paper bag, from the white paper bag he produced a donut. He took a bite of the donut and leaned forward and put the bag on the desk.
"Now here's a real bridge to the twenty-first century," I said and took a donut.
"Quirk tell you anything last night?" Hawk said.
"They hadn't ID'd him yet," I said. "Nobody wanted to search the body."
"Let the ME do it," Hawk said.
"That's what Quirk said. Stiff had a gun, though. It fell out of his pocket when they were taking him away."
"So maybe he ain't from the United Way," Hawk said.
"Or maybe he is," I said.
I swung my chair around so I looked out my window. It was still raining, which in Boston, in April, was not startling to anybody but the local news people who treated it like the Apocalypse. I liked the rain. It was interesting to look at, and I enjoyed the feeling of shelter on a rainy day. When I was a little kid in Wyoming, the darkened days outside the school room window had given me something to contemplate while I was being bored to death. Something about its implacable reality reminding me that school was only a temporary contrivance. While I was thinking about the rain, the morning mail came. There was a check from a law firm I'd done some work for. There was some junk mail from a company selling laser sighting apparatus for hand guns. I gave the brochure to Hawk. And there was a letter from the Attorney General's Public Charities woman with a list of the principals involved with Civil Streets. With my feet propped against the windowsill I went through the list. It told me that Carla Quagliozzi was president and gave me her address. I already knew that. It listed a number of people on the board of directors, none of whom I knew, except Richard Gavin. His address was Gavin and Brooks, Attorneys-at-Law, on State Street. Son of a gun. I sat for another moment thinking about that. Behind me I heard Hawk crumple the brochure on laser sights and deposit it in the wastebasket beside my desk. I looked at the rain for a while longer.
"Okay," I said and swung my chair back around and got up and walked over to the narrow table that ran along the left-hand wall of my office. There was a computer on it. I turned it on.
"Gimme the disks," I said.
chapter twenty-four
I AM INEXPERT with a computer and hope to remain so. I had bought one initially because Susan had one and took to it easily and had become almost immediately convinced that no office should be without one. When I did use the computer, which was rarely, and I ran into a problem, which was whenever I used the computer, I called Susan and she straightened me out. Today I ran into a problem at once. When I started up the computer and slipped in a copy of Sterling's hard disk, I couldn't get any of the folders open. I tried the other disks from the disk file we'd taken from Sterling's office. Everything was locked. Hawk was sitting in my chair with his feet up on my desk watching me.
"Need a code," he said.
"Thank you, Bill Gates," I said.
"Trying to be helpful," he said.
"Consultants!" I said in a loud mutter.
Susan did not seem the appropriate resource in this case, so I got up and went to my desk and called Sean Reilly.
"I've got some disks," I said, "that I can't get open."
"Locked?"
"I assume so."
"I'll come over."
I said thank you, but he had already hung up.
"Help is on the way," I said.
"He going to bring donuts," Hawk said.
"I don't think Sean ever ate a donut," I said.
"Then how much help he going to be?"
Reilly arrived in about ten minutes, which was the time he took to carry his black plastic briefcase down Boylston Street from the Little Building where he had an office. He walked in, gave me a brief nod, and sat down at the computer table. I introduced Hawk. Sean gave him a brief nod as he opened the briefcase and took out some software.
"You related to Pat Riley?" Hawk said, his face blank.
"No."
Sean was a medium-sized, mostly bald guy, with a patchy ineffective beard. The thin fringe of
"Now here's a real bridge to the twenty-first century," I said and took a donut.
"Quirk tell you anything last night?" Hawk said.
"They hadn't ID'd him yet," I said. "Nobody wanted to search the body."
"Let the ME do it," Hawk said.
"That's what Quirk said. Stiff had a gun, though. It fell out of his pocket when they were taking him away."
"So maybe he ain't from the United Way," Hawk said.
"Or maybe he is," I said.
I swung my chair around so I looked out my window. It was still raining, which in Boston, in April, was not startling to anybody but the local news people who treated it like the Apocalypse. I liked the rain. It was interesting to look at, and I enjoyed the feeling of shelter on a rainy day. When I was a little kid in Wyoming, the darkened days outside the school room window had given me something to contemplate while I was being bored to death. Something about its implacable reality reminding me that school was only a temporary contrivance. While I was thinking about the rain, the morning mail came. There was a check from a law firm I'd done some work for. There was some junk mail from a company selling laser sighting apparatus for hand guns. I gave the brochure to Hawk. And there was a letter from the Attorney General's Public Charities woman with a list of the principals involved with Civil Streets. With my feet propped against the windowsill I went through the list. It told me that Carla Quagliozzi was president and gave me her address. I already knew that. It listed a number of people on the board of directors, none of whom I knew, except Richard Gavin. His address was Gavin and Brooks, Attorneys-at-Law, on State Street. Son of a gun. I sat for another moment thinking about that. Behind me I heard Hawk crumple the brochure on laser sights and deposit it in the wastebasket beside my desk. I looked at the rain for a while longer.
"Okay," I said and swung my chair back around and got up and walked over to the narrow table that ran along the left-hand wall of my office. There was a computer on it. I turned it on.
"Gimme the disks," I said.
chapter twenty-four
I AM INEXPERT with a computer and hope to remain so. I had bought one initially because Susan had one and took to it easily and had become almost immediately convinced that no office should be without one. When I did use the computer, which was rarely, and I ran into a problem, which was whenever I used the computer, I called Susan and she straightened me out. Today I ran into a problem at once. When I started up the computer and slipped in a copy of Sterling's hard disk, I couldn't get any of the folders open. I tried the other disks from the disk file we'd taken from Sterling's office. Everything was locked. Hawk was sitting in my chair with his feet up on my desk watching me.
"Need a code," he said.
"Thank you, Bill Gates," I said.
"Trying to be helpful," he said.
"Consultants!" I said in a loud mutter.
Susan did not seem the appropriate resource in this case, so I got up and went to my desk and called Sean Reilly.
"I've got some disks," I said, "that I can't get open."
"Locked?"
"I assume so."
"I'll come over."
I said thank you, but he had already hung up.
"Help is on the way," I said.
"He going to bring donuts," Hawk said.
"I don't think Sean ever ate a donut," I said.
"Then how much help he going to be?"
Reilly arrived in about ten minutes, which was the time he took to carry his black plastic briefcase down Boylston Street from the Little Building where he had an office. He walked in, gave me a brief nod, and sat down at the computer table. I introduced Hawk. Sean gave him a brief nod as he opened the briefcase and took out some software.
"You related to Pat Riley?" Hawk said, his face blank.
"No."
Sean was a medium-sized, mostly bald guy, with a patchy ineffective beard. The thin fringe of
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