spoke fluent Spanish. Been a Neiman fellow, good writer, good reporter.'
'And somebody shot him.'
'And castrated him, probably afterwards, and dumped him along Route Nine near the Windsor Dam at the south end of Quabbin Reservoir.'
'What do the cops say?'
'In Wheaton?' Kingsley took the pipe from his mouth so he could snort. 'Valdez was a cock hound, no question, they say a jealous husband caught him.'
'You don't believe it?'
'He's been a cock hound since he passed puberty. How come it got him in trouble a month after he started looking at the coke business in Wheaton.'
'Castration sort of points that way,' I said. 'Cops got anybody in mind?'
Kingsley snorted again. 'Chief down there is a blowhard. Struts around with a pearl-handled forty-five. Thinks he's Wyatt Earp. Smalltown bully is mostly what he is.'
'Doesn't want a lot of outside help?' I said.
'Won't admit he needs it,' Kingsley said.
'Honest?' I said.
Kingsley shrugged. 'Probably, probably too stupid and mean to be bribed.'
'How about the rest of the department? Coke is money and money is bribery.'
'Cynical Mr. Spenser.'
'Old, Mr. Kingsley.'
'Probably the same thing,' Kingsley said. 'And probably right. I don't know. It's the kind of thing that Valdez was supposed to look into.'
'And you don't want to send in more reporters.'
Kingsley shook his head. 'And get another one killed? They're journalists, not gunfighters. Most of them kids starting out.'
'You figure I'm a gunfighter?' I said.
'I know what you are. I've looked into you very carefully. I'd like to hire you to go down there and see who killed that boy and tell me and we'll bring him to justice.'
'Including if it was a jealous husband?'
'Yes.'
'You have any copy that he filed?' I said.
'No, nor any of his notes.'
'There should be notes,' I said.
'There should in fact,' Kingsley said. 'But there aren't any. He'd been there a month, looking around, talking with people. There'd be notes.'
'You know who he talked to?'
'No. Nor who he might have played around with, though in his case the best guess would be everyone. All I have is a photo of him, background on him. We gave him a long leash. We said go down, feel your way around, see what's there, take your time. Most papers need to make money. This one makes money but it doesn't need to. It's my toy. My grandfather made all the money any of us will ever need.'
'You had him down there undercover,' I said.
'More or less,' Kingsley said.
'And me?'
'You can go down wide open,' Kingsley said. 'You're working for me and you can tell anyone you like, or nobody. This is what you know, I don't hire people and tell them how to work.'
'You want to talk about money?'
'I don't care about money, tell me what you need up front, and bill me for the rest when it's over. You won't cheat me.'
'I won't?'
'No,' Kingsley said, 'you won't. I told you we've looked into you thoroughly. I know what you are.'
'That's comforting,' I said. 'I've often wondered.'
Chapter 2
I was at the downstairs bar in the Parker House drinking Killian Red Ale with Rita Fiore, who was an assistant DA from Norfolk County and, myself excepted, the best-looking law person in Boston. In point of fact I wasn't exactly a law person anymore, and in point of more fact Rita wasn't drinking Red Ale with me. She was drinking Glenfiddich on the rocks and smoking long Tareyton cigarettes.
'The DEA guy's name is Fallon,' Rita said. 'I've known him two, three years, he's okay. Just don't talk too fast.'
