Robert B. Parker's Someone to Watch Over Me

by Ace Atkins

  Around lunchtime, I called Bill Brett, who took most of the event photos for The Globe.

  He remembered the parties. But didn’t know anything about Poppy. “Do you have any idea of how many of these things I’ve gone to? Jeez, Spenser.”

  “I have a birthday coming up,” I said. “Catered by Karl’s Sausage Kitchen. Front-page material.”

  He hung up. I kept scrolling through pictures.

  I took a few notes, walked across the street to Starbucks, and returned with a tall coffee. I drank the coffee and put my feet up on my desk. After several minutes, I took them back down. I drank some more coffee and stood up. I looked across the street to an office building that used to be a completely different office building where a woman named Linda Thomas had once worked. I wondered what became of her.

  I finished the coffee and began to click through the photos again. Most had appeared in The Globe, Boston, and Boston Common. Poppy Palmer seemed to have a dazzling array of cocktail dresses. Sequins. Silk. Backless and scoop-necked. And I noted, she was quite fit. Not fit in the way Susan Silverman was fit but more like a woman who might deadlift the back of a Buick.

  I looked for people I knew in the shots. And names of the charities she supported. I’d been to enough of these things with Susan that I’d developed a mental Rolodex.

  On the third viewing, I noticed that in three different shots at three different events, she stood side by side with the same man. He was medium-sized and silver-haired, with dark tan skin and a face that some women might consider handsome. His face looked properly craggy and distinguished, like a profile you’d see on a Roman coin. He seemed to be perpetually laughing, and in two shots had his hand on Poppy’s waist.

  The man’s name was Peter Steiner.

  I made a screengrab of the photo, zoomed in on his face, and emailed the picture to Mattie.

  I went back looking at more photos of Poppy Palmer. And then started a separate search for Peter Steiner.

  One cutline named him Peter Steiner of Steiner and Associates. Being a trained detective, I googled Steiner and Associates and found out it was an investment firm that worked with select clients to help them achieve their maximum potential. They listed no address or phone number, only a generic email for serious inquiries.

  After a few minutes my phone buzzed. A text from Mattie said Showed to Chloe. That’s the bastard.

  I felt like giving myself a high five. Instead, I picked up the phone and called one of the people I’d spotted in the party photos, Bill Barke. Bill and I went way back to the old jazz clubs of Cambridge that had gone by the wayside.

  “Spenser,” Bill said. “You still owe me for those Sox tickets.”

  “It was a lousy game,” I said. “They lost.”

  “Go cry to John Henry.”

  “Do you happen to know a guy named Peter Steiner?”

  There was a long pause. “Do I know Peter Steiner?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question or is your hearing going?”

  “Sorry, I’m driving back to Plymouth in the convertible,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve met Peter Steiner. What the hell do you want to know about Peter Steiner?”

  “Who is he?” I said. “And what does he do beyond helping a select group of Bostonians reach their maximum potential?”

  “He’s a fucking hedge-fund guy,” Bill said. “He lives in a big brownstone on Comm Avenue. Flies to Florida on the weekends in his private jet. Hangs out with ex-presidents, CEOs, and has-been actors and athletes. He’s one of those guys. You know the type.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Ever seen his girlfriend?”

  “Poppy Palmer.”

  “She’s a real hot tamale,” Bill said. “That accent kills me.”

  “She looks like she could break a man’s pelvis with her thighs.”

  “She does CrossFit, triathalons, and all that,” Bill said. “I think Steiner does, too. They’re always back and forth to some place in the Caribbean. Out of our league, pal.”

  “Ever heard anything untoward about him?”

  “Untoward,” Bill said. “You’re always so damn formal. What the hell do you mean ‘untoward’?”

  “Sex stuff.”

  “Nope.”

  “Criminal stuff?”

  “I wouldn’t invest my money with him,” Bill said. “But more because I think he’s an arrogant hot dog. Not anything I’ve heard.”

  “He appears to never meet a charitable event he wouldn’t attend.”

  “Some guys are like that,” Bill said. “Probably thinks he looks great in a tux.”

  I named some of the events where I’d spotted him and Poppy Palmer. I asked Bill if he knew anyone connected to those charities who might know more about him.

  “Do you care if he knows you’re asking?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “If it were me, I’d check in with Wayne Arnett,” Bill said. “He’s an auctioneer at these things and goes by the name Mr. Money Raiser. Susan probably knows him. He’s very close with these people. Big guy on the social scene. Definitely knows Steiner. And he definitely loves to talk. I come out to raise money for the kids. But I’d rather be at home listening to old King Oliver 78s with my dog, Dixie.”

  “The reason we’re friends.”

  There was another long pause. “Sorry to hear about Pearl.”

  “It’s been a few tough months.”

  “Maybe you should think about getting a new one,” he said. “Life’s not worth living without a good dog.”

  “Already happened.”

  “And who’s this?” Bill chuckled.

  “A German shorthaired pointer,” I said. “And her name happens to be Pearl, too.”

  “Of course it is.”

  11

  As Susan Silverman happened to know everyone who was anyone, Susan just happened to know Wayne Arnett, AKA Mr. Money Raiser. And she arranged for us to meet him at the bar at the Eliot Hotel that evening.

  “That’s a terrible moniker,” Susan said.

  “What about the Maestro of Money,” I said.

  “Even worse.”

  We were walking together on Newbury Street. She’d met me at my office after her last appointment, and we’d left both of our cars to take an evening stroll. The light was golden, the evening cool, and a great many people were dining al fresco. The cafés and bars shoulder to shoulder and chair to chair. Susan wasn’t into people-watching. She was more interested in the window-shopping, studying the mannequins and deciding which summer dresses she’d like to add to her closet.

  “Auction Jackson.”

  “I kind of like that one,” Susan said. “But it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I’ve attended many of those things with you,” I said. “Few make sense.”

  “But some do,” she said. “And as silly and trite as they may seem, they raise a great deal of money and do a lot of good.”

  “The Maestro of Money,” I said. “I’m going to suggest it.”

  Susan had on a knee-length blue silk dress with tall leather heels that made her legs look about a mile long. Her skin was dark and tan, and she’d worn her black hair up off her neck. She smelled like good soap and summertime.

  I began to whistle some Cole Porter as we strolled.

  “Thanks for bringing my jacket,” I said. I slipped into a linen navy sport coat to accentuate the jeans and T-shirt.

  “Do you think the puppy will be okay?” she said. “I left her in the crate without water. Just like Janet told us.”

  “Janet knows dogs,” I said. “She knew both Pearls and now knows the third.”

  “We shall see,” Susan said, peering up a flight of stairs at a brownstone shop and taking in a cheetah-print Diane von Furstenberg. I was pleased to see a closed sign in the window.

  We con
tinued along Newbury and turned onto Mass Ave and then into the Eliot. We found Wayne Arnett at the bar, sipping a martini inside a glass the size of a goldfish bowl. I liked the look of it and ordered two more. And then Susan corrected me. She wished to have a gimlet with fresh lime juice and Ketel One.

  I had a gin martini. Straight up with extra olives.

  “I like him,” Arnett said. “I like this big guy.”

  “I do my best,” I said.

  Arnett looked very much like a professional charity emcee and auctioneer. He was in his mid-forties, short and slightly chunky, with black hair and artfully trimmed facial hair. Blue eyes and a dimple in his chin. He was impeccably dressed. A navy blazer with a starched white shirt, red bow tie, and creased khaki pants. His shoes were old-school wingtips kicked up on the barstool.

  “So,” Arnett said. “Peter Steiner.”

  “Peter Steiner,” I said.

  “What an asshole,” Arnett said.

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “Do tell.”

  “I don’t mean to speak out of school,” he said, smiling and waving his hand around. “But something is amiss with Peter Steiner. Something is wrong with Peter Steiner. He purports to be an international man of mystery. A great financier. Someone who deep-sea dives and owns two private planes. But god knows, he gives me the creeps.”

  It appeared Wayne Arnett had begun without me. I looked up, signaled the bartender, and ordered him another cocktail. Spenser the Generous.

  “You know, Wayne,” Susan said. “Spenser thought you might change your name to Auction Jackson. What do you think?”

  “You don’t like Mr. Money Raiser?” he said.

  “Miss Silverman is being cute,” I said, placing a hand on Susan’s knee. “She can’t help herself.”

  Susan swatted my hand away. And Arnett shrugged and gleefully reached for his next cocktail. I liked very much where this was headed, as long as Mr. Money Raiser could remain on his barstool. Susan gave me the side eye and took a micro-sip of her gimlet.

  “Do you mind saying why you’re asking me about Peter?” he said. “I mean, there are plenty of other people who can tell you about Peter. And Peter and Poppy Palmer.”

  “Are they married?” I said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But they are a couple?” I said.

  “Very much so,” Arnett said. “They are what you call a dynamic Boston power couple.”

  I looked over at Susan and winked. She rolled her eyes.

  “What does she do?” Susan said.

  “Whatever Peter asks.”

  “She’s devoted?” I said.

  “Completely,” he said. “She assists him in whatever he’s into. She runs some type of modeling agency, I believe. Maybe a charity or two. But being this is Boston, and not New York, I don’t know about the modeling thing. He, on the other hand, has quite the stable of investors. I really don’t want to say. But there are some big names. Big, big names.”

  “I have at least a few hundred bucks in the bank,” I said.

  “Peter Steiner wouldn’t even pick up the phone unless you were a billionaire.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I’ll make sure to buy a couple of scratch-off tickets on the way home.”

  Two comely women in lovely summer dresses came over and said hello to Arnett. He smiled and put on some high-octane charm. They were in their late twenties or early thirties and seemed to have walked out of an ad for La Perla. Lots of flawless glowing skin and muscular calves. He introduced us as he rested his hands on their slim waists.

  Susan watched me trying not to watch the women. She seemed to find this hilarious. I turned a blind eye and drank a little martini, completely unfettered.

  When the women left, I said, “You’re quite the charmer.”

  “Very beautiful,” he said. “But nope. Still gay.”

  Susan laughed. “Are you with someone?” she asked.

  “For five years,” he said. “We share an apartment in the South End and a cat named Perry Como.”

  “Love makes the world go round,” I said.

  “It sure does,” he said. He sighed and finished off the martini and then grabbed hold of the next. He drank some more and turned to me with red-rimmed eyes. “I guess you want to know about the incident.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, having no idea which incident he meant. “That’s why I wanted to meet you.”

  “There was a woman who worked for him,” he said. “I can’t recall her name. But she was young and very pretty. Some type of artist, I believe. In some way or another, she accused him of trying to force himself on her. This was maybe ten years ago. I don’t remember. I don’t remember all the details. But there was a lot of talk. It was all a big society scandal. No one could believe that Peter had eyes for anyone outside Poppy. They were such a dynamic and attractive couple.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said.

  “You think he was charged with something?” Susan said.

  Arnett nodded. I looked to Susan and shook my head. I could find no criminal charges against Steiner in Boston.

  “I think it went away as fast as it had come up,” Arnett said. “And obviously he and Poppy made amends. I know she told a lot of people that this woman was after Peter’s money and had made up the entire story.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who might remember this woman’s name?” I said.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Whoever she is, I heard she left Boston. Most of her reputation as an artist had been built on her association with Peter and Poppy. God, what was her name? I remember them hosting a show for her at their house. You have seen Steiner’s home, haven’t you? Or at least heard about it?”

  I shook my head.

  “It used to be a school over on Comm Avenue,” Arnett said, trying to point a finger in the direction of Commonwealth. “It’s maybe an entire city block. Big old brownstone. I mean, there is Boston money and then there is Boston money.”

  “Super-rich,” Susan said.

  “No,” Arnett said, lifting his martini to us both. “Filthy rich.”

  12

  “One of the perks of leaving Homicide and getting kicked upstairs in my ripe old age was not having to deal with a pain in the ass like you,” Quirk said the next morning.

  “You don’t really mean that.”

  “You bet I do, buddy boy,” Quirk said, refilling his mug from a pot in his office and taking a seat back behind his desk. “This is supposed to be the stress-free environment before they put me out to pasture.”

  “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “You mean the donuts?” he said. “When have you ever brought me a dozen from Kane’s without strings attached?”

  “Maybe it was just my way to let you know you are both valued and loved.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Or maybe I might have questions about a certain individual and a certain case that looks like it may have been washed from the books.”

  “Aha,” Quirk said. He raised his index finger, a substantial move, considering his hands were bigger than a Quincy bricklayer’s.

  Without a word, I reached onto his desk, plucked a lovely cinnamon-dusted, and took a bite. Knowing police headquarters and Quirk’s office all too well, I came armed with my own coffee from Starbucks.

  “Ever heard of Peter Steiner?”

  “Nope.”

  “Poppy Palmer.”

  “A poppy what?”

  “Poppy Palmer,” I said. Saying it slow, with careful enunciation on the alliteration.

  “No, but I knew a fan dancer named Fanne Foxe.”

  I smiled. “Pilgrim Theater,” I said. “In the old Combat Zone.”

  “Those were the days,” Quirk said.

  “Indeed.”

  Quirk eyed the box of donuts and
then me, and then eyed the donuts again and the open door of his office. When the pressure became too intense, he lifted the lid and grabbed a Boston cream. “So,” he said. “Steiner’s peter and Poppy whosis.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “So glad you’re paying attention.”

  Quirk nodded. His office was as neat and immaculate as Quirk himself. The only thing new, besides an ever-expanding arrangement of framed grandkid pics, was a collection of bobbleheads near the window.

  “Bobbleheads?” I said.

  “You get one and you’re fucked,” he said. “Everyone brings me one now. Feel free to take one on your way out.”

  I finished my cinnamon donut and sipped some coffee. I pulled out a stack of papers from my office on Peter Steiner and Poppy Palmer and handed it to him. “I understand Steiner might have been charged with a sex crime some years ago.”

  “When?”

  “Some years ago.”

  “Please,” Quirk said. “Don’t be too precise with me, Spenser. I like to really work at this stuff.”

  “If so,” I said, leaning back into the office chair. “I’d like to connect with the investigator.”

  Quirk reached for his cleanly shaven square jaw. His full head of hair showed more salt-and-pepper these days, but didn’t look all that different from when we met decades ago.

  “This the guy you were telling me about?” Quirk said. “The one who whipped it out in front of a fifteen-year-old?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Quirk said. “This guy must have money. Guys like that always get off.”

  “No pun expected or intended,” I said. “But, yes, he’s rolling in the dough.”

  “When did he assault the kid?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “But the kid won’t talk?”

  “She’ll talk to me,” I said. “Not to the cops.”

  “Okay,” Quirk said. “Besides being a decent guy, why should I bestow such a magnanimous favor as the assistant superintendent of Boston Police? Just for a fucking box of donuts?”