life in the criminal justice system. He'd know better than to be caught with stuff like that."
"He'd leave them right where they fell," Hawk said.
"Sure, unless there was something about them that would incriminate him."
"Like what?" Hawk said.
"If she fought him enough to draw blood."
"But she didn't."
"According to the coroner's report there was no blood under her fingernails," I said. "No fend-off bruises on her arms. In fact, there's no sign of her putting up any resistance."
"And Ellis didn't have a mark on him," Hawk said.
"Maybe he took her to his home and undressed her there."
"And then killed her and drove all the way back out to Pemberton with her dead in the car? Or drove her out naked in the car and killed her there?"
"Don't make any sense," Hawk said.
"No, it doesn't."
"So who would take the clothes?" Hawk said.
"Someone who didn't know what they were doing and panicked."
"Don't sound like my man Ellis," Hawk said.
"No, it doesn't."
We were quiet. The scallops and coleslaw were gone. There was about one glass each left of the wine. Hawk picked up the bottle.
"Don't keep so good once it's opened," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Better finish it up," Hawk said.
"We'd be fools not to," I said.
Hawk poured out the wine, and we sat in the quiet office and looked out at the bright morning and finished it.
Chapter 23
THE MAROON CHEVY wagon that had picked up Beer Keg and his crew was registered to Bruce Parisi at an address in Arlington, near the Winchester line. I called Rita Fiore.
"Can you find out if a guy named Bruce Parisi, currently living on Hutchinson Road in Arlington, has a record."
"Sure."
"And, if he does, and I'll bet he does, get me whatever you can on him."
"Sure, I'll call you back."
"No, I'm in the car," I said. "It's easier if I call you."
"Well, a car phone?"
"Modern crime fighter," I said.
It was a bright, windy day at the rim of the Mystic lakes. I turned left off Mystic Street and onto Hutchinson Avenue and drove across the slope of a pretty good-sized hill parked a little downhill from the house and across the street. It was a white colonial with green shutters and a screened porch on the side. It sat further uphill from the road. A long hot top driveway ran up past the screen porch and widened into a turn-around in front of a two-car garage set back of the house. The Chevy wagon was in the turn-around.
I sat with the motor idling and scanned the dial for music. My favorite, Music America, had been taken off the local public radio station by the airheads who ran it. I listened occasionally to one or another of the college stations, but they tended to play fusion, and the DJs were usually painful. I hit the scan button and watched it go around the dial without finding anything I wanted to hear. While I sat with the scanner scanning, the front door opened and a man came down the front steps looking like he was going to a reception at the British Consulate in a blue Chesterfield overcoat and a gray homburg hat. He got in the Chevy wagon, backed down the long driveway, and headed out past me toward Mystic Street. I let him turn the corner and U-turned and drifted along behind him. I could afford to lay back and let him get ahead of me. If I lost him, I knew where he lived. When you have that luxury, tailing is a breeze. We went along Mystic Street, turned onto Medford Street, and went through West Medford into Medford Square. He went down an alley between two buildings. I pulled up across from the alley entrance next to a "No Standing" sign and waited. In a minute or two he came out of the alley and went into a store front. The sign in the front window said "Parisi Enterprises." I picked up my car phone and called Rita Fiore.
"I'm sitting outside Bruce Parisi's office in Medford Square," I said. "What do you have on him."
"Been arrested three times," Rita said. "Loan sharking twice, once for strong arm stuff: he contracted some goons to help break a strike."
"Where's
"He'd leave them right where they fell," Hawk said.
"Sure, unless there was something about them that would incriminate him."
"Like what?" Hawk said.
"If she fought him enough to draw blood."
"But she didn't."
"According to the coroner's report there was no blood under her fingernails," I said. "No fend-off bruises on her arms. In fact, there's no sign of her putting up any resistance."
"And Ellis didn't have a mark on him," Hawk said.
"Maybe he took her to his home and undressed her there."
"And then killed her and drove all the way back out to Pemberton with her dead in the car? Or drove her out naked in the car and killed her there?"
"Don't make any sense," Hawk said.
"No, it doesn't."
"So who would take the clothes?" Hawk said.
"Someone who didn't know what they were doing and panicked."
"Don't sound like my man Ellis," Hawk said.
"No, it doesn't."
We were quiet. The scallops and coleslaw were gone. There was about one glass each left of the wine. Hawk picked up the bottle.
"Don't keep so good once it's opened," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Better finish it up," Hawk said.
"We'd be fools not to," I said.
Hawk poured out the wine, and we sat in the quiet office and looked out at the bright morning and finished it.
Chapter 23
THE MAROON CHEVY wagon that had picked up Beer Keg and his crew was registered to Bruce Parisi at an address in Arlington, near the Winchester line. I called Rita Fiore.
"Can you find out if a guy named Bruce Parisi, currently living on Hutchinson Road in Arlington, has a record."
"Sure."
"And, if he does, and I'll bet he does, get me whatever you can on him."
"Sure, I'll call you back."
"No, I'm in the car," I said. "It's easier if I call you."
"Well, a car phone?"
"Modern crime fighter," I said.
It was a bright, windy day at the rim of the Mystic lakes. I turned left off Mystic Street and onto Hutchinson Avenue and drove across the slope of a pretty good-sized hill parked a little downhill from the house and across the street. It was a white colonial with green shutters and a screened porch on the side. It sat further uphill from the road. A long hot top driveway ran up past the screen porch and widened into a turn-around in front of a two-car garage set back of the house. The Chevy wagon was in the turn-around.
I sat with the motor idling and scanned the dial for music. My favorite, Music America, had been taken off the local public radio station by the airheads who ran it. I listened occasionally to one or another of the college stations, but they tended to play fusion, and the DJs were usually painful. I hit the scan button and watched it go around the dial without finding anything I wanted to hear. While I sat with the scanner scanning, the front door opened and a man came down the front steps looking like he was going to a reception at the British Consulate in a blue Chesterfield overcoat and a gray homburg hat. He got in the Chevy wagon, backed down the long driveway, and headed out past me toward Mystic Street. I let him turn the corner and U-turned and drifted along behind him. I could afford to lay back and let him get ahead of me. If I lost him, I knew where he lived. When you have that luxury, tailing is a breeze. We went along Mystic Street, turned onto Medford Street, and went through West Medford into Medford Square. He went down an alley between two buildings. I pulled up across from the alley entrance next to a "No Standing" sign and waited. In a minute or two he came out of the alley and went into a store front. The sign in the front window said "Parisi Enterprises." I picked up my car phone and called Rita Fiore.
"I'm sitting outside Bruce Parisi's office in Medford Square," I said. "What do you have on him."
"Been arrested three times," Rita said. "Loan sharking twice, once for strong arm stuff: he contracted some goons to help break a strike."
"Where's
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