Bad Business

by Robert B. Parker

  "Ah, divorce work," he said.

  "Who can catch who first," I said.

  "And the winner gets most of the assets. You working for her?"

  "Yes," I said, "following him." Francis laughed briefly.

  "And you know who I'm working for," he said.

  "Him," I said, "following her. You catch her?"

  "It's against company policy," Francis said, "to discuss any aspect of a case with unauthorized personnel."

  "Of course," I said.

  "So far the only person I caught her with was him."

  "Her husband?"

  "Yeah."

  Francis was watching the Rowley house. Through the trees, across the lawn, I could see Marlene Rowley come out of her house. I got out of the car.

  Francis started the car.

  "Time to go to work," he said. I closed the door.

  Through the window, I said, "Have a nice evening."

  "You bet," he said and put the car in drive and moved slowly down toward the corner of the street where Marlene would pull out of her driveway. In a while she did and turned right and after a suitable pause, Francis drove on after her.

  I stood on the empty suburban street for a time. I felt left out. I had no one to follow. There was a summer hum of insects, which made everything seem quieter. I listened to the quiet for a bit, then went to my car and started it up. And went home.

  9

  Marlene Rowley came to see me in the morning, wearing a yellow summer dress with blue flowers. She sat in a straight chair and crossed her legs, and showed me her kneecaps.

  "Did you catch him yet," she said

  "Depends what you mean by catch. Want some coffee?"

  "No. What have you got?"

  "I have him in a hotel room with another woman," I said.

  "When?"

  "Monday night."

  "And you didn't report it?"

  "Nope,"

  "Why nor?"

  "You feel that being in a hotel room with another woman is enough?" I said.

  "No. I want proof. I want the sonovabitch caught with his pants down. Her too. Or them. Or whoever he's screwing."

  "Three hours together in a hotel room would probably suffice in divorce court."

  "I want it all," she said.

  "You want to embarrass him," I said.

  "Goddamned right," she said. "Do you have any idea? No. Of course you don't. You couldn't imagine how many dinner parties I ran for his stupid friends. How to make nice chitchat. How many hours at the day spa, so I'd look good. He's cheating on me? Look at me. I'm beautiful. I'm incredibly smart. I've been a perfect wife for him. People like me. They like him, the jerk, because he's married to me. If it weren't for me he'd be running a hardware store someplace. And he cheats on me?"

  "Hard to imagine," I said.

  "You're damned right. So you stay on him until you've got him cold. I want pictures."

  "Pictures," I said.

  "Of him and whatever bitch he's fucking."

  "In the act," I said.

  "Absolutely."

  "Should I have them matted and framed?" I said.

  "Are you being funny?" she said.

  "Apparently not," I said.

  "I expect results," she said. "And I expect them promptly. If you can't handle that, I'll find someone who can."

  "Why don't you do that," I saicl.

  "What?"

  "Why don't you find somebody else to do this work," I said.

  "No. Oh my God. No. I didn't mean that. Sometimes I'm so clear on things that I may be too abrupt. I want you. I don't want someone else. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry."

  I put both my hands up, palms toward her. And made a gesture for her to stop.

  "I'm not offended," I said.

  "I can pay you more," she said.

  "My last job, I was paid four donuts," I said. "Your pay scale is fine."

  "Then what?"

  "I'll make you a deal," I said. "I'll get you evidence sufficient to demonstrate infidelity. And you stop telling me what it is and how to do it."

  "I didn't mean to make you mad."

  "I'm not mad," I said. "I'm just sort of inner-directed."

  Marlene frowned a little and tried to look thoughtful.

  "Well," she said. "Can we continue?"

  "On my terms," I said.

  "Oh, yes, certainly," she said. "That will be fine."

  "Okay. I'll stay with your husband for a while, see what else surfaces."

  "Thank you," she said.

  "Sure."

  We sat quietly for a moment. She shifted a little in the chair. She was wearing yellow sling-back heels and no stockings. Her legs were tan. It was May. I suspected artifice.

  "I really do like you," she said. "Really." I nodded.

  "Don't you think I'm good-looking?"

  "I do," I said.

  "I know I frighten a lot of rnen," she said. "You know-beautiful, educated, rich. Men feel threatened."

  "I'm trying to be brave," I said.

  "I think you are really good-looking too," she said.

  "Guys at the gym are always telling me that," I said.

  "It's hard being alone," she said. "And being a woman. I'm counting on you."

  "Little lady," I said, "you're in good hands."

  "Are you laughing at me?"

  "With," I said. "Laughing with."

  10

  Which was why, later that afternoon, I was back at my post, in line of sight with Trent Rowley's silver Beamer. I had two books with me: Simon Schama's book, Rembrandt's Eyes, which was too big to carry around places except when I was doing surveillance in a car. The other was a much smaller book called Genome, in case I had to kill time on foot.

  The Schama book was not one you read at a sitting, and certainly not at a standing. I'd been reading it a few chapters at a time for several years. I hadn't started Genome yet.

  People began leaving the Kinergy offices at about 4:30. The Beamer stayed put. I kept reading. At six I started the car up and turned on the radio. The Sox were playing an early evening game for some reason, probably having something to do with television. I was pefectly happy with television, but it always seemed to me that, finally, baseball was designed for radio. The pace of the game gave the announcers time to talk about the game and the players and other players from games past, unless they had so many commercials they had trouble fitting the game around them. By the seventh inning it was too dark to read, even with the interior light on in the car, so I put Rembrandt down and listened to the game. By 9:15 the game was over. It was fully dark, and the silver Beamer and I were the only cars left in the lot.

  Was Rowley scoring Ellen Eisen in his office? He was the CFO so he must have a couch. I could burst in on him with a camera and shout ah ha! But I didn't have a camera, and I had no interest in ever yelling ah ha! It would have been especially embarrassing if when I burst in and yelled ah ha! he was at his desk going over spreadsheets. Plus, without a camera all I could do when I burst in would be to point my finger at them and say click.

  I decided not to burst in. I called his office number. His voice mail answered after four rings. I waited another fifteen minutes and called again. Voice mail again. If he'd come out, I wouldn't have missed him. I had been doing this kind of thing too well, for too many years, for me to have missed him. Had he scooted out another door into the waiting arms of Ellen Eisen? Were they even now locked in mad embrace in the back seat of her Volvo station wagon? Or had he been overwhelmed by guilt and slashed his wrists with a Swiss Army knife? I sat in the dark and looked at the

  coccncruging stars and thought about it. I needed to know wlwro Iw w;as.

  I got out of my car and walked to the glass front door and knocked. There was a security guy at the desk inside, watching television on a small screen. He picked up the phone and pointed toward me. There was a phone outside the door. I picked it up.

  "May I help you?" the security guy said.

  "
I was supposed to meet Trent Rowley here," I said. "At seven o'clock."

  "Your name, sir?"

  "Johnny Weismuller," I said.

  "I don't see you on our list, Mr. Weisman."

  "It was social," I said.

  "I don't see how I can help you," the security guy said.

  He didn't want to be missing the jackpot question on Jeopardy.

  "I'm getting worried about him," I said. "His car is still here."

  "Have you called his office?" the security guy said.

  "I have. No answer."

  "When Mr. Rowley is working late," the security guy said, "he doesn't like to be disturbed."

  A nd so it went, until I finally said I was going to call the cops.

  The security guy heaved a big sigh.

  "Wait there," he said. "I'll have someone check."

  I waited. He put down my phone and picked up another one and dialed and spoke briefly and hung up and redirected his gaze to the television. I waited. In maybe five minutes the seurity guy picked up his phone again, and listened, and leaned suddenly back in his chair and looked out at me. Then I saw him nod and break the connection and punch out another number. I saw him wait and then he talked for maybe another two minutes, and hung up. He looked at me again through the glass doorway. Then he picked up the intercom phone and pointed and I picked up my end.

  "We are still trying to track Mr. Rowley down, sir. Could I have your name again?"

  "Johnny Weismuller," I said and spelled the last name. I wasn't sure how to spell it. Next alias I used would be simpler. Lex Barker, maybe.

  "Just hang out there a little longer, sir," he said. "If you would."

  "Sure," I said, and hung up and leaned against the outside wall of the entryway.

  Something was up and I wanted to know what. In only another minute or two a car pulled into the empty lot, and cruised up and stopped behind me with the headlights pointed at me. It was hard to see in the glare of headlights, but I was pretty sure it was a police cruiser. Two men got out, one from each side, and stood behind the open doors. Through the glare they looked very much like cops. They were cops. It looked like I was the something that was up.

  "Step over to the car, please," one of the cops said. "Put your hands on the hood."

  I did. The cop on the passenger side came around. He had his gun out, holding it down next to his leg pointed at the ground. I put my hands behind my head with my fingers laced.

  "He's done this before, Freddie," the cop said.

  He holstered his weapon and held my laced hands together with his left hand while he patted me down.

  "Gun," I said. "Right hip."

  He patted me down anyway, and when he was through, took the gun from the holster and let go of my clasped hands and stepped away from me. I straightened.

  "You got some ID?"

  "In my wallet."

  "Get it out," the cop said.

  He was a big kid with freckles and sergeant stripes. I got my wallet out and got out my license to detect and handed it over. He took it and handed it to his partner to read.

  "Private detective," the partner said.

  He was shorter than his partner, with a narrow face and a low hairline.

  "So tell me your story," the first cop said.

  Two more cruisers pulled into the parking lot, and behind them an unmarked Ford Crown Vic, with the dead giveaway buggy whip antenna. Unmarked was probably mostly a status symbol. Two guys in plain clothes got out of the Crown Vic and walked toward us. An ambulance pulled into the lot, and behind it a State Police Cruiser.

  Big doings at Kinergy.

  "This the guy?" one of the plainclothes cops said. The freckle-faced cop said, "Private eye, Sal."

  "Get what you can," Sal said. "We'll talk to him when we come out."

  The security guy had the glass door open and Sal and the other detective and four uniforms and two ambulance guys went on into the lobby and up in the elevator.

  "So what happened to Rowley?" I said.

  "Why you think something happened to Rowley?" Beetle Brow said.

  "Just a crazy guess," I said.

  Freckles said, "Tell us your story, Mr. Spenser." I shook my head.

  "Not yet," I said.

  "We could slap the cuffs on you right now," Beetle Brow said. "Talk to you at the station."

  "Am I under arrest?" I said.

  "Not yet."

  "Then I decline to go."

  "You refusing a lawful order, pal?" I looked at Freckles.

  "What is this," I said. "Good cop, stupid cop? I'm not going to tell anybody anything until I have some idea why I'm being asked."

  Freckles nodded.

  "Freddie," he said. "Whyn't you check around the perimeter of the building, see if there's anything might be useful."

  "He call me stupid?" Freddie said.

  "No, no," Freckles said. "He was talking about me." Freddie nodded slowly and gave me a tough look so I wouldn't think I could get away with anything. Then he took a big Mag flashlight from the cruiser and went around the corner of the building.

  "According to the call we got," Freckles said, "there's a dead guy on the seventh floor, suspicious circumstances, and you were at the front door asking about him."

  "Suspicious circumstances," I said.

  Freckles shrugged.

  "Our dispatcher talks like that," he said. "You now know what I know. Why were you looking for him."

  "I was tailing him for a client," I said. "When he didn't come out, I called his office. When he didn't answer, I wondered and went to the door. Security guard went to check, and that's what I know."

  "Who's the client?" I shook my head. "You got no privilege here," Freckles said.

  "I am an agent of the client's attorney," I said. "His privilege might extend to me."

  "I doubt it," Freckles said. "But I'm still in my first year of law school."

  "Might work," I said.

  "Maybe," Freckles said.

  A s we were talking another dark Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot. It had the blue plates that Massachusetts puts on official cars.

  "Here they are," Freckles said. "State cops." The car door opened and Healy got out.

  I said, "Evening, Captain."

  He looked at me for a moment. "Oh shit," he said.

  "Oh shit?"

  "Yeah. You're in this."

  "So?"

  "So that means it'll be a fucking mess."

  "I thought you'd welcome my help," I said.

  "Like a case of clap," Healy said.

  "That's cold," I said.

  "It is," Healy said and walked on past me toward the Kinergy Building.

  "You know the captain," Freckles said.

  "I do," I said. "We're tight."

  "I could see that," Freckles said.

  11

  I t was 5:30 in the morning. Healy and I were drinking coffee out of thick white mugs at the counter of a small diner on Route 20. I felt the way you feel when you've been up all night and drunk too much coffee. If I still smoked, I would have drunk too much coffee and smoked too many cigarettes and felt worse. It wasn't much in the way of consolation. But one makes do.

  "Good aim?" I said.

  "Or good luck," Healy said. "Any one of the three shots would have been enough. ME thinks he was dead three, four hours."

  "That would make it about six or seven in the evening."

  "Yep."

  "Lotta people still in the building at that time."

  "Yep."

  "Widens the range of suspects," I said.

  "Yep. Anybody coulda done it. Anybody still working. Anybody walked in during business hours, hung around afterwards."

  "So, basically, anyone could have shot him," I said.

  "We'll start by talking with everyone who worked after five," Healy said.

  "Security?" I said.

  "Sign-in starts at five. There's a guard on the front desk and a roamer in the building. We're checking anybody signed in, m
ake sure all the names match."

  "Why would you wait until after five and sign in," I said, when you could go in at five of five and not sign in."

  "You wouldn't," Healy said.

  "But procedure is procedure," I said.

  "Un-huh."

  "Why I left the cops," I said.

  "You left the cops because they canned your ass for being an insubordinate fucking hot dog," Healy said.

  "Well, yeah," I said. "That too."

  The plump blond woman behind the counter poured more coffee into my mug. I didn't need more. I didn't want more. But there it was. I stirred in some sugar.

  "Hard," I said, "to fire off three rounds in a still-populated office building and nobody hears it."

  "We don't yet know if anyone did," Healy said. "We'll start canvassing this morning."

  "But no one reported any gunshots," I said.

  "Nope."

  "On the other hand," I said "people don't report gunfire anyway."

  "Only in areas where they recognize it," Healy said, "and half expect to hear it."

  "People like these," I said. "They hear bang bang and they don't call for fear that it'll turn out to be some guy with a power nailer fixing something in the third-floor men's room, and they'll look like an asshole."

  "For most of these folks," Healy said, "it's probably too late to worry about looking like an asshole."

  "Ah, Captain," I said. "A life of crime-busting has made you cynical. What kind of gun?"

  "They haven't dug the slugs out yet. Looking at the holes I'd say a nine."

  "Silencer?"

  "Don't know yet," Healy said. "Whoever did it had large balls. You and I both know silencers will cut down sound, but they won't prevent it. Our shooter walks in, pops the guy, walks out. People in the hallways, people in the elevators."

  "Probably took him, what, a minute?"

  "He only needed balls for a little while," he said. "But for that little while he needed a lot of them."

  I was looking at our server behind the counter. She had on a cropped white tee shirt and constrictive jeans that hung low enough on her hips to display the blue butterfly tattooed at the base of her spine.

  "So why were you tailing this guy?"

  I drank some coffee and didn't say anything.

  "You know," Healy said, "and I know, that the reason you're tailing him may suggest a motive for murder. Might point us somewhere."