Bad Business (4 page)

M
arlene Rowley came to see me in the morning, wearing a yellow summer dress with blue flowers. She sat in a straight chair and crossed her legs, and showed me her kneecaps.

“Did you catch him yet,” she said

“Depends what you mean by catch. Want some coffee?”

“No. What have you got?”

“I have him in a hotel room with another woman,” I said.

“When?”

“Monday night.”

“And you didn't report it?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“You feel that being in a hotel room with another woman is enough?” I said.

“No. I want proof. I want the sonovabitch caught with his pants down. Her too. Or them. Or whoever he's screwing.”

“Three hours together in a hotel room would probably suffice in divorce court.”

“I want it all,” she said.

“You want to embarrass him,” I said.

“Goddamned right,” she said. “Do you have any idea? No. Of course you don't. You couldn't imagine how many dinner parties I ran for his stupid friends. How to make nice chitchat. How many hours at the day spa, so I'd look good. He's cheating on me? Look at me. I'm beautiful. I'm incredibly smart. I've been a perfect wife for him. People like me. They like him, the jerk, because he's married to me. If it weren't for me he'd be running a hardware store someplace. And he cheats on me?”

“Hard to imagine,” I said.

“You're damned right. So you stay on him until you've got him cold. I want pictures.”

“Pictures,” I said.

“Of him and whatever bitch he's fucking.”

“In the act,” I said.

“Absolutely.”

“Should I have them matted and framed?” I said.

“Are you being funny?” she said.

“Apparently not,” I said.

“I expect results,” she said. “And I expect them promptly. If you can't handle that, I'll find someone who can.”

“Why don't you do that,” I said.

“What?”

“Why don't you find somebody else to do this work,” I said.

“No. Oh my God. No. I didn't mean that. Sometimes I'm so clear on things that I may be too abrupt. I want you. I don't want someone else. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry.”

I put both my hands up, palms toward her. And made a gesture for her to stop.

“I'm not offended,” I said.

“I can pay you more,” she said.

“My last job, I was paid four donuts,” I said. “Your pay scale is fine.”

“Then what?”

“I'll make you a deal,” I said. “I'll get you evidence sufficient to demonstrate infidelity. And you stop telling me what it is and how to do it.”

“I didn't mean to make you mad.”

“I'm not mad,” I said. “I'm just sort of inner-directed.”

Marlene frowned a little and tried to look thoughtful.

“Well,” she said. “Can we continue?”

“On my terms,” I said.

“Oh, yes, certainly,” she said. “That will be fine.”

“Okay. I'll stay with your husband for a while, see what else surfaces.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Sure.”

We sat quietly for a moment. She shifted a little in the chair. She was wearing yellow sling-back heels and no stockings. Her legs were tan. It was May. I suspected artifice.

“I really do like you,” she said. “Really.”

I nodded.

“Don't you think I'm good-looking?”

“I do,” I said.

“I know I frighten a lot of men,” she said. “You know—beautiful, educated, rich. Men feel threatened.”

“I'm trying to be brave,” I said.

“I think you are really good-looking too,” she said.

“Guys at the gym are always telling me that,” I said.

“It's hard being alone,” she said. “And being a woman. I'm counting on you.”

“Little lady,” I said, “you're in good hands.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“With,” I said. “Laughing with.”

W
hich was why, later that afternoon, I was back at my post, in line of sight with Trent Rowley's silver Beamer. I had two books with me: Simon Schama's book,
Rembrandt's Eyes
, which was too big to carry around places except when I was doing surveillance in a car. The other was a much smaller book called
Genome
, in case I had to kill time on foot.

The Schama book was not one you read at a sitting, and certainly not at a standing. I'd been reading it a few chapters at a time for several years. I hadn't started
Genome
yet.

People began leaving the Kinergy offices at about 4:30. The Beamer stayed put. I kept reading. At six I started the car up and turned on the radio. The Sox were playing an early evening game for some reason, probably having something to do with television. I was pefectly happy with television, but it always seemed to me
that, finally, baseball was designed for radio. The pace of the game gave the announcers time to talk about the game and the players and other players from games past, unless they had so many commercials they had trouble fitting the game around them. By the seventh inning it was too dark to read, even with the interior light on in the car, so I put
Rembrandt
down and listened to the game. By 9:15 the game was over. It was fully dark, and the silver Beamer and I were the only cars left in the lot.

Was Rowley scoring Ellen Eisen in his office? He was the CFO so he must have a couch. I could burst in on him with a camera and shout
ah ha!
But I didn't have a camera, and I had no interest in ever yelling
ah ha!
It would have been especially embarrassing if when I burst in and yelled
ah ha!
he was at his desk going over spreadsheets. Plus, without a camera all I could do when I burst in would be to point my finger at them and say
click.

I decided not to burst in. I called his office number. His voice mail answered after four rings. I waited another fifteen minutes and called again. Voice mail again. If he'd come out, I wouldn't have missed him. I had been doing this kind of thing too well, for too many years, for me to have missed him. Had he scooted out another door into the waiting arms of Ellen Eisen? Were they even now locked in mad embrace in the back seat of her Volvo station wagon? Or had he been overwhelmed by guilt and slashed his wrists with a Swiss Army knife? I sat in the dark and looked at the encouraging stars and thought about it. I needed to know where he was.

I got out of my car and walked to the glass front door
and knocked. There was a security guy at the desk inside, watching television on a small screen. He picked up the phone and pointed toward me. There was a phone outside the door. I picked it up.

“May I help you?” the security guy said.

“I was supposed to meet Trent Rowley here,” I said. “At seven o'clock.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Johnny Weismuller,” I said.

“I don't see you on our list, Mr. Weisman.”

“It was social,” I said.

“I don't see how I can help you,” the security guy said.

He didn't want to be missing the jackpot question on
Jeopardy
.

“I'm getting worried about him,” I said. “His car is still here.”

“Have you called his office?” the security guy said.

“I have. No answer.”

“When Mr. Rowley is working late,” the security guy said, “he doesn't like to be disturbed.”

And so it went, until I finally said I was going to call the cops.

The security guy heaved a big sigh.

“Wait there,” he said. “I'll have someone check.”

I waited. He put down my phone and picked up another one and dialed and spoke briefly and hung up and redirected his gaze to the television. I waited. In maybe five minutes the security guy picked up his phone again, and listened, and leaned suddenly back in his chair and looked out at me. Then I saw him nod and break the connection and punch out another number. I saw him
wait and then he talked for maybe another two minutes, and hung up. He looked at me again through the glass doorway. Then he picked up the intercom phone and pointed and I picked up my end.

“We are still trying to track Mr. Rowley down, sir. Could I have your name again?”

“Johnny Weismuller,” I said and spelled the last name. I wasn't sure how to spell it. Next alias I used would be simpler. Lex Barker, maybe.

“Just hang out there a little longer, sir,” he said. “If you would.”

“Sure,” I said, and hung up and leaned against the outside wall of the entryway.

Something was up and I wanted to know what. In only another minute or two a car pulled into the empty lot, and cruised up and stopped behind me with the headlights pointed at me. It was hard to see in the glare of headlights, but I was pretty sure it was a police cruiser. Two men got out, one from each side, and stood behind the open doors. Through the glare they looked very much like cops. They were cops. It looked like I was the something that was up.

“Step over to the car, please,” one of the cops said. “Put your hands on the hood.”

I did. The cop on the passenger side came around. He had his gun out, holding it down next to his leg pointed at the ground. I put my hands behind my head with my fingers laced.

“He's done this before, Freddie,” the cop said.

He holstered his weapon and held my laced hands together with his left hand while he patted me down.

“Gun,” I said. “Right hip.”

He patted me down anyway, and when he was through, took the gun from the holster and let go of my clasped hands and stepped away from me. I straightened.

“You got some ID?”

“In my wallet.”

“Get it out,” the cop said.

He was a big kid with freckles and sergeant stripes. I got my wallet out and got out my license to detect and handed it over. He took it and handed it to his partner to read.

“Private detective,” the partner said.

He was shorter than his partner, with a narrow face and a low hairline.

“So tell me your story,” the first cop said.

Two more cruisers pulled into the parking lot, and behind them an unmarked Ford Crown Vic, with the dead giveaway buggy whip antenna. Unmarked was probably mostly a status symbol. Two guys in plain clothes got out of the Crown Vic and walked toward us. An ambulance pulled into the lot, and behind it a State Police Cruiser.

Big doings at Kinergy.

“This the guy?” one of the plainclothes cops said.

The freckle-faced cop said, “Private eye, Sal.”

“Get what you can,” Sal said. “We'll talk to him when we come out.”

The security guy had the glass door open and Sal and the other detective and four uniforms and two ambulance guys went on into the lobby and up in the elevator.

“So what happened to Rowley?” I said.

“Why you think something happened to Rowley?” Beetle Brow said.

“Just a crazy guess,” I said.

Freckles said, “Tell us your story, Mr. Spenser.”

I shook my head.

“Not yet,” I said.

“We could slap the cuffs on you right now,” Beetle Brow said. “Talk to you at the station.”

“Am I under arrest?” I said.

“Not yet.”

“Then I decline to go.”

“You refusing a lawful order, pal?”

I looked at Freckles.

“What is this,” I said. “Good cop, stupid cop? I'm not going to tell anybody anything until I have some idea why I'm being asked.”

Freckles nodded.

“Freddie,” he said. “Whyn't you check around the perimeter of the building, see if there's anything might be useful.”

“He call me stupid?” Freddie said.

“No, no,” Freckles said. “He was talking about me.”

Freddie nodded slowly and gave me a tough look so I wouldn't think I could get away with anything. Then he took a big Mag flashlight from the cruiser and went around the corner of the building.

“According to the call we got,” Freckles said, “there's a dead guy on the seventh floor, suspicious circumstances, and you were at the front door asking about him.”

“Suspicious circumstances,” I said.

Freckles shrugged.

“Our dispatcher talks like that,” he said. “You now know what I know. Why were you looking for him.”

“I was tailing him for a client,” I said. “When he
didn't come out, I called his office. When he didn't answer, I wondered and went to the door. Security guard went to check, and that's what I know.”

“Who's the client?”

I shook my head.

“You got no privilege here,” Freckles said.

“I am an agent of the client's attorney,” I said. “His privilege might extend to me.”

“I doubt it,” Freckles said. “But I'm still in my first year of law school.”

“Might work,” I said.

“Maybe,” Freckles said.

As we were talking another dark Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot. It had the blue plates that Massachusetts puts on official cars.

“Here they are,” Freckles said. “State cops.”

The car door opened and Healy got out.

I said, “Evening, Captain.”

He looked at me for a moment.

“Oh shit,” he said.

“Oh shit?”

“Yeah. You're in this.”

“So?”

“So that means it'll be a fucking mess.”

“I thought you'd welcome my help,” I said.

“Like a case of clap,” Healy said.

“That's cold,” I said.

“It is,” Healy said and walked on past me toward the Kinergy Building.

“You know the captain,” Freckles said.

“I do,” I said. “We're tight.”

“I could see that,” Freckles said.