Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

12

“One of the perks of leaving Homicide and getting kicked upstairs in my ripe old age was not having to deal with a pain in the ass like you,” Quirk said the next morning.

“You don’t really mean that.”

“You bet I do, buddy boy,” Quirk said, refilling his mug from a pot in his office and taking a seat back behind his desk. “This is supposed to be the stress-free environment before they put me out to pasture.”

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“You mean the donuts?” he said. “When have you ever brought me a dozen from Kane’s without strings attached?”

“Maybe it was just my way to let you know you are both valued and loved.”

“Bullshit.”

“Or maybe I might have questions about a certain individual and a certain case that looks like it may have been washed from the books.”

“Aha,” Quirk said. He raised his index finger, a substantial move, considering his hands were bigger than a Quincy bricklayer’s.

Without a word, I reached onto his desk, plucked a lovely cinnamon-dusted, and took a bite. Knowing police headquarters and Quirk’s office all too well, I came armed with my own coffee from Starbucks.

“Ever heard of Peter Steiner?”

“Nope.”

“Poppy Palmer.”

“A poppy what?”

“Poppy Palmer,” I said. Saying it slow, with careful enunciation on the alliteration.

“No, but I knew a fan dancer named Fanne Foxe.”

I smiled. “Pilgrim Theater,” I said. “In the old Combat Zone.”

“Those were the days,” Quirk said.

“Indeed.”

Quirk eyed the box of donuts and then me, and then eyed the donuts again and the open door of his office. When the pressure became too intense, he lifted the lid and grabbed a Boston cream. “So,” he said. “Steiner’s peter and Poppy whosis.”

“Exactly,” I said. “So glad you’re paying attention.”

Quirk nodded. His office was as neat and immaculate as Quirk himself. The only thing new, besides an ever-expanding arrangement of framed grandkid pics, was a collection of bobbleheads near the window.

“Bobbleheads?” I said.

“You get one and you’re fucked,” he said. “Everyone brings me one now. Feel free to take one on your way out.”

I finished my cinnamon donut and sipped some coffee. I pulled out a stack of papers from my office on Peter Steiner and Poppy Palmer and handed it to him. “I understand Steiner might have been charged with a sex crime some years ago.”

“When?”

“Some years ago.”

“Please,” Quirk said. “Don’t be too precise with me, Spenser. I like to really work at this stuff.”

“If so,” I said, leaning back into the office chair. “I’d like to connect with the investigator.”

Quirk reached for his cleanly shaven square jaw. His full head of hair showed more salt-and-pepper these days, but didn’t look all that different from when we met decades ago.

“This the guy you were telling me about?” Quirk said. “The one who whipped it out in front of a fifteen-year-old?”

“Bingo.”

“Jesus Christ,” Quirk said. “This guy must have money. Guys like that always get off.”

“No pun expected or intended,” I said. “But, yes, he’s rolling in the dough.”

“When did he assault the kid?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“But the kid won’t talk?”

“She’ll talk to me,” I said. “Not to the cops.”

“Okay,” Quirk said. “Besides being a decent guy, why should I bestow such a magnanimous favor as the assistant superintendent of Boston Police? Just for a fucking box of donuts?”

“Not just any donuts,” I said. “All the way from Kane’s.”

“Christ,” Quirk said. “You got me there. Let me make some calls.”

I stood, pointed at him with my thumb and forefinger, and dropped the hammer.

On the way out, I took an extra donut with me.