Bad Business

38

I was drinking coffee with Belson in his car parked in the lot of a Dunkin' Donuts near Fresh Pond Circle. There was a box of donuts on the console between us. The windows were down to catch the breeze from the parkway, and through the windshield we could look at the industrial fencing in front of us. Belson selected a Boston cream donut and took a careful bite. He swallowed and wiped a little of the cream filling off the corner of his mouth.

"You wouldn't want to eat one of these things on a date," Belson said.

"Frank," I said, "when's the last time you had a date."

"Me and the wife went over to Carson Beach and took a walk last Sunday."

"And did you eat a Boston cream?"

"'Course not."

I selected a dainty plain donut.

"What's the forensic scoop on the late Gavin?" I said.

"Nine millimeter through the top of his mouth and out the back of his head. Angle consistent with a self-inflicted wound," Belson said.

"Powder residue?"

"Hands and around his mouth," Belson said.

"Anything on the suicide note?"

"Nope. Just a note on the computer screen. Nothing to tell us yea or nay."

"Dead long?"

"Around six hours before we got there."

"So around what, nine A.M.?"

"Around then."

"Who found him?"

"Cleaning lady, comes two afternoons a week. Let herself in, she thinks around two, found him like that."

"How long's it take that patching goop to dry through?"

"Eight hours," Belson said.

"That slug a nine, too?"

"Yeah. Matches the one that killed Gavin."

Belson had finished his Boston cream and was now selecting a strawberry-frosted donut with multicolored sprinkles on it.

"You're going to eat that?" I said.

"Sure."

"You got no taste in donuts, Frank."

"I must have," Frank said. "I'm a cop."

I drank some coffee.

"So it all works out nice as a suicide."

"Except for the second slug," Belson said. He had a bite of the strawberry-frosted donut. I looked away.

"Except for that," I said.

"You thought about that?" Belson said.

"I have."

"You got a theory?"

"I have."

"You want to share it with me," Belson said, "or are you just in it for the donuts?"

"I'm thinking that somebody could have shot him in the mouth the way he was shot, and then put his hand on the gun and put the gun next to his face, and fired that bullet into the wall."

Belson nodded.

"Which would mean," Belson said, "that he had to move the bookcase first."

"Yep," I said, "which would also mean that he had to bring the patching plaster with him."

"Which would also mean that he planned this thing out pretty carefully," Belson said.

"And it might mean that he knew his way around the apartment."

"He did put that slug into the wall behind the fireplace, which meant it wouldn't go through."

"And," I said, "if he did all this, so as to get powder residue, he was probably not uninformed in these matters."

"Sort of the way me and Quirk been thinking," Belson said.

"Either of you talked with Healy?"

"Quirk," Belson said. "Staties don't have a clue."

"How's Quirk treating the thing?"

"Publicly we're wrapping up loose ends on a probable suicide. Internally we're thinking murder."

"And maybe it's related to the murder of Trent Rowley?"

"Yeah," Belson said. "We're thinking that it might be."

"And maybe it's connected to Kinergy," I said.

"Sure," Belson said. "And maybe it ain't."

"That covers most of the possibilities," I said. Belson took another frosted donut from the box. "What kind is that?" I said.

"Maple frosted," he said. "With strawberry sprinkles."

"Good Jesus," I said.