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Robert B Parker

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Spenser Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 268

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

When Nathan Smith, 51, is found in bed with a hole in his head it's hard not to imagine his young bride as the one with the finger on the trigger. Even her lawyer thinks she is guilty. But given that Mary Smith is entitled to the best defence she can afford - and thanks to Nathan's millions, she can afford plenty - Spenser is hired to investigate Mary's bona fides. Her alibi is flimsy - she claims she was watching TV in the other room when the murder occurred. But the couple were seen fighting at a high profile cocktail party earlier that evening and the prosecution has a witness who says Mary once tried to hire him to kill Nathan. What's more she is too pretty, too made-up, too blonde and she sleeps around - just the kind of person a jury loves to hate.

Leseprobe

A JESSE STONE NOVEL

When Nathan Smith, 51, is found in bed with a hole in his head it’s hard not to imagine his young bride as the one with the finger on the trigger. Even her lawyer thinks she is guilty. But given that Mary Smith is entitled to the best defence she can afford – and thanks to Nathan’s millions, she can afford plenty – Spenser is hired to investigate Mary’s bona fides.

Her alibi is flimsy – she claims she was watching TV in the other room when the murder occurred. But the couple were seen fighting at a high profile cocktail party earlier that evening and the prosecution has a witness who says Mary once tried to hire him to kill Nathan. What’s more she is too pretty, too made-up, too blonde and she sleeps around - just the kind of person a jury loves to hate.

About the Author

Robert B. Parker (1932–2010) has long been acknowledged as the dean of American crime fiction. His novels featuring the wisecracking, street-smart Boston private-eye Spenser earned him a devoted following and reams of critical acclaim, typified by R.W.B. Lewis’ comment, ‘We are witnessing one of the great series in the history of the American detective story’ (The NewYork Times Book Review).

Born and raised in Massachusetts, Parker attended Colby College in Maine, served with the Army in Korea, and then completed a Ph.D. in English at Boston University. He married his wife Joan in 1956; they raised two sons, David and Daniel. Together the Parkers founded Pearl Productions, a Boston-based independent film company named after their short-haired pointer, Pearl, who has also been featured in many of Parker’s novels.

Robert B. Parker died in 2010 at the age of 77.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT B. PARKER

‘Parker writes old-time, stripped-to-the-bone, hard-boiled school of Chandler…His novels are funny, smart and highly entertaining…There’s no writer I’d rather take on an aeroplane’

– Sunday Telegraph

‘Parker packs more meaning into a whispered ‘yeah’ than most writers can pack into a page’

– Sunday Times

‘Why Robert Parker’s not better known in Britain is a mystery. His best series featuring Boston-based PI Spenser is a triumph of style and substance’

– Daily Mirror

‘Robert B. Parker is one of the greats of the American hard-boiled genre’

– Guardian

‘Nobody does it better than Parker…’

– Sunday Times

‘Parker’s sentences flow with as much wit, grace and assurance as ever, and Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist’

– Newsday

‘If Robert B. Parker doesn’t blow it, in the new series he set up in Night Passage and continues with Trouble in Paradise, he could go places and take the kind of risks that wouldn’t be seemly in his popular Spenser stories’

– Marilyn Stasio, New York Times

Joan, Dave, and Dan: the rest is decoration.

Contents

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1

‘I think she’s probably guilty,’ Rita Fiore said to me.

We were in her office, high up, with a view of the harbor.

‘And you’re her lawyer,’ I said.

‘Tells you about her case,’ Rita said. She sat on the edge of her desk in front of me, her thick red hair gleaming. She had on a black suit with a very short skirt. Rita knew her legs were good.

‘But you’ll represent her anyway.’

‘Like everyone else,’ Rita said, ‘she’s entitled to the best defense she can get.’

‘Or afford,’ I said.

Rita smiled. ‘Or afford.’

‘She got money?’

‘Oodles,’ Rita said.

‘Last time I worked for you,’ I said, ‘I almost got killed.’

‘I know,’ Rita said. ‘We could give you hazardous-duty pay.’

‘It’s all hazardous duty,’ I said. ‘Tell me about your client.’

‘Mary Smith.’

‘Mary Smith?’

‘Honest to God,’ Rita said. ‘It’s her real name. She was married to the victim, Nathan Smith. Her maiden name was Toricelli.’

‘She have oodles of money before she married him?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘Ah ha!’

‘Ah ha?’

‘It’s an investigational term,’ I said. ‘That where the oodles come from?’

‘Yes.’

‘They the same age?’

‘He married her when she was twenty-three and he was fifty-one.’

‘Prior marriages?’

‘None. For either.’

‘How old is she now?’

‘Thirty.’

Rita had her legs crossed. She bounced the top leg a little, looking at the point of her shoe. The shoe had a very high heel. It looked uncomfortable. But good.

‘Anyone else in her life?’

Rita shook her head sadly. ‘God,’ she said. ‘You’re a cynical bastard.’

‘Anyone?’

‘Cops suspect her of an affair or two.’

‘With?’

Rita smiled. ‘You want them in chronological order?’ she said.

‘Or alphabetically?’

‘You can give me a list,’ I said. ‘What’s the prosecution’s case?’

‘He was discovered naked in his bed with a hole in his head made by a forty-caliber slug.’

‘They find the bullet?’

‘Yes. After it went through his head it tore through the mattress and lodged in the baseboard. Angle of the shot suggests that it was fired by someone in bed beside him.’

‘She have an alibi?’

‘No. She says she was downstairs in the library watching television.’

‘She hear the shot?’

‘No. Says the TV was on loud and her door was closed so as not to wake him up.’

‘So she found him that way when she went up to bed.’

‘Yes. They didn’t share a bedroom, but she usually stopped in to say good night.’

‘Did he normally sleep naked?’ I said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘She’s a good candidate. But they got to have more than that to prosecute.’

‘They had a huge fight earlier in the evening. He actually slapped her.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘Two dozen. It was a big cocktail party in Brookline.’

‘And I assume she’s his heir,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘And there’s more,’ I said.

‘Unfortunately, yes. Prosecution has a witness who says she tried to hire him to kill her husband.’

‘And he declined?’

‘He says he did.’

‘He make a deal for his testimony?’

‘Yes. They picked him up for something unrelated. He said if they could work something out, he could help them with this case.’

‘Which is a high profiler,’ I said.

‘The Smiths first came to Boston on the Mayflower,’ Rita said.

‘The Mayflower didn’t come to Boston,’ I said.

‘Well, they’ve been here a long time,’ Rita said.

‘But the cops can’t put her in the room when the gun went off,’ I said.

‘No.’

‘No powder residue on her hands.’

‘No. But he did.’

‘Shot at close range,’ I said. ‘Put his hands up to try and stop the bullet?’

‘That’s the police theory.’

‘Everybody knows about powder residue anyway,’ I said. ‘She could have worn gloves.’

‘Police didn’t find them.’

‘You can flush those latex jobs down the toilet like a condom.’

‘I’ve heard that can happen,’ Rita said.

‘I’ll bet you have,’ I said.

‘I meant about the gloves,’ Rita said.

‘Oh.’

‘There is probably more,’ Rita said. ‘But that’s what I know they’ve got so far.’

‘You think they can convict her on that?’ I said.

‘Motive, and opportunity, prior solicitations to murder. Plus the jury won’t like her.’

‘Because?’

‘Because she’s what my mother would have called cheap. She’s too pretty, too made up, too blond, lot of attitude, drinks to excess, probably does dope, sleeps around.’

‘Sounds like a great date,’ I said.

‘And her diction is bad,’ Rita said. ‘She sounds uneducated.’

‘Juries don’t like that?’

‘They are more inclined to think you’re innocent if you sound like Barbara Walters,’ Rita said.

‘You think Barbara would be a good date?’

‘Oh, oink,’ Rita said.

‘You think the prosecution knows stuff they haven’t told you?’ I said.

Rita had thick dark red hair which glinted in the sunlight that streamed through her big picture window.

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘What about full disclosure?’ I said.

‘What about the Easter bunny?’ Rita said. ‘You want to see what you can find out?’

‘Sure.’

2

I was in the office of the Homicide Commander.

‘If she did it,’ I said, ‘wouldn’t she work up a better alibi?’

‘You met her?’ Quirk said.

‘Not yet.’

‘When you do, don’t let her do brain surgery.’

‘Not smart?’

‘Not even close,’ Quirk said.

‘Maybe the alibi is elegant in its simplicity,’ I said.

‘I know,’ Quirk said. ‘We thought about that. A lot of cases you got some rocket scientist who has six witnesses say that he was a hundred miles away, which gives you a place to start. All you got to do is poke a hole in one witness and the whole thing collapses.’

‘You can’t disprove her alibi.’

‘Nope.’

‘And it occurs to a seasoned investigator like myself that only an innocent person would have an alibi that sucked this bad.’

‘Seasoned investigator,’ Quirk said.

‘So maybe she’s smarter than we think she is.’

‘Even if she were much smarter than we think she is …’

‘She’s not capable of trickery?’

‘Talk to her,’ Quirk said. ‘And get back to me.’

‘You don’t think it’s a double fake,’ I said.

‘She’s dumber than my dick,’ Quirk said.

‘That dumb?’ I said.

‘But better-looking,’ Quirk said.

‘Anything you don’t like about the case?’ I said.

‘I’d like to find the murder weapon. I’d like to tie her to it. I’d like to put her in the room when he died.’

‘And you’d like to have a video of her pulling the trigger.’

‘Yeah.’

‘That aside,’ I said, ‘anything that doesn’t seem right to you?’

Quirk was a big strong healthy-looking guy, one of the two or three toughest people I’d ever met. He was also one of the most orderly. There was nothing in his office that didn’t need to be there, and what was there was neatly arranged. The only thing on the desk was a plastic cube that displayed his wife and children and the family dog.

‘Other than the lousy alibi? No.’

‘There were powder burns on his hands,’ I said.

‘Sure. He shot himself then got rid of the gun so we wouldn’t catch him.’

‘Maybe somebody wanted to cover up the suicide.’

‘Sure. Or maybe Dr Kevorkian stopped by.’

‘Just a thought.’

‘Somebody points a gun at you,’ Quirk said, ‘close range, you put your hands up in front of your face like to protect yourself.’

Quirk raised his hands.

‘Guy pulls the trigger,’ he said. ‘You get powder residue on your hands.’

‘Good point,’ I said. ‘But wouldn’t it be on the palms, where if he shot himself it would be on the back?’

‘And if he shot himself it would be mostly on the gun hand,’ Quirk said.

‘Yes.’

‘He had powder residue on both hands, mostly on the palms.’

‘I hate when you’re right,’ I said.

‘I’m used to it,’ Quirk said. ‘She did it. Go talk to her.’

‘You know anything I don’t know?’

‘A lot,’ Quirk said, ‘but not about this case.’

‘You think they’ll convict her?’

‘In a heartbeat,’ Quirk said. ‘Jury will hate her.’

‘That’s pretty much what Rita said.’

‘Fiore?’

‘Yes.’

‘Used to be a prosecutor in Norfolk County,’ Quirk said.

‘She’s with Cone Oakes now,’ I said.

‘Good-looking broad,’ Quirk said.

‘Yes.’

‘Good ass.’

‘You noticed.’

‘I’m a seasoned investigator,’ Quirk said. ‘Isn’t she the one that’s hot for you?’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

3

We were walking toward the Cone Oakes conference room on the thirty-fifth floor. Today Rita had on a red jacket with a short leather skirt.

‘You still with that prissy Jewess?’ Rita said.

‘I prefer to think of her as the girl of my dreams,’ I said.

‘Even with me currently available?’ Rita said.

‘Again?’

‘The bank guy didn’t work out,’ Rita said. ‘Why not give it a whirl?’

‘I’m emotionally limited,’ I said.

‘Probably not,’ Rita said.

She opened the conference room door and we went in. Mary Smith was there with a young man.

The young man had on blue-tinted rimless glasses. He was nearly bald, and what hair remained he wore cut very short. He had a carefully trimmed blond mustache. He wore a dark gray pinstriped suit and a pale gray tie with a lavender shirt and a lavender pocket handkerchief. On the desk in front of him was a pigskin briefcase with a shoulder strap.

Mary was something else. Dark skin, big dark eyes, big blond hair, a lot of blue eye makeup. She had a big chest. She was in black as befit her recent widowhood. Her clothes were expensive but a little small for her. And the jacket of her black suit rode up a little on her hips. Rita introduced us. The guy was named Larson Graff.

‘Mr Graff is Mrs Smith’s public relations consultant,’ Rita said with a blank face.

I blinked once at her. Rita almost smiled but didn’t.

‘He’s like family,’ Mary said. ‘You can say whatever you want.’

Graff took a small tape recorder from his briefcase.

‘You don’t mind if we tape this, do you?’ he said.

‘I wish I’d known,’ I said. ‘I’d have brought my arrangements.’

‘What arrangements?’ Mary said.

Graff said, ‘It’s a joke, Mary.’

Rita said, ‘I mind.’

‘Excuse me?’ Graff said.

‘I mind. This is privileged communication here. I don’t want it taped.’

‘I thought it would be good to have a record,’ Graff said.

‘It would not be good,’ Rita said.

Mary looked at Graff.

‘Is there a problem?’ she said.

‘No. It’s okay, Mary. Rita’s just being careful.’

‘Well,’ Mary said. ‘Like I said, there’s no need to be careful with Larson. He’s family.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Tell me about your husband’s death, Mrs Smith.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘But you want me to?’

‘Yes.’

Graff put his hand on Mary’s arm. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘these people are trying to help you.’

‘I know they are, Larson. It’s just, the whole subject is just so really, so really, really … icky.’

I was quiet. Rita was quiet. Beyond the big glass windows of the conference room, the tops of the city were quiet. Off to the right I could see the river flowing past Cambridge.

‘He died at home,’ I said.

‘Yes. Louisburg Square. Nathan bought it when we got married. It’s tripled, at least, in value.’

‘Real estate is always a sound investment,’ I said. ‘And you were in the house when he died.’

‘Yes. He was upstairs in the bedroom. I was in the library downstairs watching “Survivor.” Do you watch that?’

‘You bet,’ I said. ‘Was your door open?’

‘Open?’

‘Yes. The library door, was it open or closed?’

‘I always close it. Nathan liked to sleep with his door open and the sound of the TV bothered him.’

‘And his bedroom is on the second floor?’

‘The third. Nathan liked to get away from city sounds at night.’

‘Where did you sleep?’

She smiled a little and lowered her eyes.

‘Why, aren’t you nosy?’ she said.

‘I certainly am,’ I said.

‘My bedroom was right next to Nathan’s. We were very close. Just because we had separate rooms. We had a very full sex life.’

‘Everyone should,’ I said. ‘Tell me about when you found his body.’

‘Oh, don’t say it that way. ‘His body.’ It sounds so, it’s so really…’

I waited. Rita had rocked back in her chair, one spectacular leg crossed over the other. There was no expression on her face.

‘How did you come across your, ah, late husband?’ I said.

‘I went up after the eleven-o’clock news,’ she said. ‘I always watch Channel Five when I’m home. I really like them. You watch Channel Five?’

‘Day and night,’ I said. ‘You went up after the news?’

‘Yes. I always do, and I always peek in, see if he’s awake, so, if he is, I can say nighty-night to him.’

‘And you saw right away that he was deceased?’

‘His light was on,’ she said.

She was the center of our attention. Her face had a kind of sweet dreaminess about it, as if reciting her story pleased her.

‘Which is very unusual. Nathan usually goes to sleep very early. So I went in and, my God, there was blood everywhere on his pillow.’

Her hands were resting on the tabletop in front of her. Graff patted one of them.

‘It must have been so awful,’ he said.

‘It was awful,’ Mary said.

We all sat for a time contemplating how awful it was.

‘What did you do after you made this discovery?’ I said.

‘I don’t … I guess I don’t really remember. I think I burst into tears.’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long after?’

‘I don’t know. Soon, I think.’

‘And no one else was in the house?’

‘No.’

‘No one could have slipped in unnoticed?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’

‘Alarm system?’

‘Yes. I guess. I don’t know really. Nathan took care of that. I’m not very good about mechanical things.’

I looked at Rita.

‘Cops say the alarm was on,’ Rita said.

‘Anyone have a key?’ I said. ‘Or knowledge of the alarm code?’

‘Alarm code?’

‘The code you punch in to override the alarm,’ I said.

‘I don’t know what that means.’

I nodded. ‘How about a key?’ I said. ‘Who might have a key?’

‘I have one.’

‘Good. Anyone else?’

‘Nathan.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. Nathan was very security-conscious. He didn’t even give a key to Esther.’

‘Esther?’

Mary Smith nodded eagerly.

‘Who’s Esther?’ I said.

‘Our cleaning woman. I love her. She’s so good.’

‘What if she came to clean and no one was there?’

‘I don’t know. I guess she’d have to come back.’

‘So just you and Nathan had a key to the house.’ I found myself speaking very slowly.

‘Yes.’

‘And only Nathan knew the alarm code.’

‘I really just don’t know how those things work,’ she said.

‘So who shot him?’ I said.

‘I don’t know.’

She closed her eyes and sat perfectly still for a moment. ‘I don’t even like to think about it,’ she said.

‘I don’t blame you,’ I said. ‘But we sort of have to think about it. Because the cops think you did it.’

‘I don’t know how they can think that,’ she said.

I knew the remark was rhetorical. I let it pass. ‘You and Nathan get along well?’ I said.

‘Oh, yes. We were happy as clams.’

‘Cops say you tried to have him killed a while ago.’

‘I never did,’ she said. ‘I never did any such thing.’

‘You have a big fight with him the evening he was killed?’

‘No.’

‘Cops have witnesses,’ I said.

‘I don’t care what they got, Nathan and I were happy as clams.’

‘Nathan have enemies?’

‘No. Not at all. Everybody liked Nathan.’

‘Almost everybody,’ I said. ‘Anyone else in your life?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Boyfriends?’

‘No. Of course not. Absolutely not.’

‘How long you been married?’ I said.

‘Seven years.’

‘You going with anyone before you married him?’

‘I dated, of course, I mean, look at me. Of course I dated.’

‘Anyone special?’

Her face brightened suddenly, and she smiled.

‘They were all special,’ she said.

‘See any of them since your marriage?’

‘Well, of course, you don’t give up all your friends when you get married.’

‘Maybe you could give us a list of your friends.’

‘My friends?’

‘Somebody killed your husband.’

‘I can’t give you a list of my friends. So you can go bother them?’

‘I’m not your problem,’ I said. ‘I’m working for you. Won’t your friends want to help you?’

‘Well, of course.’

I spread my hands. It follows as the night the day. She frowned for a while. Which was apparently what she did when she thought.

‘Maybe I could give you a list,’ she said.

I waited. Finally she turned to her PR guy.

‘Larson,’ she said. ‘You could give them the guest list for the last party.’

‘I have it in the computer,’ Graff said. ‘If that would help.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘That’ll be great.’

I could see Rita off to the right. She looked amused.

4

I went with Belson to the new Suffolk County House of Correction in South Bay, where they were holding Jack DeRosa for trial on an armed robbery charge.

‘So, as I understand it,’ Belson said, ‘I’m trying to help you prove that our case against Mary Smith is no good.’

‘Yep.’

‘And what’s in that for me?’ Belson said. ‘I helped put the damned case together.’

‘Justice is served?’

‘Yeah?’

‘And I’m your pal.’

‘Oh boy,’ Belson said.

We met DeRosa in a secure conference room on the first floor. His lawyer was with him. DeRosa was a small guy with a big nose that had been broken more than once. There was enough scar tissue around his eyes to suggest that he’d been a fighter.

‘Welterweight?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Any good?’ I said.

‘I was a palooka,’ he said.

‘So you found another line of work.’

DeRosa shrugged. His jail fatigues were too big, and it made him look smaller than he was.

‘Whaddya want?’ he said.

‘Woman named Mary Smith asked you to kill her husband,’ I said.

‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘From me,’ Belson said.

‘We already have our deal in place,’ DeRosa’s lawyer said.

She was stunning. Expensive blond hair cut short, dark blue pantsuit with a fine chalk line, white blouse, small diamond on a gold chain showing at her throat. She looked like she worked out, probably in bright tights and expensive sneakers.

‘Where are you from?’ I said to the lawyer.

‘Excuse me?’

‘What firm do you represent?’

‘Kiley and Harbaugh,’ she said. ‘I’m Ann Kiley.’

‘Bobby Kiley’s daughter?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘Wow!’ I said.

‘What can we do for you, Mr Spenser?’

‘I’m interested in who hooked DeRosa up with Mary Smith,’ I said.

‘And what is your interest, Sergeant?’

‘I’m just along to learn,’ Belson said.

‘Are you here officially?’

‘You mean if your client helps us out can I help him out?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Sure.’

She nodded slightly at DeRosa.

‘Guy I know called me,’ DeRosa said. ‘Told me this broad was interested in a shooter.’

‘What’s the guy’s name?’

‘Chuck.’

‘Chuck.’

‘Yeah. I don’t know his last name, just Chuck.’

‘Where’s Chuck from?’

‘In town somewhere,’ DeRosa said.

‘In town.’

‘Yeah.’

‘If I wanted to talk with Chuck, how would I reach him?’

‘I don’t know. He called me.’

‘So how’d you get in touch with Mary Smith?’

‘Chuck give me her number,’ DeRosa said. ‘I called it.’

I looked at Belson. He shrugged slightly.

‘So,’ I said. ‘A guy named Chuck, you don’t know his full name or how to reach him, calls you up and tells you that a woman wants her husband killed, and you call her up and offer your services?’

‘Yeah.’

I looked at Belson again. He had no expression. I looked at Ann Kiley. She seemed calm.

‘Okay. Tell me about your conversation with Mary Smith.’

‘Hey, I already told about a hundred fucking cops and ADAs,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you read the reports?’

‘It’s just an excuse,’ I said. ‘You’re so goddamned charming that I just like to talk with you.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t like saying the same shit over and over.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Like you got important stuff to do in here.’

‘It won’t hurt,’ Ann Kiley said, ‘if you tell it once more, Jack.’

‘Yeah? Well, she met me at some fucking restaurant in a fucking clothing store, for crissake.’

‘Okay. How’d you recognize her?’

‘I asked the hostess, or whatever, and they seated me.’

‘What’d she say?’

‘She just said she wanted her husband killed and could I do it?’

‘How much she paying?’

‘Fifty grand.’

‘Why didn’t you take the job?’

‘I did.’

‘But you didn’t kill her husband.’

‘No.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I don’t do that kind of work.’

‘But you took the money.’

‘Yeah, sure. I figure I take the dough and don’t do it. What’s she gonna do?’

‘And you have fifty large in your pocket,’ I said.

‘Twenty-five. She give me half up front, half when it was done.’

‘She say why she wanted him killed?’ I said.

‘Nope.’

‘She ever follow up with you?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘So she gave you twenty-five thousand, and you put it in your pocket and walked away and never saw her again.’

‘That’s right.’

‘How’d she give you the money?’

‘Whaddya mean how? She fucking handed it to me.’

‘Cash?’

‘Yeah. In a bag.’

‘Big bills?’

‘Hundreds.’

I went over it with him another time, and Belson tried him once. The story didn’t change.

Finally Ann Kiley said, ‘I think it is clear that my client has told his story and he retells it consistently.’

‘I think you’re right,’ I said.

‘You’ll speak to the district attorney,’ Ann Kiley said, ‘about my client’s willingness to cooperate?’

‘Sure,’ Belson said.

As we walked to my car, I said to Belson, ‘Anything bother you?’

‘Like what?’ he said.

‘Like an entry-level sluggo being represented by Kiley and Harbaugh,’ I said.

‘Pro bono?’ Belson said.

‘You think?’ I said.

‘No.’

‘It bother you?’

‘Sure it bothers me,’ Belson said. ‘And it bothers me that he got into the deal through a guy named Chuck whom we can’t identify, and it bothers me that his story is so exactly the same every time. And it bothers me his lawyer let him keep talking about it with only my sort of casual comment that I’d speak to the DA.’

‘I noticed that myself,’ I said.

‘However,’ Belson said, ‘sergeants don’t get to be lieutenants by helping people unsolve a high-profile murder.’

‘True,’ I said.

‘But, I’m not forgetting what I owe you…. When Lisa was gone.’

‘That’s not an owesie,’ I said.

‘It is to me. I’ll help you when I can.’

‘Mary Smith says she never hired this guy,’ I said.

‘Mary Smith’s an idiot,’ Belson said.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘There’s that.’

5

Larson Graff faxed me an invitation list with the names of Mary Smith’s 227 closest friends, in alphabetical order. I recognized enough of the names to assume that these weren’t people who hung out at bowling alleys.

The first one I was able to talk with was a guy named Loren Bannister, who was the CEO of an insurance company. He probably thought I was a prospect.

‘Mary Smith?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir. Your name was high on her list.’

‘Maybe because the list was alphabetical,’ he said.

Bannister was square-jawed and silver-haired with a nice tan. He was in full uniform. Dark suit, white shirt, gold cuff links, red tie with tiny white dots.

‘You’re too modest,’ I said.

‘Um-hm. I assume this is connected with Nathan Smith’s death?’

‘Yes.’

‘She really kill him?’ Bannister said.

‘No.’

‘And you work for Cone Oakes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Barry Cone called me,’ Bannister said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Tell me about Mary Smith.’

‘Well, I don’t know her very well,’ Bannister said. ‘I knew Nathan a little.’

‘They seem happy to you?’

‘Sure. I guess so. She was younger. As I said, I’d see them now and then, at charity events, mostly.’

‘Did you know them socially?’

‘In the sense that we would go out to dinner with them? No.’

‘Do you know Larson Graff?’

‘Graff?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t believe so. Who is he?’

‘He’s Mary Smith’s PR man.’

Bannister smiled. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Him.’

‘You know him?’

‘I didn’t know his name,’ Bannister said. ‘Mary is at a lot of affairs without Nathan. Whatsisname escorts her.’

‘Did your company insure the Smiths?’

‘I don’t really know,’ Bannister said. He smiled. ‘I don’t do much direct selling.’

‘Could you find out?’ I said.

‘Does it say CEO on my door?’ he said. ‘Of course I could find out.’

‘Would you?’

Bannister looked as if he might say no. But instead he picked up his phone.

‘Allison? Please find out if we have policies on Nathan Smith or Mary Smith.’ He looked at me. ‘Address?’

I gave him the address and he repeated it to Allison.

‘Get back to me promptly,’ he said and hung up. He seemed confident that he would be gotten back to promptly.

‘Aside from walker duties,’ I said, ‘would you know why Mary Smith would need a public relations person?’

‘No.’

‘Who would know?’ I said.

Bannister leaned back in his swivel chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

‘Barry Cone’s a buddy of mine,’ Bannister said. ‘He asked me to talk with you. I’m happy to do so. But I don’t get why you’re talking to me. I don’t really know Mary Smith. I don’t know who would know about her. I say hello to her at cocktail parties that I go to because being prominent is part of my job.’

‘And Nathan Smith?’

‘See him at the Harvard Club once in a while,’ Bannister said. ‘Knew him casually. He was a player.’

‘A player?’

‘Yes. In the money business.’

‘What did he do?’ I said.

Bannister smiled. ‘He fiddled with money.’

‘How?’

‘Like everybody else,’ Bannister said. ‘He bought and he sold.’

‘Stocks and bonds?’

‘And real estate, and banks, and, for all I know, lottery tickets.’

‘Who would know more about him?’ I said.

Bannister shrugged. ‘His attorney. His broker. His doctor. His priest? I don’t know how to make this clearer. I don’t really know either one of them.’

The phone rang and Bannister answered. He listened, made a couple of notes, said thank you, and hung up.

‘We have a whole-life policy on Nathan Smith,’ he said.

‘How much?’

Bannister hesitated only a moment. ‘Ten million dollars,’ he said.

‘There’s some premiums to pay?’ I said.

‘Not as much as you might think,’ Bannister said. ‘It was taken out for him at birth, by his grandfather.’

‘Beneficiary?’

‘Mary Smith.’

I didn’t say anything. Bannister had tilted back in his chair again and reclasped his hands.

‘That doesn’t help your cause,’ Bannister said.

‘Not much,’ I said. ‘Can I get a copy of the policy?’

‘It’s confidential.’

‘Yeah, but you and Barry Cone are buddies.’

Bannister smiled. ‘I’ll have somebody run it off and FedEx it over,’ he said. ‘May I ask a question?’

‘Sure.’

‘Why, if you are trying to clear Mary Smith, are you investigating Mary Smith?’

‘I have nowhere else to investigate,’ I said. ‘Think of it as cold canvassing.’

Bannister smiled. ‘I never sold insurance,’ he said. ‘My last job was at Pepsi-Cola.’

‘Management is management,’ I said.

Bannister nodded and smiled. ‘Good luck with the cold canvass,’ he said.

6

It was almost May. The azaleas were blooming. The swan boats were active in the Public Gardens. The softball leagues had begun across Charles Street, on the Common. And, in the Charles River Basin, the little rental sailboats skidded and heeled in the faint evening wind.

‘You’re working for that hussy again,’ Susan said.

‘Rita?’

‘Miss Predatory,’ Susan said.

‘I like Rita,’ I said.

‘I know.’

‘Are you being jealous?’ I said.

‘Analytic,’ Susan said. ‘Rita is sexually rapacious and perfectly amoral about it. I’m merely acknowledging that.’

‘But you don’t disapprove.’

‘Professionalism prevents disapproval,’ Susan said.