Robert B. Parker’s Cheap Shot

56

Bright and early the next morning, Martin Quirk called to tell me that Lela Lopes had been found dead, bound and stuffed into an oil barrel in an Eastie industrial park.

Twenty minutes later, I stood with Quirk at a sprawling complex of oil holding tanks and rusting metal warehouses with a spectacular view of the Mystic River. Frank Belson was there, speaking to some men in coveralls. One of the men was pointing out into the river at a slow-moving tug.

“I had begun to get lonely,” Quirk said. “So nice of you to call the other day and ask about Miss Lopes.”

“I didn’t want you to feel excluded.”

“You working with the staties and the Feds, I wasn’t so sure you’d even remember your pals at BPD.”

“‘I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,’” I said. “‘Blade-end up and five feet tall.’”

“Do you even know what the fuck you’re talking about?”

“Disappointingly, yes.”

The complex and much of the access road was now a crime scene, with cops and techs walking along from Route 1 and around the huge holding tanks. Quirk was Quirk, thick-bodied and square-jawed, spotless raincoat over a pressed suit and shined shoes. His eyes registered a trace of annoyance as I recounted our encounter with Victor Lima.

“So the door was busted when you and Tonto got to Roxbury?” Quirk said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And without a word, this fucking guy Lima just shagged ass from the apartment?”

“Yep.”

“Wouldn’t be that he thought you guys broke in and were about to put a gun between his eyes?” Quirk said. “Maybe he was searching for Miss Lopes, too.”

“Perhaps.”

“So no need to test it for, eh,” Quirk said, appraising my footwear, “a pair of eleven-D Red Wings?”

“Twelve,” I said. “Don’t short me.”

“And what does Z wear?” Quirk said.

“Hand-tooled cowboy boots made in Montana,” I said. “Buffalo hide.”

“Of course he does,” Quirk said. “Jesus Christ.”

“So what do we have?”

“Guy on the late shift tried to ash a fucking cigarette in the barrel and saw the vic wrapped up tight in clear plastic,” Quirk said. “We think she was dumped within the last eight to twelve hours. Whoever killed Miss Lopes should get a merit badge in Christmas present wrapping. The woman was wrapped so tight, we had to cut into the plastic with box cutters.”

“How was she killed?”

“Extreme trauma to the upper body,” Quirk said.

“Shot in the back of the head,” I said.

“Yeah, you might say that. Small-caliber weapon. Pro job. Nice and clean. Okay. Now you tell me about this girl’s connection to the Heywood case.”

I told him about the nightclub shooting, my trip to New York, and ultimately the revelation of Ray Heywood paying off Lela Lopes and Victor coming back into the scene. I left out the part about Cristal Heywood and her film aspirations and taking her home last night. Quirk preferred a linear story without digressions.

“Looks like someone wants to collect some of that NFL cash,” Quirk said. “Your client prepared to pay up if the son of a bitch steps forward?”

“He’ll need sufficient evidence as to who pulled off the kidnapping of his son,” I said. “He’ll also want answers about his son’s whereabouts.”

“You know as well as I,” Quirk said.

I nodded.

Quirk took in a long breath, keeping eye contact. He turned his head and spit. “Animals,” he said. “And this was going to be the Pats’ year, too.”

Frank Belson walked away from the two workers, carrying a steno pad and holding an unlit cigar loose in his hand. As he moved through a grouping of techs, workers, cops, and reporters, he lit up the foul brown thing and started to puff.

“What does Lisa say about those things?” I said.

“Lisa believes I’ve quit,” Belson said.

“And you’d risk your marriage and health for a fifty-cent smoke?”

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll quit with the cigars when you quit with the donuts and beer.”

I looked to Belson with wide eyes. “Blasphemy,” I said.

Quirk had turned his back to take a call, and when he hung up, he said, “Anyone hear anything?”

Belson shook his head.

“See anything?” Quirk said.

Belson said, “Nope.”

“Hell of a nice place to dump a body,” Quirk said. “I want to dump a body and I’d come here, too. But I’d put it in one of these fucking tanks. Why not stuff the girl where they keep the oil?”

“Maybe that was the plan,” Belson said. “But the tanks are locked tight.”

“Lucky for us, she was found,” I said.

Belson scratched his neck and puffed on the cigar. “You know this girl is Jesus DeVeiga’s half-sister?”

“And that might mean something if I knew who in the hell Jesus DeVeiga was,” I said.

Belson looked to Quirk and Quirk to Belson.

“Get with the times,” Belson said, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. “Biggest fucking gangbanger in Roxbury.”