“Super-rich,” Susan said.
“No,” Arnett said, lifting his martini to us both. “Filthy rich.”
12
“One of the perks of leaving Homicide and getting kicked upstairs in my ripe old age was not having to deal with a pain in the ass like you,” Quirk said the next morning.
“You don’t really mean that.”
“You bet I do, buddy boy,” Quirk said, refilling his mug from a pot in his office and taking a seat back behind his desk. “This is supposed to be the stress-free environment before they put me out to pasture.”
“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“You mean the donuts?” he said. “When have you ever brought me a dozen from Kane’s without strings attached?”
“Maybe it was just my way to let you know you are both valued and loved.”
“Bullshit.”
“Or maybe I might have questions about a certain individual and a certain case that looks like it may have been washed from the books.”
“Aha,” Quirk said. He raised his index finger, a substantial move, considering his hands were bigger than a Quincy bricklayer’s.
Without a word, I reached onto his desk, plucked a lovely cinnamon-dusted, and took a bite. Knowing police headquarters and Quirk’s office all too well, I came armed with my own coffee from Starbucks.
“Ever heard of Peter Steiner?”
“Nope.”
“Poppy Palmer.”
“A poppy what?”
“Poppy Palmer,” I said. Saying it slow, with careful enunciation on the alliteration.
“No, but I knew a fan dancer named Fanne Foxe.”
I smiled. “Pilgrim Theater,” I said. “In the old Combat Zone.”
“Those were the days,” Quirk said.
“Indeed.”
Quirk eyed the box of donuts and then me, and then eyed the donuts again and the open door of his office. When the pressure became too intense, he lifted the lid and grabbed a Boston cream. “So,” he said. “Steiner’s peter and Poppy whosis.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So glad you’re paying attention.”
Quirk nodded. His office was as neat and immaculate as Quirk himself. The only thing new, besides an ever-expanding arrangement of framed grandkid pics, was a collection of bobbleheads near the window.
“Bobbleheads?” I said.
“You get one and you’re fucked,” he said. “Everyone brings me one now. Feel free to take one on your way out.”
I finished my cinnamon donut and sipped some coffee. I pulled out a stack of papers from my office on Peter Steiner and Poppy Palmer and handed it to him. “I understand Steiner might have been charged with a sex crime some years ago.”
“When?”
“Some years ago.”
“Please,” Quirk said. “Don’t be too precise with me, Spenser. I like to really work at this stuff.”
“If so,” I said, leaning back into the office chair. “I’d like to connect with the investigator.”
Quirk reached for his cleanly shaven square jaw. His full head of hair showed more salt-and-pepper these days, but didn’t look all that different from when we met decades ago.
“This the guy you were telling me about?” Quirk said. “The one who whipped it out in front of a fifteen-year-old?”
“Bingo.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quirk said. “This guy must have money. Guys like that always get off.”
“No pun expected or intended,” I said. “But, yes, he’s rolling in the dough.”
“When did he assault the kid?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“But the kid won’t talk?”
“She’ll talk to me,” I said. “Not to the cops.”
“Okay,” Quirk said. “Besides being a decent guy, why should I bestow such a magnanimous favor as the assistant superintendent of Boston Police? Just for a fucking box of donuts?”
“Not just any donuts,” I said. “All the way from Kane’s.”
“Christ,” Quirk said. “You got me there. Let me make some calls.”
I stood, pointed at him with my thumb and forefinger, and dropped the hammer.
On the way out, I took an extra donut with me.
13
I picked up Pearl at the Navy Yard and drove back to my office before the lunchtime traffic. Right before noon, I parked somewhere in the neighborhood of Commonwealth and Dartmouth, slipped her into a training harness, and took her out for a little stroll.
She was a handsome dog. Perhaps the most beautiful of all the Pearls. Slick brown coat and intelligent eyes, a long, regal nose that immediately found the grass along the mall. Many people offered compliments as we walked. Lovely women stopped jogging to bend down and pet her.
I was enjoying this arrangement.
The address I had for Peter Steiner was on the north side of Comm Ave, an elegant four-story brownstone that dominated a space usually reserved for three homes. I read it had once been a hotel before becoming a private school in the fifties. It was a lot of real estate for an unmarried man with no family.
It was shady and cool under the large trees as we walked. Every so often, I would stop and command Pearl to sit and stay. I would walk back five paces, leash in hand, and then ask her to come. When she got to me, she got a small treat. When she came without being called, I set her back into a sit. We did this over and over.
I furtively glanced at Steiner’s residence. I saw no one enter the door at the top of the stone steps or leave. The blinds in the home were half drawn, but as a professional investigator, I knew that peeping in windows was considered poor form.
Pearl and I crossed the street and walked around the corner of the building. I tried to look in the windows anyway, but the afternoon sun glared hard off the glass. Pearl sensed something, perhaps a clue, and dug her nails into the sidewalk.
I decided to let her take the lead. Ten yards later, we found half of a discarded bagel still in a wrapper.
I had to remove it from her mouth. No telling who’d eaten the other half and what they might pass on to Pearl. Pearl wasn’t pleased.
We kept walking and soon found the public alley behind Steiner’s place and decided to investigate.
On the backside, we found two cars parked outside. One was the Mercedes I’d seen drop off Debbie Delgado. The other was a light blue Rolls-Royce Phantom. Pearl and I noted the license tag on the Rolls. Or at least I hoped she did. She was still a detective-in-training.