Family Honor - Robert B Parker (17 page)

Here was the CEO of MassBay Trust which was the ninthbiggest
bank in the country. Before that he'd been the president of the biggest
bank in Rhode Island. He had been a very active Republican fund-raiser
in both Rhode Island and Massachusetts. He had served the last Republican
administration as Commerce Secretary, and it was said that he would be
the Republican candidate for governor in two years. He was also a world-class
trap shooter, and a Harvard graduate. There was one article about Betty
Patton as a ferocious fund-raiser for several deserving charities. There
were no pictures of Betty Patton in the buff. There was no mention of anyone
named Cathal Kragan. None of the articles mentioned a disaffected daughter.

I sat back in the swivel chair in Spike's den and stared
at the blue green screen of Spike's seventeen-inch Sony monitor. I was
alone. Spike and Millicent had taken Rosie for a walk. I had insisted that
Millicent wear a hat and sunglasses Spike said there was not much chance
someonewould even be cruising the South End lookmg for her, and if they
were they would have an even smaller chance of recognizing her.  I
said they might recognize Rosie and put it together. Spike said I overrated
Rosie's visibility. Rosie meanwhile was jumping up in the air and turning
around before she landed and biting her leash. Rosie loved to walk. She
would have gone for a walk with Dracula. Millicent seemed, if not eager,
at least not resistant. Anything she wasn't resistant to was to be encouraged.
Spike reminded me that Millicent would be with him and that he was both
fearless and deadly. So I said okay, and Spike stuck the big Army .45 in
his belt under his jacket and off they went. I had to admit I liked being
alone. Maybe my judgment had swayed a little.

I had known that Brock Patton was a banker, but the fact
that he might make a run for governor gave new urgency to the knowledge
that his wife posed for dirty pictures, and his daughter had been, if briefly,
a hooker. I could see why he would want to keep a lid on things. I could
see why his wife would. But why did Cathal Kragan care? What I knew was,
there was a scheme under way. Maybe about being governor, maybe about something
else. But there were people willing to kill somebody in the interests of
that scheme, and Betty Patton was in on it.

I could ask her, but she wouldn't tell me and then they'd
know I knew, which would make everything harder, including not getting
killed. I called my answering machine on my cell phone. Even if someone
were able to trace the call they wouldn't know where I was. There was a
call from Brian. There was also a call from an attorney who said he represented
Brock Patton. I broke the connection and dialed Brian's number.

"Somebody aced Bucko Meehan," he said when I got him.
"This morning, early."

"Suspects?"

"None."

"How?"

"In his bed. Shot in the middle of the forehead. .357
Mag. Bullet came out the back and through the mattress and buried in the
floor boards under the bed."

"Who found him?"

"Cleaning woman, had her own key. Let herself in about
9:30 this morning and there he was."

"How nice for her," I said.

"You know anything I don't know?" Brian said.

"No. Somebody must have seen him talking to us," I said.

"My guess," Brian said. "Unless it was somebody your ex
sent over."

"No. Richie's not a criminal," I said.

"He comes from a criminal family," Brian said.

"I know. But it doesn't mean he's one."

"The way you tell it, he used that criminal family to
squeeze Bucko for you."

"Yes. But he wouldn't have anyone killed. Besides, what
good would that do any of us. He was our only link to Cathal Kragan."

"And now he's not," Brian said.

"So maybe Richie's an unlikely suspect."

"Yeah, maybe he is."

"You sound like you wish he were a suspect," I said.

"Just trying to get something to grab hold of," Brian
said. "I'm not picking on Richie."

"Good," I said.

"I thought you were divorced," Brian said. "I am. But
that doesn't make me silly."

"For sure," Brian said. "You want to have dinner?"

"Let me get my book," I said. I got it.

"I'm open every night until 2003," I said. "What's good
for you? "
 

Patton greeted me at the door.

"Sunny Randall," he said. "A pleasure."

He gestured me in and spoke to his secretary.

"I don't want to be disturbed," he said and closed the
door.

The office was about the size of a major cathedral in
a poor country. There was a wet bar on the right-hand wall. Beyond it a
door opened into what appeared to be a full bath. A sofa big enough to
sleep two was against the left-hand wall, and opposite the wet bar was
a desk on which pygmies could easily play soccer. The rug was dark green.
The walls were burgundy. The sofa and several armchairs were in some
sort of butterscotch leather. The wall opposite the door was glass and
through it I could see Boston harbor and the Atlantic beyond and the shoreline
as far south as Patagonia. On the walls were pictures of Brock with bird
dogs and dead pheasants, Brock with important people, Brock firing shotguns.
Where there were no pictures there were plaques, which honored Brock's
skeetshooting skills. On some shelves there were shooting trophies.
There were no pictures of Betty Patton, and none of Millicent.

"I must say I'm surprised to see you, Sunny," Brock said.

"We have a common interest," I said.

"You haven't been acting as if we did," he said.

He had his coat off, hanging somewhere in a closet, but
otherwise he was in full uniform: striped shirt with a tab collar, pink
silk tie, pink-flowered suspenders, blue pinstripe suit pants, black wing
tips.

"I suppose it's argumentative, but neither have you,"
I said.

"Goddamn," he said. "You're a scrappy little bitch."

"Thanks for thinking so, you have any idea why armed men
would be trying to find your daughter?"

"Armed men?" he raised his eyebrows.

"I killed one of them," I said.

Brock stared at me for a while.

"Killed, how?" he finally said.

"With a ten-gauge shotgun," I said.

He stared at me some more.

"You care to tell me about it?"

"No. I want you to tell me who these men might be."

"How ... the hell ... would I know that?"

"His name was Terry Nee. Worked for a man named Bucko
Meehan."

"Never heard of either of them."

"Someone killed Bucko yesterday."

"Jesus, Sunny, what the hell have you got me into?"

"I think it's the other way around. Ever hear of a man
named Cathal Kragan?"

"Who?"

"Cathal Kragan. It's an Irish name."

"No, Sunny, I've never heard of him. Have you discussed
all this with the police?"

"How is your marriage?" I said.

"My marriage?"

I nodded.

"Why are you interested?"

"Mr. Patton. . ."

"Brock," he said.

"Brock. I don't know what's going on here and I'm trying
to find out. So I ask questions ... like, are you and your wife happily
married?"

He let his chair lean back, behind his vast desk, and
folded his hands across his flat stomach. His hands were strong-looking,
and tanned, the hands of an outdoorsman, but manicured. He was freshly
shaved. I could smell his cologne. His color was good. His clothes fit
him beautifully. His teeth were even and very white when he smiled at me.

"Let me say, Sunny, that I'm not so married that I wouldn't
respond to you."

"Who could be that married?" I said. "You can't think
of anv reason Millicent took off?"

"Don't know, Sunny, and, you might as well know the truth,
don't much goddamned care."

"I sort of guessed that," I said.

"Since she was born she's never been right. Schools and
shrinks and trouble and more shrinks and different schools and more trouble
and money, Christ, has she cost us money."

"So why'd you hire me to find her?"

"Well, hell, you can't just abandon her. I mean, how the
hell does that look, your daughter runs off and you don't even look for
her."

"How's it look to whom?" I said.

"To anybody."

"To the voters?"

"Sure, to the voters; it's no secret I want to be governor.
I can't have my daughter out hooking on the damned streets while I'm running
for public office, for crissake."

"So now you know she's not hooking, but you don't know
where she is. Is that driving you crazy?"

"I got half a mind to pull your pants off and fuck you
right here on the couch," he said.

"That is about half a mind," I said.

We stared at each other for a time.

"What do you want?" he said.

"Anything that will help me figure out how to help your
daughter."

"I don't know anything. Why don't you just hop right onto
that couch and we'll see how much woman you are."

"I love it when you're poetic," I said. "Am I still working
for you?"

He grinned. It was a very ugly grin for a man so handsome.
It was a grin without humor, or friendliness. It was only a gesture he
made with his mouth as he stared at a fresh piece of meat.

"Depends," he said, "On how quick you hop on the couch."

"Does your wife cheat on you?" I said.

Again the fresh-meat grin. His blue eyes seemed smaller,
and the pupils seemed shrunken.

"Why would she?" he said.

"Women are so flighty," I said.

He stood up.

"Maybe you like it rough," he said. "Maybe I'll just toss
you onto that couch."

I stood up, too.

"Remember the clay pigeon," I said.

"You saying you'd shoot me?"

"Right in your little peenie," I said.

He took a step around his desk. I pulled the gun from
under my coat. He stopped. We looked at each other. Then he snorted and
sat back down.

"You missed your chance, bitch."

"And I hope to miss it again," I said, and went to the
office door and opened it and walked out and left it open behind me.
 

Her office was on the second floor of a small commercial
building in Wellesley next door to a physical therapy center. Sound in
mind and body, one-stop shopping. The sign on her door said Marguerite
Sandborn, Family Counseling. I went in and sat in her empty waiting room
for maybe ten minutes before her inner office door opened, and a woman
I assumed to be Marguerite held it open while a much younger woman came
from the inner office and walked past me and out with her eyes fixed firmly
on the floor ahead of her. When the young woman was gone, Marguerite invited
me in, and told me to call her Marguerite.

"I must warn you, Ms. Randall, that transactions between
myself and a client are strictly confidential."

"Strictly," I said.

"Within that guideline, I am happy to help."

"Excellent," I said. "Millicent Patton was your patient."

"I prefer the term client," Marguerite said.

She had long, graying hair. She wore a shapeless dress
with big flowers on it, and no makeup. The only jewelry was a narrow gold
wedding band on her left hand. She looked exactly the way a mental health
professional ought to look, one who had rejected the artifice of ordinary
women to embrace the deeper beauty. I was very glad I hadn't done the same
thing.

"She was your client?" I said.

"She is still my client," Marguerite said. "She just isn't
coming to see me at the moment."

"Right. Did you know that she had run away from home?"
Marguerite paused for a moment. Then she said, "I'm not surprised."

I raised my eyebrows and looked interested, and waited.

"She was . . ." Marguerite paused thoughtfully. "She had
failed to live up to her parents' xpectations. Her parents were disappointed.
Millicent resented their expectations and their disappointment and was
very angry."