Painted Ladies

Lila’s door was still closed. I stood against the wall to the right of my door and reached out and unlocked it. Nothing happened. I took the key from the lock, put it in my pocket. Then I knelt down and pushed the door open. I was out of the line of fire, low against the wall of the corridor.

Nothing happened.

I waited.

Time was on my side. The longer they sat and stared at the silent, empty doorway, the more it would be on my side. They didn’t know how many I was. They didn’t know which side of the doorway I was on. Or how close. If I were them I’d come out together, shooting in both directions as I came. I backed a little down the corridor and lay flat on the floor with my gun ready. It was a new gun, an S&W .40-caliber semiautomatic. There were eleven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. If that wasn’t enough, I probably wasn’t, either.

Most of the people on my floor were in sales. And except for Lila, who served as a communal secretary, there was rarely anyone around during the day. No one moved in the hall. Nothing happened at my office door. I was listening so hard that my breath seemed loud. I moved my shoulders a little, trying to keep them loose. I inhaled gently, trying to be silent.

They came out shooting. The Uzi sprayed the corridor away from me. The handgun guy fired several slugs over my head before I shot him. The man with the Uzi spun toward me, and I shot him, too. They both went down. The man with the handgun never moved. The guy with the Uzi spasmed maybe twice and then lay still. I stayed prone on the hall floor with my gun still aimed, taking in air. Then I stood and walked over and looked at them. They were dead. I uncocked my new gun and holstered it, and heaved in some more air.

Lila had called 911. I could hear the distant sirens rolling down Boylston Street.

24

Pearl and I spent pretty much the rest of the day in close contact with the Boston Police Department. First came the prowl-car guys. Then the precinct detectives, and the crime scene people. About an hour after it started, Belson came in and looked at me and shook his head.

“Wyatt Fucking Earp,” he said.

I shrugged.

Belson went and talked with a crime scene investigator. Then he went over to the couch and scratched Pearl’s right ear. Her short tail thumped against the cushion.

“She been out?” he said.

“Lila across the hall,” I said. “Took her out about a half-hour ago.”

“Okay,” Belson said. “Then let’s you and me gather at your desk and chat.”

One of the precinct detectives said, “I’ve questioned him, Frank. Want me to bring you up to speed?”

“No,” Belson said.

I sat at my desk. Belson pulled a chair up and sat across the desk from me.

“Crime scene guy tells me one round each. Middle of the chest both times.”

I nodded again.

“Annie Fucking Oakley,” Belson said. “Talk to me.”

“You know about the painting got stolen?” I said. “And the guy got blown up out on Route Two trying to get it back?”

“The guy you were bodyguarding?”

“Yep.”

“Nice,” Belson said. “Assume I don’t.”

“Okay,” I said.

I told my story.

As I told it, Belson sat perfectly still and listened. Like Epstein, he didn’t take notes. He rarely did. But two years later, he’d be able to give you what I’d said verbatim. Cops.

When I finished, he said, “Dog saved your ass.”

I nodded.

“She did.”

“You figure it’s connected to the art theft and the murder?”

“Don’t you?” I said.

Belson shrugged.

“You’ve annoyed a lot of people in the last twenty years,” he said.

“Why limit it?” I said.

“You’re right, you been good at it all your life.”

“Everybody gotta be good at something,” I said.

“But,” Belson said, “it don’t do us much good picking names of people might want you dead.”

“Too many,” I said.

“So,” Belson said, “assume it’s connected. Why now?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “I been poking around at it since it happened. I must have poked something live.”

“Where you been poking recently,” Belson said.

“Walford University. Winifred Minor. Her daughter. Couple of her daughter’s classmates.”

“Most recent?”

“Missy and Winifred Minor,” I said.

“Missy Minor,” Belson said.

“Cute name,” I said.

“Cute,” Belson said. “You know either of the stiffs?”

“No,” I said.

“We’ll see what we can find out,” Belson said.

“Lemme know,” I said.

“Might,” Belson said. “You turned your piece over to the crime scene people?”

“Yep.”

“You got another one?” Belson said. “People trying to kill you and all.”

I reached into my desk drawer and took out a .38 Chief’s Special.

“Loaded,” Belson said. “No trigger lock.”

“Got a nice holster,” I said.

“Okay,” Belson said. “In that case, I won’t run you in.”

“Stern,” I said. “But compassionate.”

“And if they succeed in killing you next try,” Belson said, “I’ll try to catch them.”

“That’s encouraging,” I said.

25

I was halving oranges and squeezing the juice into a glass in my kitchen when Susan appeared, fresh from the shower and the makeup mirror. I took a deep breath. Whenever I saw her I took a deep breath. It was more dignified than yelling “Jehoshaphat!”