41

A young man who needed a haircut came into my office wearing a seersucker suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and a woven straw snap-brim hat.

“Spenser,” he said.

“I am he,” I said.

“My name is Corky Corrigan,” he said. “From the law offices of Morris Hardy.”

He took a card from his shirt pocket and laid it on my desk.

“Wow,” I said. “I’ve seen Morris’s ads on television. He looks implacable.”

“Right,” Corrigan said. “We represent Thomas and Beatrice Lopata.”

“You and Morris,” I said.

“Yes,” Corky said.

“Have you ever met Morris Hardy?” I said.

“Certainly,” Corky said. “He spoke at one of our associate meetings.”

“You work for Morris?” I said.

“We are associated,” he said.

“And you do the case,” I said. “And Morris looks implacable and takes a third of the fee.”

Corky gave a little head shake, as if there was a bug on his nose.

“We are bringing a wrongful-death suit,” he said, “against Jeremy Franklin Nelson in the death of Dawn Ellen Lopata.”

“Good for you,” I said.

“I know you’ve been investigating the case,” he said. “And as we assemble our witness list, I thought it might be wise to see what you’ve learned.”

“I’ve learned that I don’t know what happened,” I said.

“But you must have a slant on things,” Corky said.

He had a little notebook resting on his thigh, and had his Bic pen poised to transcribe things.

“My slant is pretty much a combination of subjective impressions and hearsay,” I said.

Corky nodded.

“Useful background,” he said.

“It is,” I said.

“So go ahead,” Corky said with a smile. “Don’t worry about hearsay, leave the legal stuff to me, just relax and tell me what you’ve found and what you suspect.”

“Where’d you go to law school, Corky?” I said.

“Bradford School of Law,” he said.

“In Haverhill,” I said.

He nodded.

“And you graduated?”

“Three years ago.”

“And passed the bar?”

“Last year,” he said.

I nodded.

“Mum’s the word,” I said.

“Excuse me?” Corky said.

“I don’t want to tell you what I’ve found and what I suspect,” I said.

Corky seemed startled.

“Why not?” he said.

“Don’t see anything in there for me,” I said.

“Don’t you care about justice?”

“I do,” I said. “Also truth, and the American way. But I am not so sure about civil litigation.”

“Are you asking to be paid?” Corky said.

“No.”

“Then I don’t understand,” Corky said.

“I’m sure you don’t,” I said. “I am still working on the case, and I don’t want you, or even the implacable Morris, stepping on leads and tripping over suspects while I’m trying to work.”

“Who is your client?” Corky asked.

“Nope,” I said.

“Well, who do you recommend I talk with?” he said.

“Captain Martin Quirk,” I said. “Boston Police Department. He’s in charge of the case.”

Corky wrote it down.

“Do you think he’ll cooperate?” Corky said.

“Serve and protect,” I said. “But it would be good not to annoy him.”

“Do I annoy you?” Corky said.

“Let me count the ways,” I said.

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