"Like what have you got so far," Failon said.
"Reporter for the Central Argus, kid named Eric Valdez, went over to Wheaton to do some investigative reporting and got shot and castrated."
"He was investigating cocaine?"
"Yes."
"His death cocaine-related? I haven't seen anything."
"Local cops say it was personal. Valdez was fooling around with someone's wife."
"They know whose wife?"
"Not that I know of. Valdez was supposed to be something of a womanizer."
"Where was he when I needed him," Rita said.
"And the paper hired you to go down and look into it?"
"Yeah."
"Be careful," Fallon said. "A man alone doesn't have much chance."
"Thank you Harry Morgan," I said.
Fallon looked puzzled again. "To Have and Have Not," Rita said to him. He still looked puzzled. Past his shoulder at the foot of the stairs, I saw Susan. She was wearing a broadshouldered red leather coat with the collar turned up.
"Ah," I said. "My dinner date is here."
Rita looked across the room at Susan. "That's her," she said.
"That's Susan," I said.
Rita stared at her. "No wonder," she said.
Chapter 3
The Wheaton police station is in the bottom of the red brick Gothic Revival town hall at the south end of town which is near the bottom end of the Quabbin Reservoir which is about a hundred miles west of Boston and much farther than that from everywhere. The chief's name was Bailey Rogers and he was explaining to me the futility of my venture.
"The whole thing is a fucking media invention," Bailey told me. "There's people do coke here. There's people do coke in the city room at the Central Argus too, whyn't you go investigate them."
"They hired me to come down here," I said, "Probably a ploy to throw me off the track."
"And I don't need any big-deal Boston wiseass dick to come out here and piss all over my town, you understand."
"You don't?" I said.
Rogers had a fat neck. The rest of him was middling to big and in okay shape, but his neck spilled out over his collar and his face was very red. He leaned forward in his chair with the palms of his hands resting on the arms of the chair as if he was going to leap out of it.
"No, I don't, and don't get smart with me either, buster, or you'll wish you were back in Boston."
I smiled at him admiringly. "God," I said, "you're tough."
"You think I'm kidding you?"
"I think a kid came down here to do a newspaper story and somebody killed him and you don't know who, and you're blowing around so I won't notice."
"Dumb bastard had it coming," the chief said. "You can't fuck around with those people's women like he did. He was begging for it."
"What people," I said.
"The Colombians. You know what they're like."
"There's a lot of Colombians here," I said.
"Sure, about five thousand. Came up to work the mills, only the mills closed so now they mostly stay home and pump the old lady and collect welfare."
"But no coke?"
"Sure, some coke, like I say there's coke everywhere. But there's no more here than anywhere else. If we had a bunch of Canucks here on welfare the question wouldn't even come up. But just because they're Colombian . . . does this look like Miami?"
"A lot of Miami doesn't look like Miami," I said. "What makes you think Valdez was killed by a jealous husband?"
"He was dicking everything that wiggled," Rogers said. "When we found him his nads were gone. What would you think."
"Suspects?" I said.
Rogers spread his hands. "We hauled a bunch of them in, sweated them, nobody would give us anything."
"Anybody specific?" I said. "I don't mean to be nosy, but if you know he was getting it on you must know some names."
"Listen"-he glanced down at my card tucked under one corner of his desk blotter-"Spenser. You start asking around down in that neighborhood and you'll end up with your balls missing too."
"League of Women Voters would sponsor a day of mourning," I said. "You got a name?"
Rogers shook his head. "No, for your own good. You stay out of it. We've checked this out, and there's nothing there. I got no right to be giving out the names of people who've been cleared of suspicion so you and that fucking newspaper can harass them."
"Bailey," I said, "I appreciate your position. Your position sounds to me like bullshit, but I appreciate it. On the other hand, you have to appreciate my position. I come in here friendly, even charming, respectful of your law enforcement experience, and ask you to help me solve a murder which took place in your jurisdiction, and which you haven't solved. You tell me to screw. Now if I go back to my employer and say I tried to solve the crime but the police chief told me to screw, what kind of a letter of recommendation do you think he'll write for me on my next job?"
"I don't give a fuck," Rogers said.
"Bailey, I believe you. That's probably the department motto. But it's no help to me. What I'm going to have to do is stick around this Rural Roach Box and find out what's happening and maybe, because you are not pleasant, maybe I'll demonstrate, while I'm at it, that you are an incompetent horse's ass."
The red tone of Rogers's fat face and neck deepened. "You be careful," he said. "You be goddamned careful."
I stood up and walked to the door. I opened it and stopped and looked back at him. "You too," I said. Then I walked out and closed the door, and giggled while I walked through the squad room. You too. Ah, Spenser, you thespian devil you.
Chapter 4
Valdez had stayed at the Reservoir Court, a three-story cinder block motel with a bar and restaurant in a one-story wing off the west end of the building. The cinder block was painted green and a fake mansard roof of plastic shingles modified the third floor. The plastic roof was some of its charm. The fact that there was no other motel for fifty-two miles was the rest of its charm.
I put my extra ammunition in a bureau drawer, put my clean shirts on top of it, put my shaving kit in the bathroom, and went down to the bar. A large blackboard on an easel at the entrance to the bar/restaurant had today's specials chalked on it. There was Salmon Loaf at $5.95 and a Polish Platter for $4.95. New Wave.
It was three-thirty and the place had two customers and a woman tending bar. I sat on a barstool and ordered a draft beer. The bartender drew it for me and put it carefully down on a little napkin that would, of course, stick to the bottom of the glass when I picked it up to drink.
"Run a tab?" she said.
I nodded and she rang up the drink and put the bar bill in front of me facedown. The room was paneled in dark plywood, grooved to look like planking. There were pictures of trout and eagles and bears and deer and hunting dogs on the wall. I drank a little beer. The napkin stuck to the bottom of the glass. I pulled it off, and crumpled it up and put it in an ashtray.
"Staying at the motel?" the bartender said. She was wearing black slacks and a white blouse with a canvas hunting vest that had ammunition loops sewn across the front. Her very bland hair was pulled back to a French twist, and her eyes were brightly underscored by powder-blue eye shadow. Her eyebrows were narrow and dark. She wore a small maroon nameplate that said "Virgie" on it in white lettering.
"Yes, I am," I said.
"Traveling through?"
"No, I'm in town for a while."
"Really, business?"
"Un huh."
"Surprise," she said.
"Why?"
"I been working bars a long time. I kinda figure by now I can spot people. Didn't have you figured for a businessman."
"Why not?"
"Don't have the look," she said. "You know, tired, a little overweight, look like they're in a hurry even when they're at the bar. Usually they smoke, they drink hard stuff, they act macho. You haven't even made a virgin joke about my name."
"I got no sense of humor," I said.
"May
be the opposite," Virgie said. "I had you figured for some kind of forestry/ conservation outdoors type. Get a lot of them out here. Quabbin's a big wildlife sanctuary."
"I know," I said.
"Or maybe a jock, except you're kind of old."
"But lithe," I said, "and still vigorous."
Virgie grinned. "Bet you were, though," she said. "You weren't born with that nose."
"Used to box," I said.
"See," Virgie said, "I know something." I drank some beer.
"So what kind of business you in?" Virgie said. She was leaning her left hip against the beer chest below the bar. Her arms were folded, and she talked to me by turning her head left toward me.
"Detective," I said. "I'm here to see if I can find out what happened to Eric Valdez."
Virgie straightened and turned fully toward me. "Jesus Christ," she said.
"There's that," I said.
"I don't know anything about it," she said.
I drank some beer. Virgie walked down to the other end of the bar and began to slice lemons into neat half circles. Probably struggling with her libido. I drank the rest of my beer.
"May I have another beer, please, Virgie?" I said.
She came down and drew the beer and put down a new paper napkin and set the beer in front of me. She rang up the bar bill and put it back down in front of me.
I said, "Virgie, are you mad 'cause I'm a detective?"
"I got nothing to do with that Valdez thing," she said.
"Never probably ever even heard of it," I said.
"Look," Virgie said, "you may be a big tough guy . . ." She shook her head.
"Valdez stayed here," I said. "He probably drank at the bar. He was, ah, flirtatious. He'd have talked with you."
"Lotta people talk with me. I'm friendly. Part of my job."
"Sure," I said. "And you don't remember anything about any of them. Any more than you'd notice that my nose has been broken."
"You a state cop?" she said.
"Nope," I said. "Private."
"A private detective?"
"Un huh."
"And you're out here alone asking questions about Eric Valdez?"
"Un huh."
"Chief Rogers know you're here?"
"He said I was a wiseass and he didn't need me," I said. Virgie almost smiled.
"You know any of the women Valdez was dating?"
"No. Or anything else. Get it? I don't know anything about Valdez. He came in here, had a few drinks, made small talk, left. That's what I know."
"Where's the action in town," I said.
"What kind of action?"
"Booze, music, women, good times," I said.
"Here," Virgie said.
I looked around. "People come flocking in here evenings to feast on salmon loaf?" I said.
Virgie shrugged. "Nothing else around, for singles stuff," she said.
I drank some beer.
"You a private cop, who you working for?" Virgie said.
"Central Argus," I said.
She nodded. "Figures," she said.
"Because Valdez worked for them?" I said.
"They been stirring up trouble down here for a long time," Virgie said.
"Or maybe there has been trouble down here for a long time and they've just been reporting it."
Virgie shrugged again. "They're paying you," she said.
"Much coke around here?" I said.
"You got me," Virgie said. "You looking to score some?"
"Maybe."
Virgie shook her head. "No, you're not. You do coke like I do caviar. You aren't the type."
"It's my clear blue eyes and square jaw," I said. "They're always giving me away."
"Sure," Virgie said. "You got any clues about Valdez?"
"No," I said. "I was hoping you might."
"See you're not listening to me," Virgie said. "Watch my lips. I don't know anything about Valdez."
"Or coke?"
"Or coke."
"Or Chief Rogers."
"No."
"Or anything that isn't small talk."
Virgie nodded. "Hey," she said. "Man's quick learner."
"If you were me," I said, "who would you talk with."
"If I were you, I'd go home," she said.
"And if you didn't do that, what would you do?" I said.
"Nothing," Virgie said. "I wouldn't do nothing."
Chapter 5
The specials didn't bode well for the Reservoir Court dining room so I went out to a supermarket and bought some fixings and a six-pack of beer and went back to the motel to dine alone. I got some ice from the ice machine in the corridor and cooled the beer in a wastebasket. I had tuna salad and coleslaw and whole wheat bread and some paper plates and plastic cutlery, and a jar of bread and butter pickles. Green vegetables are important.
I made supper and marveled at the progress I had made in only a day. The police chief had told me to get lost, after careful probing and a liberal application of the old rough-hewn Spenser sex appeal the woman tending bar had told me to get lost. So far my only success was not getting carded at the Wheaton Liquor Store. I sipped from my bottle of Samuel Adams beer. I was an an American-beer binge. Working on the assumption that locally brewed is fresher and hence tastier. The Sam Adams seemed fresh and tasty, thus confirming my suspicions. Who said I couldn't detect. Who said I couldn't find a whale in a fishbowl. Who had said that Valdez was fooling around with Colombian women?
I hadn't mentioned that. Bailey Rogers had said that. It was after all the suggestion of a clue. If Valdez had been having an affair with a Colombian woman, that cut the suspects from 15,734 to fewer than 5,000.
I drank some more Sam Adams and let it seep down my throat and admired the label. Nice picture of old Sam. That's pretty good detective work, eliminate more than ten thousand suspects with one master stroke. Actually probably only half the remaining five thousand were female, and many of them would be too old or too young. Hell, I practically had the she-devil cornered.
Sam Adams was so fresh and tasty that I was on my third before I got to making supper. The options for an entertaining evening in Wheaton were fairly limited and I was exercising one of the most likely. I carefully spread the tuna salad on the whole wheat bread, and added a dab of coleslaw and made two sandwiches. I cut each one into four triangles and arranged them on a paper plate, the expensive glazed kind, and added a colorful garnish of pickle. I got a hand towel from the bathroom to serve as a napkin, and the water glass to hold beer. For predinner cocktails drinking from the bottle was fine, in fact preferable. But with dinner one needed to decant it. i sat at the little round table by the window and looked out onto the parking lot and had supper.
Talking to Virgie had tended to reinforce what I'd gotten from Chief Rogers. The subject of Valdez's death was not an open subject. Virgie's reaction had been fear of involvement and amazement that I'd even broach the subject let alone broach it without police authority or backup.
I ate a triangle of sandwich. The commercial coleslaw tasted like commercial coleslaw but it wasn't bad, and Sam Adams made it better.
One would hate to generalize, but the first two people I'd talked with wanted the Valdez killing to go away and never be discussed again. As they say on the cop shows, I smelled a cover-up. Spenser, Private Nose.
I ate another triangle, and a bite of pickle. Have nose will travel.
I drank some more beer. In the water glass it had a pleasant amber tone. Like Anchor Steam beer.
Cyrano de Spenser.
I finished the sandwiches and the beer. It was almost seven. I called Susan.
"Hello," she said. "Have you found the culprit yet?"
"Only the nose knows," I said.
"Have a little beer with our supper?" Susan said.
"I'd have had more," I said, "but I didn't want to sound drunk when I called you."
"Restraint," she said.
"Restraint is my middle name," I said.
"I'd always wond
ered," Susan said.
"So far," I said, "I have found out that people don't want me to find out anything."
"Not a new treat for you," she said.
"No, I'm getting kind of used to it. You want to come out Friday night when you're through seeing patients?"
"To Wheaton?"
"Yes, "we could share a Polish Platter at the Reservoir Motel Hunt Room, and afterwards stroll down Route Thirty-two and look at the automobile salvage yards."
"That's enticing," Susan said,"but maybe you'd rather come home and have some of my legendary takeout from Rudi's and go see the Renoir exhibit at the MFA."
"You city kids are like that," I said, "always putting down the country. Out here is what America used to be."
"Mmm," Susan said.
"Besides," I said, "I can't come home-unlike you slugabed shrinks I work weekends."
"Okay, you honey-tongued spellbinder, you've talked me into it," Susan said. "Everything except the Polish Platter."
"There must be an alternative," I said.
"I should hope so," Susan said. "I don't want to be corny, but how far will people go to keep from talking to you about the Valdez thing?"
"They might try to kill me," I said.
"How comforting," Susan said.
"Easier said than done," I said.
"I know," Susan said. "I count on that."
"Me too."
"I'll be there by eight Friday," Susan said.
"I'll be there," I said. "Tell me one thing; though, before we hang. Do you admire my restraint even more than you admire my sinewy body?"
"Yes," Susan said.
"Let me rephrase the question," I said.
Susan's laugh bubbled. "Ask me if I love you," she said.
"Do you love me?"
"Yes, I do."
"Do I love you?"
"Yes, you do."
"What a happy coincidence," I said.
Chapter 6
It is hilly country around Wheaton. No mountains but a steady up and downness to the terrain that makes a five-mile run in the morning a significant workout. Susan had given me one of those satiny-looking warmup outfits for Christmas and I was wearing it, with a .32 S&W zipped up in the right-hand jacket pocket. I'd brought two guns with me. The .32 and, in case the culprit turned out to be a polar bear, a Colt Python .357 Magnum that weighed about as much as a bowling ball and was best left in the bureau drawer when jogging.
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