Текст книги "Small Vices"

Автор книги: Robert B. Parker

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Chapter 9

THE THING I dreaded most was talking to the victim's parents, so I figured I might as well get it done. They lived in Brookline in a big red brick house with a wide porch; a couple of blocks uphill from the reservoir. Mr. Henderson was The Henderson Corporation, a firm that occupied most of the floors in the Mercantile Building that Cone, Oakes and Baldwin didn't occupy. The Henderson Corporation owned banks, and fertilizer companies, and a stock brokerage firm, and a company in Switzerland that made faucets, and a lot of other stuff that I couldn't remember, because I didn't take notes when I looked them up. He was a medium-sized guy with no hair and horn-rimmed glasses. His handshake was firm, his gaze direct. He was still in his suit, with his jacket off. He wore a white shirt and broad suspenders in a colorful pattern-the kind of no-nonsense guy that you'd trust with your money, though you might trust him more with his own. Mrs. Henderson was slim and dark with her black hair in a severe Dutch boy cut. She had on a mango-colored dress with a square neck and a short skirt. It looked good on her.

"You wish to talk about our daughter," Mr. Henderson said when we were seated in some bentwood furniture covered in floral prints in the sunroom off the formal living room.

"Yes, sir," I said.

"We had hoped to put that behind us," Henderson said.

He and his wife sat together on the sofa against the white painted brick back of the living room fireplace.

"I'm sorry," I said. "But I've been employed by Cone, Oakes and Baldwin to look into her death more closely."

"To what purpose?" Mrs. Henderson said.

She held her hands folded in her lap. There was a stereo setup to my right, in front of one of the windows. On it was a picture of a young woman wearing a much too big Taft University letter sweater. The sweater had a big blue chenille T on the front. There was a pair of small tennis racquets woven into the crosspiece of the T. Beneath the racquets the word co-captain was embroidered.

"Is that Melissa?" I said.

"Yes," Henderson said.

"What is the purpose of your investigation?" Mrs. Henderson said.

"To make sure they've got the right guy."

They were both silent for a moment, and then Mrs. Henderson said, "You mean you're not sure?"

"I have just begun, ma'am. I'm not sure of anything. It's why I'm going around talking to people."

"This law firm, this Cone whatchamacallit, they think Alves is innocent?"

"They feel he got an inadequate defense," I said. "They wish to be sure it's the right man."

Again they were quiet.

Finally, Henderson said, "I realize you're just doing your job…"

His wife interrupted.

"Walton is always reasonable. He can't help it. But I don't care about your job. I care about my daughter. And I will not permit the man who murdered our only child to be set free."

Henderson looked at his wife and at me. He didn't say anything.

"You have no reason to question the verdict?" I said.

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Henderson said.

She was leaning forward on the couch, her hands still clasped in her lap. She might have been actually quivering with the intensity of her feeling, or I might have thought she was.

"Mr. Henderson?" He shook his head. "Your daughter ever go to Taft?" I said.

"No," Henderson said.

His voice was still reasonable, but it was sounding a little shaky.

"Do you know who her friends were?" I said. "Her roommate, maybe, at school."

Mrs. Henderson stood up quite suddenly.

"Get out," Mrs. Henderson said. "Get out of my house, you nosy fucking nigger lover."

Her daughter was too recently dead for me to debate her about race and justice. Or even nosiness. Henderson got to his feet and put a hand on her shoulder, she shrugged away from it. The skin on her face seemed too tight, and the structure of the skull showed beneath it.

"And if you do succeed in getting that son of a bitch out of jail I will find a way to kill him myself," she said.

"You'd better go," Henderson said to me. "We have nothing to say to you."

"I'm sorry I had to intrude," I said.

"Just get out of here," Mrs. Henderson said.

Which is what I did. Driving back to Boston I watched the joggers moving around the reservoir in the bright fall morning. I remembered once again why I had dreaded the parents. I'd been talking to the next of kin of various victims for a long time now and had seen all the grief I ever wanted to. It was hard to rate grief The loss of a mate seemed to elicit as much grief as the loss of a child. But nothing came close to the rage level of grieving parents. Because she had called me a nigger lover didn't mean she would frame a black man. The police chief at Pemberton had called Alves a nigger, too. Didn't mean he would frame a black man either. On the other hand, none of this meant Alves wasn't framed. Be good to find out something that meant something.

At Cleveland Circle I turned left and went up a block to Commonwealth Ave. and headed in town that way. Near State Police Headquarters at 1010 Commonwealth, I found a convenient spot at a bus stop and parked and went in to talk with a cop I knew.

Healy was at his desk in the Criminal Investigation Division, of which he was the commander. He and I had worked on a case up in Smithfield about twenty years ago, and he'd helped me out now and then since. He was gray-haired and wiry, and not as tall as I was, though as far as I could tell it didn't bother him.

"Whaddya need today," Healy said when I walked in.

"Maybe I'm just stopping in to say hi."

"Okay," Healy said, "hi."

"And maybe to ask you if you know anything about that murder in Pemberton about eighteen months ago."

"Maybe that too, huh?" Healy said. "College kid?"

"Yeah," I said. "According to the trial transcript, a State detective named Miller was on it."

"Yeah, Tommy Miller."

"You follow the case?"

"Not really. As I remember it, it was pretty open and shut. Two eyewitnesses saw the perp kidnap her, right?"

"So they tell me."

"So why are you asking about it?" Healy said.

"Had a defense attorney right out of law school, she thinks he was innocent, and she botched the defense."

"And she hired you to get him off?"

"Sort of. She works for Cone, Oakes now, and she got them to hire me."

"Must be a nice change of pace for you," Healy said, "a client who can pay."

"Nothing wrong with it," I said. "How's Miller?"

"He's all right. Probably a little rough around the edges. Thinks being a State cop makes him important."

"Tough guy?"

Healy shrugged.

"Compared to who?" he said. "Compared to some high school kid with a loud mouth and a nose full of dope, he's tougher than scrap iron. Compared to Hawk, say, or me… or you." Healy shrugged.

"He ambitious?"

"He's an eager beaver," Healy said. "Probably want to be CID commander someday."

"Think he'll make it?"

"Not soon," Healy said.

"How is he as an investigator?"

"Far as I know he's pretty good. I don't like him. But he clears his cases and mostly they result in convictions that stand. He doesn't cut a lot of corners."

"How is he on race?" Healy shrugged.

"No worse than most," he said. "Your guy black?"

"Yeah."

"You think he got railroaded because of that?"

"I don't know," I said. "Everywhere I go I keep hearing nigger nigger. And everywhere I go people stonewall me."

Healy nodded slowly. He was in shirt sleeves, sitting back in his chair, with one foot propped on the edge of his desk.

"Well, it could be," Healy said. "I'm a white Irish guy, been a cop thirty-five years. Heard a lot of nigger nigger. Sometimes it's because you're dealing with a bunch of ignorant racist assholes, and sometimes it's because the black guy has done something bad and everyone's mad at him. But they're not mad at him because he's black, you unnerstand? They're mad at him because he did the bad thing, and `nigger's' a convenient thing to call him. I don't know about Miller. But what I do know is that race matters less to most cops than the media likes to make out. You know? You arrest some black guy with a rap sheet three and a half yards long, and the media questions you. Is it because he's black? No, it's because he's got a rap sheet three and a half yards long. For a similar crime. It's like the Stuart thing awhile back. The cops' information is that a black guy shot a white guy and his wife at the fringe of the black ghetto. They're supposed to start shaking people down at Brae Burn Country Club?"

"I would have suspected at once," I said, "that he murdered his wife and wounded himself badly to cover it up."

"Yeah," Healy said, "happens all the time."

"Would Miller frame a guy?"

"Hey," Healy said, "the guy works for me."

"Would he?"

"Lotta cops would. Most of them wouldn't frame an innocent guy," Healy said. "But a lot of them might help the evidence a little if they figured they had Mr. Right."

"If Mr. Right were black…?"

Healy shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "It wouldn't make it less likely."

I thought about that while I got up and had a drink of spring water from the jug on top of Healy's file cabinet.

"I'm going to have to talk with Miller," I said.

"He's off today," Healy said. "I'll ask him to stop by your office tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Don't let him scare you."

"I'll keep reminding him I know you," I said.

"I'd rather you didn't shame me in front of my men," Healy said.

"Self-defense," I said.

Chapter 10

I MET SUSAN at the bar at Rialto, after her last appointment. The thank-God-it's-evening crowd was still thin and we got a couple of stools at one end of the bar. Susan had a glass of Merlot. I ordered beer. Outside the big picture window behind us, the courtyard at Charles Square was gussied up for a band concert, and fall tourists were sitting around. the outdoor cafe guzzling large pink drinks, waiting for it to start.

"How is it going?" Susan said. "The Pemberton murder case?"

She drank a micro sip of wine.

"Everyone I talk to tells me that they won't help me."

"It's probably a pretty nasty wound for the people involved," Susan said.

"Even Ellis is not helpful," I said. "Hawk said it's because a lifer can't allow himself to hope."

"I wonder if Hawk has another life as a shrink," Susan said.

"I'm not sure about Hawk's tolerance for bullshit," I said.

"We don't call it that," Susan said.

"What do you call it?" I said.

"Avoidance."

"I don't think Hawk has too much tolerance for that either."

"Maybe not."

In the courtyard three musicians came and began to set up on the other side. People began to drift into the courtyard and stand around. It was still warm even though it was fall and most people were still coatless and shortsleeved.

"Have you thought about the baby?" Susan said.

"By which I assume you don't mean Pearl," I said.

"That's right," Susan said. "I don't."

I took in a lot of air and let it out slowly. "I think it would be a mistake," I said.

"Um hmm," Susan said.

"I think we have reached maturity without children and that a baby at this point would very seriously compromise us."

"Why do you think so?" Susan said.

"A kid's a lot of work," I said.

"You're not afraid of work," Susan said. "Neither am I."

"Oh hell, Suze, I know that. I just don't want a kid, and I'm trying to think of good reasons why I don't."

"Do you mind sharing me?"

"Yes."

"Is it more than that?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No."

"Maybe you will," she said.

The way I loved her never varied. But how I liked her could go up and down, and it went down most when she was being professional. I drank a little more beer.

"How come you want a kid?" I said.

She smiled.

"The old switch-the-conversation trick," she said.

I nodded.

"I guess I want to have the experience," she said. "I guess I miss participating in what so many women have done."

"Don't blame you."

"I know in some ways that sounds selfish, that it's about me, and how I'll feel, not about the still-anonymous baby and how he or she will feel."

"That would be true for anyone having a baby," I said. "Even the old-fashioned way. Until you have it, it's always about you."

"I suppose so."

We were quiet. The musicians were playing in the courtyard, but we couldn't really hear them through the insulating glass of the windows and above the chatter of the bar, now full of people glad to be out of work. Some friends of Susan's came by. Susan introduced us.

"Bill and Debbie Elovitz."

They said hello. I said hello. They talked to Susan. I drank some beer. After they had moved on, Susan said, "They have children."

"How nice," I said.

"I feel a little scared about this," Susan said, "as if maybe this could hurt us."

I shook my head.

"We'll figure it out," I said.

"But how can we?" Susan said. "You can't partially adopt a baby. We either do or we don't. One of us loses. Either way."

"We've dealt with worse," I said. "We'll deal with this."

"How?"

"I don't know. But I know that we love one another and will love one another if we do adopt a baby and will love one another if we don't."

Susan looked past me for a while at the crowd in the courtyard, listening so reasonably to the music. Then she shifted her glance back on me and put her hand on my hand where it rested on the bar.

"We will," she said. "Won't we?"

"Yes," I said. "We will."

Chapter 11

TROOPER TOMMY MILLER had a blond crew cut and a thick neck and looked like he might have played tackle for Iowa. He came into my office wearing plainclothes, didn't shut the door behind him, took a seat in one of my client chairs, and put one spit-shined cordovan shoe up on the edge of my desk.

"Captain Healy says I should talk with you."

I got up and walked around my desk and past him and shut the door and turned around and walked back behind my desk and sat down.

"Healy tell you why?" I said.

"Something about that nigger that did the broad in Pemberton," he said. "You're trying to get him off."

"Nicely put," I said.

"You got no prayer, pal," Miller said. "It was my case, and he did it."

"I've read the transcript," I said. "So I know what you testified. You got anything to add, stuff you knew but couldn't prove, stuff no one asked you?"

"If I did, why would I talk to you?"

"Interest of justice?" I said.

Miller laughed.

"Sure thing," he said.

"You got no eyewitness," I said.

"He's a known rapist. He's got no alibi. We got two eyewitnesses saw him grab her. We got dirt from the heel of his right shoe with traces of fertilizer. Both match samples from the crime scene. You're wasting your time and you sure as hell are wasting mine."

"Coroner says she wasn't raped," I said. "Says there was vaginal bruising but no sign of penetration, no semen."

"So he couldn't get it up. Lot of rapists can't get it up. Probably why he killed her."

"Frustration?" I said.

"Sure."

"What'd he strangle her with? Coroner says it wasn't manual."

"Some piece of her clothing, probably, what's the difference. He did her."

"You remember his name?" I said.

Miller started to open his mouth and stopped and frowned.

"Hey, pal. It was, what, year and a half ago? You think I get one case a year?"

"But you're pretty sure he was black."

"Ohhh," Miller said. "That's where we're going, huh? Poor innocent guy got railroaded."

"Did he?"

"You go down that road, pal, you're going to have a lot of people mad at you. Including me."

"I'll try to control my breathing," I said. "Who's going to be mad besides you?"

"The broad's father is Walton Henderson, for crissake. You think he'll sit around and let you fucking bleedingheart his daughter's murderer out of jail?"

"You and Walton Henderson;" I said. "Pretty scary."

"Scary enough, pal."

Miller was still sitting with his foot up on my desk, leaning back in my chair, the off-hand tough guy approach that is so popular these days.

"How did you come up with Ellis Alves?" I said.

"You read the transcript; you know."

"I know what the transcript says, I wanted to hear it from you."

"Pemberton cops got a tip, anonymous letter, mailed from Boston."

"With Alves's name and address?"

"Yeah. Pemberton bucked it over to me. They ain't used to much more than bad traffic, and I went in and busted him. Yanked his black ass right out of bed."

"By yourself," I said.

"I had troopers with me from our office and some Area B guys."

"You get many letters like that on a case like this? Naming the suspect, giving you the address?"

"High-profile case, you get a lotta stuff."

"Most of it good?"

"No, most of it's bullshit. This one was good."

"You got no idea who wrote the letter."

"No."

"Try to find out?"

"Find out?" Miller said. "Come on, asshole, gimme a break. It's written on a computer on plain paper you can buy in any Staples. You know how many people got personal computers?"

"How many got them in Alves's neighborhood?" I said.

"Who says it came from his neighborhood?"

"They knew his address."

"I know your address. Don't mean I live here."

"Just a thought," I said.

"Well, it's a fucking stupid one."

I leaned over my desk and shoved his foot off the edge of my desk. It made his chair come forward with a bump.

"Keep your feet off the furniture," I said.

Miller stood up and leaned forward over the desk. "You better just walk goddamned light around me, pal. I don't much like it when outsiders come in and step all over one of my cases. You unnerstan? You keep pushing at this and something bad is going to happen."

"You going to do the bad thing?" I said. "Or Walton Henderson? Or will it be you doing it because Walton Henderson told you to?"

Miller's face, which was farm-boy pink to start with, turned a darker red.

"You sonova bitch," he said. "You want to back that up."

"By bopping you on the kisser?" I said. "It's been awhile since I thought backing things up mattered."

It wasn't quite true, but it sounded mature to me, and I went with it.

"You are making a bad mistake here, pal," Miller said. "You are walking into a swamp."

"Then I'll probably run into you again," I said and held his look, and did my best former cop dead-eyed look. We sat like that for a minute, then Miller said, "Shit," and turned and walked out. He left the door open again.

Chapter 12

IT WAS A dank fall day, drizzly, and not very cold. All the offices in the big new building across Berkeley Street from my office had their lights on, and even though it was only quarter to eleven, they made a warm pattern in the dark morning. I was having a little coffee, reading a little trial transcript. I'd been feeling overcoffee-ed lately and Susan had reminded me that I was cutting down on it. So today my coffee was an equal mixture of half-decaf and half-caffeinated coffee. Compromise is not always the refuge of scoundrels.

According to the transcript, the names of the eyewitnesses were Glenda Baker and Hunt McMartin. She was listed as a senior at Pemberton College. He was described as a graduate student at M.I.T. Nothing is easy, especially for academics. So it took me three phone calls and just under an hour to establish that Hunt had graduated from M.I.T. with a master's degree in electrical engineering. It took another half hour to get the alumni office to tell me that his current address was in Andover, where he worked at the McMartin Corp. in Shawsheen Village.

Glenda was trickier.

Since my name was anathema at Pemberton, I had to employ guile. I called the alumni office and said my name was Anathema and I was with the IRS.

"We have an income tax refund for Ms. Glenda Baker, which has been returned by the postal service. Would you have a more recent address for her?"

"What did you say your name was?"

"Anathema," I said. "Pervis Anathema, refund enactment agent."

"May I call you back, Mr. Anathema."

"Certainly. If the line's busy, please keep trying. I have calls stacked up."

Then I broke the connection, left the phone off the hook, and walked across the hall to the interior designer showroom across from my office. The receptionist was twenty years old and going to modeling school nights. When I interrupted her, she was studying the cover of Cosmopolitan. Her blond hair stood straight up, with a small maroon highlight streak. She wore white makeup with black lipstick and black nail polish. She was dressed for success in a plaid shirt over a scoop-necked black leotard top, and an ankle-length black dress with peacocks on it. Peeking out from under the skirt were shoes that looked sort of like black combat boots except for the high heels. When I was in Korea I'd had zippers put in on the sides because it was so tiresome to lace them all. I couldn't tell if Lila had gone that route.

"Lila," I said. "Time to pay me back for letting you leer at me through the office door."

"You see me leering," Lila said, "you'll know it."

"My phone is going to ring in a minute. You pick it up and say `Internal Revenue Service,' with those great overtones you got. They'll ask for Mr. Anathema and you say `one moment please' and hit the hold button. If they say something else, like `refund department' or whatever, just say `one moment please' and hit the hold button."

Lila looked another wistful moment at the cover of Cosmo and said, "Anathema? What kind of name is that?"

"Greek," I said.

Lila shrugged and said, "Sure."

She folded up the magazine and followed me over to my office. I hung up the phone and we waited.

"Ain't it illegal to impersonate the IRS?" Lila said.

"I believe so," I said.

The phone rang and Lila picked it up, said her piece, and pushed the hold button.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," Lila said. "You owe me lunch."

"Yes, I do," I said, and pushed the hold button. "Anathema."

"Mr. Anathema, Catherine Grant at Pemberton College. Glenda Baker lives in Andover at The Trevanion Condominiums."

"Is there a street address?"

"No sir, that's the only address we have. She has a married name now as well, Glenda Baker McMartin."

"Thank you," I said and hung up.

Spenser one, Pemberton zero.