The Godwulf Manuscript (Spencer, No. 1) (Spenser)
Robert B. Parker
Spenser earned his degree in the school of hard knocks, so he is ready when a Boston university hires him to recover a rare, stolen manuscript. He is hardly surpised that his only clue is a radical student with four bullets in his chest.
The cops are ready to throw the book at the pretty blond coed whose prints are all over the murder weapon but Spenser knows there are no easy answers. He tackles some very heavy homework and knows that if he doesn't finish his assignment soon, he could end up marked "D" -- for dead.
work.” “Informer?” “Not really, though I’ve got some contacts. Mostly, though, it’s a gut guess. It’s the kind of thing they’d do. I’ve been here for five years. Before that I was with the Bureau for ten. I’ve spent a lot of time on radicals, and I’ve developed a feel for them.” “Like the late director developed a feel for them?” “Hoover? No, he’s one reason I quit the Bureau. He was a hell of a cop once, but his time came and went before he died. I got enough feel about the radical kids not
campus.” I nodded. “Okay, but not arm in arm. I don’t go for that kind of stuff.” “Me neither, Jim. We’ll just stroll along.” And we did. The fat cop had his nightstick out and tapped it against his leg as we went out of the building and toward the street. His eyes never left me. Alert, I thought, vigilant. When we got to my car, the black cop opened the door for me with a small, graceful flourish. The fat one said, “Don’t come back. Next time you show up here you’ll be arrested.” “For
just took you as you were. They don’t.” Her voice got shakier. “They initiate you.” I patted her thigh again. I had nothing to say. The stub of the cigar was too short. I put it in an ashtray on the night table. “Do you know what the initiation is?” “I figured out the first part,” I said. She sat up in bed and let the covers fall away. “You are the only one in the world, in the whole goddamned sonova bitch world …” The tears started to come. I leaned toward her and put my arm around her and
kitchenette was directly before me, separated from the rest of the room by a plastic curtain. To my right were a day bed, the covers folded back as if someone were about to get in, an armchair with a faded pink and beige shawl draped over it as a slipcover, a bureau, a steamer trunk apparently used as a coffee table, and a wooden kitchen table, painted blue, which seemed to double as a desk. On it the television maundered in black and white. In front of the kitchen table was a straight chair. A
Sergeant Belson sat on the edge of the table smoking a short cigar butt that looked like he’d stepped on it. “Do you buy those things secondhand?” I asked. Belson took the cigar butt out of his mouth and looked at it. “If I smoked the big fifty cent jobs in the cedar wrappers, you’d figure I was on the take.” “Not the way you dress,” I said. “You ever think of another line of work, Spenser? So far all you’ve detected is two stiffs. Maybe a crossing guard, say, or …” Quirk and Yates came out