Paultz shook his head.

"Correct," I said. "Give me the bread." The room was quiet. Hawk tapped the shotgun rhythmically against his leg. Since we'd walked in the room he'd looked steadily at the two thugs.

I said, "Don't screw around with this, Mickey. You know you're going to do it, so let's get it done."

Paultz looked at me silently, then he looked at the white-haired man and nodded. The white-haired man handed me the briefcase. I took it and turned and walked out. Hawk came behind me. We got into the car and drove away.

"He's going to kill you," Hawk said.

"Count the money," I said.

"It'll be right," Hawk said. "No point shortchanging you now."

"I know, but count it anyway. Don't want to embarra.s.s myself at the bank." Hawk put the shotgun on the floor, took the briefcase, opened it, and started counting.

I drove straight to the branch of the First National Bank near Haller's office. It was in Charles River Park Plaza on Cambridge Street. I parked. Hawk closed up the briefcase.

"Look like three hundred fifty thou to me. In big bills."

We went in and deposited it to the Reorganized Church of the Redemption Trust account. It took a while but bankers will, finally, still accept cash.

Back in the car Hawk said to me, "Now what?"

"Now," I said. "We double-cross Paultz."

CHAPTER 29.

The Reverend Bullard Winston and I sat in a conference room in State Police Headquarters at 1010 Commonwealth Avenue and talked about Mickey Paultz. With us was a large mean AFT cop named Riordan, a state cop named Devane from the state organized crime squad, a scruffy narcotics cop from Quiney named McMahon, an a.s.sistant prosecutor from the Norfolk County D.A.'s office named Rita Fiori, and Martin Quirk.

Ms. Fiori said, "I'm not clear what interest Boston homicide has in this affair, Lieutenant Quirk."

"Unofficial," Quirk said. He jerked his head at me. "I know Spenser and he asked me to set up this meeting."

Ms. Fiori crossed her legs. She had elegant legs. "Then I think our first order of business is to establish jurisdiction." Her tailored suit fit well around the hips.

Riordan sighed. McMahon, the Quincy cop said, "Rita went to Harvard."

Rita smiled at him. "And one of the things I learned there, Artie, is that a case needs someone in charge of it . . . and it shouldn't be some a.s.shole narc."

Winston sat in something like a trance as the discussion of who was in charge roiled around us. He was pale, his shoulders slumped, his breathing was shallow. He sat motionless for the full half-hour of discussion that finally resolved in Devane, the statie, being acclaimed case coordinator. When it had been settled Devane looked at me.

"Okay," he said. "Let's hear from you." Devane had a neat mustache and looked a little like Wayne Newton.

I said, "My a.s.sociate, Reverend Winston here, will give you a full statement detailing the way Mickey Paultz laundered money through the Reorganized Church of the Redemption."

McMahon murmured, "Saints preserve us."

"And I will produce the names of two witnesses who will, if granted immunity, testify under oath that Mickey Paultz sold them heroin in wholesale amounts clearly intended for resale."

Devane said, "Who are the witnesses?"

"First the immunity," I said.

"We can't do that without even knowing who they are," Fiori said.

"That's the deal," I said.

"Where'd you come up with these witnesses?" Devane said.

Beside me Winston remained motionless, looking at the floor. A vein pulsed in his right temple. Otherwise he might have been dead. I shook my head.

Quirk said, "Off the record."

I looked at Devane. He nodded.

"Joe Broz," I said. "Broz gave them to me."

"Broz?"

"Yes, Vinnie Morris actually, but you know when Vinnie talks, it's Joe's voice."

Devane nodded again.

"Can we trust them?" Fiori said.

"We can trust them to say what Vinnie told me they'd say."

"Are we suborning perjury here?" Fiori said.

"Probably," I said.

Fiori smiled at me. Her teeth were even and white, her hair was reddish-brown and fell thickly to her shoulders. Her eyes were enormous and blue and innocent. "But in a good cause," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"What's Broz get out of this?" Devane said. I shook my head.

Quirk said, "He eliminates a compet.i.tor."

Devane said, "And maybe replaces him."

Quirk shrugged. "One creep at a time," he said.

They were quiet then, Riordan sprawled in his chair, his frame too big for it, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms folded over his chest. Rita Fiori bit her lower lip, and looked at Devane. He looked at Riordan, Riordan nodded. Fiori nodded.

Devane said, "Okay, immunity."

I took an envelope out of my coat pocket and handed it to Devane.

"Names," I said. "They'll come in with their attorney whenever you want. His name's there too."

Devane opened the envelope, looked at the names. Pa.s.sed the envelope around. "Anybody know them?" he said.

McMahon said, "I do. Both of them."

Fiori looked at Winston. "Hadn't we ought to get a statement from the Reverend Winston?" she said.

Devane pushed a tape recorder across the conference table closer to Winston. "We'll tape what you say," he said. "And transcribe it and give you a copy of the typescript. Do you wish an attorney present? You have that right."

Winston looked at me. I shook my head. Winston said, "No." His voice sounded dry and out of use. He cleared his throat.

"You understand," Devane said, "that you are not receiving immunity."

"Yes."

"Although the judge will know of your help here."

I handed Winston a Xerox copy of his earlier statement. Devane pushed the b.u.t.ton on the tape recorder. Winston began to talk, referring to the earlier statement, but supplementing and enlarging, his voice growing stronger as he talked, as if the catharsis of confession had begun to quicken his spirit.

CHAPTER 30.

It was Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and an early August monsoon was upon us. A cool hard rain slanted by a strong summer wind was pounding down at an angle and had been since Friday night. Linda and I drove out to a.s.sembly Square to see Return of the Jedi Return of the Jedi at the movie complex there. There were eight theaters in the complex showing the same eight movies that every other theater complex in the Northeast was showing. The supply of product must be down in Los Angeles. at the movie complex there. There were eight theaters in the complex showing the same eight movies that every other theater complex in the Northeast was showing. The supply of product must be down in Los Angeles.

"It's going to be a very cute movie," Linda said. She was wearing high-heeled boots, tight jeans, and a tan raincape with the hood thrown back. The rain was coming straight into my windshield and the wipers were sweeping not drops but sheets of water off the gla.s.s. I was wearing a trench coat and my dark brown low-crowned cowboy hat. With the coat collar turned up I felt very much like Dashiell Harnmett on the outside. Underneath I had jeans and sneakers and a black T-shirt that said SLC DANCE in purple letters. "Cute," I said.

"The first two were adorable," Linda said. "I should think a romantic like you would like them."

"No horses," I said. "I don't like a movie without horses."

The parking lot had been temporarily diminished by construction and it was crowded. I found a slot at the far end of the lot.

"Want me to drop you at the door before I park?" I said.

"No, I kind of like the rain," Linda said.

"Me too."

Susan would have wanted to be dropped.

Inside, Linda bought some popcorn and we sat and watched the movie. It took about two hours.

In the lobby, as we shuffled out with the crowd, Linda said, "Now, wasn't that cute?"

"How about silly," I said. "That's almost like cute."

"It was pretty silly, I guess."

"Horses," I said. "Horses would have saved it."

It was still raining like it used to in Korea when we went out. On a nice day it would still have been light, but here at 5:15 with the overcast and the rain, cars were snapping on their headlights as we pulled out of the lot. Beyond where my car was parked another car had parked, illegally, half out into the street. Inconsiderate b.a.s.t.a.r.d. No need to park in the street. Plenty of s.p.a.ces open around the lot, now that several of the movies had let out.

Linda took my hand and tapped it lightly against her thigh as we walked. "It's a kind of comic book, isn't it?" she said.

"Yeah, or a pulp magazine."

Why would somebody park like that next to my car? It was live-parked, the wipers were going. The car on the other side of me had the wipers going too.

"Absolutely fearless heroes," Linda said. "Absolutely hideous villains. Monstrous tortures. But no s.e.x."

Why would a car be live-parked on either side of mine? Why would two cars sit with the motors running in a theater parking lot at a shopping mall on a rainy Sat.u.r.day.

I stopped.

Linda said, "What is it?"

"Something's wrong," I said.

The two cars sat there, boxing mine. The wipers going. The theater neon splashed brightly on the shiny asphalt. The taillights of cars were bright and their headlights made glistening sweeps as they pulled out and backed up and shifted into first and pulled away. Home for maybe a supper of baked beans and corn bread. Get ready to go out on Sat.u.r.day night.

I edged Linda sideways between two parked cars. We stood still. Linda had her hood up, but the wisps of hair that stuck out in front were plastered to her forehead. The rain ran in a small drizzle off the brim of my hat when I tipped my head forward. The two cars didn't budge.

Linda hunched her shoulders impatiently and squeezed my hand. "What are we doing?" she said.

"There's a car parked on either side of mine, with the motors running. It's making me nervous."

"Why . . ."

I shook my head. "Come on," I said. We went down the row of parked cars and swung out wide around the perimeter of the parking lot. The exodus from the afternoon show was over, the influx for the early evening show had arrived and parked and gone inside. There was little movement in the lot. We crossed the street and moved behind the cars parked on that side, moving along the near end of the shopping mall, parallel to where my car was parked and bookended. We stopped behind a Dodge van with the spare tire mounted on a swingaway rack, and some racy stripes swooshed along its side.

"You think those men are after us?" Linda was whispering.

"No," I said. "Me. I think that Mickey Paultz is trying to hit me."