Painted Ladies by Robert B. Parker

fucking girls,” Rosalind said.
    The window had closed. I nodded. Then I picked up the check from where the bartender had put it, and took out money and paid.
    “Could I take you home?” I said.
    She was staring into her Pernod glass.
    “And come in?” she said.
    “Just take you home,” I said.
    “Course not,” she said. “So you just go ahead. Go ahead. I’m going to stay here and have one more . . . for the road.”
    “Well,” I said. “Thanks for talking with me.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “You just go ahead.”
    Which I did.

28
    I sat with Healy and Kate Quaggliosi in a small meeting room at the Middlesex DA’s office in Woburn. Kate was wearing a tailored gray suit and a white shirt with a little black lady tie at half-mast.
    “You dress good for a prosecutor,” I said.
    “My husband’s in private practice,” she said.
    “Money well spent,” I said.
    She looked at Healy.
    “How about you, Captain,” she said. “You think I look good?”
    “Cat’s ass,” Healy said.
    She smiled.
    “Gee, thanks,” she said. “Here’s what we’ve got on the victim. Ashton Prince . . .”
    I put my hand up.
    “You wish to speak?” she said.
    “Real name is Ascher Prinz,” I said. “According to his wife, he changed it because he was ashamed of being Jewish.”
    “ ‘Ashamed’?” she said.
    “That’s what Rosalind told me,” I said.
    “Rosalind,” Kate said.
    “I had a drink with her yesterday,” I said.
    “Well, aren’t you just slick,” Kate said.
    “I’ve got an advantage,” I said. “I’m allowed to get them drunk.”
    “Was that hard to do?” Kate said.
    “Would have been hard not to,” I said.
    “Anything else you want to share,” Kate said.
    “His father was in a concentration camp,” I said.
    “Which one?” Healy said.
    “She doesn’t remember,” I said. “They all sound the same to her.”
    “Jesus,” Healy said.
    “Should I know something that I don’t know now?” Kate said.
    “Last week a couple of fellas set up to ambush Spenser when he came into his office. They each had the same death camp number tattooed on their arm.”
    “They were that old?”
    “No,” I said.
    “So . . . where are they now?”
    “Dead,” Healy said. “They were overmatched.”
    “ ‘Overmatched’?” Kate said, and looked at me. “You killed them?”
    “I did,” I said.
    Kate stared at me.
    “I’ll be damned,” she said.
    “Tough, but oh so gentle,” I said.
    “And you think it’s connected to our case?” Kate said.
    “I do,” I said.
    She looked at Healy.
    “Captain?” she said.
    “We can’t assume that it’s not,” Healy said.
    “No,” Kate said. “Tell me what you know.”
    We told her.
    “Who’s working it from Boston,” she said.
    “Frank Belson,” I said.
    “I know Belson,” she said.
    “Everybody should,” I said.
    “Anybody chasing down those serial numbers?” Kate said.
    “Boston Homicide,” I said.
    “Us, too,” Healy said.
    “Any luck?” Kate said.
    “Not so far,” Healy said.
    She looked at me.
    “Haven’t heard,” I said.
    “You think it’s possible that there are still records?”
    “They’d have kept records,” I said.
    “I’ll see what this office can do,” she said. “Any ID on the two shooters?”
    “Nope,” Healy said. “They’re not in the system. One of them had shoes made in Holland. The Uzi was Israeli.”
    “That’s what you have?”
    “That’s what Boston was able to give us,” Healy said.
    “You have a theory as to what triggered it?” Kate said to me.
    “Last two people I talked with before they came after me were the Minor women. Missy and Winifred.”
    “So they might be worth our attention,” Kate said.
    “Might,” I said.
    “We’ve pretty well emptied it out for you,” Healy said. “You got anything we don’t know?”
    “Sure, but it’s not worth much,” Kate said. “Parents’ names, birthplace, education, career history. That kind of crap.”
    “Can we have