Bad Business (10 page)

D
arrin O'Mara broadcast from a studio on the seventh floor of an ugly little building near the Fleet Center. I met him when he got off the air, and we went around the corner to a big faux Irish pub for a drink. The Celtics and the Bruins were through for the year, so the place was nearly empty and we were able to sit by ourselves at one end of the bar. O'Mara ordered a pint of Guinness. I didn't want to seem inauthentic, but I couldn't stand Guinness. I ordered a Budweiser.

O'Mara took a sip, and looked pleased. He turned a little toward me, with one elbow on the bar, and said in his soft rich radio voice, “How can I help you?”

“Tell me about Marlene Rowley,” I said.

“Marlene Rowley?”

“Yep.”

“Why would you think I would have anything to tell you about her?”

“We were talking about, ah, relationships,” I said, “and she began to sound like Chrétien de Troyes.”

“Really,” O'Mara said.

“She was expounding the same flapdoodle about courtly love that Ellen Eisen espouses,” I said. “I assumed she got it from the same place.”

“I don't believe that the principles of courtly love are flapdoodle,” O'Mara said. “Sometimes clients misstate or misunderstand those tenets. But that does not invalidate them.”

The bartender was a firm-looking redhead in tight black pants. She was slicing lemons at the other end of the bar. There was a gray-haired couple drinking rye and ginger and chain-smoking in a booth near the door. They didn't talk, or even look at each other.

“Do you know Marlene Rowley?” I said.

“I do, professionally.”

“And her husband?”

“Yes,” O'Mara said. “They were both in my seminar.”

“And the Eisens?” I said. “Same seminar?”

“Yes.”

“And, of course the Rowleys knew the Eisens.”

“Of course, the husbands were colleagues at Kinergy.”

“What kind of seminar is it that they were in?” I said.

“Love and Liberation, it's called.”

“Yippee,” I said. “Did you know that Ellen Eisen and Trent Rowley were having an affair?”

“They had developed a relationship. It is part of the seminar. Marlene and Bernie were developing a relationship as well.”

“A sexual relationship?”

“Of course.”

I nodded. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to concentrate.

“So,” I said slowly, “were they, in the language of courtly love, wife swapping?”

“They were developing cross-connubial relationships,” O'Mara said.

“I'll bet they were,” I said.

“My presence here is voluntary, Spenser. I don't have any obligation to sit here and listen to your misinformed disapproval.”

I looked at the gray-haired couple in the booth. They each had a fresh rye and ginger. He was staring out the front window of the pub. She was looking at the bottles stacked up behind the bar. Both were smoking. They didn't seem close. Probably rebelling against coercive love.

“Did all four members of this tag team know of the situation?” I said.

“Of course. Everything took place within seminar guidelines.”

“So why did Marlene hire me to follow her husband?”

“I have only your word,” O'Mara said, “that she did.”

“Take as a premise that she did,” I said. “Speculate with me.”

O'Mara signaled the bartender for another Guinness.

“And a pony of Jameson's,” he said. “Beside it.”

The bartender looked at me. I nodded yes to another Bud.

“Were that the case,” O'Mara said, “perhaps it would indicate that Marlene had failed to transcend the material plane.”

“Meaning that if Trent became enamored enough of
Ellen to stroll off into the sunset,” I said, “Marlene wanted to be sure she'd get hers.”

O'Mara was watching the bartender pour the whisky. He seemed relieved when she started back down the bar with it.

“Hypothetically,” O'Mara said.

“Any sign that was happening?” I said.

“I am not a dating service,” O'Mara said. “I instruct people in a certain philosophy, and I help them understand its implications.”

“Do you know anyone named Gavin?” I said.

“Not that I can think of,” O'Mara said.

He took a sip of the whisky and washed it with Guinness. He looked happier.

“Bob Cooper?” I said.

“No, I don't believe I know him either,” he said.

“And you don't know any reason somebody might shoot Trent Rowley?”

“God no,” he said.

“Eisen didn't mind his wife and Trent.”

“Absolutely not. Any more than Trent minded Bernie and Marlene.”

“And why would anyone,” I said.

“Why indeed,” O'Mara said.

The Irish boilermaker was cheering him greatly.

“You ever read Chaucer's
Troilus and Criseyde
?” I said.

“If I did,” O'Mara said with a smile, “I've forgotten it. Why do you ask?”

“Character named Pandarus,” I said. “I was going to ask you about him.”

O'Mara polished off the rest of the Irish whisky and gestured at the bartender for another one.

“I fear that you may be misled,” he said. “The references to courtly love are metaphoric, if you see what I mean.”

The whisky arrived. He took a fond sip and let it trickle down his throat. Then he drank some Guinness.

“My field is not literature,” he said. “Though literature is surely a stimulus to my thinking.”

He had swung fully around on his barstool, facing the big nearly empty room, with both elbows resting behind him on the bar. I felt a lecture lurking.

“My field,” he said, “is human interaction.”

“You and Linda Lovelace,” I said.

I left O'Mara at the bar. As I came out, I saw a guy with shoulder-length black hair round the corner onto Causeway Street and disappear.

I only saw his back, but the hair looked like the guy I'd seen at Bob Cooper's club.

H
ealy came into my office with a bag of donuts and two large cups of coffee. He sat and handed me a coffee.

“Dunkin' Donuts,” he said. “I get the cop discount.”

He held the bag of donuts toward me and I took one. Cinnamon, my favorite.

“I thought it might be time for us to compare notes,” Healy said.

“Wow,” I said. “You are really stuck, huh?”

“Here's what we know,” Healy said. “Somebody shot Trent Rowley to death.”

I waited. Healy didn't say anything.

After a while I said, “That much.”

“Just barely,” Healy said. “Whaddya got?”

“What have I got, just like that? A cup of coffee and a donut and I spill my guts to you?”

“That was my plan,” Healy said.

We each drank some coffee. Healy and I had been
sort of friends for a long time. Which did not mean I needed to tell him everything I knew unless there was something in it for me. There might be.

“The security guy at Kinergy,” I said. “Gavin. He hired two, ah, marginal private eyes to follow the wives of a couple of his employees, including Marlene Rowley.”

“Tell me about that,” Healy said.

I told him.

“And you can't find either gumshoe,” Healy said.

“Maybe I just keep missing them,” I said.

“Maybe. I'll have someone run it down.”

“Can you let me know?” I said.

“As quick as you did,” Healy said.

I gave him my big charming smile.

“Better late than never,” I said.

“Yeah,” Healy said, “sure.”

My big charming smile generally worked better with women.

“What's Gavin have to say about it?”

“Denies everything.”

“And he paid them cash.”

“Yep.”

“So the only way we know he hired them to do the tail job is because they told you.”

“Yep.”

“And now you can't find them.”

“So far,” I said.

“So unless we find them we have no evidence that Gavin did anything except what you say they told you.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“We know how much that's worth,” Healy said.

“Sadly, yes,” I said.

“Hell, even if it was worth anything it doesn't prove it was Gavin; there's a lot of blond guys with mustaches.”

“I know,” I said. “It would have to be an ID by O'Neill or Francis.”

“Which we can't get if we can't find them.”

Healy and I both took a bite of donut and looked at each other while we chewed.

When he was through chewing, Healy swallowed and said, “Might be we won't find them.”

“That occurred to me,” I said.

“Still, we got Gavin,” Healy said.

“For what?”

“For looking into,” Healy said.

“It's a start,” I said.

S
usan was wearing white pants that fit well, and a top with horizontal blue and white stripes and a wide scoopy neck which revealed the fact that she had the best-looking trapezius muscles of any woman in the world. I was nearly as dashing, though flaunting it less, in jeans and sneakers and a black tee shirt. I was carrying a gun so I wore the tee shirt not tucked in. We were sitting in the lobby at the Chatham Bars Inn amid a maelstrom of yuppies, mostly male, in bright Lacoste shirts, maroon and green predominating, pressed khakis, and moccasins, mostly cognac-colored, no socks. The women followed the same color scheme, the khaki varying among slacks, skirts, and shorts, depending, Susan and I agreed, on how they felt about their legs. Bob Cooper moved among them, wearing a starched white button-down shirt, top two buttons open, black linen trousers, and black Italian loafers: the patriarch, his gray
head visible among the acolytes, laughing, squeezing shoulders, hugging an occasional woman, accepting obeisance. Gavin moved always near Cooper, wearing one of those white-nipped long-waisted shirts that Cubans wear in Miami. Bernie Eisen was there, drinking mai tais. I saw no sign of Ellen.

The chatter was continuous and loud. It was the first day of the retreat, cocktail time, and everyone was taking full advantage. The company had rented the whole place. Everyone there was from Kinergy, except me and Susan.

“Breathtaking,” Susan said, “isn't it.”

“Think of the pressure,” I said. “Do I look like a winner? Am I dressed right? Am I talking to the right people? Have I signed up for the right activities? What if I've signed up for sailing and it turns out that only losers sign up for sailing?”

“You can smell the fear,” Susan said. “And the greed.”

“That too,” I said.

“We have penetrated to the heart,” Susan said, “of corporate America.”

“Have you noticed that Cooper is the tallest guy in the room?” I said.

“He is a tall man.”

“He's not much taller than I am.”

“So you would be the second tallest?” Susan said.

“You think it is an accident that no member of Kinergy management is as tall as the CEO?” I said.

Susan was holding a glass of pinot grigio, from which she had, in theory, been drinking for an hour and ten minutes. It was down nearly half an inch. She took
another sip, and swallowed, looking at the room. Her lips were slightly parted, the residue of wine making them gleam. I knew that jumping over there and sitting on her lap was unseemly. I fought the impulse back.

“We only assume something to be an accident when all other explanations fail,” she said.

“Wow,” I said. “Is that the royal we? Or are you talking about you and me?”

“You and me,” she said. “I only use the royal we for state occasions.”

“So you think it's an accident?”

“No.”

“Couldn't you have said that to start?”

“I have a Ph.D.,” Susan said. “From Harvard. If I had done postdoctoral work I wouldn't be able to speak at all.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Everyone appears to work out,” Susan said.

“And spend a lot of time in the sun,” I said.

“There are other ways to appear tanned,” Susan said.

“And everyone has even white teeth.”

“There are several ways to achieve that also.”

“My God,” I said. “Is nothing as it appears.”

“You and me, Cookie.”

“Besides that,” I said.

“I think Hawk looks pretty much like who he is.”

“I'll tell him,” I said. “He'll be proud.”

“What do you suppose he and Pearl are doing?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Running along the river, scaring people.”

“How nice for her,” Susan said.

Set up around the lobby were display posters listing the various events. Every event was a competition in which points could be earned: sailing, fishing, tennis, golf, bocce, badminton, horseshoes, skeet, archery, and a three-mile run. There were shopping trips arranged for the few wives in attendance.

“You think bringing your wife is the mark of a loser?” I said to Susan.

“Absolutely,” Susan said. “It certifies that you're pussy whipped.”

“I brought you.”

“I rest my case,” Susan said.

Bob Cooper appeared before us with a drink in his big strong-looking hands. Gavin was with him.

“Spenser,” he said, “it's great you could come.”

“It is,” I said.

“This the sort-of wife?” he said.

“Bob Cooper,” I said. “Susan Silverman.”

He bowed and shook her hand, smiling at her full wattage.

“If you were sort of my wife, I'd make sure it was the complete deal,” he said.

“Actually
sort of
is as far as I want to go,” Susan said.

Cooper straightened and put his head back and laughed. It was a big laugh, full of authority.

“Well hell,” he said. “Just like a man. I never thought of that.”

He glanced at Gavin.

“Gav, you know Spenser, this is, ah, Ms. Silverman.”

We shook hands with Gavin just as if we were glad to see him.

“Room suitable?” he said.

“Lovely,” Susan said.

Cooper nodded like it actually mattered to him.

“You need anything you call Delia, she's here. Room eleven.”

I nodded. Susan smiled.

“I've saved a couple of seats at my table,” Cooper said. “For dinner. I hope you can join me.”

“We'd be thrilled,” Susan said, just as if she meant it.

“See you then,” Cooper said. “Dinner's at seven.”

He moved off toward a group of men at the bar. Gavin followed. Susan watched them go, smiling.

“Why exactly was it we decided to come to this?”

“I don't know what else to do,” I said. “I'm rummaging.”

Susan nodded. Her eyes had a little glitter in them. Something was amusing her.

“What?” I said.

“You could barely force yourself to be civil,” Susan said. “How long do you suppose that you would last as a Kinergy employee?”

“I suppose it would depend on how much I needed the job,” I said.

Susan looked straight at me and gave me a full-out, unfettered grin. My alimentary canal tightened. I took in some air. When she did the unfettered grin, I always felt as if I needed more oxygen than I was getting.

“No,” she said. “It wouldn't.”