The Professional (13 page)

I thought I saw a glitter of panic in Chet’s eyes.

“Why not?”

“Couple of things,” I said. “One, I’m sick of all of you. All the women and their husbands and the whole cheating rigmarole. Two, it’s emotional suicide. And I’m not going to help you commit it.”

“What are you, some kind of fucking shrink?”

“Doesn’t matter what I am,” I said. “I’m not going to work for you.”

“What if I pay you more than you’re worth?” Chet said.

“There is no such amount,” I said. “But it’s not about money. I won’t dance.”

Chet was rich. He had clout. People didn’t turn him down. He was breathing as if he had just run a race. His wife didn’t love him, and he didn’t think he could live without her.

“I need some help here,” he said.

His voice was hoarse.

“You do,” I said. “But not the kind I can give you.”

“You talking about a shrink?” he said.

“I can get you some names,” I said.

“Fuck that,” he said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Fuck that,” he said again, and got up and walked out.

Outside my office window, a couple of solitary snowflakes spiraled down. I watched them as they passed.

“Après vous,” I said, “le déluge.”

NORMALLY WHEN WE ATE TOGETHER at my place, Susan and I sat at the kitchen counter. But it was Christmas, so Susan set the table at one end of the living room: tablecloth, crystal, good china, good silver, candles, and napkins in gold napkin rings.

“What do you think?” Susan said.

“Zowie,” I said.

“Zowie?”

“You heard me,” I said.

“Would Martha Stewart say ‘zowie’?”

“If she wouldn’t, she should,” I said.

I had a fire going, and Pearl the Wonder Dog was in front of it on the couch, resting up after the rigors of the ride from Cambridge.

“What’s for eats?” Susan said.

“I was thinking pizza,” I said. “How ’bout you?”

Susan looked at me without expression.

“Or Chinese?” I said. “I bet PF Chang’s is open. Pork fried rice?”

Susan’s expression didn’t change.

“I suppose subs wouldn’t do it, either,” I said.

“The baby and I are going home,” Susan said.

“Boy, are you picky,” I said. “Okay, how about we start with bay scallops seviche, then we have slow-roasted duck, snow peas, corn pudding, and brown rice cooked with cranberries?”

“And dessert?” Susan said.

“Blackberry pie.”

“With ice cream?” Susan said.

“Ice cream or cheddar cheese that I bought at Formaggio.”

“Or both?”

“Or both,” I said.

“Oh, all right,” Susan said. “We’ll stay.”

“Good girls,” I said. “Would either of you care for some pink champagne?”

“Pearl’s underage,” Susan said.

“In dog years she’s middle-aged,” I said.

“She is still a baby,” Susan said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll drink hers. How about you, little lady?”

Susan smiled, which was worth traveling great distances to see, and said, “It would be foolish not to.”

I poured us each a glass of Krug rosé, put the ice bucket on the coffee table, and Susan and I squeezed onto the couch beside Pearl. Pearl looked a little annoyed, which was hardly in the spirit of the season, but she readjusted her position and went back to sleep with her head on Susan’s lap. Which was what I had been planning on.

“So,” I said. “Do Jews go to hell for celebrating Christmas?”

“Jews don’t go to hell,” Susan said.

“None?”

“And in particular,” Susan said, “none who were cheerleaders at Swampscott High.”

“And still retain their skills,” I said.

“Several skills,” Susan said.

“I know.”

We drank our champagne. The fire enriched itself as the logs settled in on one another. Pearl sighed in her sleep.

“Do we love each other?” Susan said.

“We do,” I said.

“And were you thinking of celebrating that love with some sort of holiday rendezvous?”

“I was,” I said.

“If I have a heavy meal, as I expect to,” Susan said, “my libido will be dysfunctional for hours.”

“I’ve noticed that about you,” I said.

“However, if we were to drink a bit more champagne and retire to your bedroom before dinner, we could celebrate Christmas in our own ecumenical way,” Susan said. “And then eat the big meal.”

“Brilliant,” I said. “You’re amazing.”

“Hot, too,” she said.

I nodded.

“Hotter than a pepper sprout,” I said.

“So shall we do that?”

“You bet,” I said.

“Okay, pour me another glass of champagne,” Susan said. “And we’ll proceed.”

“Zowie,” I said.

IT WAS THE WEEK before Valentine’s Day, and I was in my office working on the first draft of my Valentine’s poem to Susan, when Gary Eisenhower arrived with Estelle, the trainer and putative girlfriend. I put the draft in my middle drawer.

“Gary,” I said.

“Spenser,” Gary said. “You remember Estelle?”

“I do,” I said. “How are you, Estelle.”

“Feeling good,” she said, and gave me a big smile.

Gary gave her a hug.

“Main squeeze,” he said, and kissed her on top of the head.

“Amazing that you find the time,” I said.

“We manage,” Estelle said.

I gestured toward the chairs and they sat down.

“We need to consult you,” Gary said.

“Go,” I said.

“It’s about Beth Jackson,” Estelle said.

“She seeing you again?” I said to Eisenhower.

“Not really,” he said. “Her husband’s all over her on that one. But she does see Estelle.”

“I’m her trainer,” Estelle said. “And we’ve become good friends.”

“Still at Pinnacle?” I said.

“Yes, four days a week,” Estelle said. “We do weights twice a week and Pilates twice a week.”

“Estelle has been able to sneak me in a couple of times, and I’ve been able to spend a little time with Beth in one of the massage rooms.”

“How modern of you,” I said to Estelle.

She smiled brightly.

“Gary and I have our priorities straight,” she said. “We know what we want.”

“Which includes money,” I said.

“Of course,” Estelle said. “No point writing anyone off too soon.”

“How’s business?” I said to Gary.

Gary waffled his hand.

“Mezzo mezz,” he said. “I’m just doing Beth to be polite. No income there at the moment. Meanwhile, I’m developing a new client list, but it’s a little lean right now.”

“Did you come to borrow money?” I said.

“No,” Estelle said. “It’s about Beth. I’m not only her trainer, I’m her friend.”

“Friends are good,” I said.

“There’s someone threatening her life,” Estelle said.

“Who?”

“She doesn’t know. It’s someone Chet does business with. He has threatened to kill Chet and Beth.”

“Cops?” I said.

“Chet refuses to go to the police. Says it’s nothing. Says he’ll take care of it.”

I nodded.

“Will you talk with her?” Estelle said.

I looked at Gary.

“You think it’s serious?” I said.

“You know me, buddy,” Gary said. “I don’t think anything is serious.”

“She’s terrified,” Estelle said. “She wants you to help her. But she’s afraid to ask you.”

I took in a long, slow breath.

“She thinks you’re terrific,” Estelle said. “You’re the only one she thinks she can trust.”

“She’s probably right on both counts,” I said. “When can she come in?”

“I’ll bring her in tomorrow,” Estelle said. “At five.”

“Swell,” I said.

BETH PUT A NOTE on my desk when she came in.

“Read this,” she said.

Your husband had betrayed me.

For this you both shall die
. 

“Your husband has seen this?”

“Yes. He said it was a hoax and not to worry.”

“But you are worried.”

“I’m terrified. For both of us. Who would send such a thing?”

“I’ll talk with him,” I said.

“I promised my husband I would say nothing to anyone,” Beth said.

“Except Estelle,” I said. “And Gary. And me.”

Estelle sat beside Beth across the desk from me and said nothing. The loyal, self-effacing friend.

“I’m frightened,” Beth said. “I have to confide in someone. Estelle and Gary both urged me to see you.”

I nodded.

“Why does your husband not want you to tell anyone?”

“I don’t know. Since that time in his office, when you were there with those black men, he’s changed. He’s very curt with me.”

“So I cannot discuss this with him,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I promised him.”

“Promised him not to let him know you told anyone?”

“What’s the difference,” Beth said. “Will you help me?”

“Why not just leave him,” I said. “Get out of town.”

“And do what?” Beth said. “I’m thirty-four years old, and my only skill is undressing and lying on my back. Besides, that wouldn’t protect him.”

“Does he give you much money?” I said.

“He monitors every dime.”

“So what about my fee?”

“Fee?”

“Yeah, I do this for a living,” I said.

“I . . . But my life, our life, is in danger,” Beth said.

“Can’t you help her?” Estelle said. “Maybe we can find a way to pay you.”

“Tell me more about the danger,” I said.

“I don’t know more,” she said. “I know Chet does a lot of business with people he’s never introduced me to. I know many of them are dangerous. And I know Chet is very . . . his word is cute . . . in his business practices.”

“Boo and Zel still around?”

“They’re taking care of Chet.”

“Why not stay with Chet?”

“I can’t stand to be with him like that all the time.”

“And he’s provided you no security?” I said.

“No. He doesn’t seem to love me anymore.”

“Hard to imagine,” I said. “So you stay with him for the money. Why’s he stay with you?”

“Sex.”

“Well, as long as there’s a bond,” I said. “What would you want me to do?”

“Can’t you provide security?”

“For no fee?” I said. “Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? For how long?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” she said.

I sat. The two women sat. I didn’t like the story. Didn’t mean it wasn’t true. But I didn’t like it.

“I need to think about this,” I said.

“And what do I do while you’re thinking?” Beth said.

“We’ll go to a hotel,” I said. “I’ll register, and you’ll stay there. I’ll see that you’re safe in the room. Room service, whatever. Estelle can stay with you if she wants to. When I go, you lock the door. And you don’t open it for anybody until I come by for you in the morning . . . and we’ll go from there.”

“Will you stay with me?” Beth said.

“No.”

“We could have an awfully good time if you did,” Beth said.

“No,” I said. “We couldn’t.”

Beth stood up suddenly.

“Oh, go to hell,” she said.

She turned and stalked out of my office. Estelle looked at me and shrugged and went after Beth.

I continued to sit at my desk. It was not clear to me what had just happened. On the other hand, it often wasn’t, and I’d gotten used to it.

I WAS IN FRANK BELSON’S CUBICLE at Boston police head-quarters at Tremont and Ruggles.

“Found your name in a guy’s Rolodex,” Frank said.

“A dead guy?” I said.

“Wow,” Belson said. “You figured that out because I’m a homicide cop?”

“Want to tell me who it is?” I said.

“Guy named Chester Jackson,” Belson said.

I leaned back a little.

“I know him,” I said.

“Tell me about him,” Belson said.

“I gather he didn’t die of natural causes,” I said.

“Somebody put a forty-caliber slug into his head from about eight feet away, and a second one, from about three inches.”

“To make sure,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“When did he get it?” I said.

“Secretary says he left his office at five p.m. Nine-one-one got an anonymous call at five-ten. Saying someone had been shot in the garage. There was a car in the area. It arrived at five-thirty, and there he was.”

“What garage?” I said.

“Under International Place,” Belson said. “’Bout two light years down.”

“Was he parked there?”

“Yep. He was facedown on the floor with his car door open.”

“So somebody was waiting for him,” I said.

“This sounds more like me telling you than you telling me,” Belson said.

“We’ll get to me,” I said.

Belson nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “We will.”

“There’s security in that garage, isn’t there?”

“Yep. If you work there, you got a pass. If not, you have to be on a list.”

“You got the list,” I said.

“Amazingly, we thought of that,” Belson said.

“Anything?”

“Not yet,” Belson said. “Thought you might take a look.”

“I will,” I said. “If you walk into the lobby from the street and take the elevator down to the garage . . .”

“And aren’t carrying something that looks like an infernal device,” Belson said. “You’re in.”

“You’d be an idiot,” I said, “to drive into the garage.”

“Car was parked almost next to an elevator,” Belson said.

“Assigned parking?”

“Yep. Sign says ‘Reserved for C. Jackson.’ ”

“So,” I said. “If you knew Jackson, you’d know he was a big deal and would be likely to have an assigned spot.”

“So you could wander around the garage until you found it,” Belson said.

“Probably be near an elevator, so maybe you could cut down on the wandering,” I said.

“And you wait there until he shows up,” Belson said.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Or you know him, you know where he parks, you know when he’s going to come for his car, and you get there a few minutes early,” Belson said. “And pop him.”

“No witnesses,” I said.

“Nope.”

“No suspicious-looking people hanging around,” I said.

“None reported.”

“How come nobody ever sees a shooting?” I said.

“Shooter might try to arrange it that way,” Belson said. “And it’s a godsend for us. Give us something to do so that we’re not in the bars drinking Jameson with a beer chaser by two in the afternoon.”