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Authors: Robert B Parker

BOOK: Sixkill
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"Not in town."
"Doesn't anyone want to leave?" I said.
"They drive," Cataldo said. "And good riddance."
"If you wanted to get into Boston and you didn't have a car, how would you get there?" I said.
"Why would I want to go to Boston?"
"See a ball game?" I said.
"That's why they make TVs," Cataldo said.
"Because you are a sophisticated urban guy?"
"Like you?"
"Not that sophisticated," I said. "How would you get here?"
"Borrow a car or get somebody to drive me."
"Thank you," I said. "If you never leave town, what do you do there?"
"Write parking tickets, keep the kids from loitering on the common, play softball, drink beer, bang the old lady."
"What else is there," I said.
"This about the kid got killed?" Cataldo said. "Dawn Lopata?"
"Yes," I said. "Know her?"
"Sure," Cataldo said. "Not a bad kid, really, just a fuckup. Always getting caught for something, like smoking dope in the girls' room at school, or cell-phoning nude pictures of herself that ended up on the Internet, or skipping school, or driving after-hours on a learner's permit. You know? Not evil, just fucked up."
"How about the family," I said.
"Old man's a blow," Cataldo said. "Big house, nice car, and no cash. You know the type?"
"Sure."
"Mother stays home mostly; she used to call a lot, see if we knew where her daughter was. Don't know much else about her."
"Older brother seems fine," I said.
"Yeah, good grades, played sports, went to Harvard," Cataldo said. "I don't know how he escaped."
"No trouble with the law," I said.
"Except for what I told about Dawn, none of them."
"You know what they got for cars?"
"Yeah, he just got a new one, and was blowing off to me about it."
"What kind?"
"Cadillac DTS, maroon."
"The big sedan?"
"Yeah, top of the line," Cataldo said.
"Anything else you know?"
"Lots," Cataldo said. "But not about the Lopata family."
After I hung up, I called Dawn's friend Christine. They had left Dawn after they lunched with Jumbo. Neither Christine nor James owned a car, and neither she nor James knew how Dawn traveled to Boston on the day of her death.
44
WE WERE DRIVING
on Atlantic Ave.
"You doing any juice these days?" I said to Z.
"At Cal Wesleyan, we called them PES," Z said. "Performance-enhancing supplements."
"Still using?" I said.
Z shook his head.
"Not since Jumbo fired me," he said.
"What made you quit?" I said.
Z grinned.
"A great truth was revealed to me," Z said.
"Which was?"
"He was my supplier," Z said.
"How long you been doing them?" I said.
"Freshman year," Z said. "Playing, you know, like, majorleague college football, you seem to need them to keep up. Guy you're competing with for the starting job is using. The pass rushers are using. The DBs on the other side are using."
"Who was your supplier then?"
"One of the alums," Z said. "Fella named Calhoun, was paying my way, he used to get them for me."
"Part of your scholarship," I said.
"Scholarship, hell," Z said. "I was on salary."
"Don't seem to need them," I said.
Z nodded.
"Always been a big, strong mofo since I was a papoose," he said.
"Papoose?" I said.
"Authentic Injun talk, Kemo Sabe," Z said.
"Christ," I said. "And I'm still learning to say 'Native American.' "
We pulled up in front of the Inn on the Wharf, where Dawn Lopata had died. The doorman came to the car. He was a sturdy young guy, and his nameplate said
Mike.
I gave him a twenty.
"Can we talk for a moment?" I said.
"Sure thing," Mike said.
"Name's Spenser; I'm working on the Dawn Lopata death," I said.
"Sure," Mike said. "Seen you here before."
"My associate, Mr. Sixkill," I said.
Mike nodded at Z.
"You remember her?" I said.
"The dead girl? Sure," Mike said. "I mean, she wasn't so special to remember when she came in, but then, you know, she gets killed, and everybody's talking about it and it's on the news and you go over it in your head . . . a lot."
"You remember when she arrived here?"
"I do," Mike said. "I was working early evening that week, and she came in a brand-new bright red Caddy. I mean, I'da remembered the car even if nothing happened. Leather interior, all the bells and whistles. Looked like it had about ten miles on it."
"She driving?" I said.
"No, a guy was driving. He let her off, and she went in the hotel, and he drove away."
"Remember the guy?"
Mike shrugged.
"Not much," he said. "Suburban-looking guy. Maybe fifty. I was mostly checking out the ride."
"Ever see her again?"
"I was off duty when the EMTs brought her out," Mike said. "But I hung around, so technically, I guess yes. But she was covered."
"How 'bout the car or the driver?"
Mike shook his head.
"No."
"You wouldn't have a number for the car?" I said.
"No, no reason," he said. "Maybe if we parked it . . ."
"He didn't come back to pick her up," I said.
"Not on my shift," Mike said.
"Thanks for your time," I said.
"Hope you catch him," Mike said.
"Hell," I said, "I don't even know who I'm after."
45
WHEN WE WENT IN
to visit Buffy and Tom Lopata, Buffy eyed Z silently as she showed us to the living room. She was wearing tight black pants that narrowed to the ankle, black open-toed sandals, and a black polo shirt hanging over the pants. Her arms were pale and very thin. Tom joined us from upstairs, as he had before. I wondered if they ever spent time together.
"My associate," I said to them, "Zebulon Sixkill."
Tom Lopata put out his hand. He was wearing madras shorts, black penny loafers without socks, and a white shirt with a buttondown collar. His shirttails, too, were over his pants.
"Hi," he said. "How ya doin. Great to meet you."
Z shook hands and nodded.
Mrs. Lopata lit a cigarette.
"What the hell kind of name is Sixkill?" she said.
"Cree," Z said.
"What?" she said.
"Cree," Z said. "Indian tribe."
"You're an Indian?"
Z put up his hand, palm out.
"I come in peace," he said.
"So why is your name Sixkill?" Buffy said.
"Buffy," Tom said. "For crissake."
She ignored him. She was staring at Z.
"Goes good with Zebulon," Z said.
"Well, you are a strapping, handsome Indian," Buffy said.
"Yes," Z said.
"Could you folks tell me where you were the night Dawn died?" I said.
"My daughter?" Buffy said. "Is there a new development?"
"No," I said. "Not yet. I'm just trying to tie up some loose ends."
"Here, I suppose," Tom said. "Probably watching TV."
"That your memory, Mrs. Lopata?"
"We weren't watching together," she said. "He won't watch my programs."
"Hell, you won't watch mine, either," he said.
"I don't want to watch some dumb sports thing," she said.
"But you were both here, in the house, together that night."
"Absolutely," Tom said.
"No," Buffy said.
I looked at her.
"No?" I said.
"I was here, but he was out gallivanting in his new toy," Buffy said.
"Toy?" I said.
"She likes to joke," Tom said. "I got a new car; I may have taken it out for a spin, see how she handled."
"Red Cadillac sedan," I said. "Leather seats?"
"Yeah," Tom said.
"Nigger car," Buffy said. She snubbed out her cigarette and lit a new one. "Neighbors probably think he's a pimp."
Tom shook his head sadly.
"Doorman," I said, "at the Inn on the Wharf says Dawn was delivered to the hotel in a new red Cadillac convertible."
Tom stared at me.
"According to the doorman, the driver was a suburban-looking guy, maybe fifty," I said.
Tom didn't say anything. Buffy turned and stared at her husband. Z and I waited. Tom looked at Buffy.
"For God's sake," she said, "you are a pimp."
"Don't talk to me like that," he said.
"You delivered your daughter to that pig so he could fuck her to death," Buffy said.
"For God's sake," Tom said. "It's not like I knew."
"Pimp," Buffy said.
"She wanted a ride," Tom said. "I had the new car. Hell, she was going to have a date with a movie star, for crissake. Who wouldn't take her in?"
"Without telling her mother," Buffy said. "Either of you, without telling the mother."
"She made me promise," Tom said. "She knows what you think of her."
"Her own mother," Buffy said.
She put her second cigarette out carefully in the ashtray, picked up her cigarettes and a lighter from the table by her chair, stood, and walked out of the room.
"Shit," Tom said. "She'll go in her room and pull down the shades and turn on the TV. And she'll sit there and stare at it and chain-smoke for days."
"She do that when Dawn was bad?" I said.
"Any of us," he said. "Except maybe Matthew. She did it less with him."
I nodded.
"You dropped her and left?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Any arrangement to pick her up?"
"No."
"You dropped her and came home?" I said.
"Yes."
"Wife awake when you got here?" I said.
"No."
"You sleep together?"
He snorted a little humorless snort.
"No," he said. "Any way you mean it."
When we were driving back to Boston, Z said, "I've seen Lopata before."
"When?" I said.
"He was on the set, across from Jumbo's trailer, talking to one of the producers."
"He didn't seem to recognize you," I said.
"No," Z said. "I was in Jumbo's trailer, looking out the window."
"You know what they were talking about?"
"No clue," Z said.
"You were sober?" I said.
"Nope."
"But you remember this guy," I said.
"He was very . . ." Z waved his arms around. "You know?"
"Animated?" I said.
"Yeah, animated."
"You remember which producer?" I said.
"Sure," Z said.
"We can ask him," I said.
Z nodded. We were quiet for a time.
"You know," he said. "Neither one of them ever called the kid by name."
He'd grown more talkative recently, but quiet still seemed to be Z's natural condition. Conversation was always surprising.
"Seem too immersed in being mad at each other," I said.
"Why the hell do they stay married," Z said.
"You Indians just don't understand white-man ways," I said.
"Hell," Z said. "I'm still trying to figure out why you killed all our buffalo."
46
THE ALLEY THAT RUNS
behind my office from Berkeley to Arlington was named Providence Street. When Z and I came down the back stairs of my office to get my car, which was parked on Providence Street, I noticed that the Berkeley Street end was blocked with a couple of orange traffic barrels. If people have threatened to kill one, one becomes unusually observant. I paused in the doorway.

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