“I’m glad you came back.”
“Quirk and Belson will get further, they’re official,” I said.
“There was a time,” Susan said, “when you’d have felt obliged to stay there and have a stare-down with the Sheriff’s Department.”
“I’m too mature for that,” I said.
“It’s nice to see,” Susan said.
“But I will go back if I need to.”
“Of course,” Susan said. “Too much growth too soon would not be healthy.”
“It’s not just to prove I’m tough. The case may require it. I can’t do what I do if I can be chased out of a place by someone.”
Susan said, “A man who knows about such things once told me, in effect, ‘Anyone can be chased out of anyplace.’”
“Was this guy also a miracle worker in the sack?” I said.
“No,” she said.
twenty-six
* * *
FARRELL AND I were in my office having some scotch from the office bottle. It was late afternoon, on Monday. Tripp was out of town. Senator Stratton’s office had not returned my call.
“What do you know about Stratton?” I said. “Anything I don’t?”
Farrell looked tired. He shook his head.
“Just what I read in the papers, and if you’ve ever been involved in something the papers wrote up, you know better than to trust them.”
I nodded and dragged my phone closer and called Wayne Cosgrove at the Globe. He was in the office more now since they’d made him some sort of editor and he had a political column, with his picture at the top, that ran three days a week. When he answered, I punched up the speakerphone.
“You’re on speakerphone, Wayne, and there’s a cop with me named Lee Farrell but all of this is unofficial and won’t go any further.”
“You speaking for Farrell too?” Cosgrove said. He had a Southern accent you could cut with a cotton hoe, although he’d left Mississippi at least thirty years ago, to come to Harvard on scholarship. I always assumed he kept the accent on purpose.
I looked at Farrell. He nodded. His eyes were red and seemed heavy, and his movements were slow.
“Yeah,” I said. “Farrell too.”
“Okay, pal, what do you need?”
“Talk to me about Senator Bob Stratton,” I said.
“Ahh, yes,” Cosgrove said. “Bobby Stratton. First off he’s a pretty good Senator. Good staff, good preparation, comes down pretty much on the right side of most issues—which is to say I agree with his politics. Got a lot of clout, especially inside the Beltway.”
“How about second off?” I said.
“Aside from being a pretty good Senator, he’s a fucking creep.”
“I hate it when the press is evasive,” I said.
“Yeah. He drinks too much. He’d fuck a snake if you’d hold it for him. I don’t think he steals, and I’m not even sure he’s mean. But he’s got too much power, and he has no sense of, ah, of limitation. He can do whatever he wants because he wants to and it’s okay to do because he does it. He’s the kind of guy who gooses waitresses. You understand?”
“Money?” I said.
“Yeah, sure. They all got money. How they get elected.”
“Married?”
“To the girl on the wedding cake, two perfect children, a cocker spaniel, you know?”
“And a womanizer.”
“You bet,” Cosgrove said. “Far as I know, it’s trophy hunting. I don’t think he actually likes women at all.”
“You know of any connection between him and Olivia Nelson, the woman who got killed couple of months back in Louisburg Square?”
“Loudon Tripp’s wife,” Cosgrove said.
“Un huh.”
“I don’t know any connection with her, but she’s female—and Bobby is Bobby. Her husband probably knows Stratton.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s got money and contributes it to politicians.”
“Democratic politicians?” I said.
“Politics makes strange bedfellows,” Cosgrove said.
“I’d heard that,” I said.
“Trust me, I’m a columnist,” he said. “Why are you interested in Stratton?”
“Some people working for him tried to chase me off the Olivia Nelson case.”
“Probably fucking her, and afraid it’ll get out.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Olivia Nelson I’ve been sold, but say it was, and he was,” I said. “Is it that big a secret?”
“He’s probably going to be in the presidential primaries,” Cosgrove said. “Remember Gary Hart?”
“Ah ha,” I said.
“Ah ha?”
“You can say strange bedfellows, I can say ah ha.”
“I thought the cops washed that case off,” Cosgrove said. “Deranged slayer, random victim.”
“You been punching the file up,” I said, “while you’re talking to me.”
“Sure,” Cosgrove said. “I haven’t always been a fucking columnist. How come you’re investigating?”
“Her husband wouldn’t accept it. He hired me.”
“You got a theory?”
“No.”
“You make any progress?”
“No.”
“Off the record?”
“No.”
“So I tell you everything I know and you tell me shit,” Cosgrove said.
“Yes.”
We hung up.
Farrell and I looked at each other.
“You suppose she was sleeping with Stratton?” Farrell said.
I shrugged.
“I don’t even know who she is,” I said.
Farrell was silent. He nipped a little of the scotch. It was good scotch, Glenfiddich, single malt. We were drinking it in small measures from a couple of water glasses, which was all I had in the office. I was not fond of straight booze, but Glenfiddich was very tolerable.
“How is it at home?” I said.
“Home?”
“Quirk told me your lover is dying.”
Farrell nodded.
“How soon?” I said.
“Sooner the better,” Farrell said. “Final stages. Weighs about eighty pounds.”
“He at home?”
Farrell shook his head.
“Hospice,” he said.
His words were effortful. As if there weren’t many left.
“How are you?” I said.
“I feel like shit,” Farrell said.
I nodded. We both drank some scotch.
“You drinking much?” I said.
“Some.”
“Any help?”
“Not much.”
“Hard,” I said.
Farrell looked up at me and his voice was flat.
“You got no fucking idea,” he said.
“Probably not,” I said.
“You got a girlfriend,” he said. “Right?”
“Susan,” I said.
“If she were dying people would feel bad for you.”
“More than they would, probably, if she were a guy.”
“You got that right,” Farrell said.
“I know,” I said. “Makes it harder. What’s his name?”
“Brian. Why?”
“He ought to have a name,” I said.
Farrell finished his scotch and leaned forward and took the bottle off the desk and poured another splash into the water glass.
“You can tell almost right away if people have a problem with it or not,” he said. “You don’t. You don’t really care if I’m straight or gay, do you?”
“Got nothing to do with me,” I sa
id.
“Got nothing to do with lots of people, but they seem to think it does,” Farrell said.
“Probably makes them feel important,” I said. “You been tested?”
“Yeah. So far, I’m all right—we were pretty careful.”
“Feel like a betrayal?” I said. “That you’re not dying too?”
Farrell stared at the whiskey in the bottom of the glass. He swished it around a little, then took it all in a swallow.
“Yes,” he said.
He poured some more scotch. I held out my glass and he poured a little in mine too. We sat quietly in the darkening room and sipped the whiskey.
“Can you work?” I said.
“Not much,” he said.
“I don’t blame you.”
twenty-seven
* * *
HAWK WAS SKIPPING rope in the little boxing room that Henry Cimoli kept in the otherwise updated chrome and spandex palace that had begun some years back as the Harbor Health Club. It was a gesture to me and to Hawk, but mostly it was a gesture to the days when Henry had boxed people like Sandy Saddler and Willie Pep.
Now Henry had a Marketing Director, and a Fitness Director, and a Membership Coordinator, and an Accountant, and a Personal Manager, and the club looked sort of like Zsa Zsa Gabor’s hair salon; but Henry still looked like a clenched fist, and he still kept the boxing room where only he and I and Hawk ever worked out.
“Every move a picture,” I said.
Hawk did some variations, changed speeds a couple of times.
“Never seen an Irish guy could do this,” he said.
“Racism,” I said. “We never got the chance to dance for pennies.”
Hawk grinned. He was working out in boxing shorts and high shoes. He was shirtless and his upper body and shaved head gleamed with sweat like polished onyx.
“Susan need watching anymore?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Who’d you use?”
“Me, mostly. Henry sat in once in a while, and Belson did one shift.”
“Belson?”
Hawk nodded. From the rhythm of the rope, I knew that “Sweet Georgia Brown” was playing in the back of Hawk’s head.
“She caught on,” I said.
“Never thought she wasn’t smart,” Hawk said. “But I wasn’t trying hard as I could.”
“Know anything about the case?” I said.
“Nope, Quirk just called and said Susan needed minding.”
I nodded and went to work on the heavy bag, circled it, keeping my head bobbing, punching in flurries—different combinations. It wasn’t like the real thing. But it helped to groove the movements so that when you did the real thing, muscle memory took over. Hawk played various shuffle rhythms on the speed bag, and occasionally we would switch. Neither of us spoke, but when we switched, we did it in sync so that the patter of the speed bag never paused and the body bag combinations kept their pattern. We kept it up as long as we could and then sat in the steam room and took a shower and went to Henry’s office where there was beer in a refrigerator.
Henry was stocking Catamount Gold these days and I had a cap off a bottle, and my feet up. Hawk sat beside me, and I talked a little about the Olivia Nelson case. Through Henry’s window, the surface of the harbor was slick, and the waves had a dark, glossy look to them. The ferry plowed through the waves from Rowe’s Wharf, heading for Logan Airport.
“You know anything about Robert Stratton, the Senator?” I said.
“Nope.”
Hawk was wearing jeans and cowboy boots and a white silk shirt. He had the big .44 magnum that he used tucked under his left arm in what appeared to be a snakeskin shoulder holster.
“Know anything about a woman named Olivia Nelson?” I said.
“Nope.”
“Me either,” I said.
“I was you,” Hawk said, “and I had to go back down there to South Carolina, I’d talk to some of our black brothers and sisters. They work in the houses of a lotta white folks, see things, hear things, ’cause the white folks think they don’t count.”
“If they’ll talk to me,” I said.
“Just tell them you a white liberal from Boston. They be grateful for the chance,” Hawk said.
“And, also, I’m a great Michael Jackson fan,” I said.
Hawk looked at me for a long time.
He said, “Best keep that to yourself.”
Then we both sat quietly, and drank beer, and looked at the evening settle in over the water.
twenty-eight
* * *
THE CALL WAS from Senator Stratton himself. It was ten-twenty in the morning, and the fall sun was warm on my back as it shone down Berkeley Street and slanted in through the window behind my desk.
“Bob Stratton,” he said when I answered. “I think I’ve got some explaining to do to you, and I’d like to do it over lunch today if you’re free.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Excellent. How about Grill 23, twelve-thirty. I’ll book a table.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Just the two of us,” Stratton said. “You and me, straight up, check?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I’ll have my driver pick you up,” Stratton said.
“My office is two blocks from the restaurant,” I said.
“My driver will stop by for you,” Stratton said.
I said, “Sure.”
“Looking forward to it,” Stratton said.
We hung up. I dialed Quirk and didn’t get him. I dialed Belson.
“Quirk back yet?” I said.
“Nope.”
“You talk to him?”
“Yeah. The old black guy, Jefferson, doesn’t say anything he didn’t say to you. The old man doesn’t say anything at all. Quirk agrees with you that Jefferson’s lying about Cheryl Anne Rankin, but he can’t shake him. The old lady at the track kitchen seems not to work there anymore. Nobody knows where she is. Nobody ever heard of Cheryl Anne Rankin. If he can’t find the old lady from the track kitchen today, he’s coming home. Travel money gives Command Staff hemorrhoids.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up and sat and thought. Stratton had called me himself. That meant a couple of things. One, he wanted to impress me. Two, he didn’t want other people to know that he had called or that we were lunching. So what did that mean? Why had Cheryl Anne’s mother disappeared? Why would Jefferson, who was so forthcoming about everything else, lie about knowing Cheryl Rankin? Since Jumper Jack seemed to be his life’s purpose, Jefferson probably was lying for him. Which meant that Jumper had something to do with Cheryl Anne.
I finished thinking because Stratton’s driver was knocking on my door. I didn’t know anything I hadn’t known before, but at least I didn’t know less.
The driver was a polite guy with blow-dried hair, wearing a gray gabardine suit, and a pink silk tie.
“The Senator asked me to make sure you’re not wearing a wire,” he said. He seemed sorry about this, but duty-driven.
I stood and held my arms away from my sides. The driver went over me as if he’d done it before.
“May I look at the gun?” he said.
I held my jacket open so he could make sure it wasn’t a recorder disguised as a 9mm Browning.
“Thanks,” he said.
We went out to the Lincoln Town Car, which he had parked under a tow-zone sign. He held the back door open for me and I got in. Berkeley Street is one way the other way, so we had to go via Boylston, Arlington, Columbus, and back down Berkeley. I could have walked it in about a quarter of the time, but I wouldn’t have been certified wire free.
Grill 23 is high-ceilinged and hard-floored. It is the noisiest restaurant in Boston, which is probably why St
ratton chose it. It is hard to eavesdrop in Grill 23. The maitre d’ managed to show me to Stratton’s table without losing his poise. Stratton had a dark, half-drunk scotch and soda in front of him. He stood as I arrived, and put out a hand, made hard by a million handshakes. It was a politician’s handshake, the kind where he grabs your hand with his fingers, no thumb, and spares himself squeezing. It was also damp.
“Bob Stratton,” he said. “Nice to see you, nice to see you.”
We sat. I ordered a beer. Stratton nodded toward his drink, which, from the color, was a double. Around us the room rattled with cutlery and china, and pulsed with conversation, none of which I could make out. For lunch the crowd was nearly all men. There was an occasional sleek female, normally lunching with three men, and one couple who were probably on vacation from St. Paul. But mostly it was men in conservative suits and loud ties.
“Well, how’s the case going?” Stratton said. “Loudon Tripp is a fine man, and it was a real tragedy for him. You making any progress on running the son of a bitch to ground?”
It was a bright room, well lit, full of marble and polished brass and mahogany. Through Stratton’s carefully combed and sprayed and blow-dried hairstyle, I could see the pale gleam of his scalp. His color was high. His movements were very quick, and he talked fast, so fast that, particularly in the noisy dining room, it took focus to understand him. I didn’t answer.
The waiter returned with my beer and Stratton’s scotch. It was a double, soda on the side. Stratton picked up the soda and splashed a little in on top of the whiskey.
“Gotta do this careful,” he said, and smiled at me with at least fifty teeth, “don’t want to bruise the scotch.”
I nodded and took a sip of beer.
The waiter said, “Care for menus, gentlemen?”
Stratton waved him away.
“Little later,” he said. “Stay on top of the drinks.”
The waiter said, “Certainly, sir,” and moved off.
Stratton took a long pull on his drink. There was a hint of sweat on his forehead. He looked at me over the rim of the glass like a man buying an overcoat.
Robert B. Parker: The Spencer Novels 1?6 Page 78
