Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,31

else. I made a palms-up gesture at Hawk. Where are they? Hawk jerked a thumb toward the sidewalk on the other side of the car. I holstered my gun and walked across.

32

I sat with Quirk in an interrogation room in the new police headquarters, across the table from the two guys Hawk had collared. One had a big, rapidly discoloring bruise on his right cheekbone. The other guy had a bandage across his forehead. Hawk had apparently banged him face-first against the edge of the Cadillac roof. Beside them sat a smallish man with a lot of curly hair that stood straight out from his head. He had on a blue work shirt and a wrinkled sport coat in a small gray-green check.

“Hawk clean on this?” I said to Quirk.

Quirk grinned.

“Good Samaritan,” he said. “Saw what was going down and intervened. We’re crediting him with a citizen’s arrest.”

I nodded.

“They got a lawyer?” I said.

“Don’t seem to speak much English,” Quirk said. “Not sure they know they can have a lawyer.”

“Where they from?” I said.

“I don’t know, one of those stan countries in Central Asia,” Quirk said. “Boogaloo-stan, or something.”

I looked at the two guys. They were ordinary-looking guys. Both had dark hair. One had a beard touched with gray. He wasn’t that old. Whiskers always seem to be the first to go.

There was a knock and the interrogation-room door opened.

“Captain,” a woman said, “lawyer’s here for these two.”

A black man came into the room wearing a gray three-piece suit that looked vaguely as if it might have been made for him in Europe. His close-cut hair was gray. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and carried a briefcase.

“Lamar Dillard,” he said. “I represent these two gentlemen.”

“You’re not some guy from the pool,” Quirk said. “You cost money. Who hired you?”

“An interested third party,” Dillard said, “who I am under no obligation to name.”

Quirk nodded.

With Dillard was a small woman with smooth black hair worn long, and big, dark eyes. She wore a plain gray dress with a white collar, and low shoes that were probably comfortable.

“This is Ms. Glas,” Dillard said. “Ms. Glas will translate.”

“You know me,” Quirk said. “This is Spenser.”

Ms. Glas went to the two shooters and began to murmur softly to them in a language that didn’t sound familiar.

“Yes, Captain, I do know you,” Dillard said. “Is Mr. Spenser a police officer.”

“Mr. Spenser is the intended victim,” Quirk said.

“If there was a crime intended,” Dillard said.

“We know they were driving a stolen car with phony plates,” Quirk said. “We know they had concealed weapons for which they are not carrying any proof of licensing. They might even turn out to be undocumented aliens.”

Ms. Glas continued to speak softly to the undocumented aliens. They looked at Dillard and said something to Ms. Glas. She shook her head and spoke some more.

“And of which of these alleged crimes is Mr. Spenser the alleged victim?” Dillard said.

“They tried to kill him,” Quirk said.

“From their appearance, the opposite would seem the case,” Dillard said. “Ms. Glas, ask them if their injuries came from being mistreated by the police?”

She spoke. They answered.

“They say it is a black man who did that, on the street,” Ms. Glas said.

Dillard grimaced slightly.

He said to Quirk, “Could you excuse us, Captain. I think I need to speak to my clients alone.”

“We’ll be in my office,” Quirk said. “The officer can direct you.”

“I know where your office is, Captain,” Dillard said.

“Me, too,” Quirk said, and we went out of the room.

33

In Quirk’s office I said, “I don’t care about these guys. I want to know who hired them.”

“Yeah,” Quirk said. He poured two cups of coffee and set mine in front of me on the edge of his desk. “Plus, we get into a trial and we may need Hawk to testify . . .”

“And Dillard might be able to raise questions about his respect for the law?”

“Something like that,” Quirk said.

“Well, you have some bargaining chips,” I said. “Probably no papers, stolen car, fake plates, unlicensed guns.”

“Dillard may come up with papers,” Quirk said, “and a couple gun licenses.”

“What police chief in the state would issue a carry license to these two clowns?” I said.

Quirk looked at me silently.

“Oh,” I said, “chicanery.”

“There are towns in this great commonwealth,” Quirk said, “where you can buy a gun license, if you know the right name to whisper.”

“And Dillard would know the right names.”

“Works for Tony Marcus a lot,” Quirk said. “Hell, Ty-Bop’s got a gun license.”

“From where?”

“Some Podunk town out