'Car?' I said.
'Most of the prints in the car belonged to the guy they stole it from.'
'Trace the gun?'
'Yep. Ml carbine. Fully automatic. Stolen from a National Guard Armory in Akron, Ohio, in 1963.'
'So who was in the bank?' I said.
'A black guy. A white woman. There was probably someone driving the car, but no one saw who it was.'
'And that's it?' I said. 'That's all there is?'
'That's absolutely fucking it,' Quirk said.
'Anyone remember who had the carbine?'
'Far as I can tell, all of them had long guns. Nobody in there knew one from another,' Quirk said. 'Homicide never got a sniff.'
'And they were on it when it was hot.'
'Uh-huh.'
'I'm starting out after it's been cold for twenty-eight years.'
'You working for someone?'
'Emily Gordon's daughter is a friend of Paul Giacomin's,' I said.
'Oh,' Quirk said.
'Oh,' I said.
'How is the kid?'
'Paul? He's not a kid anymore.'
'I know how that works,' Quirk said. 'Two of my kids are older than I am.'
'Anything else you can tell me, gimme someplace to start?'
'I told you what I remember,' Quirk said. 'You want to come in, you can look at the case files.'
'I will,' I said.
'She paying you top dollar for this?' Quirk said.
'She and Paul gave me six donuts this morning.'
Quirk nodded thoughtfully.
'Yeah,' he said. 'That would buy you.'
3
I sat at an empty desk in the Homicide Division outside Quirk's office. There were a lot of other desks in neat rows under bright lights. The floor was clean. The file cabinets were new. All the desks had computers on them. The old Berkeley Street headquarters was cramped and unattractive and looked like what it was. This place looked like a room for stockbrokers with bright suspenders and cuff links. Cops weren't supposed to be working under these conditions. I felt like I was in L.A. The file on Emily Gordon's murder was in a big brown cardboard envelope closed with a thick rubber band. It had never been computerized. I was grateful at least for that.
A detective named DeLong walked past and stopped and came back. He had on a green Lacoste polo shirt hanging over blue jeans. I could see the outline of his gun, in front, under the shirttail.
'Spenser,' he said. 'You re-upping?'
'Just stopped by to give you guys a hand,' I said.
'Don't steal anything,' DeLong said.
I looked around the Homicide Division. 'Place is an embarrassment, DeLong.'
'Yeah. I know. I'm turning into a sissy.'
'You remember a bank robbery in Audubon Circle, in 1974? Woman got killed.'
'1974? For crissake, Spenser, I was fifteen in 1974.'
'Yeah,' I said. 'Me too.'
DeLong looked like he was going to say something, then shook his head and walked off. I went back to my case file. Aside from the autopsy report and the crime scene write-up, the case file was mostly reports written by Mario Bennati, detective first grade. I didn't know him. Quirk said he had been the lead detective on the case and that he'd retired in 1982. I plowed along. Cops aren't usually graceful writers, and the jargon of investigative procedure didn't help. For a case that had no clues, no identifiable suspects, and no resolution, there was a lot of stuff, none of it helpful. Bennati had tried. His case log showed he had talked to all the customers in the bank, everyone he could find who'd been in the vicinity of the bank, and all bank employees. He'd talked to Emily Gordon's sister, Sybil Gold, to six-year-old Daryl Gordon, and to Emily Gordon's husband, Barry, from whom she had apparently been estranged at the time of the shooting. There had been talk with the FBI. The FBI would send over an intelligence report on the Dread Scott Brigade. There had been talk with the cops in San Diego. Talk with the DEA. Talk with the Army about the stolen carbine. Talk with the bank examiners. All the statements were included. I ploughed on. It was late afternoon. I needed a nap.
