“We hadn’t even talked about the kid yet,” Quirk said. “What the hell? You gone nuts?”

“You hadn’t heard?” Belson said. “Business is so bad, Spenser babysits for beer money.”

“That’s Julie Sullivan’s kid,” Quirk said.

I nodded.

“Why’d you bring her into this mess?” Quirk asked.

Belson smoked the cigar. I was glad the cold wind scattered the smoke. Belson liked them cheap.

“You get a dozen for a quarter, Frank?” I said.

“Nah,” Belson said. “Are you kidding? These are a whole dollar apiece.”

“Red and Moon kill her mom?” Quirk asked.

I shook my head. “We were getting to that when Moon met his early demise.”

Quirk nodded. “We’ll be taking your gun.”

“I figured.”

“And Hawk’s gun, too.”

“Hawk won’t be pleased.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

“Stand a little more in the light.”

“You mind a little off-the-record advice?” Quirk said.

I waited.

“You may want to rearm,” Quirk said.

I nodded.

“Yep,” Belson said. “You want to tell him? Or you want me to?”

“Tell me what?” I asked.

The two cops grinned at each other.

“House is owned by none other than Mr. Jack Flynn,” Quirk said. “We’re going to talk to him next.”

“He’ll probably be a little pissed about you guys redecorating the kitchen,” Belson said. “And acing a couple of his people.” He plugged the cigar into the corner of his mouth. The stubble on his face had grown thick since shaving that morning.

“You want to tell us what the fuck is going on with Jumpin’ Jack?” Quirk said. “I know that’s not your way and all. And obviously you have the matter well in hand.”

“We didn’t plan this,” I said. “It happened.”

“Shit happens?” Quirk said. “You might want to put that on your business card.”

47

Rita met me at Boston police headquarters, and after a long while of her reading forms and me signing them, we had breakfast. We sat at the counter at Mike’s City Diner, and the same pink-haired waitress who waited on me the other day poured us each a cup of coffee. I smiled at her. She didn’t return the smile. I think my rugged but handsome appearance flummoxed her.

“She’s flummoxed,” I said to Rita.

“If I were in my early twenties with pink hair, you’d flummox me, too.”

“Are you saying I’m an acquired taste?”

“Like a single-barrel scotch,” she said. “A little bitter to all but the discerning palate.”

“Swell.”

Rita wrapped her fingers around the thick coffee mug. She added some cream and sugar.

“You did the right thing.”

“Losing my gun?”

“Calling me,” she said. “There could be civil suits. Family members would raise hell if they knew you were such close friends with Quirk.”

“I think Quirk would run me out of town on a greased rail if I did something wrong.”

“I disagree,” Rita said. She sipped coffee. She left the imprint of her very red lipstick on the edge of the mug.

“You haven’t known Quirk as long as I have.”

Mike’s was bustling at six a.m. Plenty of young professionals and grizzled retirees packed the tables, reading fresh copies of the Globe or reading the Globe on their iPhones. I did not have an iPhone. Strangely, I used my phone to make phone calls. Simpler times.

“So now that your suspects are dead,” Rita asked, “how does that leave Mr. Green?”

“No worse than yesterday.”

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Now we believe the distinguished misters Murphy and Cahill didn’t kill Julie Sullivan?”

Rita sipped coffee. She looked at me with her big green eyes over the mug.

“They played a role in her killing,” I said. “But there’s more. Others. They were following orders.”

“I know a good psychic if you’d like to go that route.”

“I have a working theory.”

“So let’s say the real killer’s two accomplices are now dead,” she said. “How do I make a case to exonerate Mr. Green? Those nail clippings are a long shot. It’ll take months to return from the lab, and that doesn’t necessarily clear him. A judge won’t care if his DNA is absent. We’ll need more.”

“You ever hear of Jack Flynn?”

“Sure.”

“What do you know?”

Rita shrugged. “I don’t know. Typical Southie hood. I once prosecuted some guys in his crew. They’d hijacked a cigarette truck and were selling their spoils out back of a supermarket in Quincy. Wasn’t he convicted of some killings sometime back?”

“I’m being told he worked out a deal with the Feds.”

“With your friend Agent Connor?” Rita raised her eyebrows. “Sticky. Sticky.”

“Yep.”

“And now the Feds’ ace in the hole may have killed your client’s mom.”

“I’ve known Jack Flynn since about as long as I’ve been in this business,” I said. “He used to be a shooter for a bookie in Charlestown named Frank Doerr.”

“Doerr still in business?” Rita asked.

“Let’s say he took an early retirement,” I said. “From there, Flynn worked a little for Joe Broz. But Broz never trusted him. Flynn’s mainly freelance. He’s really the only guy in the city who could work his own people without getting squeezed by the Italians. He’s sort of been grandfathered into the criminal system.”

“Hoodlums and their complex codes,” Rita said. “Endlessly tiresome.”

She set down the coffee and picked up a laminated menu. She crossed her legs as she read. Her heavy wool coat lay on the stool next to her.

“Hash and eggs are highly recommended,” I said.

“If I ate hash and eggs for breakfast, I’d need more sex to burn the calories.”

“If you were any more sexed up, you’d spontaneously combust.”

Rita raised an eyebrow. “So how certain are we that Flynn killed Julie Sullivan?”

“Fairly,” I said.

“Why?”

“That’s where it gets tricky.”

“Did Red Cahill and Moon Murphy know?”

“Yes,” I said. “Flynn sent them for her. I think he was her boyfriend.”

Rita nodded. “Now we’ll never know.”

The waitress stopped at our table, refilled our coffee, and took our orders. Rita decided on a Greek omelet, no toast, with a small OJ. I had hash and eggs. I wanted to underscore my point.

I again smiled at the pink-haired waitress. She narrowed her eyes at me and walked off.

“Maybe she thinks you’re nuts,” Rita said.

“You think I’ve lost it?”

“You still got it,” Rita said. “And I got it, too. If you were smart, we could join a mutual admiration society.”

“If only my heart did not belong to another.”

“Your loss,” Rita said.

I grinned. We were quiet for a moment. My ears still rang from hearing gunshots at very close range. I took comfort in the diner activity. The pouring of coffee, orders barked back to the chef, and the clang of silverware were much nicer than Jack Flynn’s kitchen.

“How bad was it?” Rita asked.

“To quote Quirk, ‘It was a royal clusterfuck.’”

“Does Hawk need help?”

“He has a good lawyer.”

“Not as good as me.”

“No one is as good as you.”

“Hawk’s reputation will make this a pain in the ass for Quirk.”

“Hawk puts Quirk in a tough position,” I said. “Hawk’s reputation is the stuff of legend. Even when Hawk does right, it puts Quirk in a tough position.”

“It’s not easy being a professional thug.”

“I resent that remark.”

“What will you do now?” Rita asked.

“As you know, Mattie saw her mother with Mr. Murphy and Mr. Cahill the night she died.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Did I mention there may be an eyewitness to the killing?”

Rita tilted her chin downward. “Hmm,” she said. “Must have slipped your mind.”

“I have reason to believe there is a woman who witnessed the murder.”

“Someone the cops didn’t know about?”

“This wasn’t exactly a high-priority case for them,” I said. “And the witness seemed to value her life a little too much to come forward.”