“Okay, you can drift,” Quirk said. “Spenser, I’ll talk a little more with you.”

Hawk nodded his head once, slightly, and walked away.

“I talked to the same six cops he did,” I said.

“You used to be a cop,” Quirk said. “You know how we do this.”

I nodded.

“I don’t know much more than I did after I shot the guy in Southie,” I said.

“You didn’t know much before you shot that guy in Southie. Name was Kevin McGonigle. Twenty-three, two priors for strong-arm.”

“Good to start young,” I said.

“And finish that way,” Quirk said.

I shrugged. “Him or me,” I said.

“I know. Tell me what you know,” Quirk said.

We were both leaning against Quirk’s car. Quirk’s arms were folded across his chest, and he was motionless except for the fact that the fingers on his thick right hand tapped gently on his left arm.

“Okay,” I said. “It’s a mishmash, but here it is, all of it.”

I told him everything in sequence from the time Rita had called me about Mary Smith until Hawk and I had come to visit DeRosa.

“You got a theory?” Quirk said.

“No.”

“If you count Nathan Smith,” Quirk said, “and I do, there’s him, the broad from the bank…”

“Amy Peters,” I said.

“… Tyler, DeRosa, the girlfriend, Kevin McGonigle.”

“Six,” I said.

“And all connected to you, one way or another.”

“Charisma,” I said.

“Six murders,” Quirk said. “And somebody threatens to beat you up and somebody hires McGonigle to clip you, and you got no theory?”

“There’s something being covered up,” I said. “And it’s connected to Nathan Smith.”

“Holy mackerel,” Quirk said.

“You asked.”

Quirk nodded. We watched the body bags load into the ME’S van.

“We find out anything, we’ll tell each other,” I said.

“I known you a long time,” Quirk said.

I didn’t comment. Quirk wasn’t really talking to me anyway. A couple of uniforms moved the small crowd out of the way as the ME’S van pushed slowly among them, hauling away the unpleasant remains of DeRosa and his girlfriend.

“And you are a stubborn bastard, and you don’t much give a fuck about how things are supposed to go.”

Quirk was still looking at the van. A uniform stopped traffic. The van turned left onto Southampton Street and moved slowly over the bridge.

“And you’re not as smart as you think you are, and nowhere near as funny,” Quirk said, still watching the van as it disappeared toward downtown. “But you’re on the right side of the fence.”

“How do you know it’s the right side?” I said.

“Same side I’m on,” Quirk said.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

We were in Hawk’s car. It was 10:15 on a bright summer morning when we pulled into the parking lot at Soldiers Field Development Limited. We had no trouble parking. The lot was empty. The front door of the building was locked. There was no sign of movement or light inside.

“B and E?” Hawk said.

“Might as well,” I said. “Practice makes perfect.”

Hawk handed me the flat bar, and in we went. There was no air-conditioning. The building was hot. The furniture was still in place. But no one was using it. We walked down the corridor to the back office where Felton Shawcross had sat. The corridor was dim. There were no lights on. There was a bank of file cabinets across the right wall of Shawcross’s office. I opened a drawer. It was empty. I opened them all. They were empty. Hawk looked in Shawcross’s desk. It was empty. He picked up the phone.

“Dial tone,” he said.

I tried a light switch. The lights went on.

“Didn’t bother to cancel anything,” I said.

We went methodically down the row of offices that lined each side of the long corridor. All of them were empty. All of the files were empty. The only things in the desk drawers were a few Bic pens, some blank paper, some rubber bands, paper clips, staples, and pads of yellow stick ‘em paper to draw smiley faces on.

“Didn’t leave no paper trail,” Hawk said. “Maybe they skipping out on the utility bills.”

“Probably it,” I said.

We had worked our way down the corridor and were standing in the reception area. There was no place else to look.

“On the wall in the men’s room it say for a good time call 555-1212,” Hawk said.

“Probably a clue,” I said.

A mailman in blue shorts came in carrying a packet of mail held together by a wide rubber band. He looked around.

“You guys moving out?” he said.

“Just rehabbing,” I said. “Closed for a couple of weeks.”

“You oughta notify us, fill out a form, have us hold your mail until you’re back in business.”

“What a very good idea,” I said. “My man here will be down to the post office later today to fill out the documents.”

“It’s just a form,” the mailman said. “What do I do with this mail?”

“I’ll take it,” I said.

He handed me the mail and left.

“My man be down to the post office?” Hawk said.

“I’m cleaning up my act,” I said. “There was a time I would have said my boy.”

“I love a liberal,” Hawk said.

I took the mail over to the reception desk and went through it with Hawk looking over my shoulder. We went through it twice. Each of us. To make sure we hadn’t missed anything. There was nothing to miss. People like this didn’t do business by mail. When we were through I left the mail in a neat pile on the reception desk.

“The more we look, the more there’s nothing there,” Hawk said.

I sat back in the receptionist chair and leaned back against the spring.

“We keep getting there just afterwards,” I said.

“Getting where?” Hawk said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Least they didn’t shoot nobody and leave them for us.”

“No.”

“Maybe there ain’t no one left to shoot,” Hawk said.

I was rocked back, looking at the Celotex ceiling tiles, my hands laced over my chest.

“Ann Kiley,” I said.

“Ann Kiley?”

“She was DeRosa’s lawyer.”

“S.”

“She’s got no business representing a stiff like DeRosa.”

“Nice choice of words,” Hawk said.

I shrugged.

“If DeRosa was killed so we wouldn’t find out anything from him, what are the chances that his lawyer would know what that is?”

“The chances are good,” Hawk said. “And even if they aren’t, the people who killed DeRosa might think they were.”

I came forward in the spring-back chair, letting my feet hit the ground. I pointed my finger at Hawk and dropped my thumb like the hammer on a gun.

“Let’s go see her,” I said. “Right now.”

“So we won’t be afterwards again?”

“So that,” I said.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Ann Kiley had the second biggest corner office on the twenty-fifth floor of a high-rise on Broad Street. Her father had the biggest, the one that looked out to sea. Ann had what the real estate ads would call cityscape views.

I introduced Hawk when we came in, and they eyed each other, evaluating potential.

“So where’s Harbaugh’s office?” I said when we were seated.

Ann pointed toward the ceiling.

“Big firm in the sky,” she said.

“So this place is really Kiley and Kiley.”

“Yes. But the name was familiar, so we decided to leave it.”

I could tell, as she spoke, that she was aware of Hawk. Silent, as he often was, there was still a lot of Hawk.

“Did you know that Jack DeRosa was murdered?” I said.

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“About DeRosa’s death?”

“Yes.”

“No one should be murdered,” she said.

“Are you in danger?”

Hawk stood and walked to the window and looked out.

“Danger? Why would I be in danger?”

“Because I’m pretty sure DeRosa was killed to shut him up, and if he talked with you, they might feel they had to shut you up, too.”