“No good for business,” he said.
“I’ve read the file,” I said.
“Lieutenant doesn’t usually hand those out,” Farrell said.
“Good to know,” I said. “You got anything not in the file?”
“If I had it, it would be in there,” Farrell said.
“It wouldn’t have to be,” I said. “It could be unsubstantiated opinion, guesswork, intuition, stuff like that.”
“I deal with facts,” Farrell said. It made me smile.
“You think that’s funny?” he said.
“Yeah, kind of. Are you familiar with Dragnet?”
“No. I don’t like people laughing at me.”
“Nobody does,” I said. “Think of it as a warm smile of appreciation.”
“Hey, asshole,” Farrell said. “You think you can fuck with me?”
He stood up, his hands loosely in front of him, one above the other. He probably had some color belt, in some kind of Asian handfighting.
“Does this mean you’re not feeling cooperative?” I said.
“It means I don’t take smart shit from anybody. You think maybe I’m not tough enough? You can step up now and try me.”
“Good plan,” I said. “We beat the hell out of each other, and when the murderer dashes in to break it up, we collar him.”
“Ah, hell,” Farrell said. He stood for another moment, shifting a little on his feet, then he shrugged and sat down.
“I don’t like being stuck on a no-brainer,” he said. “They think it’s a dead-file case, but they can’t ignore it, so they put the junior man on it.”
I nodded.
“The case stinks,” he said.
I nodded again. Penetratingly.
“Everything’s too perfect. No one had a bad word. Everyone liked her. No one could think of a single reason to kill her. No enemies. No lovers. Nothing. We talked with everybody in the family. Everybody at work. Everybody in her address book. Every return address on her mail. We made a list of every person we’d talked with and asked her husband and children if there was anyone they could think of not on it. We did the same at work. We got a few more names and talked with them. We do not have a single suspect out of any of them. We talked with her gyno, her physical trainer…” He spread his hands.
“Do you think there’s something wrong,” I said, “because you’re stuck on a no-brainer and don’t want to accept it, or is there something wrong?”
“I’m stuck on five no-brainers,” Farrell said. “I’ve got a full caseload of cases that go nowhere.”
“My question stands,” I said.
Farrell rubbed his hands slowly together, and opened them and studied the palms for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve thought of that too and I don’t know.”
chapter four
LOUISBURG SQUARE IS in the heart of Beacon Hill, connecting Mt. Vernon and Pinckney Streets. In the center of the square is a little plot of grass with a black iron fence around it and a statue of Christopher Columbus. Around the square and facing it were a series of threestory, brick-front town houses.
The Tripp-Nelson home was one of them. It had a wide raised panel door, which was painted royal blue. In the middle of the door was a big polished brass knocker in the form of a lion holding a big polished brass ring his mouth.
I had walked up the hill from Charles Street the way Olivia Nelson had on the night she was killed. I stopped at the lower corner of the square where it connected to Mt. Vernon. There was nothing remarkable about it. There were no bloodstains, now. The police chalkings and the yellow crime-scene tape were gone. Nobody even came and stood and had their picture taken on the spot where the sixteenounce framing hammer had exploded against the back of Olivia Nelson’s skull. According to the coroner’s report she probably never knew it. She probably felt that one explosion-and the rest was silence.
I had her case file with me. There wasn’t anywhere to start on this thing, so I thought it might help to be in her house when I read the file of her murder investigation. It wasn’t much of an idea, but it was the only one I had. Tripp knew I was coming. I had told him I needed to look around the house. A round-faced brunette maid with pouty lips and a British accent answered my ring. She had on an actual maid suit, black dress, little white apron, little white cap. You don’t see many of those anymore.
“My name’s Spenser,” I said. “Mr. Tripp said you’d be expecting me.”
She looked at me blankly, as if I were an inoffensive but unfamiliar insect that had settled on her salad.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “You’re to have the freedom of the house, sir. May I take your hat, sir?”
I was wearing a replica Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap, royal blue with a white B and a white button on top. Susan had ordered it for me at the same time she’d gotten me the replica Braves hat, which I wore with my other outfit.
