Sudden Mischief s-25

by Robert B. Parker

  It was a really nice day for early spring in Boston, and the temperature was in the sixties when I went to a storefront in Stoneham Square. It was the offices of Civil Streets, the final name on the list I'd culled from the Globe, and it was closed. There was a discreet sign in the window that said Civil Streets in black letters on a white background. One of those sorry-we're-closed signs hung in the front door window. The little clock face said they'd be back at 1:15. I looked at my watch. Three fifteen. I looked in through the front window. The place had the impermanent look of a campaign headquarters. A gray metal desk with a phone on it, a matching file cabinet, a couple of folding chairs. I tried the doorknob, nothing ventured, nothing gained. The door was locked. Nothing gained anyway. Maybe they meant 1:15 in the morning. There was a hardware store across the street. I went in and asked the clerk when Civil Streets was usually open.

  "It ain't," he said.

  "It's not usually open?"

  "Nope. Maybe couple hours a week. Some broad comes in, types a little, talks on the phone."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it," he said.

  "What kind of operation is it?" I said.

  "I got no idea," the clerk said. "How come you're asking all these questions?"

  "I got sick of watching Jerry Springer," I said.

  The clerk looked a little puzzled, but he seemed to be a guy who might always be a little puzzled.

  "Well, I gotta get to work," he said.

  "Sure."

  I went back out of the hardware store, walked across the street, and stood and looked at the Civil Streets office. Maybe I should kick in the door and rummage about. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I glanced around. A Stoneham Police car drove up Main Street and pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store. A cop got out and walked into the store. In a few minutes he came out and stood by his car and gave me a cop look across the street. Cops on a two-man force in East Tuckabum, Iowa, will give you the same you-looking-for-trouble look that prowlies do in the South Bronx. Probably some sort of electro-magnetic force generated by the conjunction of gun and badge. I looked back. He kept looking. Nothing ventured, nobody arrested. I turned and walked back to my car and headed back up Main Street toward Route 128.

  The trip wasn't a total waste. I was able to stop at a Dunkin' Donuts near the Redstone Shopping Center and had two plain donuts and a large coffee. Failing to learn anything is hungry work.

  chapter sixteen

  RACHEL WALLACE WAS in town. She was teaching a semester at Taft and was giving a lecture this evening at the Ford Hall Forum on Sexual Freedom and Public Policy. I told her if I could skip the lecture I'd buy her dinner. She said the lecture would almost certainly be too hard for me to understand and she'd settle for the meal. So there I was in Julien at the Hotel Meridian where Rachel was staying, sitting in a big chair ordering French food. Rachel Wallace was a pretty good-looking feminist. She had thick black hair, now dusted with a little gray, which she wore shorter than she used to. She had a trim body, and good clothes, and her makeup showed thought and dexterity.

  "You still look good," she said when we had ordered our first drink. "If I were heterosexual…" She smiled and let it hang.

  "Our loss," I said.

  The waiter brought her the first of what I knew would be a number of martinis. I had never seen her drunk.

  "Are you working on something at the moment?" she said.

  "I could probably support myself without working," I said, "but I have joint custody of a dog."

  "Of course," she said.

  As she always did she checked out the room. And as she usually did she knew somebody.

  "Norma," she said to a slender, good-looking woman who was following the maitre d' to her table. The woman turned, gave a small shriek, and came over to our table. Her husband came with her.

  "We haven't seen you since Florida," she said.

  Rachel Wallace introduced me. I stood.

  "Norma Stilson," she said, "and Roger Sanders."

  We shook hands.

  "We're coming to see you tomorrow night," Norma said. "We've got tickets."

  "I plan to offend a good many people," Rachel Wallace said.

  "We wouldn't miss it," Sanders said. "Maybe a drink afterwards."

  "Of course," Rachel Wallace said.

  They both said they were pleased to meet me and moved on to their table.

  "Some people go willingly to hear me," Rachel Wallace said.

  "But I'm buying you dinner," I said.

  "A transparent attempt to excuse your classic masculine fear of feminism."

  "And I did save your life once," I said.

  "And you did save my life once," she said. "What are you working on at the moment?"

  "I don't think I know."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I can't figure out what the case is about exactly, and the more I look, the more I can't figure it out."

  "Tell me," she said.

  The waiter brought her a second martini. I was still on my first beer. She wasn't beautiful, but her face had in it such intelligence and decency that it may as well have been beautiful.

  "Well, it starts with Susan's ex-husband," I said. "He's a promoter…"

  "Susan's ex-husband," Rachel Wallace said.

  It wasn't a question.

  "Yeah."

  "Isn't that somewhat, ah, hazardous?" she said.

  "It appears to be," I said.

  "Susan know you're involved with him?"

  "She asked me to do it," I said.

  Rachel Wallace drank some martini. She held a swallow in her mouth for a moment.

  "How do you feel about it?"

  "I think it's somewhat hazardous," I said.

  "Jealousy?"

  "No, I'm all right with it."

  "I doubt that," she said. "But I know your capacity for self-control, and I think you can probably do this. On the other hand, I'm not a perfect judge. I think you can probably do anything."

  "Me too," I said.

  She smiled.

  "I know," she said. "Let me speculate for a moment. Let me guess that Susan is having trouble with it."

  "She wants me to do it and doesn't want me to do it," I said. "She wants to know what's going on and doesn't want to talk about it. She wants to know what I think of him and isn't interested in my opinion of him."

  "She keep his name?" Rachel Wallace said.

  "Yes. But, nice touch, he changed it. To Sterling."

  Rachel Wallace smiled. "Lucky his name wasn't Goldman," she said. "What do you think of him?"

  "He's kind of a goofball," I said. "Goofy in that way that wealthy old Yankees are sometimes goofy. It's a little hard to describe."

  "But of course he's not a wealthy old Yankee," Rachel Wallace said.

  "Just pretending," I said. "He's accused of sexual harassment, and he seems to have no interest in it. Susan says he's desperate, broke, facing dissolution. He says he's doing dandy. He ran a big fund-raiser at the Fleet Center last year and nobody got any funds."

  "What happened to the money?"

  "Don't know. I just found out today that the participating charities got stiffed."

  "Sometimes that is simple mismanagement," she said.

  "Yep, and Sterling seems capable of it, but a couple of tough guys showed up at my office and threatened to beat me up if I didn't stay away from the case."

  "What case?" Rachel Wallace said.

  "I guess I'm trying to save Sterling from the sexual harassment charge. Susan says he came to her in desperation."

  "What does he say?"

  "He says it'll just go away, and by golly he's not a bit worried."

  "By golly?"

  "By golly."

  "But you're wondering about the bad men who came to call, and about the money that didn't go to charity?"

  "Yep."

  "And you have a client that says `by golly.' "

  "Sometimes he says `by golly, Miss Molly."'


  "Please," Rachel Wallace said.

  I finished my beer, Rachel Wallace finished her second martini. The waiter brought us each a new drink. I could see Rachel Wallace turning my situation over in her head.

  "Either he was pretending to Susan that he was desperate," she said, half to herself, "or he's pretending to you that he's not."

  "Or Susan's lying."

  "You're just pretending to be objective," Rachel Wallace said. "that she is lying is not a possibility in your universe."

  "A fool for love," I said.

  "There are worse things to be a fool for," she said. "But don't confuse yourself by pretending you aren't."

  "Okay," I said. "You happen to have a working definition of sexual harassment around?"

  Rachel Wallace spoke without inflection like a kid saying the pledge to the flag.

  "In Massachusetts," she said, "sexual harassment means sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, and verbal or physical conduct of a sexual nature when: (a) submission to or rejection of such advances, requests, or conduct is made either explicitly or implicitly a term or condition of employment or as a basis for employment decisions."

  She took in a big stage breath, let it out, drank some martini, and went on. "Or (b) such advances, requests, or conduct have the purpose or effect of unreasonably interfering with an individual's work performance by creating an intimidating, hostile, humiliating, or sexually offensive work environment."

  "That's the law?"

  "That's it in Massachusetts."

  "And you can recite it from memory."

  "I'm not just another pretty face," she said.

  "Well," I said, "the legislators are clearly a bunch of pickle puss spoilsports."

  "Yes," she said. "I understand the Iron Maiden is illegal here too."

  "At the moment. But these women were volunteers," I said. "Does the law apply to them?"

  "I'm not an attorney," Rachel Wallace said. "But part B might be the more applicable one."

  "The thing about the sexually offensive work environment."

  She rattled it off again.

  "Maybe," I said. "Still, it doesn't seem to me like the strongest case in the world."

  "Not every offensive sexual remark is, legally, sexual harassment," Rachel Wallace said. "Have you interviewed the plaintiffs?"

  "They won't talk to me, advice of counsel."

  "Is the counsel formidable?"

  "Francis Ronan?"

  "Jesus Christ," Rachel Wallace said.

  The waiter offered us menus and we paused to browse them. When we had ordered, Rachel Wallace rested her chin on her folded hands and looked at me.

  "Is it difficult with Susan right now?"

  "Very," I said.

  "Is she ashamed of herself for having been with this man?"

  "Maybe," I said. "'Though I don't know why."

  "I was with you in the last crisis," Rachel Wallace said. "When she went off with that man."

  "Costigan," I said. "Russell Costigan."

  "As I recall, she was, when it was over, ashamed of herself."

  "Well, she was, and she wasn't."

  "And with this, ah, Sterling?"

  I started nodding before she finished her sentence.

  "She is and she isn't," I said.

  Rachel Wallace looked enigmatic.

  "Which means what?" I said.

  Rachel Wallace shrugged.

  "You were implying something," I said.

  "I'm not a psychiatrist," Rachel Wallace said.

  "I'll keep it in mind," I said.

  Rachel Wallace scrutinized the olive in her martini for a bit.

  "I know of three men in Susan's life," she said. "And they permit ambivalence."

  "Three?"

  "Her first husband, the man she ran off with, and you."

  "Me?"

  She turned her glass to get a better look at the olive. Then she looked up at me.

  "You look like a thug. You do dangerous work. And, however well contained, you are deeply violent."

  "I like dogs," I said.

  "Appearances are deceiving," Rachel Wallace said. "And I suspect when Susan first responded to you she didn't realize exactly what she was getting."

  "Which was?"

  Rachel Wallace smiled. It was a surprising sight.

  Her face softened when she smiled, and her eyes widened, and she was pretty.

  "A large, cynical Boy Scout," she said.

  The waiter brought our dinner.

  "She's attracted to men she can be ashamed of?"

  "Perhaps."

  "You're not just saying that to boost my ego?" I said.

  Again that lovely smile.

  "You have no ego," she said, "or it is so large it is impregnable. I've never known which."

  "But the other two guys, she didn't last with them."

  "No."

  "With me she has lasted."

  "The other two guys," Rachel Wallace said, "were perhaps what she thought they were. You turned out to be more."

  "And?"

  "She is a good woman, she would finally need a good man."

  "And need to be embarrassed," I said, "about the bad ones in her past?"

  "Maybe."

  "Why?"

  Rachel Wallace leaned back a little and rubbed her palms lightly together.

  "We have reached the limits of pop psych," she said.

  "Which means you don't know."

  "I haven't a clue," she said.

  "Lot of that going around," I said.

  chapter seventeen

  AT 9:15 IN THE morning, I called the Public Charities Division at the Attorney General's Office and asked about Civil Streets. It was listed as a counseling and adjustment service for former prison inmates. The woman on the phone stressed that the description was submitted by the charitable organization and should not be construed as the AG's evaluation. There had been no complaints about the organization. The president was somebody named Carla Quagliozzi, with an address in Somerville. There was a long list of directors: she would be happy to send me a copy of it. I thanked her and hung up and called Civil Streets in Stoneham. No answer. I called President Carla and got a chirpy recorded message about her not being home and my call being important to her. I called Brad Sterling and there was no answer. Faced with rejection at every turn, I went to plan B. I swiveled my chair around and put my feet up and looked out my window. It was a lovely December day, brisk and sunny. Unfortunately it was the first week in April.

  Usually when I was puzzled about someone's behavior, I would ask Susan about it. But who to ask when it was Susan's behavior I was puzzled about. Maybe it was time to cultivate another shrink. I thought about what Rachel Wallace had said. It explained why Susan was currently being so difficult. But that didn't mean it was so. Demonic possession would explain it equally as well. But if her theory were valid, it would also mean that Brad Sterling might be a worse guy than he seemed, or that Susan might have thought him so when he was Brad Silverman. She might have been wrong; she misjudged me. Or maybe she hadn't misjudged me. Or maybe Rachel Wallace was all wet.

  Across Berkeley Street from my office the windows of the new office building above F.A.O. Schwarz reflected the sun in a blank glare. I thought about Linda Thomas who had once bent over her drawing board in the old building that this one had replaced. A large cloud moved across the sun, cutting the glare off the windows. I could see through them now, but the vista of offices was nearly as blank as the light reflection. The cloud moved quite slowly, and the sun was obscured for a while. But it was a white cloud and the day didn't dim much and after a while it was sunny again.

  I checked my watch: 10:20. I called Brad Sterling's office again. No answer. I tried Civil Streets again. No answer. President Carla again. Same thing. I took my feet off the windowsill and put them on the floor and stood and got my coat on and went out.

  I got a cup of coffee and a corn muffin on the way and ingested them while I walked up Boylston Street to
the Prudential Center. A detective travels on his stomach. I went past the cityscape metal sculpture in the Prudential Building lobby and took the elevator to the thirty-third floor. The office was closed. The door was locked. The receptionist in the marketing company across the hall knew nothing about it. Neither did a bored-looking guy wearing a bad suit in the security office. Neither did I.

  In Spenser's Tips For Successful Gumshoe-ing, Tip #6 reads: If nothing is happening and you haven't any idea what you're doing, go someplace and sit and look at something and await developments. Subparagraph A says that most good detectives bring some coffee and a few donuts with them. So I got my car and drove over to Somerville, got some coffee and donuts on the way, and parked in front of Carla Quagliozzi's condo overlooking the Mystic River. Ringing her doorbell got me less than ringing her phone had got me. At least her phone had an answering machine. I leaned on the bell long enough to be sure that if anyone were home they'd have heard it. Then I went back and sat in my car and looked at her house and had a donut while I awaited developments. After an hour or so it occurred to me that I could double the effectiveness of my plan, and I called the Harbor Health Club and asked for Henry Cimoli.

  "I need to talk with Hawk," I said.

  "Not here."

  "Have him call me on my car phone."

  "Car phone," Henry said. "You're turning into a fucking Yuppie."

  "Quick as I can," I said.

  "He know your car phone number?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll give him the message," Henry said. "You need anything else?"

  "Where do I begin," I said.

  Henry hung up. And in about twenty minutes Hawk called.

  "Do you know what's going on?" I said.

  "Almost never," Hawk said.

  "Good. I was thinking you could help me not know what's going on."

  "You going good on your own," Hawk said.

  I explained Spenser's Tip #6, including subparagraph A. Hawk asked me to go slower so he could copy it down.

  "I got two very insecure handles on this case," I said. "One is the question of the missing charity money. The other one is the sexual harassment issue."