The Professional (19 page)

“Like punch-drunk?” I said. “Like a punch-drunk ex-fighter?”

“Be my guess,” Vinnie said. “Looked like a pug, nose was flat, and, you know, thick around the eyes.”

“Anybody with him?” I said.

“Nope.”

“Where’d he go after she went in and he stared at the door?”

“Walked down Arlington Street. I figured he was heading for the subway.”

“You didn’t follow him?”

“Nope. You just tole me to watch the broad.”

“I did,” I said. “Anything else happen?”

“Nope. She stayed in all the rest of the day.”

“No sign that she called the cops?” I said.

“None showed up,” he said. “This guy shows up again, you want me to shoot him or anything?”

“Only if you have to,” I said.

“Okay,” Vinnie said.

“I may stop around later and visit Beth,” I said.

“Okay,” Vinnie said.

“Don’t shoot me.”

“Okay,” Vinnie said.

He sounded disappointed.

WHEN BETH JACKSON came out of Pinnacle Fitness and into the lobby, I was waiting for her.

“Buy you coffee,” I said.

She looked at me as if I was something she stepped in.

“I don’t want coffee,” she said.

“I’ll buy you whatever you want,” I said.

“I don’t want anything,” she said.

“Well, here’s the thing,” I said. “I’m going to keep annoying you until you talk with me for a little while, so why not get it over with now.”

“If you continue to annoy me,” she said, “I shall call the police.”

“Sure,” I said. “In the meantime, lemme buy you some coffee and talk with you about Boo.”

She stared at me for a moment, then sighed.

“Very well,” she said, and stalked ahead of me to the snack bar.

I knew Boo would get her, and if it didn’t, it would mean whoever Vinnie saw wasn’t Boo. If it was Boo, she would have to talk to me enough to find out what I knew. We ordered coffee.

“What about this Boo person, or whatever Boo is?” she said.

“Boo is the slugger used to work for your husband,” I said.

“He and a guy named Zel.”

The coffee arrived. I added some sugar and took a swallow. “Oh,” she said, “Boo. I hadn’t thought of Boo since Chet died.”

“Until Monday,” I said.

“Monday?”

“Boo stopped you in front of your house. You and he argued. You shoved him and went in. He stayed outside for a while and looked at your door.”

She didn’t say anything. She looked at me silently for a long time. I let her look. I was interested in what she’d come up with.

Finally she said, “Are you spying on me?”

“Yuh,” I said.

“Why?”

“What did Boo want?” I said.

“Boo,” she said. “So that’s who that was.”

“You didn’t recognize him,” I said.

“No. I mean, I thought he looked familiar, but . . . no.”

“And what did he want?” I said.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I have no idea. I thought he was some kind of stumblebum, you know? I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

I nodded.

“And I object to you lurking around spying.”

“Noted,” I said.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Got nothing else to do,” I said.

“Do you think I’m doing something bad?”

“Are you?” I said.

“Gary and I are just trying to live our lives,” she said, “in the midst of terrible tragedy.”

“Boo want money?” I said.

“No . . . I don’t know. . . . I just wanted to get away from him,” she said.

“What’s the first thing he said to you?”

Her face got sort of squeezed up. Her cheeks reddened a little.

“I won’t talk about this anymore,” she said. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I won’t let you question me as if I have.”

She stood up abruptly and walked to the elevator. I watched her go.

Spenser, the grand inquisitor.

ONE OF SPENSER’S RULES for criminal investigation is that most things have two ends. I’d gotten nothing much from Beth’s end, so I decided to try the other end, and went out to JP to visit Boo.

Zel was cooking sausage and peppers when I got there, and I sat at the kitchen table and drank a beer he gave me while he cooked.

“Boo ain’t here,” Zel said.

“Where is he?” I said.

“Out,” Zel said.

“What’s he doing while he’s out?” I said.

“Got me,” Zel said.

He moved the peppers and sausage around with a spatula.

“Low heat,” Zel said. “Cook it slow. That’s the secret.”

“He go out much alone?”

Zel looked at me.

“Boo’s forty-two years old,” he said. “Course he goes out alone.”

I nodded.

“You and he doing any business with Beth Jackson?” I said.

“Beth? Chet’s wife? No, thank you,” Zel said.

“Trouble?” I said.

“With a capital T,” Zel said. “And that rhymes with B, and that stands for bitch.”

“You don’t like Beth,” I said.

“Good call,” Zel said.

“I’m a trained detective,” I said.

“No,” Zel said. “I don’t like her.”

“Because?”

“Because I kind of liked Chet.”

“And she cheated on him,” I said.

“She didn’t give him no respect,” Zel said.

I nodded.

“Boo like her?” I said.

Zel looked at me sharply.

“Why?”

“He had a confrontation with her Monday,” I said. “Outside her house.”

“Shit!” Zel said.

He poured some sherry wine over the sausage and peppers and watched it boil up briefly and then start to cook away. He lowered the heat to simmer, then turned from the stove and went to the refrigerator and got a bottle of beer for himself and another one for me. He put mine on the table in front of me and went and leaned on the counter near the stove. He drank some of his beer and looked at me.

“Boo ain’t right,” he said. “We both know that.”

I nodded.

“But like I said, he’s forty-two years old. I try to look out for him, but . . . I can’t treat him like a little kid.”

“He’d know it?” I said.

“It would be disrespectful,” Zel said.

I nodded.

“But . . .”

Zel drank some more beer and checked his cooking.

“But Boo can’t do time,” Zel said. “He’s okay if I’m with him, but if I ain’t, he can’t stand close places.”

“Claustrophobic?” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what he is, claustrophobic. ’Less I’m with him, he can’t ride an elevator. Can’t go in the subway if it’s crowded. Has to leave the window open in his room a crack, no matter how cold it is.”

“But he’s all right if he’s with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you worried about him doing time?” I said.

Zel checked his cooking again and shut off the heat under his pan.

“You ain’t here to sell him magazine subscriptions,” Zel said.

“You know why he would be having an argument with Beth Jackson?” I said.

Zel got another beer from the refrigerator. He held one toward me. I shook my head.

“Another thing,” Zel said, “about Boo. He gotta be a tough guy. It’s all he ever had, being a tough guy.”

“And he’s not so good at that,” I said.

“Not against somebody like you,” Zel said. “But for Boo, it almost don’t matter if he wins. He gotta fight, you know? He wins, or he shows he can take it. Either way, he gotta be a tough guy.”

Zel drank some beer.

“All he got,” Zel said. “He does time, he’ll be scared, and he can’t stand to be scared, so he’ll be a tough guy and he’ll get hurt bad. Don’t matter how tough you are. Inside, they can break you.”

“You’ve been inside,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And Boo,” I said.

“What’s made him so . . . odd,” Zel said. “I mean, he started out with a lot of problems, and he was always kinda slow. But time in made all of it much worse.”

“You know what he’s doing with Beth Jackson?” I said.

“No.”

“You know who killed Chet Jackson and Estelle Gallagher?”

“No.”

“You think Boo was involved?” I said.

“Boo’s mostly a slugger,” Zel said.

“He had a gun when I was here last,” I said.

Zel nodded.

“So you think he was involved?” I said.

“No.”

“If he was, I’m gonna find it out,” I said.

“He wasn’t,” Zel said. “I’d know.”

“I think he was,” I said.

Zel nodded.

“He can’t do no time,” Zel said.

VINNIE CALLED ME at home from his cell phone. It was nine-eleven at night. I was watching the Celtics game.

“You might want to know this,” he said.

“I might,” I said.

I muted the sound on the television.

“Been watching Beth’s ass all day. Followed her home from the club, ’bout five-fifteen, watched her go in. ’Bout six o’clock the boyfriend comes home. I watch him go in. By seven I figure they’re in for the night, so I call it a day. I walk down Arlington to the Ritz, Taj, whatever the fuck it is now, and go in to take a leak. Then I’m in there, I figure I’ll go in the bar, have a couple pops, think about Beth’s ass, which I would now recognize at three miles in the dark. So I’m in there for maybe an hour or so, and I have a few, and then I go out and head down Arlington to get my car. I know a guy works the door at The Park Plaza, and he’s holding my car for me.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

The Celtics were up four on the Wizards late in the first half.

“And I see the pug,” Vinnie said.

I shut off the television.

“Boo?” I said.

“Same guy had the argument with Beth a while back,” Vinnie said. “He’s walking along Arlington same direction I am, like he could have been down at Beth’s place. He’s on the other side of the street. So I slow down and sort of let him get ahead of me and I see what he does. He crosses over in front of me at Boylston and goes into the subway. So I chuck along after him and go down, too.”

“Was it crowded?” I said.

“Naw,” Vinnie said. “Place was empty. So he goes through the turnstile and waits on the outbound platform, and I don’t see any reason to waste two bucks, so I go back upstairs and get my car. On my way home I swung by Beth’s building, but everything looked, you know, copacetic, so I kept going.”

“Thank you, Vinnie,” I said.

We hung up.

I dialed Gary Eisenhower’s number. After four rings the answering machine picked up.

“Hi, it’s Beth. Neither Gary nor I can come to the phone right now, but your call is important to us, so please do leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as quick as we can.”

When the beep sounded I yelled a couple of times that it was Spenser and pick up the phone. But nothing happened, so I hung up and got dressed and took a gun and hoofed it down to the apartment that Beth now shared with Gary, which was only a couple of blocks from my place.

The front door was locked. I rang Gary’s bell; nothing happened. I rang a few other bells. One of the tenants answered. It was a woman.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s Gary from the first floor. I seem to have the wrong front-door key. Could you buzz me in.”

“Call the super,” she said, and broke the connection.

Neighborly.

I found the superintendent’s number and rang the bell. After two rings he answered, sounding foggy.

“Yeah?”

“Police,” I said. “I need you to come open a couple doors for me.”

“Police?” he said.

“You heard me, now run your ass up here.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, officer, gimme a minute.”

It took more than a minute, but it was only two or three before he appeared in the entryway and opened the door.

“You ain’t wearing a uniform,” he said.

“No shit,” I said.

“You got a badge or something?”

I looked at him hard.

I said, “Ain’t I seen a mug shot of you, pal?”

“Me? I never done nothing.”

“That’s your story. Open up apartment one-A pretty goddamned hubba hubba, or I’ll run your ass down to the station for a look-see.”

“One-A, yeah, sure,” he said, and took out his key ring. “No need to get all worked up.”

“Move it,” I said. “Or I’ll work you up, you unnerstand that?”

“Yes, sir, sure thing.”

He went to Gary’s door and unlocked it. I went in. The super came in behind me a step.

“Jesus,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

“Call nine-one-one,” I said. “Cops and an ambulance.”

“But you’re a . . .”

“Call it,” I said.

BETH WAS DEAD, I knew that the minute I saw her. Her face was bruised, there was dried blood, and her neck was turned at an odd angle. Gary was unconscious but not dead. He had a big purple bruise on the side of his face at the hairline. But he was breathing pretty steadily, and his pulse wasn’t bad.

The super, having called 911, stood in the doorway, as if he didn’t dare enter and he didn’t dare leave. It was maybe three minutes before two uniforms came into the room.

“He says he’s a cop,” he told one of the cops.

“That right?” the cop said to me.

He was a thick-necked guy with a red face, and he was showing signs of sitting down too much. His partner was a younger guy, black, with sort of economical movements. The black cop squatted on the floor beside me and felt the pulse in Gary’s neck. He nodded to himself and moved over to Beth.

“Right,” I said.

“Show me something,” the cop said.

“I’m private,” I said.

“Impersonating an officer?” the red-faced cop said.

“Exactly,” I said.

Squatting by Beth, the cop felt for her pulse and didn’t find it. He stood.

“Charlie,” he said. “We seem to have a murder here. Maybe you could postpone the impersonating-an-officer investigation till we solve this.”

The red-faced cop looked at him a moment, and at me.

“They dead?” he said.

“She is. The guy seems like he’ll make it,” the black cop said.

The red-faced cop walked past me and looked at Beth.

“Shame,” he said.

Two paramedics came in.

“Broad’s dead,” the white cop said. “Work on the other guy?”

One of the paramedics was a stocky blonde woman.

“Lemme check,” she said, and crouched beside Beth. The male paramedic started on Gary.