“That’s fantastic,” Rita said. “She’ll talk now?”

“It would be fantastic,” I said. “But she’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared as in dead, or disappeared as in flown the coop?”

“Excellent question,” I said. “I have good reason to believe she may have left her apartment in some disarray. Not that I creeped her apartment or anything.”

“Lots of people live in disarray.”

“True,” I said. “But it looked like she’d left her dinner on the kitchen floor.”

“Maybe she’s messy.”

“She left a half-filled suitcase,” I said. “And she had a pretty good supply of makeup left in the bathroom.”

“Men are endlessly fascinated by makeup,” Rita said.

“And underthingies.”

Rita smiled slowly at me and flipped her red hair.

“Our witness may have a huge cache of makeup, who knows?”

“What about leaving her luggage?” I asked.

“Did she leave her purse?” Rita asked. She raised her eyebrows.

“I didn’t see a purse.”

“Sounds like she made a run for it.”

“Or someone took her purse, too.”

“Maybe,” Rita said. “Maybe not. Maybe something scared her so bad, she grabbed the only thing she could and took off. Does she have a car?”

“I couldn’t find one registered to her.”

Rita nodded.

“She’s pretty broke,” I said. “I don’t think she could run far.”

“If she knows what you think she knows, it wouldn’t matter much,” Rita said. “I bet she has credit cards.”

I nodded. “She does, but I can’t track her credit cards,” I said. “Only the cops can do that.”

The waitress slid the plates before us. Steam rose from the hash and eggs. More coffee was poured. Rita ate and crossed her legs. She noticed me staring at her knees and smiled.

“Jeez,” she said. “If only you knew some cops to help out.”

48

You owe me,” Belson said. “Quirk doesn’t know I’m doing this.”

“You think he’d disapprove?” I asked.

“I think he’d have my ass.”

“You mind if I send you a box of decent cigars?” I asked.

“I like ’em cheap,” Belson said. “You send me the good stuff and my lungs might revolt.”

“Point taken,” I said. “What do you have?”

I cradled the cell phone to my ear as I headed north on Arlington toward my apartment. I needed a hot shower, a shave, and maybe a twenty-four-hour nap.

“Theresa Donovan has four credit cards,” Belson said. “Only one that isn’t maxed out. She’s run up about six hundred in charges this week.”

“Where?”

“Gas station in Quincy, six trips to a McDonald’s, and, oh, I see a hotel, too.”

“Gee,” I said. “You think you might want to share that information?”

“You really worried this girl is in danger?”

“I am,” I said.

“Holiday Inn in Worcester,” Belson said. “You want me to draw you a fucking map?”

“I believe purgatory is a lot like a Holiday Inn in Worcester.”

“Don’t screw me on those cigars,” Belson said. He hung up.

I parked right off the Public Garden on Marlborough and walked up to my apartment.

I was careful unlocking the door. For the last several hours, I’d felt a sharp tension in my trapezius muscles. I was not at ease until I checked the bedroom and closets.

I took a long, hot shower and shaved. I made another pot of coffee. I loaded a .40 caliber Smith & Wesson that I’d grown quite fond of. In my line of work, it was good to have a spare.

I dressed in a black fisherman’s sweater, dark jeans, and my peacoat. Before I closed and locked the door, I reached for my Boston Braves cap.

I was dressed to impress. When calling on the scared shitless, it’s important to make a good appearance. Spenser Crime-fighting Tip #111.

I really should write all of this down.

The sun broke through the gray clouds as I hit the I-90 ramp at Huntington Avenue. I drove west, thinking of Mattie and her mom. I thought of Theresa Donovan and hoped I’d get to her first.

I thought about Jack Flynn. The tension in my back returned.

49

The Holiday Inn in Worcester was not the Ritz-Carlton or the Four Seasons. It really wasn’t much of anything but a place for business travelers to lay their weary heads. A honeycomb of rooms, a business center, a coin laundry, and a sterile little restaurant decorated with black-and-white photos of Massachusetts town squares. If you stared long enough, maybe you’d feel quaint through osmosis.

I did not bother to try to shine on the woman at the front desk. I did not try to bribe a bellman with a twenty, which was for the best, since there were no bellmen at the Holiday Inn in Worcester. I just found the house phone and asked for Theresa Donovan’s room.

After six rings, she picked up.

“You really shouldn’t leave lasagna on your kitchen floor.”

“Who is this?”

“Spenser,” I said.

“The guy with Mattie?”

“As I’m known in some circles.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I followed a trail of bread crumbs from Dorchester Avenue.”

“Are you here?”

“In the lobby.”

“Please go away,” she said. “They’ll find me.”

“Red and Moon are dead.”

There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing. “I saw the news.”

“Can I come up?” I asked.

“Give me a minute,” she said. “I’ll come down. Wait in the bar.”

The bar wasn’t much of a bar, either. But they had beer. And the Holiday Inn Worcester was in luck. I happened to like to drink beer.

I got a Sam Adams Noble Pils on tap and found a small table with an excellent view of the parking lot and the interstate. After my beer was half gone, I worried I’d been conned and Theresa had bolted.

That would teach me to drink on the job.

She appeared a minute later. She wore a long coat over jeans and a pajama top. Her hair was pulled tight away from her face in a ponytail. Her face was absent of makeup, and she smelled strongly of cigarettes.

“Drink?”

She shook her head and took off her coat.

“My ma tell you?”

“Nope.”

“I called her this morning,” she said. “She was sick with worry.”

I listened and drank my beer, not telling her about the credit card trace. In case she made like a rabbit again, I didn’t want to let her in on my secrets.

She fidgeted with her hands. She looked around the bar and over to the lobby. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and then, realizing she couldn’t smoke, said, “Fuck.”

“We can go outside,” I said.

She looked out the window and shook her head. “What do you want?”

“Mickey told me you were with Julie the night she was killed.”

“Bullshit.”

“If it’s bullshit, how come you’re running?”

“Because these people are fucking crazy.”

“And in saying ‘these people,’ you mean Jack Flynn.”

Theresa stopped fidgeting. She looked me in the eye. I nodded at her.

“Can I still get a drink?” she asked.

“What do you want?”

“Double Black Jack,” she said. “Water back.”

“Wow.”

I complied and joined her with refreshments. I guess it would be too much for the Holiday Inn to offer one of those nut trays like at the Taj. I looked around the room and decided it was.

“Tell me about Julie and Jack Flynn.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m the only thing between you and Flynn. And because you owe Mattie something. Mickey Green, too.”

“You can take on Jack Flynn?”

“You bet.”

Theresa just stared at me. But then she nodded, convinced I spoke the truth. I often instilled confidence in young women.

“She met him at Four Green Fields,” she said. “He had just got out of jail, just got a job, and had a lot of cash. After that, he called her a lot. Late. She’d get a message and I’d have to drive her to his condo or some motel.”