Painted Ladies

38

Belson and I sat at my kitchen counter and watched the technicians do whatever it was they did.

“These guys are pretty good,” Belson said.

“I know.”

“They keep at it, they might get you.”

“I think the best bet is to catch them before they do,” I said.

Belson nodded.

“Good idea,” he said. “The license-plate number you got from the Lexus is assigned to a Volkswagen Passat. Owner is Laurie Hanlon. We’ll check her out, but sounds a lot like a stolen plate to me.”

“If it had anything to do with the bomb blast in the first place,” I said.

“If it’s a stolen plate,” Belson said, “it would make me think that they did.”

“Yeah, sat out there for however long,” I said, “waiting to make sure the bomb went off.”

“One of your neighbors takes her kid out in his carriage couple times a day, says the car’s been there for several days. Sometimes, she says, another car would pull up and a guy would get out and swap places with the guy in the Lexus.”

“Working in shifts,” I said.

“Rivera, the bomb-squad guy, says the kind of charge they rigged, to just destroy the bed and its occupant, is pretty sophisticated.”

“Can they tell anything else about it?”

“Nothing much to look at,” Belson said. “Maybe when they get the scraps into the lab.”

“We knew they had a bomber on staff,” I said. “The thing that blew Prince up wasn’t a bunch of nails in a pipe.”

“True,” Belson said. “You know how they got in here?”

“No.”

“You’ve looked?” Belson said.

“What do I do for a living,” I said. “Sell watches out of the trunk of my car?”

“You’ve looked.”

“I see no sign of forced entry,” I said.

“We haven’t, either,” Belson said. “Anybody got a key to the place besides Susan?”

“Hawk,” I said.

“Where is he?”

“Central Asia,” I said.

“Central Asia? Doing what?”

“What he does,” I said. “It’s got something to do with Ives, the government guy. You know Ives?”

“The spook,” Belson said.

“Yes.”

Belson shook his head slowly.

“Anybody else?”

“Nope. Just Hawk and Susan.”

“She’s okay?”

“Left her at seven-thirty this morning,” I said. “She was fine.”

“Why don’t I ask Cambridge to send a car up there, just to check,” Belson said.

“Yes,” I said.

He stood and went to the other end of the living room, where he took out a cell phone and talked for maybe five minutes. Then he came back.

“Cambridge will send a car up. I explained a little of the deal. They’ll actually talk to her, make sure she’s okay.”

I nodded.

One of the uniformed cops, a young one, came into my apartment.

“Sergeant,” he said.

“You got something, Stevie?” Belson said.

The young cop looked at me.

“He’s on our side,” Belson said. “For the moment, at least.”

Stevie nodded.

“Got a stiff in the cellar,” he said. “Hispanic male, maybe forty, forty-five, shot once in the back of the head. Got a tattoo on his right biceps says Rosa.”

“Francisco,” I said. “The super.”

Belson nodded.

“He have a passkey?”

“Sure,” I said.

“That’s probably how they got in,” he said.

I nodded.

“Take some scientists down there, Stevie,” Belson said. “I’ll be right there.”

He looked at me

“You wanna take a look?”

“I would,” I said.

And we headed to the cellar.