Small Vices

by Robert B. Parker

  Glenda took my coat, standing close when she did so, and I got a full scent of the milled soap and subtle perfume that had been hinted at at the health club. There was a brass hat stand beside the front door and Glenda hung my peacoat on it. Then she turned and smiled at me very idly and began to unbutton her coat.

  "Can I get you some coffee?" she said. "Or something stronger?"

  "Coffee would be fine," I said.

  She unbuttoned the last button and shrugged out of her coat. Except for the high boots, she had nothing on under it.

  "Or maybe something stronger," I said.

  She walked slowly toward me, looking at me with a half smile, and pressed against me and put her arms around me and looked up at me with her head thrown back.

  "How much stronger?" she said.

  Her voice had a hoarse overtone to it now.

  "Maybe a quart of Valium," I said. "Over ice?"

  My voice had a pretty hoarse overtone, too. She pressed against me more insistently.

  "Anything else?" she said.

  I put my arms around her and looked down at her.

  "Yeah," I said. "How come you were at Andover the same time Clint Stapleton was and you don't know him?"

  She stiffened. I kept my arms around her.

  "Can't you think about anything but that stupid murder?" she said.

  "I can, but I'm trying not to," I said. "And what murder was it that Clint was connected to?"

  She got stiffer still and tried to push away from me. I wouldn't let her. I held her tight against me.

  "Let go of me," she said.

  "All I said was Clint Stapleton. Why did you think I was interested in a murder?"

  "Well, I mean he was Melissa's boyfriend, so I thought that's what you were talking about."

  "When I talked to you last time, you said you didn't remember her boyfriend's name," I said.

  She pushed hard against me now, trying to get away. I held on. She tried to knee me in the groin. I turned my hip enough to prevent it.

  "Now if you went to Andover with him, and he dated your sorority daughter, and you double-dated with them a few times, isn't it odd that you didn't remember it the first time I asked you, and remembered it now in the throes of passion."

  "Let me go," she said, Her teeth were clenched and the words scraped out through them. "Let me goddamned go."

  She got her hands to my face and started to scratch. I let go of her and stepped away, and she stood breathing hard with her absolutely spectacular body on full display. I looked at it happily. I was all business, but I tried to be never so busy that I couldn't stop and smell the flowers.

  "That is a hell of a body," I said.

  "Don't you want to fuck me?" she said.

  "The answer to that is actually pretty complicated," I said, "but to oversimplify-no, ma'am, I don't."

  "But I thought when you wanted to see me again, alone…" She frowned for a minute and I realized that she was thinking, or something. "You didn't… you were just trying to get information."

  "Still trying," I said.

  "Damn," she said and flopped onto the arm of an easy chair behind her and let her butt slide over the arm and onto the seat so that she sat sideways in the chair, and her legs dangled over the arm.

  "I'm not usually that wrong," she said.

  She seemed entirely at ease being naked and made no effort to cover herself. Her camel's hair coat remained in a pile on the floor where she'd dropped it. The high boots only emphasized how undressed she was.

  "You and your husband know Clint Stapleton," I said.

  She shrugged.

  "And his parents know you," I said.

  She moved one foot in a small circle, watching it as she did so.

  "Sure," she said finally. "They're Hunt's aunt and uncle."

  "Clint is your husband's cousin?"

  She shrugged, watching her boot make small circles in the air. "Yeah," she said.

  "Jesus Christ," I said.

  We were quiet. It was hard to think with that worldclass body staring at me. I was the complete professional, and totally loyal to Susan, but I had to fight off the urge to rear up on my hind legs and whinny. She kept moving the toe of her boot in its little circle.

  "Cops know this?"

  "I don't know."

  "You tell them?"

  "I don't remember if I did or not. What difference does it make?"

  "Did you really see a black man drag Melissa into his car?"

  "Of course."

  "Why did you pretend you didn't know Clint when I asked you before?"

  "Hunt says it's better not to get Clint involved."

  "Protect that pro career, right?"

  "Sure."

  "What makes the Stapletons related to the McMartins?" I said.

  "Dina Stapleton is Hunt's father's sister."

  "You happily married to Hunt?" I said.

  She shrugged again.

  "Hunt's got a good future," she said.

  "You get along?"

  "He cares about me, but he's not as, ah, physical as I am."

  "And you take care of that problem by, ah, branching out," I said.

  "Most of the time I'm luckier than I was with you."

  "I don't think luck's got much to do with it," I said.

  She smiled a little but didn't say anything.

  "You love your husband?" I said.

  She was quiet for a moment watching her toe circles.

  "We get along," she said. "If I have a little adventure like this one, it doesn't mean we don't get along."

  "Hell, Glenda," I said. "Maybe it means that you do."

  "You can understand that?"

  "I can understand that it might," I said.

  "But not for you?"

  "No, not for me."

  "Why not."

  "I'm in love," I said.

  "Oh," she said.

  I stood up. I knew she hadn't seen a black man pull anyone into his car. I also knew she wasn't going to make a court-useful admission of that fact, so I saw no reason to press the point. Besides that, my id was locked in grim combat with my super ego, and was going to prevail if I didn't get out of there.

  "Thanks for showing me your body," I said.

  "I had hoped to do more."

  "Yeah," I said.

  I tried not to sound wistful. She stood, and walked with me to the door.

  "Would you kiss me good-bye?" she said.

  "Of course," I said.

  We kissed. It was a nice kiss, but I didn't quite know what to do with my hands.

  When the kiss was over I opened her door behind me. She made no attempt to conceal herself. If anyone in the hall wanted to look, apparently Glenda didn't mind. I stepped into the hall and closed the door. The hall was empty. Walking out of the building toward my car, I did some deep breathing, trying to get my blood flow back into its normal pattern.

  Chapter 30

  BY NOW THERE were several things pretty obvious about the death of Melissa Henderson. One was that it probably wasn't Ellis Alves who killed her. Another one was that there was a lot of pressure being exerted to let him take the rap for it anyway. I felt it was time to report these findings to my client, so I went and had breakfast with Rita Fiore at the Bostonian Hotel. The dining room at the Bostonian was on the low rooftop of the hotel. It was mostly glass and from where we were you could look down at Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall, and watch the upwardly mobile hurrying through the Market carrying coffee and a bun on their way to work. Rita's mobility was so far up by now that she could watch them run while she ate sitting down. I looked around the room. It was full of suits, mostly male.

  "Are we having a power breakfast?" I said.

  "Yes."

  "I was feeling kind of electric," I said.

  "Of course," Rita said. "You confer with people at breakfast, and it makes them think you're too busy for lunch. It also gives you an excuse for coming in late."

  The waiter poured us coffee, offered us ju
ice, which I accepted and Rita declined, and presented us menus.

  "If we were eating at Charlie's Kitchen," I said, "would it still be a power breakfast?"

  "Certainly not," Rita said. "Don't you know anything? You read Boston magazine and they tell you where it's a power breakfast."

  "Oh," I said. "Seems a high price to pay for knowing."

  "Things don't come free," Rita said. "What have you got for me on Ellis Alves."

  I told her what I knew, and what I thought, interrupting my discourse once to order some corned beef hash with a dropped egg, and a couple of more times to take bites of it when it came. I was slightly nonspecific when I reported my talk with Glenda. Rita listened quietly, sipping her coffee and eating the plain bagel, toasted, no cream cheese, which she'd ordered. It was the sort of breakfast Susan would have ordered, except that Rita ate both halves of the bagel. When I got through, Rita leaned back so that her white blouse stretched tight across her chest. It was a nice look.

  "Cone, Oakes has a lot of clout in this city," Rita said, "and judges give us more leeway than some guy working out of his cellar in Weymouth Landing, but even we can't go into court with a case that consists of you standing up in front of the judge and saying that Alves's conviction doesn't make any sense."

  "I understand," I said. "I just wanted to keep you, ah, abreast of the case."

  "Nice phrasing," Rita said. "And you're right. It doesn't make sense."

  She reached across and took a forkful of my hash and ate it.

  "Oh, yum!" she said. "Don't you ever have to worry about your weight?"

  "Just keeping it up."

  "You bastard," she said.

  We ate in silence for a moment. Rita finished her dry bagel and washed it down with her black coffee and looked distracted for a moment.

  "A cigarette would taste good now," she said.

  "Eventually you won't miss it," I said.

  "How long for you?"

  "Twenty-seven years."

  "And you don't miss it?"

  "Not a bit."

  "How long before you didn't miss it?"

  "Ten years."

  Rita stared at me and said, "Oh, God!"

  There was another silence while Rita gazed out window and mourned her smoking habit. It was spitting rain mixed with snow, and the streets around the Market gleamed like polished ebony.

  Finally, still staring out at the weather, Rita said, "You can quit this case, you know."

  "I know."

  "I don't want you to get killed for Ellis Alves. Maybe he didn't do this, but he's done a lot. You'd be a bigger loss than he is."

  "I know."

  "Susan want you to quit?"

  "No."

  Rita's eyes widened. "No?" she said.

  "No."

  Rita was silent for a while.

  "She's a pretty smart broad, isn't she?" Rita said finally.

  "Yes."

  "I didn't think you'd quit, but I wanted to be sure you knew where we stood on it."

  "Thanks."

  "Okay, we can establish the relationship between the eyewitnesses and Melissa's boyfriend easily enough. And I guess we can establish that Clint Stapleton was her boyfriend. That's just time and money. Send some paralegals over to Taft and ask enough questions of enough undergraduates."

  Rita paused and looked out the window at the Market some more, then she shifted her gaze to me.

  "I think that talking to Trooper Miller would pay off."

  "If he'll talk. Which I don't think he will."

  "You can pressure him with whatsisname's testimony."

  "Bruce Parisi," I said. "He won't repeat it unless I'm punching him in the kidney."

  "Okay, so you still can't take it to court. But you can threaten to take it to court and see what happens. I got some weight with the local DEA."

  "Phil Fallon?" I said.

  "My God, what a memory."

  "What's Fallon going to do for me?"

  "He could get Medford to pick up Parisi and hold him for a bit if that would do you any good," Rita said. "And make sure Miller knows it."

  "Just because you ask him to?"

  "Sure," Rita grinned. "In moments of despondency between marriages, I did him a couple of favors."

  "That is despondent," I said.

  "I know," she said. "I know, but the pompous little bastard is quite surprisingly good in bed."

  "If you say so."

  "Want me to speak to Phil?"

  "Does it mean you'll have to schtup him again?" I said.

  "No. It only means I'll have to let him think I will."

  "Good," I said. "I wouldn't want to be responsible for a criminal act."

  "Oh, come on," Rita said. "He's not that bad."

  "So you say."

  "Let me know," Rita said, "if you want Phil to have Parisi collared."

  I thought about it for a little while and then I nodded.

  "Go ahead," I said. "Have them grab Parisi."

  "Good as done," Rita said.

  "And thanks for helping," I said.

  Rita grinned.

  "You hate help, don't you?"

  "Hate it," I said.

  "I do too," Rita said. "Somebody's helping you and you have to take time off to listen to them and pretend you think their ideas are great and come up with an answer that makes them feel good, which is all time wasted when you could be thinking about the problem better than they can."

  "And when the idea is in fact great…" I said.

  "Even worse," Rita said.

  "Sorry."

  "It's okay," I said. "I got to think long thoughts about your chest."

  "Just because I stuck it out a little?" Rita said.

  "Yeah."

  "Then I must stick it out more often."

  "Please do," I said.

  "You have a plan," Rita said.

  "For your chest?"

  "No, for Parisi and Trooper Miller."

  "I think so," I said.

  "You want to tell me?"

  "No," I said. "Just have Parisi picked up and be sure Miller knows it. And that he knows it's got something to do with me."

  "And your plans for my chest?" Rita said.

  I grinned at her.

  "It's a place to start," I said.

  "Promises, promises," Rita said and signaled for the check.

  Chapter 31

  THEY PICKED PARISI Up in Medford the next morning, and Miller was in to see me that afternoon. The office door was open, in case there was an impulse buyer wandering the corridor, and I was reading Calvin and Hobbes for the second time because I had heard that the strip was going to end, and I was trying to store up. Miller came in and closed the door hard behind him. He walked across the room and stopped in front of me and stood looking down at me with a dead-eyed stare that was supposed to make me hide under my desk. I gave him a wide, friendly, open faced smile entirely suitable to the approaching holiday season. We did that for a while.

  Finally Miller said, "On your feet, asshole."

  I looked around the office. "Asshole?"

  Miller jerked his thumb in a stand-up gesture.

  "Surely you've mistaken me for someone else," I said.

  "You want me to run you for refusing a lawful order, pal? On your fucking feet."

  "Tommy, you wouldn't know a lawful order if it came by and lapped your hand," I said. "Sit down. We'll talk."

  He came around the desk quicker than I thought he could move. I put up one foot and aimed for his groin, but he turned on me and caught it on his hip. He got hold of my foot and yanked me out of the chair. In someone less graceful than myself it might have been sort of ignominious. I kicked at him with my other foot and got free and rolled as he tried to stomp me and got my feet under me and came up and dug a left into his solar plexus. He grunted and made the cop move at my hair, but my hair was too short to get hold of. A perfect blend of beauty and function. I butted him on the chin. That was supposed to put him down. It didn't. Maybe Tommy was
nearly as tough as he thought he was. He kept coming, and his bulk drove me back against the wall of my office. I kept my chin buried in his shoulder and my body pressed up against his so he couldn't get much of a shot at me. All he could punch was my ribs and back. He was a clumsy puncher, but his hands were heavy. I braced against the wall, got my hands against his chest, and heaved him away from me. As he staggered back, I nailed him on the cheekbone with a straight left and followed it with a hell of a right hook, and it put him down. But he didn't stay, he lunged up with his head down, and tried to tackle me. It's a dumb thing to do. I kneed him in the face and hammered him on the back of the head with the side of my right fist, and he went down on his hands and knees and stayed that way for a minute, his head hanging. My knee had probably broken his nose.

  There was blood dripping onto the floor. But he didn't stay that way. Slowly he climbed to his feet. When he was upright, he tried to gather his balance around him, looking at me dully, swaying a little. Then he fumbled for his gun. I let him get it out of the holster and then stepped in and took it away from him. He was half out, and his movements were slow motion. I stuck the gun in my belt and got hold of his lapels and shoved him backwards into one of my client chairs and sat him down. As he went down he took a feeble right-handed swipe at my head. I hunched up and caught it on the left shoulder. And then he was in the chair and I stepped away from him. He sat blankly, the blood running down his face and onto his shirt. I went to the wash basin and got my Holiday Inn towel and soaked it in cold water and wrung it out and went back and put it in his hand.

  "Hold that on your nose," I said.

  Miller sat motionless with the towel in his hand and stared at me. His jaw was slack, his mouth was half open. I took the towel from his hand and put it against his nose gently and took his hand and placed it on the towel.

  "Hold it," I said.

  He had no reaction, but he held the towel. I went back around my desk and sat. And waited. In another minute or two he began to come around. His eyes began to move and he closed his mouth. He shifted the towel a little. Finally his eyes appeared to register me.