Widow’s Walk

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Frank Belson, with a fresh shave and his suit pressed, came into my office carrying two cups of coffee. He put one on my desk and sat down in a client chair and took a sip from the other one.

“Know a broad named Amy Peters?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a cop and I’m asking you,” Belson said.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s why.”

Belson waited. I took the lid off the coffee and drank some. Belson was homicide and Amy Peters had been scared. There was a small sinking feeling in my stomach.

“She was until recently the vice president for public relations at the Pequod Savings and Loan which is headquartered in Cambridge.”

“Why ”until recently“?”

“She got fired.”

“For?”

“Talking to me.”

“About what?”

“About a case I was on.”

“Nathan Smith,” Belson said.

“Yes.”

“You doing anything for her?”

“No.”

“How’d you know she was fired?”

“She came and told me.”

“Why you?” Belson said.

“Why not me,” I said. “What’s up, Frank?”

“She’s dead,” Belson said.

The sinking feeling bottomed. Belson was looking at me carefully.

“We found your card in her purse,” he said. “Nice-looking card.”

“Thanks. How’d she die?”

“Bullet in the head. Looks self-inflicted.”

“Her gun?”

“Unregistered. We’re chasing the serial number.”

“She didn’t seem like somebody who’d have a gun,” I said.

“You knew her?”

“Not really. Just talked with her a couple of times.”

“About Nathan Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“She’d been fired. She seemed a little frightened of the guy who fired her.”

“Marvin Conroy?”

“No grass growing under your feet,” I said.

Belson ignored me.

“She want you to protect her?”

“Not really. Just consolation, I think. I gave her my card.”

“And wrote Hawk’s name and phone on the back,” Belson said.

“Yes. I thought she might feel better if she had somebody to call.”

“I guess she didn’t,” Belson said.

“No.”

My office felt stuffy to me. I got up and opened my window a couple of inches to let the city air in. I looked out at Berkeley Street for a moment, looking at the traffic waiting for the light to change on Boylston.

“She leave a note?” I said.

“Yes. Said she was despondent over being fired.”

“Authentic?”

“Hard to say. She left it on the computer.”

“Technology sucks,” I said.

Below me the light changed and the traffic moved across Boylston Street toward the river.

“Thing bothers me,” Belson said.

I turned away from the window and sat down with my back to the air drifting in through the open window. I waited.

“Found a card for a lawyer in there in her purse where we found yours.”

I waited.

“Ran that down before I came here. Woman lawyer. Says that Amy Peters was planning to sue Pequod for sexual discrimination for firing her.”

“Which seems strange,” I said, “if she was also planning to kill herself.”

“Suicide’s hard to figure,” Belson said. “Women don’t usually do it with a gun.”

“What’s the lawyer’s name?”

“Margaret Mills. Firm is Mills and D’Ambrosio. You planning to help us on this?”

“Bothers me a little.”

“She came to you scared and you sent her away and she ends up dead,” Belson said.

“Something like that.”

“Would bother me, too,” Belson said.