A reporter who was prying into the cocaine trade in the central Massachusetts town of Wheaton has been murdered, and Spenser is called in to investigate. When he's rebuffed by the police and threatened by a Colombian produce dealer who may be the cocaine kingpin, it's apparent that Wheaton isn't just another small town, but a major center for the cocaine trade in the Northeast.As Spenser digs deeper for evidence, he meets three women on whom the case seems to turn: Emmy Esteva, the wife of the reputed cocaine kingpin; Juanita Olmos, a young woman who'd been involved with the murdered reporter; and Caroline Rogers, the wife of the Wheaton Police Chief.After another murder is committed and an attempt is made on Spenser's life, he turns for help to Hawk, whose special skills keep them all alive, and to Susan, whose psychological insights are more and more necessary as the chase moves away from cocaine and appears to hinge more on older and more basic problems — jealousy, passion, and hate.Pale Kings and Princes, the fourteenth Spenser novel, takes us into the cutthroat, multibillion-dollar cocaine business, where drugs are valued above all and human life is frighteningly dispensable.
as always for Joan, and
Dan, and Dave, and this time too,
for Kathy
The sun that brief December day shone weakly through the west-facing window of Garrett Kingsley’s office. It made a thin yellow oblong splash on his Persian carpet and gave up.
“Eric Valdez was a good reporter,” Kingsley was telling me, “and a good man, but if he’d been neither he wouldn’t deserve to die.”
“Most people don’t,” I said.
“The people that killed Eric do,” Kingsley said.
“Depends on why they killed him,” I said.
“They killed him to keep the lid on the biggest cocaine operation in the East.”
Kingsley was short and sort of plump. He needed a haircut and his big gray moustache was untrimmed. He had on a green and black plaid woolen shirt and a leather vest. His half glasses were halfway down his nose so he could stare over them while he talked. He looked like an overweight Titus Moody. He owned and edited the third largest newspaper in the state, and he had more money than Yoko Ono.
“In Wheaton, Mass?” I said.
“That’s right, in Wheaton, Mass. Population 15,734, of whom nearly 5,000 are Colombians.”
“My grandmother came from Ireland,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I deal potatoes.”
“Potatoes aren’t selling for $170,000 a pound,” Kingsley said.
“Good point,” I said.
“After the war, some guy ran a clothing factory in Wheaton had relatives in Colombia in a town called Tajo. He started recruiting people from the town to work in the factory. After a while there were more people in Wheaton from Tajo than there were in Tajo.”
Kingsley took a corncob pipe from one of his vest pockets and a pouch of Cherry Blend tobacco from another pocket. He filled the pipe, tamping the tobacco in with his right forefinger, and lit the pipe with a kitchen match from another vest pocket that he scratched into flame with his thumbnail. I shall return.
“Then a couple things happened,” Kingsley said. “The clothing business in Wheaton went down the toilet — there’s only one factory still operating — and cocaine passed coffee as Colombia’s number one export.”
“And Tajo is one of the major centers of export,” I said.
Kingsley smiled. “Nice to see you keep up,” he said.
“And Wheaton became Tajo north,” I said.
“Colombians have been dealing with cocaine since your ancestors were running around Ireland with their bodies painted blue,” Kingsley said. He took a long inhale on the pipe and eased the smoke out.
“Corncob’s great,” he said. “Don’t have to break it in and when they get gummy you throw ’em away and buy another one.”
“Go with the rest of the look too,” I said.
Kingsley leaned back and put his duck boots up on the desk. There was a glitter of sharp amusement in his eyes.
“You better fucking believe it,” he said.
“Probably drive a Jeep Wagoneer,” I said. “Or a Ford pickup.”
“Un huh,” Kingsley said, “and drink bourbon, and cuss, and my wife has to tie my bow ties for me.”
“Just folks,” I said.
“We’re the third biggest paper in the state, Spenser. And the tenth biggest daily in the Northeast and the biggest city in our readership area is Worcester. We’re regional, and so am I.”
“So you sent this kid Valdez down to Wheaton to look into the coke trade.”
Kingsley nodded. He had his hands clasped behind his head and both feet on his desk. His vest fell open as he tilted the chair back and I could see wide red suspenders. “Kid was Hispanic, grandparents were from Venezuela, spoke fluent Spanish. Been a Neiman fellow, good writer, good reporter.”
“And somebody shot him.”
“And castrated him, probably afterwards, and dumped him along Route Nine near the Windsor Dam at the south end of Quabbin Reservoir.”
“What do the cops say?”
“In Wheaton?” Kingsley took the pipe from his mouth so he could snort. “Valdez was a cock hound, no question, they say a jealous husband caught him.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“He’s been a cock hound since he passed puberty. How come it got him in trouble a month after he started looking at the coke business in Wheaton.”
“Castration sort of points that way,” I said. “Cops got anybody in mind?”
Kingsley snorted again. “Chief down there is a blowhard. Struts around with a pearl-handled forty-five. Thinks he’s Wyatt Earp. Smalltown bully is mostly what he is.”
“Doesn’t want a lot of outside help?” I said.
“Won’t admit he needs it,” Kingsley said.
“Honest?” I said.
Kingsley shrugged. “Probably, probably too stupid and mean to be bribed.”
“How about the rest of the department? Coke is money and money is bribery.”
“Cynical Mr. Spenser.”
“Old, Mr. Kingsley.”
“Probably the same thing,” Kingsley said. “And probably right. I don’t know. It’s the kind of thing that Valdez was supposed to look into.”
“And you don’t want to send in more reporters.”
Kingsley shook his head. “And get another one killed? They’re journalists, not gunfighters. Most of them kids starting out.”
“You figure I’m a gunfighter?” I said.
