32

I sat with Quirk in an interrogation room in the new police headquarters, across the table from the two guys Hawk had collared. One had a big, rapidly discoloring bruise on his right cheekbone. The other guy had a bandage across his forehead. Hawk had apparently banged him face-first against the edge of the Cadillac roof. Beside them sat a smallish man with a lot of curly hair that stood straight out from his head. He had on a blue work shirt and a wrinkled sport coat in a small gray-green check.

“Hawk clean on this?” I said to Quirk.

Quirk grinned.

“Good Samaritan,” he said. “Saw what was going down and intervened. We’re crediting him with a citizen’s arrest.”

I nodded.

“They got a lawyer?” I said.

“Don’t seem to speak much English,” Quirk said. “Not sure they know they can have a lawyer.”

“Where they from?” I said.

“I don’t know, one of those stan countries in Central Asia,” Quirk said. “Boogaloo-stan, or something.”

I looked at the two guys. They were ordinary-looking guys. Both had dark hair. One had a beard touched with gray. He wasn’t that old. Whiskers always seem to be the first to go.

There was a knock and the interrogation-room door opened.

“Captain,” a woman said, “lawyer’s here for these two.”

A black man came into the room wearing a gray three-piece suit that looked vaguely as if it might have been made for him in Europe. His close-cut hair was gray. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and carried a briefcase.

“Lamar Dillard,” he said. “I represent these two gentlemen.”

“You’re not some guy from the pool,” Quirk said. “You cost money. Who hired you?”

“An interested third party,” Dillard said, “who I am under no obligation to name.”

Quirk nodded.

With Dillard was a small woman with smooth black hair worn long, and big, dark eyes. She wore a plain gray dress with a white collar, and low shoes that were probably comfortable.

“This is Ms. Glas,” Dillard said. “Ms. Glas will translate.”

“You know me,” Quirk said. “This is Spenser.”

Ms. Glas went to the two shooters and began to murmur softly to them in a language that didn’t sound familiar.

“Yes, Captain, I do know you,” Dillard said. “Is Mr. Spenser a police officer.”

“Mr. Spenser is the intended victim,” Quirk said.

“If there was a crime intended,” Dillard said.

“We know they were driving a stolen car with phony plates,” Quirk said. “We know they had concealed weapons for which they are not carrying any proof of licensing. They might even turn out to be undocumented aliens.”

Ms. Glas continued to speak softly to the undocumented aliens. They looked at Dillard and said something to Ms. Glas. She shook her head and spoke some more.

“And of which of these alleged crimes is Mr. Spenser the alleged victim?” Dillard said.

“They tried to kill him,” Quirk said.

“From their appearance, the opposite would seem the case,” Dillard said. “Ms. Glas, ask them if their injuries came from being mistreated by the police?”

She spoke. They answered.

“They say it is a black man who did that, on the street,” Ms. Glas said.

Dillard grimaced slightly.

He said to Quirk, “Could you excuse us, Captain. I think I need to speak to my clients alone.”

“We’ll be in my office,” Quirk said. “The officer can direct you.”

“I know where your office is, Captain,” Dillard said.

“Me, too,” Quirk said, and we went out of the room.

33

In Quirk’s office I said, “I don’t care about these guys. I want to know who hired them.”

“Yeah,” Quirk said. He poured two cups of coffee and set mine in front of me on the edge of his desk. “Plus, we get into a trial and we may need Hawk to testify…”

“And Dillard might be able to raise questions about his respect for the law?”

“Something like that,” Quirk said.

“Well, you have some bargaining chips,” I said. “Probably no papers, stolen car, fake plates, unlicensed guns.”

“Dillard may come up with papers,” Quirk said, “and a couple gun licenses.”

“What police chief in the state would issue a carry license to these two clowns?” I said.

Quirk looked at me silently.

“Oh,” I said, “chicanery.”

“There are towns in this great commonwealth,” Quirk said, “where you can buy a gun license, if you know the right name to whisper.”

“And Dillard would know the right names.”

“Works for Tony Marcus a lot,” Quirk said. “Hell, Ty-Bop’s got a gun license.”

“From where?”

“Some Podunk town out in western Mass,” Quirk said.

“Ty-Bop’s never been west of Brighton,” I said.

“I’m sure he hasn’t,” Quirk said. “Tony’s got a white lawyer, too, guy named Stackpole. Got a suit just like Dillard’s. Tony uses him for white specialty stuff.”

“You think Tony sent Dillard?”

“Whether he sent him or not, Tony knows he’s here,” Quirk said. “And he don’t disapprove.”

I nodded.

“I wonder what Tony would have to do with two guys from Whatzistan,” I said.

“Nothing legal,” Quirk said.

“Maybe we’ll find out,” I said.

“We won’t get anything on Tony,” Quirk said. “One of Dillard’s jobs, if Tony’s involved, is to make sure Tony don’t get mentioned.”

“Language barrier doesn’t help,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Quirk said. “I got a call in to Epstein, see if he can find us somebody.”

“I wonder where Ms. Glas is from,” I said.

“We’ll find out,” Quirk said. “Before the ADA gets here, you got anything you want to tell me about why two immigrant gunnies want to kill you?”

“Why would anyone?” I said.

“Hard to imagine,” Quirk said. “You think it’s got anything to do with Tashtego?”

“You know I’m still involved with that?” I said.

“I keep track of you,” Quirk said. “For my scrapbook.”

“Might be Tashtego,” I said. “You remember the Gray Man.”

“Yep.”

“He might have become annoyed.”

“What I know about the Gray Man,” Quirk said, “he’d have done it himself.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That bothers me a little, too.”

34

It was nearly an hour before Dillard came into Quirk’s office and sat down beside me, facing Quirk.

“Ms. Glas is with my clients,” Dillard said. “They were confused when I asked them earlier, language problems, all that. They now say that their injuries were the result of police abuse.”

“Wow,” Quirk said. “They were confused.”

“How would you like to handle this?”

“The police abuse? I got ten independent witnesses to confirm the street altercation where they received the injuries.”

“Who was the black man in that altercation,” Dillard said.

“An interested third party,” Quirk said.

“When we get to trial, I can compel you to reveal his name,” Dillard said.

“Uh-huh.”

“If we get to trial,” Dillard said.

“Uh-huh.”

A heavy young woman with short black hair and a strong nose reached in to knock on the open door to Quirk’s office. She had large horn-rimmed glasses, and a gray pant suit that didn’t fit very well.

“Come in, Esther,” Quirk said.

“Hello, Martin,” she said, and looked at Dillard. “How are you, Lamar?”

She put her hand out to me.

“I’m Esther Gold,” she said. “I’m the ADA on this case.”

I gave her my name.

“You the complainant?” she said.

“I guess so,” I said.

She looked at Quirk.

“Spenser has worked with us in the past,” Quirk said. “I’ve asked him to sit in.”

Esther nodded.

“Lamar, you’re representing the two guys whose names I can’t pronounce?” she said.

“I am,” Dillard said.

“So let’s talk,” she said.

“Mr. Dillard,” Quirk said, “was just questioning if we had to proceed to trial with these guys.”