Widow’s Walk (11 page)

Plumtree Road was the way into a big two-acre zoned development of expensive white houses with two-car garages and a lot of lawn. Hawk had been right. It was just the kind of place that affluent Anglo-Saxons seemed unable to resist.

Number 11 was just like number 9 far to its left, and number 13 far to its right, except that the shutters at number 11 were dark green. The front lawn that sloped to the street was undulant and wide. There were expensive shrubs along the foundation, which would someday grow and be beautiful. But now, like the rest of the development, they were too new. I pulled into the wide, gently curving driveway and parked in front of the big green doors of the two-car garage.

The lights were on in the house. I walked up the blue slate stepping-stones to the front door and rang. I was wearing my black Kenneth Cole microfiber waterproof spring jacket and my navy Boston Braves hat with a red bill. Anyone would be thrilled to find me standing on their front step at 7:15 on a rainy evening. The door opened and a good-looking blond woman in white shorts and a jade-green tank top looked at me. She did not seem thrilled. And I thought I knew why. It was Ann Kiley.

“Yes?”

“Ann Kiley,” I said.

“Yes?”

I was completely out of context. She had no idea who I was. I tipped my Braves cap back from my forehead. I smiled warmly.

“It’s me,” I said.

She stared at me.

“So it is,” she said finally. “What do you want?”

“I want to come in out of the rain,” I said. “And talk about Marvin Conroy.”

She didn’t blink, just looked at me for another ten seconds, then stepped away from the door. “Come in,” she said.

I went in and took off my hat, as my father and my uncles had always insisted I do when I went indoors. I was in a big entry foyer that opened into what looked like a very large living room.

“I was about to have a cocktail,” Ann Kiley said. “Would you care for something?”

“I would enjoy a big scotch and soda if you have it.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Hang your coat in the front hall closet.”

I did as instructed and followed her into the living room. She pointed me toward a big tan leather armchair with a matching hassock, and crossed to the bar. She made me a scotch and soda and herself a martini, brought me my drink, and sat down on the couch across the room and tucked her bare feet up.

“First one of the day,” she said and took a sip and smiled. “Always the best one.”

I sipped my scotch, and nodded.

“You’re right,” I said. “Tell me about Marvin Conroy.”

She didn’t flinch. She sat perfectly still with her martini and met my look. She had great eyes, not as great as Susan’s, but just as well made up, and there are degrees of greatness.

“What do you wish to know?” she said.

That was good. No who’s-martin-conroy? She had already understood that if I didn’t know something I wouldn’t be asking about him. Evasion would make it look worse. So she did the best she could in a difficult circumstance.

“A pleasure to observe a good legal mind,” I said. “You’ve remained noncommittal and your question puts it back on me. The more I say, the more you’ll know what I know.”

She smiled to acknowledge the compliment and sipped her martini. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

“My problem,” I said finally, “is that I don’t know what I wish to know.”

She nodded and was quiet.

“So I’ll tell you what I do know,” I said.

I took another pull on my drink. She’d made it well. A lot of ice, the proper balance of scotch with soda. Be nice to drink several of them with her. I leaned back a little and put my feet up on the hassock.

“Here’s what I know. Marvin Conroy is an executive at Pequod Savings and Loan, which was Nathan Smith’s bank and had been in the family since before Pocahontas. When I went to ask about Smith’s death, I talked to a PR woman named Amy Peters, who is now dead. Conroy refused to talk about it. After I talked with him, some people tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to kill me.”

Ann Kiley cocked her head a little as if she were glad to hear I hadn’t died.

“You represent Jack DeRosa, who says Mary Smith asked him to kill Nathan Smith. So both you and Conroy are connected to Nathan Smith in some way.”

“Six degrees of separation,” Ann murmured.

Her drink was gone. So was mine. She got up, collected my glass, went to the bar, and mixed us each another drink.

“Last night,” I said, “Marvin Conroy came here and spent the night.”

Ann Kiley smiled again without meaning anything by it. I waited. She waited. I waited longer.

“And your question?” she said.

“Was it good for you, too?” I said.

“Don’t be offensive.”

“Part of my skill set,” I said. “What can you tell me that will help me with my work?”

“And your work is?”

“To find out who killed Nathan Smith.”

“Even if it’s his wife?”

“Even,” I said.

“I was under the impression you were hired to clear her,” Ann said.

“What’s the connection between you and Conroy and Smith and DeRosa?”

“The connection between me and Marvin Conroy must be obvious if you know he spent the night,” Ann said.

“Un-huh.”

“Jack DeRosa is my client.”

“Un-huh.”

“That they are both connected in some way to Nathan Smith is a coincidence.”

“Un-huh.”

“You don’t believe in coincidence?”

“It doesn’t get me anywhere,” I said.

She nodded. I noticed her second drink was not going down nearly as quick as her first.

“And where are you trying to get?” she said.

“How come you represent Jack DeRosa?” I said.

“He needed a lawyer.”

“And you were hanging around the public defender’s office smiling hopefully?” I said.

“Every lawyer has a responsibility to the law,” she said.

“So how’d DeRosa happen to hire you?” I said. “You bill more per hour than DeRosa’s life is worth.”

“Arrangements with clients are confidential.”

“How about Conroy? What can you tell me about him?”

She smiled. “Relationships with friends are confidential.”

“If there’s something, Ms. Kiley, I’m going to find it.”

“You don’t frighten me, Mr. Spenser.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Spenser,” she said, “you are a little man in a big arena. You simply don’t matter.”

“What about my nice personality?” I said.

“It doesn’t interest me,” Ann Kiley said. “Neither do you. Go away.”

That seemed to sort of cover it. I put my drink down carefully on its coaster, got my hat and coat from the front hall closet, and left. Ann Kiley didn’t see me to the door.

“I’m at a crime scene in your neighborhood,” Belson said. “Wanna stop by?”

“Because you’ve missed me and you want to see me?” I said.

“Corner of Berkeley and Commonwealth,” Belson said. “I’ll look for you.”

I walked over. There were the usual too many cop cars, lights still flashing. Two technicians were loading a body bag into the coroner’s van. Belson in a light raincoat and a gray scally cap was leaning against his unmarked car, talking to one of the uniform guys. As I walked over, the uniform left.

“Hit and run,” Belson said as I stopped beside him. “Vic’s name is Brinkman Tyler.”

“I know him,” I said.

“Yeah. He had your card in his wallet.”

“Just mine?”

“Hell no, he must have kept every card he ever got.”

“But you called me,” I said.

“I’ve missed you,” Belson said. “And I wanted to see you.”

“What happened?” I said.

“Near as we can figure, Brinkman was out jogging on the mall toward Arlington Street. He started across Berkeley Street and the car nailed him.”

“Find the car?”

“Not yet. But it should have some damage on the front.”

“Hit him at high speed,” I said.

“Body looked it,” Belson said. “ME’S guys say so.”

“What other cards he have in his wallet?” I said.

Belson took out a notebook and opened it.

“Well,” he said. “He didn’t have the Pope’s card. Or Puff Daddy’s.”

“Can I look?”

Belson handed me the notebook.

“Absolutely not,” Belson said. “This is a confidential police investigation.”

I read the list of names and businesses that Belson had copied off the business cards of the late Brink. I recognized maybe a dozen names, but none that meant anything to my case. I gave Belson back his notebook.

“He was Nathan Smith’s broker,” I said. “Mary Smith said he managed her finances.”

“So you went and talked with him.”

“Yep. That’s how he got my card.”

“And?”

“And Brink told me nothing, even though I asked really nice, and after I left his office, two guys assaulted me in the parking garage.”

“An assault you reported immediately to the proper authority,” Belson said.

“I told Susan,” I said.

Belson nodded. “These guys say why they were assaulting you?”

“They wanted to know what I’d talked with Brink about.”

“And you, being you, probably didn’t tell them.”

“Client confidentiality is job one,” I said.

“Sure,” Belson said. “You know who these guys were?”

“They’d been following me around since I took the case.”

“And you didn’t mention it,” Belson said.

“I wanted to see what got their attention.”

Belson nodded. “Maybe this guy got their attention.”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe he’d be alive now if you’d felt like telling us about him.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe it’s just an accident and the driver panicked and left the scene.”

“Didn’t some broad you talked to commit suicide?”

“That’s what you guys are calling it,” I said.

“And didn’t somebody try to hit you the other night over on A Street?”

“Yep.”

“And you talk to this guy and he’s accidentally run down at five in the morning, at the intersection of two empty streets?”

“Seems to be the case,” I said.

“That bother you?” Belson said.

“All of it bothers me,” I said.

“Maybe this wasn’t an accident,” Belson said.

“And maybe Amy Peters wasn’t a suicide,” I said.

“And maybe you told us a little more about what you’re doing, some of these people might not be dead.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Frank. If I did I’d tell you in a heartbeat.”

“I owe you, Spenser,” Belson said. “But I don’t owe you everything there is all the time. You know something about a murder, you tell me.”

“You don’t owe me a thing, Frank. I know anything, you’ll be my first phone call.”

The uniform that Belson had been talking to when I arrived came back to Belson.

“Found the car, Frank. On Charles Street, a block up from the circle. Black Chrysler. Front end buckled. Phony plates.”

Belson looked at me. “Wasn’t there a black Chrysler involved in your shooting in Southie?”

“Yes.”

“Had phony plates, as I recall.”

“I believe so,” I said. “I put a couple bullets through the roof.”

Belson looked at the uniform.

“Got that, Pat?” he said.

“I got it, Frank.”

“Go down there yourself,” Belson said. “I want Crime Scene all over that car.”

“Okay, Frank.”

Belson turned to me as the uniform walked toward his car.

“This thing reeks,” he said.

“It does.”

“I got things to do here. Come see me tomorrow.”

I nodded.

“And think about whether this guy might be alive if you’d told us what you know.”

“I do what I can, Frank.”

Belson looked at me for a time and nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know you do.”

Most of the people and all of the men watched Rita walk in. She was dressed for success in a dark green suit with a short skirt and a V-necked jacket. Her smooth tan looked healthy even though it wasn’t, and her thick red hair was in perfect shape. Susan had told me that red-haired women needed to make up with particular care, and Rita appeared to have done it just right.

In her beige pantsuit and careful blond hair, Mary looked a little pallid next to Rita. Larson looked like Larson and I remained dashing and ineffable. Mary had a champagne cocktail. The rest of us sipped Perrier.

“Why didn’t you authorize me to see your husband’s investment statements?” I said to Mary.

“Whaat?”

“Brink Tyler called you from his office and asked you if you’d authorize him to show me your husband’s investment statements,” I said.

“He did?”

I nodded.

“I don’t remember that.”

“Last week,” I said. “About three-thirty in the afternoon, on a Tuesday.”

“I get so many calls,” Mary said.

Rita was sitting to my right at the table. She was sort of sideways to the table, half facing toward me with her legs crossed. She smiled when I looked at her and carefully hitched her skirt hem up another inch on her thigh.

“I was there when he called you,” I said.

“I don’t remember,” she said.

I looked at Rita again.

“Mary,” Rita said, “we’re all on the same side here. If you can help him, you should.”

“Oh, Rita, I know. I know that. I really, really do. But you wouldn’t want me to lie about something. I absolutely can’t remember Brink Tyler calling me up last Tuesday.”

“When’s the last time you talked with him?” I said.

Mary had some champagne cocktail to help her think. Any help was welcome.

“I can’t really recall. Larson? Do you recall when I talked with Brink last?”

“I believe you and he spoke shortly after Nathan’s death. He was handling the estate.”

“Yes. That’s right. Brink came over. He was so kind. He said he’d take care of everything.”

“The broker’s handling the estate?” I said.

“He’s an attorney as well,” Rita said.

“Renaissance man,” I said. “Aren’t you ashamed, Rita, just doing law law?”

“And that badly,” Rita said.

“And how is your estate?”

Mary looked a little vague. “Fine.”

She looked at Rita.

“Estate’s in a kind of legal limbo,” Rita said. “Until the cause of death gets clarified a little.”

“Do you know how much you’ve inherited?” I said.

Mary shook her head. “Nathan always said we didn’t talk about our money. That it wasn’t dignified.”

“It might be dignified to know how much you had,” I said.

She looked helplessly at Larson Graff.

“Mary, I’m sorry. I’m in no position to know your finances.”

“Well,” Mary said. “Certainly your bill is always paid on time, Larson.”

“Oh yes. It certainly is,” Larson said.

The waitress brought lunch, which consisted of three salads and a sandwich. I got the sandwich.

“So, just so I understand,” I said to Mary. “You don’t know what your financial situation is, or you know, and feel it’s undignified to say?”

Mary looked down at her salad. She speared a small slice of avocado and put it delicately in her mouth and chewed it more vigorously, I thought, than it required. When she had swallowed it, she took another sip of her champagne cocktail. Mary was dumb. But she moved very slowly. She looked at me and laughed as if she might be embarrassed.

“I don’t really know, Mr. Spenser.”

“Do you object if I find out?” I said.

“Well, I really.”

She looked at Larson. Larson wasn’t helpful. She looked at Rita. Rita nodded firmly.

“Well, I really think it’s kind of, I don’t want to be offensive, but I really think it’s kind of nosy.”

“God forbid,” I said.

Rita smiled.

“You never got a call from Brink Tyler last Tuesday asking if Spenser could look at the investment statements?”

“Oh, Rita, I’m just so sure he didn’t.”

Rita looked at me. I looked at Rita.

“So who’d he call?” Rita said.