“Well, thank you, Dr. Ruth,” Jill said.
“From your point of view I’m an intruder,” Susan said. “I understand that. But that’s because you have personalized the relationship. If you see it as a professional endeavor, in which he protects you because he’s hired to, then the sense of intrusion goes away.”
Jill stared at her for a moment. She drank some of her wine. Then she said, “Fuck you.”
Susan nodded thoughtfully.
“Interesting point,” she said. “Let me put this another way. Since Spenser was hired to protect you, you have been trying every way you can to climb into his lap, and I came along today so that if you tried it again I could kick your fat little butt out into Park Square.”
Jill’s eyes widened.
“Fat?” she said.
“Fat,” Susan said, “and, if I may say so, gone south a little.”
Jill began to breathe faster, her eyes still very wide. Tears formed and began to roll down her face.
“You are through,” she said. “Both of you are not going to work on my goddamned show again.”
“Curses,” I said.
“Take me home,” Jill said. “Now.”
It was a strained and sullen trip back to the Charles Hotel. Jill sat in the back in haughty silence and smoked cigarettes which she lit herself, in a kind of self-imposed martyrdom. She got out when we got there and stalked into the hotel without a word. I drifted along behind her to make sure security was alert. They were. A guy picked her up in the lobby and went up with her in the elevator.
Back in the car I looked at Susan.
“I knew you’d get her to see it our way,” I said.
“I shouldn’t have lost my temper at her. But . . .” Susan shrugged.
“Hard not to,” I said.
“And that damned coquettish Czarina act that she does with you . . .”
I nodded. We were cruising along Memorial Drive, heading into town, with the river on our right.
“What would you like to do now?” I said.
“Let’s go to your place. You make a fire. I’ll make a lunch. We’ll open a bottle of wine and see what transpires.”
“I’m pretty sure I know what will transpire,” I said.
“No fair,” Susan said. “You’re a trained detective.”
I nodded and turned right onto the Western Avenue Bridge.
“I don’t think her fanny is fat,” I said.
Susan smiled, the way she does when her face lights up and her eyes get brighter, and you know just what she looked like when she was sixteen.
“All’s fair in love and war,” she said.
13
I picked Jill up Monday morning and took her to the studio as if I hadn’t been fired. She made no mention of Saturday. It had begun to snow late Sunday night and there was about three inches of soft feathery snow accumulated with no sign of slowing. I had the Cherokee in four-wheel drive and drove with the arrogance that only a man in a four-wheel-drive vehicle can feel. The California guys at the studio were all bundled up like Admiral Byrd as they stumbled around the studio parking lot.
The drivers were gathered in fur-trimmed parkas, holding coffee in thick-gloved hands and kibitzing in the cafeteria downstairs. I followed Jill to the wardrobe office. The door was ajar, and we went in. There was no one there.
“Kathleen?” Jill called. “Ernie?”
The lights were on. The clothing for costuming hung in neat order on pipe racks, filling most of the room. There was a counter to one side and an open space with mirrors, a cutting table, and an ironing board. On the counter was a glass jar of hard candies. I took a red one, hoping for cherry. It was raspberry. Even for the discerning palate, however, in hard candies the difference was but slight.
Jill said, “Spenser.”
I turned and saw what she saw. Behind the counter, facedown on the floor, was a woman’s body. The white blouse she was wearing was darkly blotched with dried blood.
I went around the corner and knelt. I knew she was dead. Checking her pulse was just a formality. Her skin was cold when I touched it. There was no pulse. There hadn’t been for some hours. The woman’s head was turned left, and the side of her face that showed was blank and meaningless. Her hair was the same coppery color that Jill’s was.
I stood. Jill was standing very still. Her hands, clasped together so hard her knuckles were white, were pressed against her lips.
“You know who this is?” I said.
“I don’t want to look,” Jill said. She kept her hands pressed against her mouth as she spoke.
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “But one glance, please.”
I walked around the counter and put my arm around her shoulders and moved her gently to where she could see the body. She kept her eyes closed.
“Okay,” I said. “It’s not that bad, just a look at her face, then you won’t have to look again.”
Jill opened her eyes, stared down for a moment over her clasped hands. Then she clamped her eyes shut again, very tightly.
“Oh, Jesus,” she said softly. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Who is it?” I said.
“Babe,” she said. “Babe Loftus, my stunt double.”
There didn’t seem to be anything to say. I squeezed her a little tighter with my arm around her shoulders. She let her arms drop and turned her head in against my chest. We stood that way for a moment. There was a phone on the counter. Still holding on to Jill, I reached out and got it and punched in a number I knew too well by now.
A radio car showed up about two minutes after I called, and the two prowlies in it came in, looked things over, and were as careful as civilians not to touch things.
“You got a detail officer on this deal,” one of the cops said.
“Ray Morrissey,” I said.
“Tommy,” the cop said to his partner, “whyn’t you go and see if you can round him up.”
The partner left.
I said, “I’ll take Miss Joyce to her mobile home.”
“No,” she said, “Sandy’s office.”
She had her face still buried against my chest.
“Upstairs,” I said, “in the line producer’s office.”
“Be sure to stay there. Homicide don’t like it when they get here and the witnesses aren’t around.”
“We’ll be there,” I said.
Everybody looked stiff and uneasy as we passed through the corridor and up the main stairs to Salzman’s office. The two women in the outer office were both on their feet at the top of the stairs looking down.
“Somebody said it was Babe,” one of the women said.
I nodded. We went into Salzman’s office. He wasn’t there. He was on his way in.
Jill sank into one of the leather armchairs near Salzman’s desk. Outside the picture windows the snow came steadily in wide pleasant flakes, drifting as it fell, but falling with the kind of purposeful steadiness that means business. Traffic was very slow on Soldiers Field Road. Cars had their headlights on in the gray daylight and the lights made a weak glow through the snow that accumulated on the headlight lenses. Wipers made dark rhomboids on the windshields, and beyond, winding through the white landscape, the river was icy black. The snow came thick enough so you couldn’t see the other bank of the river.
Jill and I sat very quietly while we waited. That someone had shot Jill’s stunt double didn’t have to be connected to the threats and scary phone calls that Jill had been getting. But you could make a pretty good case that it might be, and you couldn’t assume it was not.
After about twenty minutes Belson came into the office. He had his tan trench coat on with the collar up. The coat was unbuttoned. The tweed scally cap he was wearing was tilted down over the bridge of his nose so he had to tilt his
head back a little to see. He stopped inside the front door when he entered and put his hands in the hip pockets of his pants. You could see where he had his gun holstered inside his belt.
“Good day for it,” Belson said. He had one of his ugly little cigars in the corner of his mouth.
I introduced Jill. Jill raised her eyes slowly from her lap and fixed Belson with a tragic stare.
“Oh, Frank,” Jill said. “It’s my stunt double.”
If Belson minded being called Frank by a murder witness, he didn’t let it show.
“You discovered the body,” he said.
I said yes.
“Together?”
“Yes.”
Belson nodded. As he spoke his eyes moved around the room, filing everything. Three months from now he would be able to describe the place in exact detail.
“I talked with Morrissey,” Belson said.
“So you know what I’m doing here,” I said.
Belson nodded again. He pushed a couple of items away from the corner of Salzman’s desk and sat on it, one leg dangling, one leg still on the floor.
“Your usual bang-up job,” Belson said.
“Maybe you should follow me around on this one,” I said. “Learn as you go.”
“For God’s sake,” Jill said. “Don’t you people realize what happened? That was meant for me. He thought Babe was me.”
“Who thought that?” Belson said.
“There’s a man,” Jill said. “He’s been threatening me, saying terrible things. Now he’s done this. He thought Babe was me.”
“What’s his name?” Belson said.
“I don’t know. That’s what he’s supposed to find out.” Jill jerked her head at me. “Only he hasn’t found out anything, and now he’s tried to kill me.”
“Spenser?”
“No, no. The man.”
Sandy Salzman came into the office wearing a down parka and moon boots. He went straight to Jill Joyce.
“Jill, honey, are you okay?”
“Better than Babe Loftus,” I said.
“Oh my God, Babe,” Salzman said. “What happened?”
“We’re looking into that,” Belson said.
“Are you the police?”
“I’m one of them,” Belson said. He flipped out his shield. “Belson,” he said. “Homicide.”
Salzman was holding Jill Joyce’s hand. She put her other hand over his and laid her head against his arm.
“Sandy, please, get me out of here,” Jill said.
Salzman looked at Belson.
Belson said, “Where’s she going to go?”
“Charles Hotel,” Salzman said.
“We can locate that,” Belson said. “We may want to talk with her.”
“I think we should have an attorney present,” Salzman said.
“Of course,” Belson said. “Important person like her. Probably ought to have two or three present.”
“No need to be unpleasant,” Salzman said. “I just think with a star of Jill’s magnitude it’s prudent.”
Belson looked at me and something that might have been amusement showed for a moment in his thin face.
“This one’s going to be a good time,” he said.
“I’m taking Miss Joyce to the hotel,” Salzman said. “Feel free to use my office.”
“You want Cambridge to send somebody over to keep an eye out?” Belson said. “Now that there’s a homicide involved.”
“Yes,” Salzman said. “And the hotel security staff is alerted.”
“Fine,” Belson said. “I’ll want Spenser for an hour or so.”
Salzman was already guiding Jill out of his office. She looked back at me.
“You’ll come, won’t you?” she said. “You’ll stay with me?”
“I’ll be along,” I said.
They left the room. Belson got up and closed the door behind them and walked across to the big picture window and stood looking out at the snow. His cigar had gone out some time ago, as it almost always did. He lit it with a kitchen match that he scratched on the windowsill. Outside the pleasant snow came steadily down. Belson turned from the window, folded his arms, leaned against the sill.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t known since I got involved. I never more than half believed there was anyone harassing her.”
“Tell me about it,” Belson said.
I did. When I was through Belson took the little cigar, now down to a stub, from his mouth and pursed his lips.
“This thing is going to be a hair ball.”
I nodded.
“M.E. show up yet?” I said.
“Not while I was there. She looks to have been shot twice in the back with a big gun. Three fifty-seven maybe. Been dead awhile. No sign of a struggle. Nobody we’ve talked to so far has heard anything. Nobody so far knows why she would have been in here on a Sunday night.”
“Even if she were, why would the murderer be here?” I said. “If he was after Jill he wouldn’t expect to find her here.”
“Maybe he was after the victim, and maybe he came with her.”
“Or brought her,” I said.
Belson had the cigar back in his mouth. He rolled it directly into the center of his mouth and talked around it.
“Why would he bring her?”
“Maybe it wasn’t mistaken identity,” I said. “Maybe it was a sign, more harassment, like the hanged Jill Joyce doll.”
Belson nodded. “Or maybe it’s all a fake. Maybe the whole Jill Joyce harassment is to make us think the wrong thing, and the murderer really just wanted to kill this stuntwoman.”
“Babe Loftus,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Possible,” I said. “Kind of bizarre, though.”
“Like your scenario isn’t?” Belson said.
I shrugged.
“Where’s Quirk?” I said. “This is a hot enough squeal to bring him out.”
Belson showed no expression. He had one of those permanent five o’clock shadows that no razor could successfully obliterate.
“Command staff meeting,” Belson said. “Strategies for improving police/community interface.”
“Honest to God?” I said.
“Honest to God.”
14
JILL looked at Hawk the way a mackerel eyes a minnow.
“Well,” she said as Hawk walked across the Quiet Bar at the Charles. He had on black cowboy boots and an ankle-length black leather trench coat. The coat was open, the collar up, and a black turtleneck showed at the throat. His skin was maybe half a shade lighter than the leather coat, and his smooth head gleamed in the bar’s indirect lighting.
“You just wear those boots to be taller than me,” I said.
“Taller than you anyway,” Hawk said.
“Are not,” I said.
“Better-looking, too,” Hawk said.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Jill Joyce said.
I did. Jill was sitting on a couch quietly, but as she looked at Hawk she seemed somehow to wiggle without moving.
“Well,” she said, “aren’t you something.”
“Un huh,” Hawk said.
He sat on the couch beside Jill. The waitress appeared eagerly.
“Laphroig,” Hawk said, “straight, in a lowball glass.”
“Yes, sir,” the waitress said and hurried off on her mission. She placed her order at the service end of the bar and glanced back at Hawk while she waited.
“Why didn’t you tell me about him,” Jill said to me.
“I did. I told you he would look out for you while I was away and that he was almost as good as I was, and b
etter than anyone else.”
“But you didn’t mention . . .” Jill spread her hands in a voilà gesture at Hawk.
“She means you didn’t tell her about me being a sexual icon.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I didn’t tell her that.”
“Are you almost as good as he is?” Jill said. Like most things she said, it was larded with innuendo.
“Better,” Hawk said.
“Really?” Jill’s eyes were wide and excited. “The other day he knocked down a great tall man, bing! bing! just like that.” Jill made two darling little punching movements.
“Just like that?” Hawk said.
“More or less,” I said.
The waitress brought Hawk’s scotch and another white wine for Jill. They had learned her habits here and seemed to have mastered the technique of keeping her glass filled.
“Can you do that?” Jill asked. She smiled at him, a TV Guide cover smile, over the rim of her wineglass and drank a bit.
“Don’t know about bing! bing!” Hawk said.
Jill reached over and squeezed Hawk’s biceps. A moment of genuine surprise popped for only a moment into her eyes before the flirty TV-star cuteness slipped back in place.
“Whooooa,” she said.
Hawk stared at me.
“Pay’s excellent,” I said.
Hawk nodded. “Good to remember that,” he said.
Jill slugged back most of the rest of her wine.
“So here’s how it’s going to work,” I said. “Hawk will take care of you at work and to and from. Cambridge P.D. will have a car here from six at night to six in the morning. Hotel security will watch your room. They’ll be connected to the prowlies by radio.”
“Prowlies?” Jill said. She was glancing toward the bar. The waitress started toward her with another glass of wine, and I could see the tension ease as Jill spotted her.
“Police car,” I said.
The waitress put the wine down. Jill picked it up, took a genteel sip.
“You want to go out nights, or whatever, you arrange it with Hawk.”
“And will he go out with me?”
“That’s for you and him to work out.”
“Will you?” Jill leaned toward Hawk as she spoke. The throat of her simple white blouse was open and as she leaned forward there was a clear line of cleavage.
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