Free Double Deuce by Robert B. Parker

And then Marge Eagen stepped out into the sunlight. The civilians stood a little straighter. The cops looked at her. One of them said something under his breath to the other one. They both looked like they wanted to laugh, but knew they shouldn’t. Marge stopped with one foot on the ground and one foot still in the van. A lot of her leg showed. The cameraman took her picture.
    “Good leg,” I said to Hawk.
    “From here,” Hawk said.
    “Her legs are very good,” Jackie said. “And she wants the world to know it. Don’t you ever watch?”
    “No,” I said.
    Hawk shook his head.
    “It’s the trademark opening shot every day. Low shot, her with a hand mike, sitting on a high stool, key lit, legs crossed. Tight skirt.”
    The cameraman finished. Marge Eagen finished stepping from the van and strode across toward us. Everyone in Boston knew her. She was a television fixture. Blonde hair, wide mouth, straight nose, and an on-camera persona that resonated with compassion. I had never actually watched her show, but she was legendarily intense and caring and issue-oriented. Jackie got out of the car. Hawk and I didn’t.
    “Jackie,” she said. “How bleak.”
    Her voice had a soft husky quality that made you think of perfume and silk lingerie. At least it made me think of that, but Susan had once suggested that almost everything did.
    “Her voice make you think of perfume and silk lingerie?” I said to Hawk.
    He shook his head. “Money,” he said.
    “Everything makes you think of that,” I said.
    “Are these the two centurions?” Marge Eagen said. She bent forward and looked in the car at us. She had on a black silk raincoat open over a lowcut ruffled blouse that looked like a man’s tuxedo shirt. While she was bent over looking in at us, I could see that she was also wearing a white bra with lace trim, probably a C cup.
    Jackie introduced us.
    “Step out,” Marge said, “so we can get a picture of you.”
    “No picture,” Hawk said.
    “Oh come on, Hawk,” Marge said. “We need it for interior promo. This is going to be the biggest series ever done on local.”
    Hawk shook his head. Marge pretended not to see him. With a big smile she opened the car door.
    “In fact I suspect it’s going to show up on network. Just the idea circulating has got the network kiddies on the horn already. Don’t be shy.”
    she said. “Crawl out of there. Let’s get that handsome punim on film.”
    Hawk stepped lazily out of the car. He looked past Marge Eagen to the cameraman.
    “If you take a picture of me,” he said, “I will take your camera away and hit you with it.” He looked steadily at the cameraman, who was a friendly-looking little guy with receding hair which he concealed by artful combing. He stepped back a full step under the impact of Hawk’s stare and glanced quickly at the two Housing cops.
    “Oh, stop the nonsense,” Marge Eagen was saying. “Don’t be-”
    Hawk shifted his gaze to her. There was something in his eyes, though his face seemed entirely still. She stopped in midsentence, and while she didn’t step back, she seemed somehow to recede a little. Jackie stepped slightly between them as if she weren’t aware she was doing it.
    “We want pictures of Marge really, Harry. That’s the big thing. Against the background of the buildings, looking at them, gazing down an alley. Pointing maybe, while she talks with Mr. Albanese.”
    Harry nodded and began looking at the light. Marge Eagen sort of snorted and walked away with him. The soundwoman followed.
    “Why couldn’t you let him take a picture, for God’s sake?” Jackie said under her breath.
    “Rather not,” Hawk said pleasantly.
    “That’s no reason,” Jackie said and turned as the suits from the Housing Authority approached. “Sam Albanese, Jim Doyle,” she said and introduced us. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” she said to the third guy.
    “John Boc,” he said. “Authority Police Force.” He didn’t offer