автор книги: Ace Atkins
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
NOVELS BY ROBERT B. PARKER
THE SPENSER NOVELS
Sixkill
Painted Ladies
The Professional
Rough Weather
Now & Then
Hundred-Dollar Baby
School Days
Cold Service
Bad Business
Back Story
Widow’s Walk
Potshot
Hugger Mugger
Hush Money
Sudden Mischief
Small Vices
Chance
Thin Air
Walking Shadow
Paper Doll
Double Deuce
Pastime
Stardust
Playmates
Crimson Joy
Pale Kings and Princes
Taming a Sea-Horse
A Catskill Eagle
Valediction
The Widening Gyre
Ceremony
A Savage Place
Early Autumn
Looking for Rachel Wallace
The Judas Goat
Promised Land
Mortal Stakes
God Save the Child
The Godwulf Manuscript
THE JESSE STONE NOVELS
Robert B. Parker’s Killing the Blues
(by Michael Brandman)
Split Image
Night and Day
Stranger in Paradise
High Profile
Sea Change
Stone Cold
Death in Paradise
Trouble in Paradise
Night Passage
THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS
Spare Change
Blue Screen
Melancholy Baby
Shrink Rap
Perish Twice
Family Honor
ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER
Blue-Eyed Devil
Brimstone
Resolution
Appaloosa
Double Play
Gunman’s Rhapsody
All Our Yesterdays
A Year at the Races
(with Joan H. Parker)
Perchance to Dream
Poodle Springs
(with Raymond Chandler)
Love and Glory
Wilderness
Three Weeks in Spring
(with Joan H. Parker)
Training with Weights
(with John R. Marsh)
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of Robert B. Parker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Atkins, Ace.
Robert B. Parker’s lullaby / Ace Atkins.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-58492-7
1. Spenser (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Mothers—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Private investigators—Massachusetts—Boston—Fiction. 4. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Lullaby.
PS3601.T487R63 2012 2012006193
813'.6—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To Joan.
Always the inspiration.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
1
I spotted the girl even before she knocked on my door. I was gazing out my second-floor office window down at Berkeley Street, eating a cinnamon donut and drinking coffee with a little milk and sugar. The girl looked lost among the businesspeople and tourists hustling along the icy sidewalks. She wore a pink Boston Red Sox cap and an oversized down parka with a fur collar, and stared up at the numbers on the office buildings where Berkeley intersects Boylston.
When she stopped at my building, she folded up a piece of paper and crossed the street with a lot of purpose. I had an open box of donuts and an uncashed check on my desk from Cone, Oakes. I’d done a little work for Rita Fiore and had been paid handsomely.
The winter had been dark, bleak, and endless, but sometime in the last hour I had actually seen the sun. My computer was playing Helen Forrest singing with the Harry James Orchestra. Life was full of promise.
I had a bite of donut just as I heard the knock on the door.
I opened it.
“You Spenser?” asked the girl in the pink Red Sox cap.
“The one and only.”
“People say you’re tough,” she said.
“Did they mention handsome and witty?”
“That you aren’t afraid to use a gun.”
“Only when my feelings get hurt.”
Her accent was South Boston, maybe Dorchester. Henry Higgins could have told me her exact address. I figured her for fifteen or sixteen. She stood about five-foot-five with straight reddish brown hair spilling from the Sox cap. Her eyes were green and very large, made slightly ridiculous with heavy eyeliner.
“You really a private investigator?” she asked.
“Says so on the door.”
“And you didn’t get your license from the Internet or any-
thing?”
“No.”
“Were you a cop or something?”
“Or something.”
“Thrown off the force for drinking?”
“No.”
“Police brutality?”
“No.”
“Then why aren’t you a cop now?”
“I don’t play well with others,” I said. “Would you like to come in?”
She peered around me into my office, checking out my desk, two file cabinets, and the couch where Pearl slept when it was take-your-dog-to-work day. I extended my hand toward my guest chair and sat behind my desk. She joined me.
The girl had a full face with ruddy cheeks, a couple of moles on the right side. A cute kid if she’d sit up straight. But she slouched into her chair and nervously toyed with a Saint Christopher medal. “Who busted your nose?” she asked.
“Jersey Joe Walcott,” I said.
“Who’s he?”
“Former heavyweight champ,” I said. “Before your time.”
I pushed the box of donuts toward her. She looked down at my carefully chosen assortment. Then she looked back at me, still playing with the medal, and shook her head. I let the silence hang there for a moment. I figured if I waited long enough, she might tell me why she was in need of my services. After a long pause, she did.
“Somebody killed my mom.”
I took a deep breath and leaned forward. “When?”
“Four years ago,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I want to find the bastards.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Why now?”
“Nobody listens to kids,” she said. “I’m older now. You do this kind of stuff, right?”
“I’m good at making people listen,” I said.
“How much do you charge?”
I told her the usual rate. She began to dig through her pockets, pulling out five crumpled twenties and a ten, flattening the cash on my desktop. “Will this get you started?”
I glanced down at the money and again nudged the box of donuts her way. This time she accepted, choosing a chocolate-frosted. I complimented her choice. Giving away a whole donut was a major philanthropic gesture. I hoped she appreciated it.
“What’s your name?”
“Mattie Sullivan.”
“You take the Red Line into the city, Miss Sullivan?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I am a trained investigator.”
I drank some coffee. I pulled a yellow legal pad and a pen from my left desk drawer. Ever the professional. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“They left her up on The Point,” she said. “By U Mass, where they tore down all those old buildings. You know?”
I nodded.
“She was stabbed to death.”
I nodded some more. I took some notes.
“She’d been raped,” she said. “They think.”
Her face showed little emotion, telling the story as if she’d read it in the newspaper.
“I’m very sorry,” I said.
“That was a long time ago.”
“How old are you now?”
“Fourteen.”
I turned my chair as I listened and could see the morning traffic on Berkeley. People continued to make their way down the sidewalk as an MBTA bus passed, churning dirty slush in its wake.
“What did the police say?”
“They arrested this guy the next day,” she said. “Mickey Green. He’s doing life at Cedar Junction.”
“And you don’t think he did it?”
“I know he didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Mickey is a screwup, but he’s a good guy, you know?”
“Not much to go on,” I said.
“I saw her with a couple men that night,” she said. “I saw them snatch her up and push her into the back of a car. She wasn’t with Mickey. Mickey wasn’t with her that whole night.”
“Who were they?”
“You gonna do this?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
“These are real mean guys.”
“Okay.”
“And young, too.”
“‘O Youth! For years so many and sweet.’”
“You’re an older guy. I’m just sayin’.”
I tried not to take offense. I was fourteen once.
“I don’t know their full names,” she said. “They just go by Pepper and Moon. Coupla shitbag drug dealers in the neighborhood.”
“What neighborhood?”
“I’ve lived in the Mary Ellen McCormack my whole freakin’ life.”
The McCormack was down at the bottom of South Boston, close to Dorchester, a tough old brick housing project that headlined a lot of shooting stories in the Globe.
“The last time I saw Pepper was six months ago. I don’t know about Moon.”
“Why not go back to the cops?”
“I did. A bunch of times.”
“What’d they say?”
“That Mickey Green is a true douchebag and got what he deserved. One time they gave me a pat on the head and a card about some shrink so I could ‘talk about my trauma.’ After a couple of years, they just stopped calling me back.”
“You can vouch for Mickey’s character?”
“He was friends with my mother,” she said. “They used to drink together at Four Green Fields. He helped her when our pipes would bust or if she needed groceries.”
“Tell me what you saw that night.”
“I saw her come into my room,” she said. “I’d put my baby sisters down to sleep after dinner, and my mom came in and went through my drawers for money. She didn’t know I saw her, but I was pissed. I followed her outside and was gonna yell at her, but before I could, I seen Pepper and Moon grab her and drag her to their car. They threw her in the backseat. They were yelling back and forth, but I couldn’t hear what they were sayin’. Or what she was sayin’. One of the guys hit her. It was a real mess.”
“I’m sorry.” There wasn’t much else to say.
Mattie dropped her head and nodded. She rubbed her hands together. Her nails, which were painted with black polish, had been bitten to stubs. She didn’t look like she’d smiled since elementary school. Her parka had seen a lot of winters; her wrists peeked out from the blackened sleeves, buttons barely hanging on. The knees of her jeans had been patched.
“Where are your sisters now?”
“We all live with my grandmother.”
“Your mother’s mom?”
She nodded.
“Dad?”
Mattie rolled her eyes.
“So four years later, you just decide to set this straight?”
“Me and Mickey been talking about it.”
“You visit him in jail?” I asked. I leaned forward and made some notes.
“He started writing me letters and sending me birthday cards and crap,” she said. Mattie ran her finger under her reddened nose. “He kept on saying how sorry he was and all, and that he would’ve never hurt my ma. And so I wrote him back and said, I know. I told him about Pepper and Moon. I said I tried to tell but no one was listening. Jesus, I was only ten.”
She studied my face as I thought about what she’d said. I figured she was seeing the chiseled features of a man she could respect. She finally rolled her eyes and went for the money. “You’re not the only tough guy in Boston,” she said.
“There’s another,” I said. “But we work as a team.”
She left the money and looked at me with those sad, tough eyes. Her shoulders slouched some more, and she dug her hands deeper into the pockets of her old parka. The pink hat looked shabby. She reminded me a lot of Paul Giacomin when I’d first met him. Nobody in his corner.
“Anyone else see your mom taken by these guys?”
“I don’t know,” Mattie said. “Nobody wants to talk about it. And nobody wants to help.”
She blinked hard, and rubbed her eyes with her tiny, balled-up fists. She sighed. “This was a stupid idea.”
“Wait a second.”
She stood up, eyes lingering on me. I pushed the money back across my desk.
“You’re in luck, Mattie Sullivan,” I said. “I’m running a special this week.”
“What’s the special?”
“Investigative services in exchange for more of these,” I said, holding up a donut.
“Are you shitting me?” she asked.
“I shit you not.”
2
I sure am lucky to know you, Spenser,” Quirk said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”
“I like to make people feel useful,” I said. “Commander of the homicide squad can be such a lonely job.”
“I got the file set up for you in a conference room down the hall,” he said. “I hope that’s to your liking.”
I lifted my eyebrows and tilted my head. “Service with a smile.”
“Had to have the thing printed out, too,” Quirk said. “You know cops these days use these devices called computers. You heard of them?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve seen pictures.”
Quirk was a big guy with bricklayer’s hands who always looked buttoned-up and spit-shined. In the decades we’d known each other, I had never seen him with so much as a wrinkle. He was dressed in a navy suit with a white dress shirt and red-and-blue rep tie.
“Do you mind me asking why you’re looking into this?” Quirk asked.
“I have a client who thinks you got the wrong man.”
“I’ve heard that song before.”
“You read the report?”
“I was the one who printed the son of a bitch out.”
“What’d you think?”
“I think you’re wasting a perfectly good afternoon.”
“Solid?”
“The vic was stabbed, raped, and run down with a car,” he said. “We got her blood all over the suspect’s vehicle.”
“Blood match the deceased?”
Quirk looked at me like I should be wearing a cone-shaped hat. “Hmm. Gee, maybe we should’ve thought about that.”
“You mind if I grab some coffee?”
“Help yourself.”
“Bad as always?”
“Worse.”
The homicide unit kept their offices in a big open space on the third floor of the new police headquarters building off Tremont Street in Roxbury. The old headquarters had been within walking distance of my office and was now a boutique hotel called the Back Bay. The old headquarters was all gray stone with a lot of rugged charm. The new headquarters had all the aesthetics of an insurance company.
I spent the next two hours reading through the incident report, the coroner’s notes, and the detectives’ file. The file contained a copy of Julie Sullivan’s arrest record. She’d been arrested four times for possession of crack cocaine. And five times for prostitution and once for public intoxication.
Two weeks before she’d been killed, Julie Sullivan had entered into a plea deal on drug charges. She was set to enter a drug treatment facility in Dorchester a week later. I noted the name of the facility and date on the yellow legal pad I’d brought.
I also noted the dates and places of her drug arrests. The reports told me little else.
I wrote down Julie’s date of birth. She’d been twenty-six when she died. Her body had been found at a construction site off University Drive on Columbia Point. Not only did her blood match the blood on Mickey Green’s car, but tracks found at the scene matched his tires.
Mickey Green’s file was pretty thick. He’d been convicted of breaking and entering at eighteen, aggravated assault at nineteen. And twenty. And at twenty-one—twice. He stole some cars. He robbed a convenience store. He spent time in the pokey.
Green had been spotted at a drive-through car wash at Neponset Circle an hour before his arrest. But some of Julie’s blood and matted hair remained on the car, despite his efforts.
Outside the window, flags popped tight on their poles. Cold wind tossed trash and dead leaves down cleared sidewalks past banks of dirty snow. A sheet of newspaper lifted in the wind and disappeared under a Buick.
I’d been doing what I do for a long while now. In that time, I’d grown pretty good at knowing when I could poke holes in investigations and admitting when poking would do little good. This one had been fashioned of steel and concrete. I tapped my pen against my legal pad and let out a long breath. The case I’d just worked made me feel dirty and shabby but had also left me with a full bank account and a little time. The girl just wanted someone to listen and check things out. Despite everything I’d just read, she believed her mom’s killers were still out there and a family friend had been left holding the bag. Pretty weighty stuff on a fourteen-year-old. Sometimes a few hours of honest work was better than a bar of soap.
I leaned back into the seat. I was making a few more notes when Quirk strolled into the conference room and handed me a business card. On the back he’d written a cell phone number.
“Bobby Barrett,” Quirk said. “Works out of District Eleven. He can tell you about this Mickey Green guy.”
I took the card and thanked him.
“How far you get with the file?”
“Far enough,” I said.
“Like I said, the case is solid.”
“My client says she saw the victim with thugs a few hours before her death.”
“Then who the hell is Mickey Green?” Quirk asked. “The ice-cream man? Did you read his sheet?”
“I didn’t see any other suspects.”
“I don’t think there was a reason,” Quirk said. “He was driving the car used to kill her.”
I nodded.
“Girl like that gets around at night,” Quirk said. “You saw her priors. She could have had a lot of company before she ran into Green at that bar.”
“I don’t see a motive.”
Quirk smiled. “How many killings ever have a good motive? People get pissed off. Shit happens.”
“I’ll inform my client.”
“I’m not trying to bust your balls,” Quirk said. “I know you want to do right by the kid. I just don’t want you wasting your time.”
“I’ll talk to Barrett,” I said. “I’d also like to talk to someone in the drug unit.”
“What about the case detective?”
“Didn’t see much detecting done in the file,” I said. “I want to know some of the players in Southie. Drug unit would help.”
“Yes, sir,” Quirk said. “Your wish is my command.”
“Quirk, you really make me feel special.”
Quirk told me to go screw myself.
3
Locke-Ober was classic Boston, like the Old North Church or Carl Yastrzemski. There was a time when they didn’t allow women, but fortunately those days were over. The décor still had that men’s-club feel, with wood-paneled walls and brass trim. The waiters wore white.
I had gone home and exchanged my Boston Braves cap, leather jacket, and jeans for gray wool pants, a light blue button-down with a red tie, and a navy blazer sporting brass buttons. I had showered, shaved, and polished the .38 Chief’s Special I wore on my belt, behind my hip bone. The drape of my blazer hid it nicely in the hollow of my back.
I looked as if I deserved a solid drink. I ordered a dry Grey Goose martini and sat at the old bar, staring at an oil painting of a nude woman. The woman looked strong and curvy, with ample breasts and only a thin silk sash around her waist.
I heard Monk being played somewhere as my martini arrived. Very cold and slushy with ice, extra olives. I looked into the bar mirror and lifted the glass to myself.
“What should I make of that?”
I turned and smiled. Susan took the barstool next to me.
“Why would any club exclude women?” I asked, signaling the waiter for a glass of chardonnay.
“Repressed homosexuality,” she said.
“Mother issues?” I asked.
“Could be both,” Susan said. “A martini?”
“Cheers.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Tonight we dine courtesy of Cone, Oakes.”
She smiled as a glass of Chalk Hill was placed in front of her. The tune switched from Monk to Coltrane. The room was warm and pleasant. Our voices seemed to be absorbed into the old walls as we talked, waiting on our table. I had envisioned a filet, medium rare, with creamed spinach and mashed potatoes. Another martini. Maybe two.
“Wow,” I said, taking all of her in.
Susan wore a black sheath dress with sheer black stockings and high-heeled suede pumps. A chunky necklace of black onyx and small diamonds rested on her collarbone. I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of lavender and the promise of a long evening in good company.
“Aren’t you going to buy me dinner first?”
“For this kind of dinner,” I said, “I’ll expect something spectacular.”
“Have you ever been disappointed?”
“Of course not.”
“Or exhausted?”
“Nope.”
“Then yes, cheers,” she said, toasting me.
I raised my glass in reply.
“Since when do you like olives?”
“You know me,” I said, taking a big sip. “I like to switch it up.”
“And drinking a bit faster than usual.”
“I made a promise to a kid that I cannot fulfill.”
“What was the promise?”
“I told her I would look into her mother’s murder.”
“What’s the problem?”
“There’s a man already serving life for the crime,” I said. “She believes him to be innocent.”
“Oh.”
“Quirk showed me the case file,” I said. “I’d have had a better chance of freeing Bruno Hauptmann.”
“But you only told her that you would look into it.”
“Semantics.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “You want to help her.”
Susan sipped her wine and studied me. Her black eyes were very large and luminous, framed by dark lashes and elegantly arched eyebrows. She gave me a crooked smile before taking another small sip.
“So tell me, how old is this girl?”
“Fourteen.”
“Quite young to be hiring her own detective. She come alone?”
I nodded. “Straight off the Red Line from Southie.”
“And can she pay you?”
“Sort of.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“We settled on a fair price.”
“How’d she find you?”
“Apparently I’m known in the best Southie circles as a toughie.”
“What happened to her mother?”
I told her.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Spoken like a true Jewish American Princess.”
“A parent’s death is always tough, but a violent death as seen by a ten-year-old would be seismic,” Susan said. “Is there a father?”
“Nope,” I said. “Dead mother was a single parent.”
“Who’s looking out for her now?”
“She’s pretty independent,” I said. “Lives with her grandmother, who’s largely absent. She takes care of her younger sisters and stays in school. It’s not Ozzie and Harriet, but what is?”
“She must be pretty strong-willed,” she said. “She wants to right things herself.”
“Even if they’re wrong.”
“You don’t believe that she really saw her mother forced into a car by those other men?”
“Yep,” I said. “I believe she saw it, but I’m not sure it proves anything. A woman with Julie Sullivan’s rap sheet doesn’t exactly run with the Brahmins.”
“Then you must see something in her story, or you wouldn’t have taken the case.”
“Not in the case,” I said. “In her. She needs someone to listen.”
“And you like her.”
“We bonded over donuts and the Sox.” I nodded. “So, yeah. She’s tough and smart. You meet a kid like that and think about all that’s in her way to succeed. You take the same kid and put her in another home. . . .”
“Loving parents and a nice colonial in Smithfield?”
“Something like that.”
Susan took another micro-sip. “Has she had contact with the convicted man?”
“I understand she visits him in prison,” I said.
“Stoking the fantasy.”
“What fantasy?”
“To become her mother’s savior.”
“Hold on, let me take some notes,” I said. “You shrinks and your fancy talk.”
Susan shrugged. I ordered another martini. Susan caught me studying the oil painting of the curvy nude woman. She smiled at me and nodded at the painting.
“Now, that’s a real woman,” Susan said. “Naked as a jaybird and fighting for liberty.”
Susan turned to me. She could tell I was barely listening.
“I just don’t want to get this girl’s hopes up.”
“Be honest with her,” Susan said. “If she’s clear about your intentions and what you can do, then you can’t hurt her.”
I put my glass down on the bar and leaned in to her ear. “You know,” I said, “you’re pretty smart for a Harvard Ph.D.”
