“Ain’t she a looker?” He looked at Quirk. “We ever have to bust her, Marty, I want you to send some hard-ass kids from the tac squad. You and me’d get hurt.”
“She as nice as she looks?” I said.
“Nowhere near that nice,” Belson said. “She sat in while we questioned sonny and tended to answer whatever we asked him. I told her finally, why didn’t she hold him on her knee and he could move his lips? She told me she’d see to it that I never worked for any police department in this state.”
“You scared?” I said.
“Hell, no,” Belson said. “I’m relieved. I thought she was going to kill me.”
“She active in the committee?” I said.
“She didn’t say,” Belson said, “but I’d guess yes. I have the feeling she’s active in anything sonny is active in. He doesn’t get a hard-on without checking with her.”
“You run any check on the family? There’s a sister.”
Quirk said, “What the hell do you think we do in here—make up Dick Tracy Crimestoppers? Of course we ran a check on the family. Sister’s name is Geraldine.”
“I know that, for crissake—Geraldine Julia English, Goucher College class of ‘68.”
Quirk went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “Geraldine Julia English. Married a guy named Walton Wells in June, 1968, divorced 1972. Works as a model in Boston.”
“Wells,” I said.
“Yeah, Walton Wells—slick name, huh?”
“Geraldine Julia Wells would be her married name.”
Belson said, “You were wrong, Marty. Your kid couldn’t be nearly as smart as Spenser.”
“What model agency she with?”
Belson said, “Carol Cobb.”
“She use her married name?”
“Yeah.”
“And her middle name instead of her first, I bet.”
Quirk said, “Nobody could be nearly as smart as Spenser.”
“She bills herself as Julie Wells, doesn’t she?”
Belson nodded.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “what we have here is your basic clue. Julie Wells, who is Lawrence Turnbull English, Junior’s, sister, was intimate with Rachel Wallace.”
“Intimate intimate or just friendly intimate,” Quirk said.
“Intimate intimate,” I said.
“How do you know this?” Quirk said.
I told him.
“Nice you told us first thing,” Quirk said. “Nice you mentioned her name at the beginning of the investigation so we could follow up every possible lead. Very nice.” There was no amusement in Quirk’s voice now.
“I should have told you,” I said. “I was wrong.”
“You bet your ass you were wrong,” Quirk said. “Being wrong like that tends to put your balls in the fire, too— you know that?”
“You’re not the Holy Ghost, Quirk. None of you guys are. I don’t have to run in and report everything I know to you every day. I made a guess that this broad was okay, and I didn’t want to smell up her rose garden by dragging her into this. Can’t you see the
“And maybe you guessed wrong, hot shot, and maybe your girl friend Rachel is dead and gone because you didn’t tell us something.”
“Or maybe it doesn’t mean a goddamned thing,” I said. “Maybe you’re making a big goddamned event out of nothing.” I was leaning back in my chair, one foot propped against the edge of Quirk’s desk. He leaned over and slapped the foot away.
“And get your goddamned foot off my desk,” he said.
I stood up and so did Quirk.
“Dynamite,” Belson said. “You guys fight to the death, and the winner gets to look for Rachel Wallace.” He scratched a wooden match on the sole of his shoe and lit a new cigar.
Still standing, Quirk said, “How much do you pay for those goddamned weeds anyway?”
Between puffs to get the cigar going Belson said, “Fifteen cents apiece.”
Quirk sat down. “You get screwed,” he said.
“They’re cheap,” Belson said, “but they smell bad.”
