When I got back to my office there were two calls on my answering machine. One was from Hawk asking if I still needed backup. The other was from a secretary at Kiley and Harbaugh. Mr. Kiley would like to have breakfast with me in the coffee shop of his building the next morning and could I call to confirm. I called Hawk at the Harbor Health Club and left a message with Henry that since everybody seemed to have skedaddled, and whatever was going on had stopped, I figured there was no further need to kill me and Hawk could therefore go back to his career of crime. Then I called the secretary at Kiley and Harbaugh and confirmed, and, at 7:30 the next morning, I met him there. He was already seated when I came in.

“Don’t have the bagels,” Kiley said. “Cranberry muffins.”

I went to the counter and got orange juice, coffee, and a cranberry muffin and brought it to Kiley’s table, and sat. Kiley didn’t say anything. I drank some juice. Kiley had a muffin, too, and some juice. Same breakfast I was having, except I was eating mine.

“I been practicing criminal law around here for most of my adult life,” Kiley said.

I drank some orange juice.

“I known you sort of here and there and roundabout for a long time,” Kiley said.

I nodded and drank the rest of my orange juice.

“Everything I know about you says your word is good.”

“For something,” I said.

“I checked on you, cops, DA, lotta people.” Kiley smiled. “Some of them clients. The consensus is that you’re a hard-on, but I can trust you.”

I had mixed feelings about the consensus, but I had nothing to add.

“Before we talk,” Kiley said, “I need your word that it goes no further.”

“I can’t promise, Bobby, until I know what I’m promising.”

Kiley looked at my face for a moment and pursed his lips. His cranberry muffin lay on his plate unmolested.

“It’s about my daughter,” he said.

I put a little milk in my coffee and stirred it. “I’ll protect your daughter,” I said carefully, “if I can.”

“What makes you think she needs protection?” Kiley said.

“Come on, Bobby.”

He nodded. “Yeah. That was dumb. Okay. You gimme your word?”

“I’ll do the best I can,” I said.

“Your word?”

“Yes.”

“The kid you killed,” Kiley said.

“Kevin McGonigle.”

“Yeah. We represented him once.”

I raised my eyebrows. I could raise one at a time, but I saved that for women.

“Him and another guy, guy named Scanlan, got arrested on assault charges. They beat up a real estate appraiser. Cops caught them in progress, down back of South Station.”

“Why?”

“Appraiser claims he didn’t know them, had no idea why they assaulted him. Refused to press charges.”

Kiley was right about the cranberry muffins.

“So how’d you get involved?” I said.

“Guy called here, asked us to go down and see about them. We represented them maybe two hours.”

“They call you?”

“No. Ann took it.”

“She go down?”

“Yes.”

“What was the appraiser’s name?” I said.

Kiley took a piece of folded notepaper from his shirt pocket and read it.

“Bisbee,” he said. “Thomas Bisbee.”

He handed me the paper.

“Who paid you?”

“That’s bothersome,” Kiley said. “We got no record of anybody paying us.”

“Any record of anybody being billed?”

“No.”

“That is bothersome,” I said. “McGonigle didn’t look like your kind of client any more than DeRosa did.”

“We’re criminal lawyers,” Kiley said. “Some of our clients are criminals.”

“Usually criminals who can pay.”

“True.”

“Was McGonigle someone who could pay?”

“He wasn’t. He was muscle. Just like Scanlan.”

“Who were they working for?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

I got up and went to the serving counter and got more coffee for myself and a fresh cup for Kiley.

“So,” I said when I came back, “what do you want from me?”

“I want to know how deep in she is,” Kiley said.

“You asked her?”

“She won’t talk to me about it. She says it’s a question of professional respect, that she won’t allow me to treat her like a child.”

“And you want me to find out what happened,” I said.

“Goddamn it, she’s my child.”

I nodded. “I have a client,” I said.

“I’m not asking you anything that would interfere with that. I’m asking you while you’re serving your client to keep an eye out. And let me know.”

“Give me the name of the other guy she defended.”

“Chuckie Scanlan.”

“Chuck,” I said.

“You know him?”

“No. Guy named Jack DeRosa claimed a guy named Chuck put him in touch with Mary Smith.”

“Common name,” Kiley said.

I nodded. “Where do I find him?”

“Works in a liquor store on Broadway. Donovan’s.”

“Ann knows this guy, she knew DeRosa, and she is, or was, Marvin Conroy’s girlfriend.”

“Yeah. I noticed that, too,” Kiley said.

“Ann know where Conroy is?” I said.

“She says she doesn’t.”

“We may be going in the same direction,” I said. “I’ll do what I can.”

“And report to me.”

“Anything I find out about Ann, I’ll report to you first.”

“Only,” Kiley said.

“Bobby, what if she’s in too far?”

“She’s my only child, Spenser. Her mother’s dead.”

“I can’t promise, Bobby. I can walk away from this conversation and say nothing to anybody. But I can’t promise you more than I can promise you.”

“You going to talk with Chuckie Scanlan?”

“Yes.”

“And if that leads you someplace and Ann’s in it really deep?”

“Then I’ll talk to you,” I said.

“Before you talk to anyone else?”

“Yes.”

“And what?” Kiley said.

“And we’ll decide,” I said.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

It was a hot day and there was no air moving. Donovan’s Liquors was a big store with a big sign in the window that advertised the coldest beer in Boston. There was a burly woman with big brass-colored hair at the cash register when I went in.

“Chuckie Scanlan?” I said to her.

“He’s out back.”

“Mind if I go back and see him?” I said.

“Who are you?”

“New caseworker,” I said. “Wanted to say hello.”

It was a vague enough term to cover several jobs and I figured Chuckie would be covered by one of them. The big woman made an ushering sweep with her right hand and pointed me toward the back room. Chuckie was stacking cases of Budweiser. He was a short wide guy with very little hair.

“Chuckie Scanlan?”

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Spenser. We need to talk.”

Scanlan’s eyes showed a moment of something and then went dead again.

“About what?”

“You, Kevin McGonigle.”

“Kevin’s dead,” Scanlan said.

“And you’re not,” I said, “yet.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“We need to talk,” I said.

Scanlan jerked his head and we went out the back door into the heavy air and sat on a pile of wooden skids in the near corner of the narrow parking lot behind the store. Scanlan lit a cigarette.

“You a cop?” he said.

“Private,” I said. “I came from Bobby Kiley’s office.”

“Kiley?”

“Kiley and Harbaugh. They represented you a couple years ago.”

“Oh, yeah. The broad came down, got us sprung. Cops had nothing.”

“Broad’s name was probably Ann,” I said.

“Yeah, Ms. Kiley. Good-looking. Smart as hell,” Scanlan said. “How come you’re talking about me not being dead, yet?”

“You know Marvin Conroy?”

Scanlan took in some smoke and let it out slowly, squinting through it at me. “Conroy?”

“Un-huh.”

“I never met him. I think he was a friend of Jack’s.”

“Jack?” I said.

“DeRosa,” Scanlan said.

Bingo! “How’d you know DeRosa?” I said.

“He hired me and Kevin to do some stuff.”

“For Conroy?”

“I guess.”

“You know what happened to McGonigle?” I said.