Bad Business (3 page)

S
usan and I were sitting on a stone pier at the beach in Kennebunkport, looking at the ocean and eating lunch out of a wicker basket.

“So,” she said, “if I understand it. You are, on behalf of Mrs. Rowley, trailing Mr. Rowley, who is having a clandestine affair with Mrs. Eisen, who is being followed by Elmer O'Neill on behalf of Mr. Eisen.”

“Exactly,” I said.

Susan had a lobster club sandwich, which she ate by taking the two slices of bread apart and eating the various components of the sandwich separately, slowly, and in very small bites.

“And after their rendezvous, for purposes of identification, you trailed Mrs. Eisen home . . .”

“To the new Ritz.”

She ate a piece of bacon from the sandwich. I had a
pastrami on light rye, which I ate in the conventional manner.

“And Mr. O'Neill trailed Mr. Rowley home.”

“Yes.”

“And encountered someone conducting surveillance on Mrs. Rowley.”

“Yes.”

“How hideous,” Susan said.

“Hideous?”

“A gaggle of private detectives,” she said. “You assume that Mr. Rowley is also trying to catch Mrs. Rowley?”

“I do,” I said.

Susan ate a part of a lettuce leaf. A fishing boat chugged in toward the river past us, a boy at the wheel. A man stood next to him. We watched as they passed.

“A veritable circle jerk,” Susan said.

“Wow,” I said, “you shrinks have a technical language all your own, don't you?”

“Bet your ass,” Susan said. “Do you know the identity of the third snoop?”

“No. Elmer didn't get the plate numbers.”

I ate my half-sour pickle and looked at the dark water moving against the great granite blocks below us.

Susan said, “None of this changes what you were hired to do, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Do what you were hired to do, collect your pay, and move on.”

“Yep.”

The movement of the immediate water sort of dragged
me outward toward a bigger and bigger seascape until I felt the near eternal presence of the ocean far past the horizon.

“But you won't,” Susan said.

“I won't?”

“Nope.”

We had a couple of bottles of Riesling. I poured us some wine.

“A jug of wine, some plastic cups, and thou,” I said.

“You will have to know if Mr. Rowley hired someone to follow Mrs. Rowley and if so, why.”

“I will?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?” I said.

“Because of how you are. When you pick something up, you can't put it down until you know it entirely,” Susan said. “Your imagination simply won't let go of it, and, whether you want to or not, you'll be turning it every which way to see what it's made of.”

“Do you have a diagnosis?”

“It's what in my profession we call characterological.”

“Which means you haven't an explanation.”

“Basically yes,” Susan said. “It's simply how you are.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because you know me so well?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“And . . . ?” I said.

She smiled wider.

“Because that's how I am too.”

“Makes you good at what you do,” I said.

“Makes both of us good,” Susan said. “We are hounds for the truth.”

“Woof,” I said.

We sat with our shoulders touching and our backs to the land, and ate our lunch, and drank our wine, and felt the pull of the ocean's implacable kinesis.

“Should we walk back to the White Barn and have a nap?” I said. “And afterwards a swim in the pool, and cocktails, and dinner?”

“Is ‘nap' a euphemism for something more active?” Susan said.

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” I said.

“No,” Susan. “But it's important that they don't coincide.”

Which they didn't.

“H
ere's the deal,” I said to Elmer. “You stay with Ellen Eisen, and let me know if she meets my guy, and I'll see what I can find out about who's watching Mrs. Rowley.”

“Whadda you care who's watching Mrs. Rowley?”

“It's characterological,” I said.

“Sure it is,” Elmer said. “I'll buy in if I get something out of it.”

“I'll owe you,” I said.

“If finding out gets you any money,” Elmer said, “half of it's mine.”

“You bet,” I said.

“Can I trust you,” Elmer said.

“You bet,” I said.

He looked at me for a time without saying anything. His little dark eyes were slightly oval, as if, maybe, a
long way back, one of the O'Neills had been Asian. Finally he nodded to himself slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Your word is good.”

“How do you know that?” I said.

“I know,” Elmer said. “I'll keep in touch.”

He got up and went toward the door. He walked with a little swagger. He would have walked with a big swagger had he been larger. Pearl the Wonder Dog II stood up on the office sofa and stared at Elmer as he walked past. She didn't bristle, but she didn't wag her tail either.

“Fucking dog don't like me,” he said.

“She's just cautious,” I said. “She hasn't been with us very long.”

“He some kinda Doberman?”

“She's a German shorthaired pointer,” I said.

“Same thing,” Elmer said.

I walked over and sat on the couch beside Pearl, and she stretched up her neck to give me a lap.

“Now's your chance,” I said. “Make a break for it.”

After Elmer made his escape, Pearl and I sat on the couch for a while until I was sure Elmer hadn't hurt her feelings. Then I took her to Susan's house. Susan was seeing patients on the first floor. Pearl ran up the stairs to the second floor where Susan lived. When I opened the door she raced into Susan's bedroom, jumped on the bed, clamped onto one of the pillows, and subdued it ferociously. Her self-esteem seemed intact. I gave her a cookie, made sure there was water, left a note on the front hall table for Susan, and went to Manchester.

S
et well back from the road, on a corner lot, devoid of foundation plantings, the Rowley house was as big and costly and ugly as anything north of Boston. Post-modern, the designer probably said. The look of the twenty-first century without sacrificing the values of the past, he probably insisted. I thought it looked like a house assembled by a committee. There were dormers and columns and niches, and peaks and porches and round windows and a roof line that fluctuated like my income. In the front yard there were no flowers, shrubs, or trees. Just a long dull inexpensive sweep of recently cut grass, traversed by a hot top driveway that led to a turnaround apron in front of the garage. It was as if they'd run out of money after the house was built. The place was painted an exciting white. With imaginative gray shutters.

I parked around the corner on the side street where I
could see Rowley's driveway through the shade trees along the road. I played my new Gerry Mulligan/Chet Baker CD. I sang along a little with Chet.
They're writing songs of love, but not for me . . .
Then I played Lee Wiley and Bobby Hackett. At 4:30 in the afternoon a silver Lexus SUV came down the street and pulled into the driveway. It parked at the head of the driveway and Marlene got out, carrying a pale pink garment bag. A dark maroon Chevy sedan came down the street in the same direction Marlene had come from, and turned in onto my side street. The driver looked at me carefully as he passed. I read his registration in my rearview mirror, a trick that always impressed people, and wrote it down. Maybe fifty yards up the street he U-turned and parked behind me.

We sat. I listened to some Dean Martin. I always thought he sounded like me. Susan has always said he didn't. Some starlings were working the lawn in front of the Rowleys' house, and two chickadees. I turned Dean down, and called Frank Belson on my car phone and got shuffled around the homicide division for about five minutes before I got him.

“Can you check a car registration for me,” I said.

“Of course,” he said. “I welcome the chance to do real police work.”

“Don't let them push you around at the Registry,” I said, and gave him the number and hung up. In my rearview mirror I could see the guy behind me on his car phone. I smiled. Pretty soon we'd know each other's name. I listened some more to Dino, and watched the birds foraging on the lawn some more until Belson called me back.

“Car's registered to the Templeton Group, one hundred Summer Street,” Belson said.

“Company car,” I said.

“Unless there's some guy walking around named Templeton Group.”

“You know what the company does?”

“I figured you'd ask so I used a special investigative tool known only to law enforcement.”

“You looked them up in the phone book.”

“I did. Detective agency.”

“Of course it's a detective agency,” I said.

“You owe me two martinis and a steak,” Belson said.

“Put it on my account,” I said.

“There's no room left on your account,” Belson said and hung up.

I called Rita Fiore.

“Cone, Oakes use a particular detective agency?” I said.

“That's it?” Rita said. “No ‘hello you sexy thing, who does Cone, Oakes use?' ”

“Who do they use?” I said.

“I use you.”

“I know, but who, for divorce work, say, or corporate crime?”

“I do criminal litigation, for crissake. I don't know who the white collar doo doos use.”

“You could ask.”

“And call you back?”

“Exactly,” I said. “You sexy thing.”

Rita hung up. I put in my CD of Benny Goodman's 1938 Carnegie Hall Jazz Concert. We were halfway through Avalon when Rita called back.

“Lawton Associates,” she said. “Big firm on Broad Street. I'm told they're very discreet.”

“Unlike yourself,” I said.

Rita laughed and hung up. She had a great laugh. I thought about things for a little while. Whoever had hired the Templeton Group probably hadn't done it through Cone, Oakes. Didn't mean it wasn't somebody at Kinergy. But it didn't mean it was. I always hated clues that didn't tell you anything. I thought about things some more. After a while, I got sick of that, and decided to do something instead of doing nothing, so I got out of my car and walked back to the maroon Chevy. It was a warm day. The driver had his window open.

“Find out who I am yet?” I said.

“They're calling me back,” the driver said.

I took a business card from my shirt pocket and handed it to him. He read it and nodded, and handed it back to me.

“You know who I am?” he said.

“I know you work for the Templeton Group,” I said.

“You got a quicker trace than I did.”

“Better contacts,” I said. “You want to talk.”

“May as well,” he said and nodded toward the passenger door. I went around and got in.

“Name's Francis,” he said. “Jerry Francis.”

He was a square-faced, square-shouldered guy wearing Oakley wraparounds, and a straw fedora with a wide brim and a blue silk hatband.

“Who you tailing?” he said.

“You first,” I said.

He shook his head.

“It's against company policy,” he said, “to discuss any aspect of a case with any unauthorized person.”

“And I'm about as unauthorized as it gets,” I said. “On the other hand, you showed up a few hundred yards behind Marlene Rowley. That might be a clue.”

Francis shrugged.

“I've been tailing Trent Rowley,” I said.

Francis grinned.

“Ah, divorce work,” he said.

“Who can catch who first,” I said.

“And the winner gets most of the assets. You working for her?”

“Yes,” I said, “following him.”

Francis laughed briefly.

“And you know who I'm working for,” he said.

“Him,” I said, “following her. You catch her?”

“It's against company policy,” Francis said, “to discuss any aspect of a case with unauthorized personnel.”

“Of course,” I said.

“So far the only person I caught her with was him.”

“Her husband?”

“Yeah.”

Francis was watching the Rowley house. Through the trees, across the lawn, I could see Marlene Rowley come out of her house. I got out of the car.

Francis started the car.

“Time to go to work,” he said.

I closed the door.

Through the window, I said, “Have a nice evening.”

“You bet,” he said and put the car in drive and moved slowly down toward the corner of the street where Marlene would pull out of her driveway. In a while she did and turned right and after a suitable pause, Francis drove on after her.

I stood on the empty suburban street for a time. I felt left out. I had no one to follow. There was a summer hum of insects, which made everything seem quieter. I listened to the quiet for a bit, then went to my car and started it up. And went home.