Robert B. Parker's Little White Lies

by Ace Atkins

  “Carnal delights?”

  “What else would you call it?”

  Susan whispered into my ear.

  “True.”

  Susan pushed herself up off the bed. Her body was lean and impressive. When she wasn’t shrinking, she took a lot of yoga classes. I turned on my back, hands behind my head, and admired her. She slipped into a silk robe and sat at the edge of the bed.

  “Were you looking at my ass?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like to break down these barriers,” Susan said. “I have my work. And you have yours. But I involved you in something that’s grown to be quite dangerous. This happened one time before, and although I’m serious about my profession, I don’t care to see my sweetums filled with a bunch of holes.”

  “Aw,” I said. “You do love me.”

  “Madly,” she said. “You big galoot.”

  Susan placed her hand on my knee. I had a fresh pair of jeans somewhere and some clean underwear and T-shirts. I planned on showering and then taking Susan to the basement dining room at the Russell House Tavern. They had the best deviled eggs this side of Alabama.

  “She’s seeing him,” she said. “For whatever reason, she wants him back.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I didn’t see that one coming.”

  “She’s still very in love with Welles.”

  “She told me a much different story the other night.”

  “She didn’t want to disappoint you,” Susan said. “You might have noticed she has a thing for needing approval from older men.”

  “I told her to find a nice man her own age.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Would it be too trite to make it all about daddy issues?”

  “Not at all,” Susan said. “My job is often to uncomplicate the complicated.”

  “And where might I find Welles?”

  Susan stared at the opposite wall. She’d hung a very long print of Monet’s Water Lilies there. She’d bought it on her last trip to the Musée de l’Orangerie in Paris. I understood it had been painted to give a sense of peace to urban dwellers. Susan swallowed and put her hand on my knee again.

  “Any higher and I might scream.”

  “She didn’t say for sure,” she said. “But she hinted he’d been in her bed.”

  “Now, was that that hard?”

  “Yes.”

  “The things a gumshoe must do to get information.”

  Susan grinned and tightened the sash on her robe. “I’ll leave the cash on the dresser, sweetheart.”

  29

  Hawk and I spent the next two nights watching Connie Kelly’s place. We ate a lot of grinders, drank a lot of coffee, and talked a lot about baseball, boxing, old movies, and jazz. I had nearly convinced him that Ella was as good, or perhaps better, than Billie Holiday. We both found common ground on Count Basie and Duke. There was discussion on Blossom Dearie and Rocky Marciano. At some point we analyzed the films of David Lean, deciding there was nothing better than Lawrence. We took turns going to the bathroom at a nearby 7-Eleven and on the first night drove off at daybreak.

  We slept most of the next day at my condo in the Navy Yard and were back on it at nightfall. Hawk brought a couple CDs by Ali Farka Touré and we discussed his recently discovered Mali heritage. He played the melodic music in his Jag, since my Toyota promised to be in the shop until Christmas.

  On the second night, Connie left and we tailed her to the Trader Joe’s on Newbury Street. Hawk followed her inside and came back with a bag full of donuts and two hot coffees.

  “How good is your source on this?”

  “Pretty good,” I said. “I traded sex for the information.”

  “That’s got to be worth at least a nickel.”

  “Shall I detail my amazing stamina?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “Anything changed for you in that department?”

  “Only gotten better, babe.”

  “Of course it has.”

  Hawk grinned and turned up the West African music. We followed Connie back to the South End and watched her park and walk back inside her brownstone. Hawk studied her gait as Ali Farka Touré played a song called “Ruby.” He explained a little bit about Mali forging the DNA for American blues.

  “Maybe you should teach a class at Harvard,” I said.

  “And you on white ballplayers no one heard of.”

  “Good to know stuff.”

  Hawk nodded. “How much this woman really know about Welles?”

  “Next to nothing,” I said. “But despite him ripping her off, somehow she trusts him.”

  “Guess you really never know someone.”

  “Sure you do,” I said.

  “What’s my real name?” Hawk said.

  I shook my head. He’d used a couple different names back when we were fighters. I wasn’t sure which one was correct. Neither seemed right to me.

  Hawk told me. It was neither.

  “No foolin’,” I said.

  “No shit.”

  Hawk leaned back into the driver’s seat. The rain came down in long, driving silver sheets. It was very loud on the roof of his Jag.

  “You know where I live?” Hawk said.

  “Never wanted to know,” I said. “In case someone asks, I can never lie.”

  We drank some coffee and ate a few donuts. We listened to some more music from Mali. He played a woman he’d played for me before, a woman named Oumou Sangaré. We talked a bit about when we were young fighters, opponents we’d both faced. The ones who’d gone on to fight title bouts and make something of themselves. And others who never did anything with their lives.

  “You came from out West,” Hawk said.

  “Laramie.”

  “Raised by your daddy and your momma’s brothers.”

  I nodded.

  “Why’d they come to Boston?”

  “Work,” I said. “They were all carpenters. More stuff to build in Boston. One of my uncles was seeing a woman from Waltham.”

  “Any still living?”

  I shook my head. “Last uncle just died,” I said. “He’d gone back to Wyoming a long time ago. He became an old man. You?”

  “Family?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hawk shook his head. We didn’t talk for a long while as the rain kept on coming down. I saw a light switch on in the turret of Connie’s condo and her brief shadow appear. The donuts weren’t bad but were a far cry from Kane’s. Still, I’d met few donuts I didn’t like.

  “You boxing awhile when we met,” Hawk said.

  “My uncles,” I said. “And then I met a cop who got me into a gym.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Someone shot him,” I said. “He died.”

  At ten, Hawk got out with an umbrella and went to the convenience store down the street. Fifteen minutes later, he was back. I took the umbrella and walked to the store, used the facilities, and got more coffee.

  “Then you got Henry to train you,” he said. “And I got Bobby Nevins.”

  “Good men to know.”

  “Damn right,” Hawk said.

  A little past midnight, a silver BMW pulled up across the street from Connie’s place. A man in dark clothing got out and walked across the street. A car passed by him and flashed light into his face.

  It was Welles.

  30

  I knocked on the door. And Connie Kelly answered.

  She didn’t look pleased to see me, but I gave her my very best smile in return. It was the kind of smile that made grown women run in circles and climb walls using only their fingernails. I held the umbrella high over my head and waited on the stone steps. “Would you believe my car just ran out of gas,” I said. “Can I use your phone?”

  “I wis
h you’d called,” she said. “Now isn’t a good time.”

  “Company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “My private affairs are none of your concern,” she said. Connie tried to shut the door. I stopped it with the flat of my hand.

  “If you don’t let me in,” I said, “I’ll start singing ‘On the Street Where You Live.’”

  Connie didn’t seem to know what to say. She was wearing skinny jeans and a tank top. As she clenched her jaw, she folded her arms over her chest and glowered at me. “It’s late,” she said.

  “I have some new information.”

  “We can speak in the morning.”

  “This can’t wait,” I said, pushing past her into the foyer. A television was on in the living room, playing some kind of war movie. A lot of bombs were dropping and guns firing. An older man’s voice called out, wanting to know who was there. It was loud and boastful, full of a lot of self-confidence and authority.

  “Come on out, Welles,” I said. “Someone put on some coffee. We need to talk, and this might take a while.”

  “This doesn’t concern you,” Connie said.

  “Since when?” I said.

  Welles walked out from the TV room. He had on khaki pants and a blue Oxford cloth shirt rolled to the elbows. He had a shiny gold watch on his left wrist and a pistol in his right hand. I walked up and snatched the gun from him and told him to go sit down. Connie looked nervous, wrapping her arms around her body and shaking her head. Welles stared at me, openmouthed.

  “Cream,” I said. “One sugar.”

  I followed Welles into the living room, pocketing the gun and reaching for the remote to turn off the television. They’d been watching a very bad movie, a retelling of Pearl Harbor with little or no historical accuracy and abhorrent acting. The room suddenly became very still and silent.

  “Your friends from the other night tried to kill me,” I said. “What are they looking for?”

  “Connie,” Welles said, never breaking eye contact with me. “I’d like some coffee, too. I think you, me, and Spenser need to have a little discussion about the details of his employment.”

  He tried out a smug look. It would have been pleasurable to knock it off his face. “The details change when someone tries to shoot me,” I said. “Maybe I’m the sensitive type. I take it personally.”

  “Like I told you,” Welles said, settling back into the sofa. A man trying to look very much in charge. The nodding gray head, the folded hands. “This does not concern you. You drop out and no harm will come to you. You saw what they did to John Gredoni. I mean, my God.”

  “Brother Bliss killed Gredoni?” I said.

  Welles attempted to look unfazed that I knew the name. He just stared at me and nodded. But I saw a little flicker in his left eye, knowing the information took him aback.

  “Okay,” I said. “Why?”

  “John was outmatched on this,” he said. “He didn’t know his limits. I should have never agreed to include him.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh.

  “You think this is funny?” Welles said. “You say you know Brother Bliss. But do you know who he really is? What he does to people? His reputation.”

  “I heard he’s an artist with the machete,” I said. “And no friend to terrorists.”

  “Or low-level Boston snoops.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Welles,” I said. “I’m a very high-level snoop.”

  Connie brought in a tray of coffee. She set it down on a table and then stood back, as if the cups and saucers might explode at any minute. I was bold. I reached over, added one sugar and a little milk. I stirred it all very carefully in case it contained any explosives.

  “Gredoni went back on his word,” Welles said. “It’s as simple as that. Then they wanted him dead. And me, too. I’ve tried to explain I have nothing to do with what happened and have absolutely no idea how this all fell apart. There was trouble with Gredoni, but they’ve gotten it into their heads that you and I are part of this.”

  “The gun deal.”

  Again, Welles tried to look calm. His gray hair had been combed neatly over his head.

  His khakis were perfectly cuffed at the ankle. He crossed his legs, not making any moves for the coffee and not saying a word. Again, the left eye crinkled a bit as he readjusted the golden watch on his wrist.

  “Lots of assault rifles,” I said. “An RPG or three. A good little starter kit to take over a bank or a third-world country. Where are they now?”

  Welles smiled. He nodded. “You’re good,” he said. “Very good. I guess you’re not low-level after all.”

  “Thanks so much.” I drank some coffee. It was warm and pleasant in the room. A small fire was going and a light, cold rain tapped against the window.

  “I wish we’d had more men like you at the Agency.”

  “Aw, shucks.”

  Welles offered his palms and shrugged without modesty. He reached over and added a lot of sugar to the coffee. Connie stood frozen in the doorway. She continued to wrap herself with her arms as if very cold. Her chin quivered just a bit.

  “I don’t want anyone else hurt,” Welles said. “Connie wanted you to find me. Guess what? Now I’m found. I’m standing right in front of you. Mission accomplished.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Connie wanted me to find you, turn you upside down, and shake loose the money you stole. And unless you’re carrying around two hundred and sixty thousand dollars in a money belt, I’m still on the clock.”

  “Stop it,” Connie said. “Just stop it.”

  She’d been so quiet that her words seemed to echo in the room. We both turned to look at her. She began to cry and wiped her face with the back of her hands.

  “We’re done,” she said. “Brooks and I have discussed it. Everything is over. I don’t need your help anymore.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But there’s the small matter of Gredoni. A friend of mine at BPD is very interested in meeting you. Can I borrow your phone?”

  “No,” Connie said. This time shouting it, more than just making a statement. “No, no, no. It’s over, Spenser. I will pay you for your work. But I want you gone. I want you to leave me alone. I want you to leave Brooks alone. Your infringing here will only get me killed.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I almost forgot. I have a phone in my pocket.”

  She and Welles exchanged a quick glance. She licked her lips and took a deep breath.

  “You call the police and I’ll file a complaint,” she said. “You are no longer in my employ.”

  “A woman of a less formal education would’ve just told me I was fired,” I said. I took another sip of my coffee. And then I stood.

  I looked down at Welles and said, “Since I’ve met Connie I’ve been lied to, threatened, shot at, and had my wonderful SUV nearly destroyed. I’m out a lot of time and a lot of patience. I don’t care for liars and have little stomach for con men. Especially ones who build their reputation on nonexistent military valor.”

  “Did you serve?” Welles said. He sounded very haughty.

  “Yes,” I said. “Want to see the tattoo?”

  “You’re a good man,” Welles said, offering his hand. “You saved my life. And I owe you. But if you turn me in to the police, I’ll be dead tomorrow. Brother Bliss has people everywhere. Do you really want that on your conscience?”

  I shook my head, feigning sadness. “Lucky for me,” I said. “I date a high-dollar shrink who can mend my psyche for a discount. But I appreciate your concern.”

  Welles looked to Connie. And then he looked behind her to the hallway and the front door. He removed his hands from his pockets and leveled a serious look at me. “Are you really going to stand here and make me speak with the local police?”

  “You bet.”

 
; 31

  Late the next afternoon, Hawk and I were in the homestretch, running clockwise around the river on the Esplanade. We were nearing the Hatch Shell when the cell rang in my pocket. It was Belson. He and Glass wanted to talk. I hadn’t heard a peep from them after sitting on Welles until they arrived.

  “I’ll get cleaned up and drive your way.”

  “No,” Belson said. “We’ll come to you.”

  Hawk and I barely had time to catch our breath before Belson’s unmarked sedan illegally parked by the footbridge. Along the river, the sycamores and river birches had a golden glow. Willows brushed and swayed in the morning wind. It was almost pleasant until I saw the scowl on Glass’s face.

  Hawk kept walking toward the Shell. I moved toward the Charles River Bistro, a little open-air restaurant. Glass took a seat at a round table. I joined her.

  “You sure know how to pick ’em,” she said. “That Welles is slicker than goose shit.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Like you had a choice,” she said. “You lose him a second time and people would start to talk.”

  “What people?”

  She pointed to herself and didn’t smile. Captain Glass never smiled. Belson walked up to the table carrying a couple coffees and a bottle of water. He handed me the water and looked back toward the Shell.

  “Hawk didn’t even say hello,” Belson said. “I wanted him to meet Glass.”

  “One hoodlum at a time,” Glass said. “Tell me what Welles said last night.”

  “He wanted me to leave him alone,” I said. “He’d convinced Connie Kelly, who, at this point, you know is my client, to say she no longer needed my services.”

  “Was she being coerced?” Glass said.

  “In a way.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “He understands her weaknesses,” I said. “She’s susceptible to his targeted confidence and direction. Don’t ask me how or why.”

  “Aren’t you dating a shrink?”