“How many?” Susan said.
“Sixteen,” I said. “All women.”
“Hmmm.”
“Chance to polish up my seductive charm,” I said.
“It’s shiny enough,” Susan said.
“You should know,” I said.
“I do.”
“I promise to use it,” I said, “only for professional purposes.”
“Oh good,” she said.
“Who’s with you?” I said.
“Everybody.”
“Hawk?”
“Yes. He and Chollo and Vinnie are going to have dinner with me.”
“Where?”
“Here,” she said.
“You cooking?”
“Almost,” she said.
“Almost?”
“Well, I’m setting the table, and making everything look lovely.”
“So who’s cooking?”
“Chollo,” she said.
“Chollo?”
“Yes. He says he’s going to make us an authentic south-ofthe-border meal.”
“Out of what?” I said.
“I don’t know. He went shopping this afternoon while Hawk and Vinnie were, ah, on duty.”
“Shopping,” I said.
“Sí,” she said.
“Jesus,” I said. “He’s got you doing it.”
I could hear the amusement in her voice.
“He says that in his village the roots of the corn culture go deep.”
“He lives in Bel Air,” I said. “He thinks the corn culture is Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
“Right now he’s peeling avocados,” Susan said.
“Well,” I said. “There are things Chollo does that no one I’ve ever seen can do better.”
“Even Vinnie?”
“Even him,” I said.
“Have you seen him cook?”
“No.”
“I’ll report tomorrow on the results,” she said. “Are you going to share with Epstein the facts of Alderson’s other name?”
“Not right now,” I said.
“How did I know that?” Susan said.
“Because you went to Harvard?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe because I have an advanced degree in you.”
“Are you embarrassed to tell me you love me?” I said. “In front of your dinner companions?”
“I love you,” she said. “It is the strongest feeling I have ever had.”
“You’re sure they can’t hear me?” I said.
“Sure,” she said.
“I love you, too,” I said.
49.
Claire goldin was the sixth name that Lois had given me. Like the previous five, and probably the next ten, she had dated the former Bradley Turner during her college years. And in her case, for several years after. We met for coffee in Tower City. She had a noticeable body and blond highlights in her hair.
“I didn’t care that he was endlessly promiscuous,” she said and smiled at me. “So was I.”
“Was?” I said.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Always a day late,” I said. “And a dollar short.”
“But I had a rule against married men, and I found out he was married.”
“Who was he married to?”
“I don’t know. But he always came to my place, we never went to his. And I sort of wondered about that. Then I saw a man following us. I saw him a couple of times. There was no reason for anybody to follow me.” She grinned again. “For crissake, I hadn’t even been married yet.”
“You’re married now,” I said.
“Third time. I’m trying to make it work.”
“Love?” I said.
“Enhanced by money,” she said. “Anyway, I asked Brad about it, the guy following us. And he said it was the government. That they’d been trying to get something on him ever since he was fi rst active in the movement.”
“Did he mention anything specifi c?”
“No. And I didn’t ask. I’m just a simple sexpot,” she said.
“I like that in a woman,” I said.
She laughed.
“I’ll bet you do,” she said. “And you look like you could handle it.”
“Years of training,” I said.
She laughed again.
“So I didn’t know anything about the movement, and still don’t,” she said. “But I got the license plate number on the car, and I have a brother who’s a cop in Toledo. So I asked him to fi nd out who the guy was.”
“And?”
“My brother says it’s not the government at all. It’s a guy named Fred Schuler, who lists his occupation as private investigator. So my brother called him and Schuler tells him that he’s been hired by Brad’s wife to see if he’s faithful.”
“Just like that?” I said.
“I think my brother threatened him a little.” She smiled.
“Big brother, you know?”
“Did you ask Turner about this?” I said.
“Hell no,” she said. “I got places to go, people to see. There were plenty more where he came from.”
“Did you say good-bye?”
She shook her head.
“I stopped returning his calls,” she said. “After a couple of tries, he stopped calling.”
“So you never talked to him again after your brother told you about the private eye.”
“Correct,” she said.
“And that would have been when?” I said.
She leaned her head back a little and closed her eyes to think.
“I graduated in 1990,” she said, her head still tilted, her eyes still closed. “And we stayed in touch . . .”
She opened her eyes and nodded. She had very big eyes and she made them up well. I had long observed that big eyes were a defi nite fashion plus.
“About four years after graduation,” she said, “1994, early summer. I remember we were sitting outside at a café when I fi rst spotted the guy following us.”
I had a small notebook and I wrote down Claire Goldin and the year, 1994.
“And you still remember Fred Schuler’s name,” I said.
“It reminded me of that football coach,” she said.
“Don Shula?”
“Yes. Did you know he once played for the Browns?” she said.
“Don Shula,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Not Fred Schuler?”
“You’re silly,” she said.
“Admittedly,” I said. “Did you ever go see Fred Schuler?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t seen nor heard from Bradley Turner since?”
“No.”
I took out a business card and handed it to her.
“If you have any other thoughts,” I said.
“Sure,” she said.
“And good luck with the current marriage,” I said. She took the card and read it and smiled.
“Plus,” she said, “if it doesn’t work out, I have your card.”
“Bench strength is good,” I said.
50.
Ilay on the bed in my hotel room with the phone to my ear.
“Chollo did make the guacamole,” Susan said, “but the rest of his shopping turns out to have been takeout from José’s, which he reheated.”
“He cooks like you do,” I said.
“Except for the guacamole,” Susan said.
“Hard to imagine you peeling an avocado,” I said.
“Peeling avocados is icky,” Susan said. “And there’s a big, hideous stone in the middle.”
“I know,” I said. “Did you have another appointment with Alderson?”
“Yes.”
“Everybody where they should have been?”
“Vinnie outside. Chollo upstairs. Hawk in the study. My alarm system in place. My gun in the desk drawer.”
“Loaded.”
“Of course.”
“The drawer open wide enough to reach the gun,” I said.
“Of course,” Susan said. “Remember, I have a Harvard Ph.D.”
“Comforting,” I said. “What’s he doing in there?”
“He’s charming me,” Susan said.
“Has it occurred to him that others may have tried that?”
“No,” Susan said. “I don’t think it has.”
“As far as I can tell,” I said, “he’s had great success with it in the past.”
“I would imagine he has,” Susan said.
“Is he talking about matters of substance with you?” I said.
“It’s all substance,” Susan said. “No matter what they say. Even if he’s lying, it is of substantial interest to see why he chose those lies.”
“Is he still talking about his father?” I said.
“Yes, and his father’s heroism in the protest movement, and of his own attempts to emulate it.”
“But?”
“But if he’s forty-eight he’d be awfully young for it, and his father would almost certainly be older than the average sixties protester.”
“In fact he appears to be about fi fty-fi ve,” I said.
“The math works even worse,” Susan said.
“Isn’t that dumb?” I said. “To make up a story that doesn’t make sense in terms of simple chronology?”
“It may be. But troubled people often fuse themselves with a parent or someone else when they are talking about themselves.”
“So is he troubled?”
“Yes. But he’s not talking about what’s troubling him,”
Susan said.
“You have a thought what that might be?” I said.
She laughed.
“You, probably,” she said.
“I’m not sure you can help him with that,” I said.
“Nor wish to,” Susan said. “But none of that is germane to what he’s doing. Right now he just wants to seduce me into being alone with him.”
“Which will not happen,” I said.
“Which will not happen,” Susan said. “What progress are you making?”
“I have talked to sixteen women that Alderson knew when he was in Cleveland. The most recent one to see him was Claire Goldin, who last saw him in 1994 when his name was still Turner.”
“When did Red meet him?” Susan said.
“Somewhere around 1996,” I said. “When his name had changed to Alderson.”
“So whatever caused him to change his name happened between 1994 and 1996,” Susan said. “Are you ready to talk with Epstein yet?”
“No.”
“The FBI has considerable resources. They might be able to fi nd out a little about Bradley Turner.”
“Do I tell you how to shrink the loonies?” I said.
“Wow,” Susan said. “I’ve never heard it described that way.”
“One of the women I talked to told me I was fun,” I said.
“She has no idea,” Susan said.
We were quiet for a moment listening to the soundless distance between us.
“I miss you,” Susan said.
“I know,” I said. “I don’t like this either.”
“How soon?” Susan said.
“I got a guy to talk with tomorrow. Then maybe I can come home.”
“Good.”
“Who’s with you now?”
“Chollo and Vinnie are downstairs in the study. Hawk is in the living room with Pearl reading the New York Times from this morning.”
“I wonder who’s reading to whom,” I said.
51.
Fred schuler was still in business. He had an offi ce on Ontario Street, near the Justice Center. He must have been doing okay because it was a nice office, with a reception area, in a good building . . . with a secretary.
“Have a seat, brother,” Schuler said.
He was tallish and lean with white hair and bright blue eyes.
“You had a job tailing someone named Bradley Turner,” I said.
“In 1994. His wife apparently thought he was cheating on her.”
“I tail a lot of husbands, for a lot of wives,” he said. “And that was a while ago. What’s this about?”
“Murder case in Boston. I think this guy Turner killed a couple of people. He was using the name Perry Alderson.”
“How come you’re involved?” he said.
“I was hired by one victim to check on the other.”
Schuler nodded.
“And they both got killed?” he said.
I nodded.
“I feel like I shouldn’t let clients get murdered without doing something about it,” I said.
“You been a cop?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “You?”
“Nope. I was an insurance investigator and sort of drifted into this. Mostly divorce work. Good money, a steady stream of clients. Not a lot of heavy lifting.”
“Most adulterers aren’t too hard to catch,” I said.
“You got that right,” Schuler said.
“How about Turner?” I said. “You remember him?”
“Not off the top of my head,” Schuler said.
“You have fi les?” I said.
He grinned at me.
“Files and someone who knows how to use them,” he said. He went to the door and stuck his head into the reception area.
“Honey,” he said. “You want to see what you can find in the fi les on a Bradley Turner, around 1994?”
He came back and sat down at his desk.
“Wow,” I said. “This is like a private eye movie. A nice offi ce, a secretary you call honey?”
“That’s her name,” Schuler said. “Honey Schuler.”
“Relative?”
“Wife.”
“Ah,” I said. “She on salary?”
Schuler grinned again.
“No,” he said. “I am.”
Honey came in with a file folder and put it on Schuler’s desk. She was attractive, stylish and silver-haired, with an ornate wedding ring. She smiled at me and went out.
“Married long?” I said.
“Forty-two years,” Schuler said.
“And you like it.”
“Being married?” Schuler said. “To her? Best thing ever happened to me.”
He picked up the fi le folder and looked through it. I waited.
“Yeah,” he said, “I remember this guy.”
He took a photograph of Perry Alderson out of the folder and held it up. I nodded.
“That’s him,” I said. “How long were you on him?”
“About a month, I think.” Schuler shook his head. “In my line of work you see some cockhounds, but this guy. Whoa!
Different woman every day, sometimes more than one. Made me tired just watching him.”
“Got pictures?”
“I don’t know that it’s good for business if I just empty out the whole bag for you.”
“I know,” I said. “What we say here stays here.”
“Like Las Vegas,” Schuler said.
“Sort of.”
“No insult, but how do I know I can trust you?” Schuler said.
“You don’t, but the other alternative is I make one phone call and the FBI will descend upon you like the wolf upon the fold.”
“What’s their interest?” Schuler said.
“One of the vics was an agent,” I said.
Schuler was silent for a moment.
“And they don’t know about me?” he said.
“Not yet,” I said.
He smiled and took a smaller brown envelope from the folder and handed it to me.
“I’ve decided to trust you,” he said.
“Oh good,” I said, and began to look at the photographs. It was Alderson all right, and a number of women, several of whom I’d interviewed, including Claire Goldin. Checking into hotels. Coming out of motels. Holding hands. Dining together.
“It’s all coming back to me,” Schuler said. “One of the babes made me. Brother was a cop. Cincinnati, maybe. Or Toledo, I don’t re
member which. He called me up and ragged on me. Wanted to know why I was following his sister. He made reference to coming to Cleveland and kicking my ass.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I explained what I was doing. Promised not to include his sister.”
“But you kept her photo?” I said.
He smiled.
“So maybe I’m not entirely trustworthy,” he said.
“How did the case end?” I said.
“Right after that. Routine. I reported to Mrs. Turner. She paid me. Never saw either of them again.”
“You didn’t have to testify?”
“Nope. I called her once to follow up on that. Phone was no longer in service.”
“You have her address?”
“The original one. I assume she moved.”
“I’ll take that,” I said. “And her fi rst name.”
“Anne Marie,” he said.
He wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
“And the FBI?” he said.
“Mum’s the word,” I said.
52.
T he address was in Laurel Heights, about eight miles out from downtown. It was a big Tudor revival house with a broad lawn, and a two-car garage, and a couple of big trees out front.
“My name is Spenser,” I said to the woman who opened the door. “I’m looking for Anne Marie Turner.”
I gave her my card. She looked at it, looked at me, and didn’t invite me in.
“They haven’t lived here for years,” she said.
She was a big-boned blond woman who looked as if she might have grown up on a dairy farm.
“How long?” I said.
“Oh, God, when did we buy this house,” she said. “Ten years. Eleven this summer.”
“You bought it from the Turners?” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
Then she smiled.
“Actually,” she said, “not exactly. We bought it from the bank.”
“The bank foreclosed?” I said.
“I guess. I don’t know the details. My husband does most of the money stuff.”
A cluster of small brown birds landed suddenly on the big lawn and began pecking about in the winter grass. I wondered what they found in there. Grass seed? Insects? Were they actually eating? Or just going through the motions? And did it matter. Maybe in the big scheme, but not in the small one I represented.
“Do you know why the bank foreclosed?” I said.
“Nonpayment, I assume,” she said. “Phil told me we got a good deal.”
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