man with the handgun never moved. The guy with the Uzi spasmed maybe twice and then lay still. I stayed prone on the hall floor with my gun still aimed, taking in air. Then I stood and walked over and looked at them. They were dead. I uncocked my new gun and holstered it, and heaved in some more air.
Lila had called 911. I could hear the distant sirens rolling down Boylston Street.
24
Pearl and I spent pretty much the rest of the day in close contact with the Boston Police Department. First came the prowl-car guys. Then the precinct detectives, and the crime scene people. About an hour after it started, Belson came in and looked at me and shook his head.
“Wyatt Fucking Earp,” he said.
I shrugged.
Belson went and talked with a crime scene investigator. Then he went over to the couch and scratched Pearl’s right ear. Her short tail thumped against the cushion.
“She been out?” he said.
“Lila across the hall,” I said. “Took her out about a half-hour ago.”
“Okay,” Belson said. “Then let’s you and me gather at your desk and chat.”
One of the precinct detectives said, “I’ve questioned him, Frank. Want me to bring you up to speed?”
“No,” Belson said.
I sat at my desk. Belson pulled a chair up and sat across the desk from me.
“Crime scene guy tells me one round each. Middle of the chest both times.”
I nodded again.
“Annie Fucking Oakley,” Belson said. “Talk to me.”
“You know about the painting got stolen?” I said. “And the guy got blown up out on Route Two trying to get it back?”
“The guy you were bodyguarding?”
“Yep.”
“Nice,” Belson said. “Assume I don’t.”
“Okay,” I said.
I told my story.
As I told it, Belson sat perfectly still and listened. Like Epstein, he didn’t take notes. He rarely did. But two years later, he’d be able to give you what I’d said verbatim. Cops.
When I finished, he said, “Dog saved your ass.”
I nodded.
“She did.”
“You figure it’s connected to the art theft and the murder?”
“Don’t you?” I said.
Belson shrugged.
“You’ve annoyed a lot of people in the last twenty years,” he said.
“Why limit it?” I said.
“You’re right, you been good at it all your life.”
“Everybody gotta be good at something,” I said.
“But,” Belson said, “it don’t do us much good picking names of people might want you dead.”
“Too many,” I said.
“So,” Belson said, “assume it’s connected. Why now?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “I been poking around at it since it happened. I must have poked something live.”
“Where you been poking recently,” Belson said.
“Walford University. Winifred Minor. Her daughter. Couple of her daughter’s classmates.”
“Most recent?”
“Missy and Winifred Minor,” I said.
“Missy Minor,” Belson said.
“Cute name,” I said.
“Cute,” Belson said. “You know either of the stiffs?”
“No,” I said.
