“Six degrees of separation,” Ann murmured.

Her drink was gone. So was mine. She got up, collected my glass, went to the bar, and mixed us each another drink.

“Last night,” I said, “Marvin Conroy came here and spent the night.”

Ann Kiley smiled again without meaning anything by it. I waited. She waited. I waited longer.

“And your question?” she said.

“Was it good for you, too?” I said.

“Don’t be offensive.”

“Part of my skill set,” I said. “What can you tell me that will help me with my work?”

“And your work is?”

“To find out who killed Nathan Smith.”

“Even if it’s his wife?”

“Even,” I said.

“I was under the impression you were hired to clear her,” Ann said.

“What’s the connection between you and Conroy and Smith and DeRosa?”

“The connection between me and Marvin Conroy must be obvious if you know he spent the night,” Ann said.

“Un-huh.”

“Jack DeRosa is my client.”

“Un-huh.”

“That they are both connected in some way to Nathan Smith is a coincidence.”

“Un-huh.”

“You don’t believe in coincidence?”

“It doesn’t get me anywhere,” I said.

She nodded. I noticed her second drink was not going down nearly as quick as her first.

“And where are you trying to get?” she said.

“How come you represent Jack DeRosa?” I said.

“He needed a lawyer.”

“And you were hanging around the public defender’s office smiling hopefully?” I said.

“Every lawyer has a responsibility to the law,” she said.

“So how’d DeRosa happen to hire you?” I said. “You bill more per hour than DeRosa’s life is worth.”

“Arrangements with clients are confidential.”

“How about Conroy? What can you tell me about him?”

She smiled. “Relationships with friends are confidential.”

“If there’s something, Ms. Kiley, I’m going to find it.”

“You don’t frighten me, Mr. Spenser.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Spenser,” she said, “you are a little man in a big arena. You simply don’t matter.”

“What about my nice personality?” I said.

“It doesn’t interest me,” Ann Kiley said. “Neither do you. Go away.”

That seemed to sort of cover it. I put my drink down carefully on its coaster, got my hat and coat from the front hall closet, and left. Ann Kiley didn’t see me to the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Belson called me at home, early. It was still a half hour before sunrise and the morning was still gray outside my bedroom window.

“I’m at a crime scene in your neighborhood,” Belson said. “Wanna stop by?”

“Because you’ve missed me and you want to see me?” I said.

“Corner of Berkeley and Commonwealth,” Belson said. “I’ll look for you.”

I walked over. There were the usual too many cop cars, lights still flashing. Two technicians were loading a body bag into the coroner’s van. Belson in a light raincoat and a gray scally cap was leaning against his unmarked car, talking to one of the uniform guys. As I walked over, the uniform left.

“Hit and run,” Belson said as I stopped beside him. “Vic’s name is Brinkman Tyler.”

“I know him,” I said.

“Yeah. He had your card in his wallet.”

“Just mine?”

“Hell no, he must have kept every card he ever got.”

“But you called me,” I said.

“I’ve missed you,” Belson said. “And I wanted to see you.”

“What happened?” I said.

“Near as we can figure, Brinkman was out jogging on the mall toward Arlington Street. He started across Berkeley Street and the car nailed him.”

“Find the car?”

“Not yet. But it should have some damage on the front.”

“Hit him at high speed,” I said.

“Body looked it,” Belson said. “ME’S guys say so.”

“What other cards he have in his wallet?” I said.

Belson took out a notebook and opened it.

“Well,” he said. “He didn’t have the Pope’s card. Or Puff Daddy’s.”

“Can I look?”

Belson handed me the notebook.

“Absolutely not,” Belson said. “This is a confidential police investigation.”

I read the list of names and businesses that Belson had copied off the business cards of the late Brink. I recognized maybe a dozen names, but none that meant anything to my case. I gave Belson back his notebook.

“He was Nathan Smith’s broker,” I said. “Mary Smith said he managed her finances.”

“So you went and talked with him.”

“Yep. That’s how he got my card.”

“And?”

“And Brink told me nothing, even though I asked really nice, and after I left his office, two guys assaulted me in the parking garage.”

“An assault you reported immediately to the proper authority,” Belson said.

“I told Susan,” I said.

Belson nodded. “These guys say why they were assaulting you?”

“They wanted to know what I’d talked with Brink about.”

“And you, being you, probably didn’t tell them.”

“Client confidentiality is job one,” I said.

“Sure,” Belson said. “You know who these guys were?”

“They’d been following me around since I took the case.”

“And you didn’t mention it,” Belson said.

“I wanted to see what got their attention.”

Belson nodded. “Maybe this guy got their attention.”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe he’d be alive now if you’d felt like telling us about him.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe it’s just an accident and the driver panicked and left the scene.”

“Didn’t some broad you talked to commit suicide?”

“That’s what you guys are calling it,” I said.

“And didn’t somebody try to hit you the other night over on A Street?”

“Yep.”

“And you talk to this guy and he’s accidentally run down at five in the morning, at the intersection of two empty streets?”

“Seems to be the case,” I said.

“That bother you?” Belson said.

“All of it bothers me,” I said.

“Maybe this wasn’t an accident,” Belson said.

“And maybe Amy Peters wasn’t a suicide,” I said.

“And maybe you told us a little more about what you’re doing, some of these people might not be dead.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Frank. If I did I’d tell you in a heartbeat.”

“I owe you, Spenser,” Belson said. “But I don’t owe you everything there is all the time. You know something about a murder, you tell me.”

“You don’t owe me a thing, Frank. I know anything, you’ll be my first phone call.”

The uniform that Belson had been talking to when I arrived came back to Belson.

“Found the car, Frank. On Charles Street, a block up from the circle. Black Chrysler. Front end buckled. Phony plates.”

Belson looked at me. “Wasn’t there a black Chrysler involved in your shooting in Southie?”

“Yes.”

“Had phony plates, as I recall.”

“I believe so,” I said. “I put a couple bullets through the roof.”

Belson looked at the uniform.

“Got that, Pat?” he said.

“I got it, Frank.”

“Go down there yourself,” Belson said. “I want Crime Scene all over that car.”

“Okay, Frank.”

Belson turned to me as the uniform walked toward his car.

“This thing reeks,” he said.

“It does.”

“I got things to do here. Come see me tomorrow.”

I nodded.

“And think about whether this guy might be alive if you’d told us what you know.”

“I do what I can, Frank.”

Belson looked at me for a time and nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know you do.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Mary Smith wouldn’t talk to me without Rita there, and apparently she wouldn’t talk with Rita unless Larson Graff was present. We met for lunch at Aujourd’hui in the Four Seasons Hotel. It felt like a double date.

Most of the people and all of the men watched Rita walk in. She was dressed for success in a dark green suit with a short skirt and a V-necked jacket. Her smooth tan looked healthy even though it wasn’t, and her thick red hair was in perfect shape. Susan had told me that red-haired women needed to make up with particular care, and Rita appeared to have done it just right.