'
'Cause the police do police work better than he do,' Hawk said. '
'Cause they got a lot of bodies available to do it. And he only got him.'
'That would be a problem,' Vinnie said.
'So why do it now?
Because that Boston cop told you about the FBI prints?'
'Yeah,' I said.
'DeSpain told me that they had no history on him. Said there was no record of Sampson's prints.'
'DeSpain?' Vinnie said.
'Used to be a state cop named DeSpain.'
'Same guy,' I said.
'DeSpain was good,' Vinnie said.
'Tough bastard, but good.'
'So either he's not good any more or he was lying to me,' I said.
'So you gotta go over all the ground you thought he'd cover.'
'Un huh.'
'This is likely to annoy Lonnie Wu,' Hawk said.
'Maybe,' I said.
'And maybe DeSpain.'
'Maybe.'
'And maybe somebody do something we can catch them at,' Hawk said.
'That would be nice.' ''Less they shoot your ass,' Hawk said.
'You and Vinnie are supposed to prevent that,' I said.
'And if we don't?' Vinnie said.
'You don't like the plan,' I said.
'I'm open to suggestions.'
'Hey,' Vinnie said.
'I don't fucking think. I just shoot people.'
'Sooner or later,' Hawk said.
We reached the street where Sampson's apartment was, and turned into it and parked on a hydrant in front of his building.
'It'll probably take me a while,' I said.
'Probably will,' Hawk said.
I put a small flashlight in my pocket, and one of those multi combination survival tools, and got out of the car into the pleasant steady rain. Hawk got behind the wheel and Vinnie came up in the front seat. Hawk shut off the lights and the wipers and turned off the motor. The rain immediately collected on the windows, and I couldn't see them any more.
I turned and walked toward the house where Craig Sampson had lived. It was three stories, gray, black shutters, white trim.
There was a front porch four steps up, and a front door painted black. Narrow, full-length windows framed the front door. The windows were dirty. There were shabby lace curtains in them. The house paint had blistered away leaving long, bare patches, but the wood beneath was gray with age and soil so that it nearly matched.
There were three door bells. The first two had names in the little brass frames beneath. The top frame was empty. I peered in through the murky glass past the ratty curtains. There was a narrow hallway, an interior door on the right, and a staircase rising along the right wall beyond it. I tried the front door. It was locked. I looked at the doorbells. There was no intercom associated with them. I rang all the doorbells and waited. Inside the house the first floor door opened, and a thin, angry-looking woman opened the front door. I checked the name on the first floor bell.
'Hello,' I said.
'Ms. Rebello?'
'What's your story,' she said. She was nearly as tall as I was, and high-shouldered, and narrow. Her hair was about the color of the house and tightly permed. She was wearing a flowered dress and sneakers. The little toe of her right sneaker had been cut out, presumably to relieve pressure on a bunion.
'You the landlady?' I said.
She nodded. I took out my wallet and opened it and flashed my gun permit at her. It had my picture on it, and looked official. She squinted at it.
'Police,' I said.
