“Spenser,” I said.
“I know that name,” Quirk said. “You are, I believe, wanted for violating the entire California penal code. You and your fucking soulmate appear to have pissed off every law enforcement agency west of the Rockies.”
“It was nothing,” I said. “Hawk gets a lot of the credit.”
“I want to talk,” Quirk said. “Be on a corner of your choice and I’ll pick you up. Both of you.”
“Charles and Chestnut,” I said.
“I’ll be there at nine,” Quirk said and hung up. At 9:02 a tan Chevrolet sedan pulled up at the corner of Charles and Chestnut. Belson was driving. Quirk sat beside him. Hawk and I got in the backseat and Belson eased the car back into traffic, heading toward the Common. Quirk half turned, rested his left arm on the back of the seat and looked at Hawk and me. His shirt was radiantly white, and brisk with starch. His camel’s hair jacket was fresh from the cleaners and fitted across his thick back without a wrinkle. His brown knit tie was knotted precisely the right size to highlight the small roll in his collar. His thick black hair was cut short and newly barbered. I’d never seen it when it wasn’t.
“You guys look like you shipped back here in a crate,” Quirk said.
“Clothes are fresh from the dryer,” I said. “Just need a little ironing.”
“So does your life,” Eielson said. He turned at Beacon Street.
Hawk leaned buck in the seat and folded his arms and lapsed into stillness. The Public Garden was on our left with its ornate wrought-iron fence. The foot of Beacon Hill was on our right with its high-windowed apartments. Belson was thinner than Quirk, with graying hair, and the blue shadow of a heavy beard, an hour after he shaved. He was chewing on a dead cigar.
Quirk said, “Tell me your side of things.”
“What do you know?” I said.
“I know Hawk’s wanted for murder, and you for accessory after. I know you’re both wanted for jailbreak, assault on a police officer, two counts for you, more than I can remember for Hawk. I know you’re wanted for breaking and entering, assault -Christ, maybe a dozen counts-violation of the California hostage statutes, destruction of property, suspicion of arson, theft of a rental car, theft of two handguns… other stuff. I don’t have the warrants.”
“They missed some of the good stuff,” Hawk said.
“You,” Quirk said, looking at Hawk, “would do all of that stuff for any simple reason. Like someone paid you to. Spenser’s reasons would be more complicated. I want to hear his reasons.”
I looked at Hawk. “Anything you want left out?” He shook his head, his face blank and peaceful.
“Okay,” I said. “Susan is in trouble.”
“Her too,” Belson said as if talking to himself. We were driving along Beacon Street outbound. “She has taken up with a guy named Russell Costigan. She called Hawk and said she wanted to leave Costigan but couldn’t. Hawk went out to help her. Got set up, probably not by Susan, the cops and Costigan were in on an assault frame, but they underrated Hawk and one of Costigan’s people got killed. Hawk was jailed in Mill River, California, which is a company town with company cops and Costigan’s old man is the company.”
“Jerry Costigan,” Quirk said.
“Uh huh. So Susan got a letter to me telling me Hawk’s in jail. I go out and bust him out and we start looking for Susan. We had to roust some people at Costigan’s house… ”
“Including Jerry,” Quirk said.
“Yes. But she wasn’t there and we had to look for her at the Costigan lodge in Washington State.”
“Which you burned down.”
“I didn’t know that,” Hawk murmured. “On purpose?”
“Yeah.”
“I like it,” Hawk said.
“But she wasn’t there either,” Quirk said.
“No. So we headed home to regroup.”
Belson stopped the Chevy at a red light where Mass Avenue crosses Beacon. Then he turned right and started across the bridge toward Cambridge. Quirk rested his chin on his forearm. On the Cambridge side, Belson made an illegal left turn and headed out along the river on Memorial Drive.
“There’s a couple of federal guys want to talk with you,” Quirk said.
“FBI?” I said.
“One of them.”
“What do they want to talk about?”
Quirk shifted in his seat so that he was faced back around front, talking without looking at me, staring out the front window while he spoke.
“They want to talk about helping you with the California authorities.”
“Mighty white of them,” Hawk said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t that nice.”
“And then maybe you can help them with something,” Quirk said.
