Bad Business

by Robert B. Parker

  Spenser Book 31

  * * *

  Bad Bu$iness

  * * *

  Robert B Parker

  * * *

  Copyright © 2004

  For Joan:

  good business

  1

  "Do you do divorce work?" the woman said.

  "I do," I said.

  "Are you any good?"

  "I am," I said.

  "I don't want likelihood," she said. "Or guesswork. I need evidence that will stand up in court."

  "That's not up to me," I said. "That's up to the evidence."

  She sat quietly in my client chair and thought about that. "You're telling me you won't manufacture it," she said.

  "Yes," I said.

  "You won't have to," she said. "The sonovabitch can't keep his dick in his pants for a full day."

  "Must make dining out a little awkward," I said.

  She ignored me. I was used to it. Mostly I amused myself. "I always have trouble convincing people that any man would cheat on a woman like me. I mean, look at me."

  "Unbelievable," I said.

  "My attorneys tell me you are too expensive," she said. "But that you are probably worth it."

  "The same could be remarked of Susan Silverman." She frowned.

  "Who the hell is Susan Silverman?" she said.

  "Girl of my dreams."

  She frowned again. Then she said, "Oh, I see. You're being cute."

  "It's my nature," I said.

  "Well, it's not mine," she said. "Do you want the job?"

  "Sure."

  "My attorneys will want a strict accounting of what you spend," she said.

  "I'll bet they will," I said.

  She was good-looking in kind of an old-fashioned way. Sort of womanly. Before personal trainers, and StairMasters. Like the women in Life Magazine when we were all much younger. Like she would look good in a small-waisted white polka-dot dress, and a huge straw hat with a white polka-dot band. In fact, of course, she was wearing a beige pantsuit and big pearls. Her reddish blond hair was long and thoroughly sprayed, and framed her face like the halo in a mediaeval religious painting. Her mouth was kind of thin and her eyes were small. I imagined cheating on her.

  "I'm represented by Frampton and Keyes," she said. "Do you know the firm?"

  "I don't."

  "You'll do all further business through them. The managing partner is Randy Frampton."

  "Why didn't you let them hire me," I said.

  "I don't let other people make judgments for me. I wanted to look you in the eye."

  I nodded.

  "Do you have pictures of your husband?" I said. "Names of suspected paramours? Addresses? That sort of thing?"

  "You can get all that from Randy."

  "And a retainer?"

  "Randy will take care of that as well."

  "Good for Randy," I said. "Will he tell me your name, too?"

  "I'd rather keep that confidential for now," she said. "This is a very sensitive situation."

  I smiled.

  "Ma'am," I said. "How long do you think it will take me to find out your name once I know who your husband is?"

  I smiled my sunny good-natured smile at her. I could melt polar ice caps with my sunny good-natured smile. She was no match for it.

  "Marlene," she said. "Marlene Rowley. My husband is Trenton Rowley."

  "How do you do," I said. "My name is Spenser."

  "Of course I know your name," she said. "How do you think I got here?"

  "I thought you looked up handsome in the phone book," I said. "And my picture was there."

  She smiled for the first time that morning.

  "Well," she said. "Maybe you are a little bit handsome in a rough sort of way."

  "Tough," I said. "But sensitive."

  "Perhaps," she said. "Will you speak with Randy?"

  "Right away," I said.

  2

  Frampton and Keyes had offices on the second floor of a twostory building in downtown Beverly. It was one of those block-long brick buildings built before the Second World War when most of the bigger towns were discrete entities rather than suburbs of Boston. There was less open space than you found in the big Boston firms. More small offices, but no partitioned cubbies. In the small reception area was a four-footlong model of a clipper ship. There were paintings of ships on the walls. The magazines on the small reading table were devoted to golf and sailing.

  A t the reception desk was a young woman with a big chest and a small sweater, who probably wasn't devoted to golf and sailing. She smiled at me happily as I came in. I suspected that she smiled at most men happily.

  "My name is Spenser," I said. "To see Randy Frampton."

  "Concerning?" she said.

  "I'm trying to establish if that's his first name or a descriptive adjective," I said.

  She looked at me and frowned for a minute and then smiled widely.

  "That is most definitely his first name, Mr. Spenser. Is there anything else you need to see Mr. Frampton about?"

  "Tell him Marlene Rowley sent me," I said.

  "Yes sir," she said and smiled at me and her eyes were lively.

  Randy Frampton, the managing partner, had a corner office. Randy was not very tall. His weight was disproportionate to his height. He had gray hair that needed cutting. His dark blue suit needed pressing and wasn't much better than the one I owned. His tie was yellow silk, and he wore a white broadcloth shirt with one collar point slightly askew. I couldn't see because he was behind his desk, but I suspected that his shoes weren't shined.

  "So she decided to hire you," Frampton said.

  "Who wouldn't?" I said.

  Frampton sighed a little.

  "Marlene is sometimes erratic," he said. "Did she instruct you that everything goes through this firm?"

  "Yeah," I said. "But I'm not sure she meant it." Frampton smiled pleasantly.

  "That sounds like Marlene," he said. "But I mean it. You and I need to be on the same page."

  "She was pretty clear that you took care of paying me," I said.

  "You'll submit your expenses, carefully kept, weekly, and we'll pay them weekly. When the investigation is complete, you'll submit your final bill. Shall we discuss rates?"

  I told him my rates. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that's out of line."

  "Sure," I said.

  "We'll need to negotiate that a little."

  "Nope," I said.

  "You won't negotiate?"

  "Nope."

  "Then I'm afraid we can't do business," Frampton said.

  "Okay," I said, and stood up. "You want to tell Marlene, or shall I?"

  "That's it?" Frampton said. "No discussion? Nothing?"

  "Marlene doesn't look like she'll be fun to work for," I said.

  "You require fun?"

  "Fun or money," I said.

  Frampton sat back in his chair and swiveled away from me and looked out his window. "You know you've got me over a barrel," he said.

  "I do."

  "You know I don't want to tell Marlene that we wouldn't hire you."

  "I know," I said.

  "Will you require a contract?"

  "Handshake's fine," I said.

  "That's foolish," he said. "You should have a contract."

  "I know," I said. "I just wanted to see your reaction."

  Frampton looked at me thoughtfully.

  "You are a little different," he said. "Aren't you?"

  A ll the answers to that question seemed dumb, so I didn't give one.

  "We'll draft a contract and you can run it past your attorney," Frampton said.

  "Okay."

  "Are you prepared to begin now?" Frampton said.

  "Sure."

  "Very well," h
e said. "What do you know."

  "Marlene wants me to catch her husband cheating on her."

  "Anything else?"

  "Nope."

  "What would you like from me?"

  "Her husband's name; his address, home and business; a couple of different pictures of him; description of his car, plate number. And maybe your reaction to her suspicions."

  He reached into a file drawer and took out a big manila envelope and tossed it on his desk in front of me.

  "Pictures," he said. "Of Trenton Rowley. He's forty-seven years old. He and Marlene live here, in Manchester. The address is in the envelope. So is his business address. He has several cars, I don't know what kind. I don't have the plate numbers. His business is off Totten Pond Road in Waltham. Company named Kinergy, got their own building."

  "Kinergy?" I said.

  Frampton shrugged. "I have no idea what it means," he said.

  "What do they do?"

  "Energy trading of some kind," Frampton said.

  "That doesn't mean they run a power plant," I said.

  "No, no. They're traders-brokers. They buy power here and sell it there."

  "Gee," I said. "Just like the legislature." Frampton smiled a little.

  "Kinergy," he said, "is an enormously successful company."

  "And what does he do there?"

  "He's the chief financial officer."

  "Mr. Rowley is wealthy?"

  "Yes. And he has a lot of clout."

  "Yikes," I said. "Do you folks represent him as well?"

  "Oh God no. Obviously we couldn't represent both sides in a divorce, but, even if we could. No, no. The company does business with Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin. I would assume they might represent him as well."

  "What about the last part of my question?"

  "What do I think?"

  I nodded.

  "Trent Rowley has, for a long time, gotten everything he wanted. He has always given Marlene everything she wanted."

  "So do you think he's cheating on her?"

  "I don't know. I think he would if he wanted to."

  "Marlene have any evidence?"

  "I don't know. She says she knows he's cheating. But she adds nothing of substance to the accusation."

  "Doe she have much of substance?"

  "In this case?"

  "In any case," I said.

  Frampton shook his head slowly.

  "Marlene is a client," he said. "It is unbecoming an attorney to discuss his clients' personal quirks."

  "Heavens," I said. "Integrity?"

  "One finds it in the most unlikely places," Frampton said."Even, now and then, in law firms."

  "I'm heartened," I said.

  3

  I took Rita Fiore to dinner at the Federalist. Rita was the chief criminal litigator at Cone, Oakes. But I had known her since she was an ADA in Norfolk County, and, in a healthy platonic fashion, we liked each other.

  "How's your love life," I said after we'd each gotten a martini.

  "Busy," she said. "But, same old question-why are there so many more horses' asses than there are horses?"

  "Still looking for Mr. Right?"

  "Always. I thought I had him last year. Chief of police on the North Shore."

  "But?"

  "But he had an ex-wife."

  "And?"

  "And he wouldn't let go."

  "Oh well," I said.

  "Yeah. That may become the Fiore family motto."

  "And the previous Mr. Right?" I said. "Number, what was it, five?"

  "Divorce is final." She grinned at me. "I cleaned his clock too."

  "I'd have expected no less," I said. "What do you know about Trent Rowley?"

  "He's the CFO at Kinergy. Whom we represent."

  "Tell me about him?"

  "Discussing a client is considered unethical."

  I nodded. The waiter brought menus. We read them and ordered.

  "May I bring you another cocktail?" he said. Rita smiled up at him.

  "Oh, please," she said.

  "You, sir?"

  "He'll have one too," Rita said.

  "Very good."

  The waiter picked up the menus and smiled at Rita and left. "Our waiter is hot for you," I said.

  "Wow," Rita said. "A straight waiter."

  "Maybe he's Mr. Right," I said.

  "Can't be. For one thing a waiter can't swathe me in luxury. And secondly, if they're hot for me that proves they're Mr. Wrong."

  "Maybe you should stop getting married and just sleep with people."

  "I'm doing that too," Rita said. "Except you."

  "My loss," I said. "What about Trent Rowlcy?"

  "What about client confidentiality?"

  "What about several martinis and dinner?" I said.

  The waiter came with our second martinis. Rita sipped hers happily.

  "You think you can bribe me," she said, "with a few martinis and some Chilean sea bass?"

  "I do," I said.

  O ur salads arrived. Rita picked up a scrap of Boston lettuce in her fingers and nibbled on it. Susan was the only other person I knew who could eat with her fingers and look elegant.

  "Why do you want to know about him?" Rita said. "Why not just catch him in the act? Tell the little woman, collect your fee, and stand by to testify at the divorce proceedings."

  "Excuse to have dinner with you, Toots."

  "Like you need an excuse."

  "I like to have an idea of what I'm dealing with. It was time for us to have dinner again. It seemed a nice synergy."

  "You are a bear for knowing things," Rita said.

  "Knowledge is power," I said.

  Rita drank some more of her martini. Her big greenish eyes softened a little. They always did when she drank. She had thick red hair and great legs, and was smarter than Bill Gates.

  "We have a whole department servicing Kinergy," Rita said. "I talked to the lead guy, Tom Clark. He says that there isn't anything to know about Rowley outside of business hours. Rowley starts early, works late, and, as far as Tom knows, has no other life."

  "Doesn't sound like Mr. Right to me," I said.

  "Apparently Mrs. Rowley doesn't think so either."

  I shrugged.

  "Maybe she wants out," I said. "But she wants to take half of everything with her."

  "Can't blame a girl for trying," Ritu said. "In my last divorce, I didn't, of course, settle for half."

  "Marlene may be less experienced," I said.

  "Marlene?"

  "Someone named Rita is making fun of a name like Marlene?"

  "I don't get the chance that often," Rita said.

  The salad plates disappeared. The entrees came. The waiter took a bottle of sauvignon blanc from the ice bucket and poured a little for Rita to sample. She said it was drinkable and he poured some out for each of us.

  "So he's a big success," I said.

  "Oh, you bet. Kinergy is a huge profit machine."

  "Just from brokering energy?"

  "Sure," Rita said. "You are running short of electrical power in your grid, they can acquire some from another source, reroute it to you, and charge you a fortune. Like the power shortfall in California, couple years ago."

  "Is it that simple?"

  "At bottom a lot of businesses are simple. You know. American Airlines picks you up in Boston and flies you to LA. That's the service. The complicated part comes in how to do it profitably."

  "Can they manipulate the market?"

  "Probably."

  "Do they?"

  "Probably. Tom sees very little evil in a client," Rita said, "and speaks less."

  "Does he gossip?"

  "Not to me," Rita said. "Not about clients. He swears there is nothing to gossip about with Rowley."

  "You believe him?"

  "Tom's a company guy. And he wants to be managing partner. The firm says jump and he says `how high?' "

  "Which means if Rowley says jump . . ."

  "`How high,' " Rita said. "Can we
talk about sex again?"

  "We'd be fools not to," I said.

  4

  A t 6 A.M., drinking a large coffee to help my heart get started, I drove out the Mass Pike and south on 128 to Waltham. The Kinergy Building was just off Route 128. It was innovatively ugly: five different kinds of brick facings, intermingled with black glass and textured concrete, sporting a multilevel profile. It looked like Darth Vader's country home. Near the front entrance were parking spots labeled CEO, COO, CFO. I parked in the visitors slot and waited to see if I could get a live look at Trent Rowley when he came to work. I was there in place, on the alert, at 6:10. I was just in time. At 6:15 a silver BMW shorts car hulled into the CFO parking space and Rowley got out.

  He looked just like his picture: strong jaw, dark wavy hair worn longish. He had on small round glasses with thin gold frames. He was crisp and clean and pressed and tailored in a tan summer suit, a blue shirt with a pin collar, and a pale blue tie. He almost certainly smelled of expensive cologne. He walked very briskly into the still empty building, proud of being the earliest bird.

  W hat kind of affair can a guy have when he shows up for work at 6:15 in the morning?

  I hung around until everyone else came to work, without seeing anyone who looked like they might be having an affair with Rowley. Though it was, admittedly, hard to be sure. Then I wrote down the plate number on the BMW. That done, I still had some energy left over, so I drove back to Boston and went to the gym.

  A t four in the afternoon, sound of muscle and pure of mind, with a tall can of Budweiser to replenish my electrolytes, I drove back to Kinergy and waited for Rowley to come out. By the time he did it was nearly eight o'clock. I was thinking deeply about a sub sandwich and another beer. I followed him north on Route 128, to Route 2, and in Route 2 to Cambridge. We went along the river to the Hyatt Hotel, where Rowley turned off and drove into the parking garage, behind the hotel.

  I left my car and twenty bucks with the doorman, and was in the lobby hanging around near the elevators when Rowley came in. He was carrying a small overnight bag, and paying me no attention as he headed to the elevator. The Hyatt has one of those twenty-story Portman lobbies, where you reach your floor by a glass-enclosed elevator, and each room door opens out onto an interior balcony overlooking the lobby. He went to the seventh floor and got out and walked to his left, halfway down the balcony, and knocked on a door. The door opened and in he went. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes of nine, and Rowley's evening was just starting. It made me feel old.