Bad Business

by Robert B. Parker

  Then he said, "Think about this, Spenser. This is a good deal for you. This is a chance to establish a long-term relationship with what may be the greatest company in the country."

  "You wouldn't know who killed Trent Rowley, would you?" I said.

  "That is a police matter," Gavin said. "We are permitting the police to handle it."

  "So you haven't offered them a trip to Tulsa," I said. Gavin's eyes were now so narrow it was surprising that he could still see.

  "I am trying to conduct this meeting in a businesslike and professional manner," he said. "You do not make that easy."

  "Thanks for noticing," I said.

  G avin was silent for a considerable time, giving me the sliteyed stare, tapping his fingertips gently together under his chin. While he did that I used the time to look at the other two guys. They looked like they'd been hired for their looks, sent over by a casting company to play high-powered corporate security guys. One had a dark crew cut. The other had shaved his head. They were about six feet tall, the shaved-head guy a little taller, and they looked as if they got a lot of exercise.

  When he'd softened me up enough with the flinty stare, Gavin finally spoke. His voice was flat, and measured like a guy trying to overcome a stutter.

  "We pride ourselves," he said, "on being a can-do company. If the conventional businesslike and professional approaches are closed to us, we find other ways."

  I nodded enthusiastically.

  "I admire that in any organization," I said and looked at the guys on the couch, "don't you?"

  Neither of them answered. Gavin spoke again. "Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

  "Same thing you've been saying since you came in with the Righteous Brothers. You don't want me trying to find out what happened to Trent Rowley. Or why you put a tail on Ellen Eisen and Marlene Rowley."

  G avin hardened his stare, which was no easy task.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Gavin said slowly. "I came here to offer you a chance to make some serious money. You not only declined, you did so in an offensive manner, and I am just reminding you that we at Kinergy are used to getting what we want."

  "You know what would be really helpful to me?" I said.

  "What?"

  "If you could teach me that stare. I could frighten the knob off a door if I had that stare."

  G avin held the stare for a moment, but he couldn't keep it up and shifted his gaze to the window behind me.

  From the couch the shaved-head guy said, "Mr. Gavin, if it was okay with you, maybe we could teach him some manners."

  "Eeek," I said.

  G avin kept looking out my window for a couple of beats. I suspected he was counting. Then he shifted his gaze back to me. "Not this time, Larry," he said. "Not this time."

  "Larry?" I said. "How can you have an enforcer named Larry?"

  L arry said, "You think there's something funny about my name, pal?"

  "With your name," I said. "With your act. With your haircut."

  "Larry," Gavin said. "Shut up."

  G avin stood. The two men on the couch stood.

  "I want you to think hard on this," Gavin said to me, bending slightly forward. "And we'll come back soon and make you the offer again."

  "Oh good," I said. "It'll give purpose to my week." Nobody seemed to have anything to say about that, so, after a moment, the three of them turned and marched out.

  23

  I was in my office, thinking, when Marlene Rowley came in. Today she was wearing big sunglasses and a low-cut red linen dress. I was relieved to see her. Thinking is hard.

  "I'm on my way to the Gainsborough exhibit," she said, "and I thought I'd stop by and get a report."

  "Would you settle for a few questions?"

  "I did not employ you to ask questions," she said.

  "Didn't we already go through this?" I said.

  She sat down across the desk from me and crossed her legs, sort of immodestly, I thought. Maybe we were getting more intimate. Last time it had been only kneecaps.

  "So, may I assume that you have no new information on my husband's death?"

  "I have information all over me," I said. "But I don't know what to do with it."

  "Do you know who killed Trent?"

  "Not yet."

  "Have you enough information to exonerate me from any possible complicity?"

  "No."

  "Well, for God's sake," she said. "What have you been doing?"

  "Suffering fools gladly," I said.

  "Well ... may I assume that I am exempt from that remark?"

  "Sure," I said. "Did you know that you were being followed?"

  "Followed?"

  "Yep. Guy named Jerry Francis, from a small agency named the Templeton Group."

  "Detective agency?"

  "Yep."

  "I was being followed by a private detective."

  "You were."

  "How could you possibly know that?"

  "I caught him," I said. "I had reason to think someone was following you and I went out and waited for him to show up and when he did, we talked."

  "You did that for me?" she said. I smiled winningly.

  "Part of the service," I said.

  "You watched over me."

  "We never sleep," I said.

  She would have been making me uncomfortable if I weren't so sophisticated.

  "My God, that's so sweet," she said.

  "You have thoughts on who might hire a detective to follow you?"

  She stood suddenly and walked around my desk and bent over and put her arms around my neck. I realized she was going to kiss me and moved my face enough so she got me on the right cheek. She stood back.

  "Most men kiss me back," she said. "On the mouth."

  "I don't blame them," I said.

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Regretfully," I said, "I'm in love with another woman."

  "That Susan what's her name," she said.

  "Silverman," I said.

  "I didn't know she was Jewish."

  "No reason you should," I said.

  "And that means to you that you may respond to no other woman?"

  "It means I shouldn't act on the response," I said.

  "Are you and she married?"

  "Not exactly," I said.

  "And yet you cling to this modern superstition?"

  "About monogamy?"

  "Yes."

  "We do," I said.

  "Only in circumstances where love is unbidden," Marlene said, "by law or convention, can it truly be given and received."

  "I've heard that," I said.

  "It's a truth that goes back to the ancient poets of Provence," she said.

  "So the best way to be in love with her is to have sex with somebody else?"

  "To be free to love someone else," she said. "Only if you can choose others, can your choice of her be uncoerced."

  "By God you're right," I said. "Enough with the love talk, off with the clothes."

  "Here?" she said.

  She glanced around the office. "On that couch?" she said.

  "Actually I was just trying to lighten the moment with a bit of roguish wit," I said.

  She began to cry.

  "You are making fun," she said.

  "Only a little," I said.

  She sat suddenly on the couch and put her hands in her face, sort of dramatically, I thought.

  "No one understands me. I can't count on anybody," she said. "I have so much to give, so much love."

  I couldn't think of anything to say.

  "But I'm strong," she said after a couple of sobs. "I don't need anyone."

  She was quiet for a time while she got her crying under control. I offered her a Kleenex from my bottom desk drawer. She took it and dabbed at her eyes. She looked straight at me.

  "I'm sorry, but being a widow is very difficult."

  "You okay now?"

  "In a manner of speaking," she said sadly.

  "You have any thou
ghts on who might have had you followed?" I said.

  She stood and stared at me, horrified.

  "You go right back to questioning me, you bastard," she said. "You heartless bastard."

  She turned and left. I went to my window and stood looking out at Berkeley Street, thinking about courtly love, and the Provençal poets. In a minute she appeared on the sidewalk, and turned right to Boylston, walking purposefully, and right again, onto Boylston and out of sight.

  24

  The message on my answering machine was from a woman with a prestigious British accent. She said her name was Delia, that she was calling from Kinergy on behalf of Bob Cooper, and that Bob would very much like to meet me for lunch at his club.

  The CEO. Hot dog!

  Cooper's club was on the top floor of a tall odd-looking building on Franklin Street. I had to sign in and get a pass before I could go in the elevator. Then I had to show my pass and give my name to the reception desk in the sky lobby, before I could take a second elevator to the Standish Club. A dignified woman in a dark suit met me at the elevator.

  "Mr. Cooper hasn't arrived yet," she said. "His secretary called to say that he'd be a few minutes late."

  O f course he'd be a few minutes late.

  "Do you wish to be seated?" the woman said. "Or do you prefer to wait at the bar?"

  O nly a loser was caught sitting alone at a table waiting for someone.

  "Seated," I said.

  I t did me no harm to be thought a loser. Might even do me some good. She took me to a table by the window, took my order for beer, and left me to admire the water views. Boston being what it was there weren't many high floors downtown where you couldn't see the water. But the Standish Club had made the most of it. There were two floor-to-ceiling window walls facing the water, and the light poured through them and the room gleamed. Near the center of the room was a circular bar with four people trying not to look like losers as they sipped cocktails and waited. They were all men. They all wore business suits. They all wore white shirts. Two had blue ties, one had a red tie. One had yellow. Three had short, but not too short, recent, but not too recent haircuts. The other guy had shoulder-length black hair. He was also the one with the yellow tie. Probably worked in advertising.

  I was two swallows into my first beer when Cooper showed up. He walked into the dining room like he was taking a curtain call. He was a big man with a square jaw and bright blue eyes. He wore a light gray summer-weight suit, with a white shirt and a powder blue satin tie. His hair was iron gray and brushed back carefully over the ears. I stood when he reached the table.

  "Spenser?" he said. "Bob Cooper, thanks for coming."

  "My pleasure," I said.

  "Hope you weren't waiting long." I looked at my watch.

  "Ten minutes," I said.

  "Hell, I'm sorry. They don't give me a damned minute over there."

  "I'm sure they don't," I said.

  Without being asked, the waitress brought a tall glass of something bubbly, with an orange slice in it, and placed it in front of Cooper.

  Without looking up he said, "Thanks, Shirley."

  He picked up the glass, made a toasting gesture at me, and took a sip.

  "Campari and soda," he said. "You ever try it?"

  "I have," I said.

  "Like it?"

  "No."

  Cooper laughed as if what I'd said was funny. Maybe for him hearing the word no, in any context, was the sudden perception of incongruity.

  "Acquired taste," he said. "You hungry?"

  I said I was. He agreed. We both studied the menu for a moment. Then he ordered a Caesar salad. I had a club sandwich. "So," I said, "Mr. Cooper ... "

  "Coop," he said. "Everybody calls me Coop." I nodded.

  "So what brings us together, Coop?"

  "Well, I know you're looking into the death of Trent Rowley, poor bastard, he was a good man, and I thought well, hell, might make sense to talk face-to-face, you know? One working stiff to another, see if we can get somewhere."

  "One working stiff to another, Coop?" He grinned.

  "Yeah, yeah. There's probably more bullshit and folderol around my job, but we're both trying to make an honest living."

  "Just a couple a working stiffs," I said.

  He grinned again. It was a really good grin.

  "You actually think somebody in the shop killed Trent?"

  "I don't know who killed Trent," I said. "But it had to be somebody that could come and go in the shop without any problem."

  The waitress came back with our food. My sandwich had a small heap of French fries with it. I ate one. Shame to waste them.

  "Damn," Cooper said. "You got that right, don't you. There's no way in hell to get around it."

  My club sandwich was cut in triangular quarters. I took a small dignified bite from one of them. It seemed bad strategy to get it all over my shirtfront.

  "'Course most of the wives know their way around there," he said.

  "You think somebody's wife shot Rowley?"

  "Hell, I don't know. That's your department. I'm just thinking out loud."

  "Any other candidates?" I said. "Besides employees and wives?"

  "Oh, hell yes," Cooper said. He ate very rapidly.

  "We got vendors, coming and going. We got customers. Government people, you know, Interior, Commerce, SEC, Energy, State Department."

  "State?" I said.

  "Yes, we are a very large presence on the international energy scene, we do a lot of business with foreign governments."

  "Gee," I said.

  "Spenser," he said, "I gotta tell you, we are one hell of a company. We really are."

  He was almost finished with his salad. I had three-quarters still to go on my club sandwich. I was betting Coop wasn't the kind of guy that was going to sit around while I finished. He took his last bite of salad. He looked at his watch.

  "Goddamn," he said. "I'm already running late on the afternoon."

  I knew I should have bet myself money.

  "I wanted to get a look at you," he said. "And I'm glad I did. I like what I see."

  I smiled modestly.

  "Tell you what," Cooper said. "We're having a corporate retreat this weekend, down on the Cape, Chatham Bars Inn. We got the whole place. Informal. Give us all a chance to kick back and get to know each other in a relaxed way, you know, out of the office, away from the phone. We tear up the place pretty good."

  I nodded and picked up the second quarter of my club sandwich.

  "I was hoping you might join us, as my guest, of course. Get to know all the management people, might help you learn a little about us, and even if it doesn't . . ."

  Cooper grinned and winked at me. "Hell, it's a good time. You married?"

  "Sort of," I said.

  "Well, bring your sort-of wife along too."

  "Actually," I said, "I don't bring her anywhere. But she might like to come."

  "I'll have Delia send you the details," Cooper said. "She'll reserve a room for you."

  "Sure," I said.

  He looked at his watch again.

  "Gee, look," he said. "I'm sorry. I just have to run."

  "Un-huh," I said.

  "I hope you don't mind."

  "I'm a working stiff myself," I said. "I know how it is."

  There was just a flicker on Cooper's face for a moment. Was I kidding him? No, of course not. Bob Cooper? No, couldn't be.

  "Well, I look forward to seeing you in Chatham," he said and put out his hand. "I'll buy you a drink."

  He grinned again and winked again. "Maybe several," he said.

  25

  Darrin O'Mara broadcast from a studio on the seventh floor of an ugly little building near the Fleet Center. I met him when he got off the air, and we went around the corner to a big faux Irish pub for a drink. The Celtics and the Bruins were through for the year, so the place was nearly empty and we were able to sit by ourselves at one end of the bar. O'Mara ordered a pint of Guinness. I didn't want to
seem inauthentic, but I couldn't stand Guinness. I ordered a Budweiser.

  O'Mara took a sip, and looked pleased. He turned a little toward me, with one elbow on the bar, and said in his soft rich radio voice, "How can I help you?"

  "Tell me about Marlene Rowley," I said.

  "Marlene Rowley?"

  "Yep."

  "Why would you think I would have anything to tell you about her?"

  "We were talking about, ah, relationships," I said, "and she began to sound like Chretien de Troyes."

  "Really," O'Mara said.

  "She was expounding the same flapdoodle about courtly love that Ellen Eisen espouses," I said. "I assumed she got it from the same place."

  "I don't believe that the principles of courtly love are flapdoodle," O'Mara said. "Sometimes clients misstate or misunderstand those tenets. But that does not invalidate them."

  The bartender was a firm-looking redhead in tight black pants. She was slicing lemons at the other end of the bar. There was a gray-haired couple drinking rye and ginger and chainsmoking in a booth near the door. They didn't talk, or even look at each other.

  "Do you know Marlene Rowley?" I said.

  "I do, professionally."

  "And her husband?"

  "Yes," O'Mara said. "They were both in my seminar."

  "And the Eisens?" I said. "Same seminar?"

  "Yes."

  "And, of course the Rowleys knew the Eisens."

  "Of course, the husbands were colleagues at Kinergy."

  "What kind of seminar is it that they were in?" I said.

  "Love and Liberation, it's called."

  "Yippee," I said. "Did you know that Ellen Eisen and Trent Rowley were having an affair?"

  "They had developed a relationship. It is part of the seminar. Marlene and Bernie were developing a relationship as well."

  "A sexual relationship?"

  "Of course."

  I nodded. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to concentrate. "So," I said slowly, "were they, in the language of courtly love, wife swapping?"

  "They were developing cross-connubial relationships," O'Mara said.

  "I'll bet they were," I said.

  "My presence here is voluntary, Spenser. I don't have any obligation to sit here and listen to your misinformed disapproval. "

  I looked at the gray-haired couple in the booth. They each had a fresh rye and ginger. He was staring out the front window of the pub. She was looking at the bottles stacked up behind the bar. Both were smoking. They didn't seem close. Probably rebelling against coercive love.