“I’ll be right back,” I said to Rosie, and got out with my camera.
“Mr. Reeves,” I said.
He looked at me as if I were carrying my head under my arm. I zoomed in on his face with my camera and snapped five pictures.
“My name’s Sunny Randall,” I said. “I’m a private detective.”
He began to back away toward his house.
“Why are you taking my picture?” he said.
“You followed my car from Chestnut Hill to Park Square,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Stop taking my picture.”
He kept backing.
“You know what I’m talking about, Lawrence. You even let me lose you at Chestnut Hill Ave, and picked me up again at the corner of Harvard and Beacon.”
“You’re trespassing,” he said.
He had reached his back door and was fumbling with his keys.
“We can talk here, Lawrence, in a friendly and open way, or I can come back with a couple of cops and we can talk in a more formal manner.”
He stopped and turned toward me. His face was red.
“You bitch,” he said.
“Ah,” I said, “that’s better. It’s good to exchange ideas.”
There was a rake leaning against the side of the house beside the door. He picked it up, still holding his keys in his left hand, his pinkie through the key ring.
“I’m going to smack you,” he said.
“Gee,” I said, “you don’t look like a smack ’em kind of guy to me, Lawrence.”
“That’s the way you have to treat bitches,” he said, and took a step toward me. “I like to smack bitches.”
I have been threatened by a lot of people more formidable-looking than Lawrence B. Reeves; still, he probably weighed eighty pounds more than I did. And the rake might sting if he actually hit me with it. I glanced at my car; Rosie was in the driver’s seat, looking out the window at me. I dropped the camera in my coat pocket, and took my gun out and pointed it at him. He stared at the gun with his mouth partly open, and the tip of his tongue trembling on his lower lip.
“You’re troubling my dog,” I said.
“You’ve got a gun,” he said.
“Yes, I do,” I said. “And if you force me to, I’ll shoot you with it.”
He put the rake away from him. It fell onto the ground between us.
“Is it loaded?”
“Of course it is,” I said. “Can’t you see the noses of the bullets in the cylinder?”
“I’m going in now,” he said.
He turned, fumbled the right key into the lock. I decided against shooting him for disobedience. It seemed counterproductive, and it might be against the law. He opened the door, went in, and shut it behind him. I heard the dead bolt turn. I went around front and up onto the front porch. There were two front doors. The one on the left had his name under the bell, Lawrence B. Reeves. I went back to my car and got in and exchanged kisses with Rosie, scooched her over to the passenger seat, and got in behind the wheel and sat for a little while in the driveway looking at the house.
If one had to have a stalker, Lawrence would be a good choice. He didn’t seem too dangerous. Except that there was an ugly little salacious overtone tittering at the edge of his voice, when he spoke of smacking bitches. That was a little scary. It might be what had scared Mary Lou. I was pretty sure she knew who Lawrence was. Well, now I knew too. In a while I would know him better. I wondered why Mary Lou hadn’t told me about him. While I sat, I picked up messages off my answering machine. There was one from Hal Reagan that sounded pretty desperate. I could go see him and then pick up Mary Lou and take her home. I was beginning to feel like Dr. Ruth.
CHAPTER
8
I STAYED ON the Cambridge side of the river heading downtown and crossed on the Longfellow Bridge. At three o’clock I was sitting in Hal’s office at Cone Oakes, looking out the window at the coastline south of Boston. It was a lovely view, but access to it was limited to people willing to sit all day in a high office. Behind his desk Hal was in full uniform, white shirt with a pin collar, dark maroon tie with a small gold pattern, wide maroon suspenders. His cuff links gleamed in subdued self-satisfaction. His dark blue suit jacket hung neatly on a hanger on the back of his door. In his office, dressed for work, Hal seemed somehow complete. I’d never been to his office before. Mostly when I had seen him, at family functions, he was out of his natural context. Off duty, he seemed partial, as though he were in waiting. Here in his office he was larger, his clothes fit better, his smile was brighter, his eyes more piercing.
“Wow,” I said, because I knew he wanted to hear it, “with an office like this, do they pay you too?”
“Not enough,” Hal said. “Want some coffee? Juice? Soft drink?”
“Coffee,” I said. “Milk and sugar.”
Hal leaned forward and spoke into a small intercom on his desk.
“Daisy,” he said. “Two coffees for us, cream and sugar. Thanks.”
He leaned back happily in his high-backed leather chair.
“How’s Richie?” he said.
“He’s good,” I said.
“You see him much?”
“Once a week.”
“Really?”
“Yep. How’s Elizabeth?”
He shrugged. I waited. A sleek woman with her hair pulled tightly back came into Hal’s office with a tray. She smiled, served us both coffee from a decanter, offered sugar and milk, put the tray on the side table in front of the window that opened onto the south coast, and left.
“You and Richie get along?”
“Very well,” I said. “Far better than we did in the last days of our marriage.”
“Do you think you’ll get back together?”
“Depends,” I said, “on what you mean. In some sense we are together. I think both of us know we’ll al ways be in each other’s lives. We’re trying out various scenarios.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Like none of your business,” I said. “I don’t think you called me down here to chat about Richie.”
“Now and then I forget how you are, Sunny.” Hal smiled. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“You want to talk about Elizabeth?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Well,” I said, “let’s.”
“Sunny, she’s stalking me,” Hal said.
I put my head back and stared up at Hal’s elegant ceiling and breathed a little.
“Ah, yes,” I said. “Big sister.”
“She follows me when I’m with Nancy, she comes here sometimes and hangs around the lobby down stairs, by the elevators.”
“Have you moved out of the house?” I said.
“Oh, hell yes.”
“Move in with Nancy.”
“Oh, hell no.”
“I thought you cared about her.”
“I thought I cared about Elizabeth once, too.”
“Cautious is good,” I said.
“So what are we going to do about Elizabeth?”
“What’s this ‘we,’ paleface.”
“Sunny, you have to help me.”
“Hal, you are a partner in the biggest law firm in the city. Get a restraining order, get a divorce.”
“I came out of Nancy’s house two mornings ago, Sunny, and there was Elizabeth parked right behind my car. She didn’t say a word, just sat there.”
“Sneak,” I said.
“You mean motels, under fake names, cash up front?”
“Yes.”
“That’s no way to live.”
“Are divorce proceedings under way?” I said.
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“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Hal, with all due respect, you are a fucking lawyer. No entendre intended.”
“I was going to let her get the divorce, I thought it was”—he shrugged, searching for the words—“the gentlemanly thing.”
I stared at him.
He looked as uncomfortable as he was able to in his big office with his crisp white shirt and his cuff links.
“I…I don’t know. I guess I’m feeling guilty,” he said.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Could you talk to her?”
“I imagine so,” I said.
“I mean, you got me into this…”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk with her. But we both know who got you into this.”
He nodded sadly.
“Thinking with my dick, I guess.”
“I guess,” I said.
CHAPTER
9
THE TIME CHANGE was in effect. It was dark early, and I was driving Mary Lou Goddard home from work. Rosie was in back, in graceful acceptance of her temporary displacement. Having had a look at the stalker, I decided there would be no need for the shotgun, which was home in my closet. So Rosie had the backseat to herself.
“Your stalker’s name,” I said, “is Lawrence B. Reeves. He lives on Brookline Street in Cambridge.”
“You found him already?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Consult with you,” I said.
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he liked to smack bitches.”
Mary Lou hunched her shoulders a little as if it were cold in the car.
“You know this guy,” I said.
Mary Lou looked colder.
“No.”
I was quiet. We were on the Mass Pike westbound, going very slowly when we went at all.
“You’re sure about that?” I said.
“I am sure of whom I know and don’t know.”
“Last time I asked you,” I said, “you were less adamant.”
“I did not hire you to argue with me.”
“Maybe just a quick fling, one night, somewhere?”
“Sunny, I’m a lesbian.”
“Okay, so why is this guy stalking you?”
“Why do stalkers do what they do?” Mary Lou said. “I’m a public figure. Who knows what place I occupy in his psyche?”
“With all due respect to your prominence, Mary Lou, most public figures who are stalked like that are somewhat better known than you are.”
“To the public at large, not necessarily to this man.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Perhaps he is opposed to my politics.”
“Well, no need to debate it,” I said. “Sooner or later, I’ll find out.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. People like this thrive on attention. I think he should be left alone.”
“And I can drive you back and forth to work for the rest of your life?”
“Perhaps he’ll give up. Perhaps he already has. You may have scared him.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’s probably it. Find somebody with a roaring obsessive compulsion, have a little straight talk with him, the compulsion goes right away.”
“I want you to stay away from him,” Mary Lou said.
I had spent too many years with my mother to think I was going to get anywhere with sweet reason.
“You’re the boss,” I said.
“Try to remember that,” Mary Lou said.
“Sure,” I said.
We were quiet for a while, eking along the turnpike.
“Have you a significant other?” I said.
I tried to change my tone, so it would sound like casual chitchat.
“I am with somebody.”
“But you don’t live together.”
“No.”
“Gee, I’d love to meet her sometime.”
Mary Lou did a big audible sigh.
She said, “We are not in a social arrangement, Sunny. I employ you to protect me.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” I said.
We were quiet the rest of the slow way to her home. The minute Mary Lou got out, Rosie took her place in the passenger seat. I waited out front until Mary Lou was in the lobby, the door had clicked shut behind her, and the concierge was visible.
I said, “Mary Lou is lying to us, Rose.”
Rosie didn’t disagree.
CHAPTER
10
JULIE AND I met late in the afternoon at the bar at the Casablanca in Harvard Square. Julie had seen her last patient. It was Friday. And Julie was already into her second glass of Chardonnay. I had most of my first Merlot still left.
“Two stalkers,” Julie said.
“One of them being my sister,” I said.
“Did you know that I’m an only child?” Julie said.
“You get all the luck.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I thought I’d seek the advice of a professional therapist,” I said.
“Like me,” Julie said.
“Yes. What’s your advice?”
“I don’t give advice,” Julie said. “I listen to you and say ‘um hm.’”
“Well, let’s talk about about Mary Lou’s stalker.”
“Um hm.”
“Do you think she’s lying about knowing him?”
“Um hm.”
“Do you know why?”
“Un un.”
“Thank God I’ve got you to talk with,” I said.
Julie grinned. She drank the rest of her Chardonnay and gestured at the bartender.
“We know some things,” she said. “We know that stalking is about power. The stalker gets a feeling of control out of it. You know, you watch them. They can’t prevent it.”
“I understand that.”
“And I would guess, it’s usually got a sexual base.”
“That would be my guess,” I said.
The bartender brought Julie another glass of wine.
“Keep in mind I’m not a psychiatrist,” she said. “I have an M.S.W., and God knows I don’t specialize in stalkers.”
“Well, it’s easy enough with Elizabeth,” I said. “She’s trying to keep some kind of control over Hal by following him around.”
“And it works for her as revenge too. Obviously it is discomfiting to him and the woman he’s bopping if the wife is sitting outside while they make the beast with two backs.”
“‘Beast with two backs’?” I said. “Julie, you’re so poetic.”
“Shakespeare,” she said.
“Othello,” I said.
Julie laughed. Her laugh was a little louder on her third glass of wine.
“One point for Randall,” she said.
“Any thoughts on Lawrence B. Reeves?”
“The one who likes to smack bitches?”
“Or so he says.”
“I’ll bet she knows him,” Julie said.
“She says she’s a lesbian.”
“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t know any men.”
“Might mean there was no sexual basis.”
“On her part, maybe,” Julie said. “Not necessarily on his part.”
“Good point,” I said. “He can fantasize her as anything he wants.”
“Or she could be more than one thing,” Julie said.
I sipped my Merlot. The bartender pointed at Julie’s glass. She nodded and he poured her a
nother. Four.
“If she were bisexual,” I said, “that would give me a lot more room to operate.”
“Operate?”
“Figure out what’s going on and resolve it.”
“It would also double her chances of getting a date on Saturday night.”
“Didn’t Woody Allen say that?”
“He got it from me,” Julie said.
She had begun to speak in that careful way people do when they are getting drunk and don’t want you to notice.
“Maybe Mary Lou had an affair with this guy and broke it off,” I said, “and he won’t let go. Maybe this guy is just doing what Elizabeth is doing with Hal.”
“So why won’t Mary Lou tell you that?”
“She says she doesn’t want her private life spilling out in public.”
“Telling you isn’t the same as spilling it out in public,” Julie said carefully. She had some trouble moving from the g in telling to the y in you.
“Maybe it undercuts her feminism,” I said.
“A feminist doesn’t have to be a lesbian,” Julie said.
“Maybe Mary Lou doesn’t know that,” I said.
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Julie said.
She seemed to be losing interest in my professional problems. She was looking down the bar.
“What do you think of the guy in the brown tweed jacket with the longish hair?” she said.
“Wearing the scarf?” I said. “He seems a little languid, for my taste.”
“You’ve always had this thing for butch guys,” Julie said. “Didn’t you learn your lesson with Richie?”
I’d never heard Julie criticize Richie before, nor imply any criticism of our relationship.
“I like a man who looks like he could change a tire,” I said.
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