Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  “Why are you looking at me?” Rachel Wallace said. There was no hostility in her voice. Only curiosity.

  “You a nice-looking woman,” Hawk said.

  “Thank you,” she said. Hawk continued to look at her, and Rachel looked amused and turned to me.

  “Hawk cannot believe,” I said, “that any woman who is not ugly can fail to feel lust for him.”

  Rachel Wallace’s smile widened and she nodded her head.

  “Of course,” she said. She looked back at Hawk. “It is difficult even for me,” she said.

  Hawk nodded and poured champagne. “That’s heartening,” he said in a North Shore twang. “I hate feeling insecure.”

  “I imagine so,” Rachel Wallace said. “I’m sure you’re not used to it.”

  “You want some more Scotch,” Hawk said.

  “Yes,” Rachel Wallace said.

  Hawk went and got the bottle and poured her another shot, over the ice that remained in her glass.

  “You really a lesbian,” Hawk said.

  “I really am,” Rachel Wallace said.

  “Well,” Hawk said, “save money on diaphragms I guess.”

  Rachel Wallace, halfway into a sip of Scotch, burst into laughter and nearly spilled all of her drink. Hawk grinned. This time there was warmth. I patted Rachel Wallace on the back until she stopped choking on the half-swallowed whiskey.

  “Hawk has that special insight into minority situations,” I said. “You have anything new on Costigan?”

  Rachel Wallace took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “Specifically I have the address of his wife.”

  “Not ex-wife,” I said.

  “As far as I can find out they are not divorced,” Rachel Wallace said.

  “Where’s she live?”

  “Chicago, Lake Shore Drive.” She gave me the address, tearing the page from her notebook.

  “What else?” I said.

  “About the wife? Nothing else. I’ve already told you her name, Tyler Smithson. The two children live with her. She doesn’t seem to work, though I’m not sure. Microfilm can take you only so far.”

  “What else do you have on any of the Costigans?”

  “Transpan had labor problems at one time. There was a matter before the NLRB stemming from problems at a manufacturing site in Connecticut. I have only a secondhand reference to it yet, but I’ll track it down. Once it gets into the government process it’s just a matter of time.”

  I sipped a little more Scotch. The glass was empty. Hawk poured a little Scotch into my glass and took Rachel Wallace’s glass and got more ice and poured Scotch into it and brought it back. She smiled at him.

  “Thank you,” she said. She was looking at him almost as he had looked at her. Then she looked at me and back at Hawk.

  “He commands loyalty,” she said, “doesn’t he?”

  “Spenser?” Hawk said.

  “Yes,” Rachel Wallace said. “Here you are, and here I am.” She drank some of her Scotch. “Remarkable,” she said.

  Hawk poured some champagne into his glass and drank half of it. He didn’t sip champagne, he drank it as if he was thirsty.

  “I in jail in California, he come and got me out,” Hawk said. “Turn it around, I do the same thing. But that ain’t it. You see a black guy and a white guy working on something, you think the black guy helping the white guy. Lawzy me, Marse Spenser, let me lie down in front of dis heah truck fo’ ya’ll.”

  Rachel Wallace was still, looking very intently at Hawk.

  “He dead,” Hawk said, “and I be doing exactly the same thing. Susan need help, I help her.”

  Rachel Wallace looked down into her Scotch for a moment, then back up at Hawk, and her gaze was steady.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I treated you as his side-kick.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can’t undo it,” she said, “but I won’t do it again.”

  “That’s progress.”

  Rachel Wallace drank the rest of her Scotch. She reached for the bottle and Hawk beat her to it.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  “Chicago in the morning?” I said to Hawk.

  “First thing,” he said.

  “That leaves the rest of the day open,” Rachel Wallace said. “Shall we get drunk?”

  “We’d be fools not to,” I said.

  CHAPTER 25

  Tyler Smithson’s apartment was on the lake front near the point where W. Goethe Street joins the Drive. The march of high Gold Coast apartment buildings along the water was splendid to look at in the late summer sunshine, standing at the near north edge of Chicago. In other times Susan and I had come here and walked through Lincoln Park and hung around the zoo, holding hands and looking at the lions. We’d have dinner at Le Perroquet and go back to the Park Hyatt and make love in an elegant room with dark green walls.

  The doorman called up to Tyler Smithson from the lobby phone.

  “Gentleman named Spenser,” he said into the phone. “Says it is in reference to Russell Costigan.”

  He nodded his head at me and hung up the phone. He was wearing a black uniform with red trim, his round pale face was freshly shaved, and he smelled of cologne.

  “Penthouse,” he said. “Elevator is straight back.”

  The elevator was lined with beige leather. It went up silently and I stepped out into a small foyer. The walls were papered with something that looked like red velvet and might have been. There was a skylight above and a thick gray carpet below and straight ahead a raised panel door painted ivory and gilded around the perimeter of each panel. I rang the bell and smiled winningly at the peephole in the door. Just a friendly guy, come to visit, cut up a few touches about old Russell, easygoing, charming, welcome everywhere. The door opened. I widened my smile. It deepened the dimples in my cheeks and drove women wild.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Mr. Spenser?”

  “Yes.” Tyler Smithson Costigan was tall and slender with pale skin and blond hair cut in a Dutch-boy. She was wearing a pink shirt with a round collar, open at the neck, and a green plaid skirt with a pin in it.

  “What is it about Russell Costigan?” she said.

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, certainly. Sit down. Would you care for coffee, tea? Something to drink?”

  “Coffee would be good,” I said. “Black.”

  A middle-aged black woman appeared in the archway that apparently led to the kitchen.

  “Two coffees, please, Eunice,” Tyler Costigan said.

  The black woman smiled and turned away and disappeared. I sat in a pink armchair. It was part of a collection of pink furniture that sat elegantly around on a gray rug like the one in the foyer. The walls were white on three sides of the room, and the fourth side was floor-to-ceiling glass that let you look across Lake Michigan. The view was startling and the light in the room was flood level. Tyler sat across from me on a pink couch and crossed her ankles. Her shoes were pink fabric, with flat heels and no arch. The pink matched her shirt, which matched her furniture. She smiled faintly at me.

  “What is it about Russell Costigan, Mr. Spenser?”

  “I can’t think of a slick way to say this, Mrs. Costigan. Russell is somewhere with a woman I love. I wish to find them. I’m not convinced that she’s with him by choice.”

  Tyler Costigan’s smile disappeared.

  “Susan? Whore.”

  I nodded my head slightly. “Can you help me find them?”

  “My husband and his newest whore,” Tyler Costigan said. It was hard keeping my dimples in place.

  “You are separated from your husband, Mrs. Costigan?”

  “Yes. His priorities seem muddled.”

  “What are his priorities,” I said. Eunice came in with the coffee in a silver pot on a silver tray with silver cream pitcher and sugar bowl and silver spoons and two china cups with gilding on the rim and two china saucers with gilding around the edge. She put the tray on the white coffee table in front
of Tyler Costigan, smiled at neither of us, and went out again. Tyler Costigan leaned forward and poured the coffee and handed it across the table to me. I took it and holding the saucer in my left hand took a sip from the cup. It was very good coffee and it had a slight vanilla edge to it. Tyler Costigan sat back without pouring any coffee for herself. She tucked her legs up under her on the couch, smoothing her skirt down over them.

  “Russell Costigan’s priorities are cocaine, whores, and whiskey, I believe in that order.”

  “By whores you mean women in his life, not necessarily always, ah, professional prostitutes.”

  “Decent women do not break up marriages,” Tyler Costigan said. “Decent women do not fuck married men. Men with children and family. Men with homes. I call them whores.”

  The inelegant four-letter word was startling when she used it. I’d heard it almost hourly since I was a little boy, but from her it sounded dirty.

  “Well, we have a common goal here, I think,” I said. “We’d like to terminate this affair.”

  “How?”

  “As I say, I think Susan is not with Russell entirely by choice. If I can find them, I’ll help her to leave.”

  “They are always there by choice, Spenser. They love him. He’s funny, and loose, and richer than you can imagine. He takes them places they’ve never been, he has them doing things they once blushed to think about. And after a while, he gets tired of them. Tired of fucking them, tired of feeding them dope and booze and teaching them things, and he kicks them loose and comes home.”

  “And you welcome him?”

  “He makes himself welcome. The Costigans are very rich. Do you remember what somebody said about rich people? That they are different?”

  “Fitzgerald,” I said.

  She shrugged. “The Costigans own everything they want. They have power. They’ll know you were here, for instance. I’m always watched.”

  “That thought occurred to me,” I said.

  “If you persist, they will kill you,” Tyler Costigan said.

  “Russell is that potent?”

  “His father is,” she said. “Russell’s potency is more narrowly specific.”

  “Is that why you welcome him back each time,” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “You love him?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but I could learn not to. It’s …” She stopped talking and turned her head away toward the bright window wall where the light poured in. I was quiet. Way out on the lake a boat moved by itself. There was nothing else in sight on the surface of the lake, which stretched away to the horizon.

  Tyler Costigan turned her face back toward me. “They let me keep the children,” she said.

  I nodded. Tyler Costigan leaned forward without untucking her legs and poured more coffee into my cup. I drank some.

  “If you help me,” I said, “I’ll try not to hurt him.”

  She made a small laugh. “I would be better off if you killed him,” she said. “But there’s not much danger of that. The Costigans don’t get killed, or hurt. Though I’m afraid you very well might.”

  “Where do you think he and Susan might be?” I said.

  “Where have you looked?” she said.

  “The Costigan house in Mill River. The lodge in Washington.”

  Tyler Costigan widened her eyes. “Do the Costigans know?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Jerry was in the house when we went in. We talked.”

  “You forced your way in?”

  I nodded.

  “You must have,” she said, as I nodded. “Well, you are an interesting man.”

  “My friend helped me,” I said.

  “Your friend? My God. I’d have said the Marine Corps couldn’t force their way into The Keep.”

  I drank some coffee.

  “And the lodge?”

  “We burned it down,” I said. “Susan wasn’t there.”

  Tyler Costigan opened her mouth and closed it and opened it again and didn’t speak. The boat was almost to the left edge of the picture window, moving away at an angle.

  Finally she said, “You must be as good as you look.”

  “Better,” I said.

  “Russell must love it,” she said. “He loves to see his father lose.”

  I waited. The boat went out of sight.

  “And, he must be having a wonderful time playing hide-and-seek with you.”

  “There’s no allie-in-free,” I said.

  “He doesn’t care. If it gets too bad his daddy will bail him out.”

  “How bad is bad?”

  “If he starts to lose,” she said. “Then he’ll call his fat little momma and she’ll speak to Jerry, and Jerry will send some people out to fix it. And”—she looked at me hard—“they will.”

  “If they can,” I said.

  “They always can,” she said.

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Where do you think they might be now?”

  “You really believe you can win this, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m highly motivated.”

  “You want her back.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think if you can get her away from Russell, she’ll come back?”

  “I’ll get her away from Russell because she doesn’t want to be with him. Once that’s done we’ll see about us.”

  “But you’d have her back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you love her?”

  “Yes.”

  Tyler Costigan laughed. There was no pleasure in the sound and no humor. “I understand that perfectly,” she said. She turned again to stare out into the bright afternoon. “I got Russell,” she said without turning from the window. “She got you.”

  “The ways of the Lord are often dark,” I said. “But never pleasant.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The boat was gone now, and the light had shifted so that it slanted in from the west edge of the picture window. I had drunk six cups of coffee and felt as if maybe my skin would jump off and dance along the baseboard.

  “The rich really are very different,” Tyler Costigan was saying. “Especially if they are also unscrupulous.”

  “One of the ways they got rich,” I said.

  She nodded, but she wasn’t paying me much attention. “They have always gotten what they wished, and after a while they think they are supposed to. If they have a problem they hire someone to solve it. And they become ever more contemptuous of people who cannot. They even become contemptuous of people who have problems. And eventually they are contemptuous of everyone and care only about what they want.”

  “Maybe that’s true only of the Costigans,” I said.

  She looked at me as if I’d startled her from a reverie. “I believe it’s true in general,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I don’t care about in general. I only care about Russell Costigan. And, in truth, at the moment, I don’t even care about him, only about where he is.”

  “If I had to guess,” she said, “I’d guess he’s in Connecticut.”

  I nodded.

  “They have an arms manufacturing facility there, which includes a testing and training site. And it is very secure. Russell loves hide-and-seek, if his hiding place is safe.”

  “Where in Connecticut,” I said.

  “West of Hartford, near a town called Pequod.”

  “What’s the name of the company?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if it goes under Transpan, or they have a subsidiary name.”

  “Did they have labor trouble a few years back?”

  She shook her head again, impatiently. “I don’t know. I paid as little attention to the family business as I could. Russell didn’t have that much to do with it either. He did some lobbying in Washington for a time. Or that’s what he called it. It was mostly having parties and going to other parties and having lunch at Sans Souci. I think his father sent him there to keep him occupied. His mother
loved it. ‘Rusty deals with the government,’ she’d say.”

  “Rusty?”

  “Grace calls him that. Have you seen her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s incredible,” Tyler Costigan said. “She is a fat little dumb woman. She must be sixty-five and still talks baby talk, and she jerks those two men around any way she wants.”

  “No other kids?”

  Tyler Costigan smiled. “Just Rusty,” she said, making the R sound almost like a W.

  “Probably an adorable baby,” I said.

  “In many ways he’s an adorable man,” she said. “Except …” She leaned her head back, thinking of how to say it. “Except he hasn’t got any …” She took a breath and made an aimless gesture. “He hasn’t got any realness. He’s funny and fun and warm and loving, but if anything gets too hard he moves on. He’s never loved a great love. Unless it was Grace, whom he now hates.”

  The sun must have moved behind something, off window left, and the room was much dimmer.

  “Maybe that’s why the whores. They don’t require what he doesn’t have, or doesn’t know how to offer. If any of the whores start to want it he can move on.”

  “Russell is probably Susan’s first affair,” I said. “She’s not a whore.”

  She smoothed her skirt again although there wasn’t a wrinkle in it. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s a way for me to dehumanize them.”

  “I understand that,” I said.

  “But if I were a man,” she said, “I imagine you wouldn’t let me say it.”

  “No,” I said. “If I didn’t need your help, I wouldn’t let you say it.”

  She sat a little straighter and leaned slightly back as if to look at me better. She smoothed her skirt again over her thighs, her legs still curled beneath her.

  “You’re very clear, aren’t you, on what you want.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We were silent. “Life is surely difficult,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Why must it be so hard,” she said. She wasn’t looking at me. She was watching the afternoon gather into evening out over Lake Michigan. I looked at it too. “Why must love be so hard?” she said. She turned her head from the window and looked quite sharply at me. She leaned forward slightly over her smoothed skirt, her hands still resting on her thighs. “Do you know why?” she said.