“Now how can I help you?” he said.
“Tell me about KC Roth,” I said.
“Why do you think I know anything about a person named KC Roth?”
“She told me you were until recently her boyfriend.”
He raised his eyebrows and leaned back a little in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his head. Beyond him the view stretched into Boston Harbor and out to the harbor islands. To his left a big color computer screen flickered with the facts of someone’s life savings.
“Did she?” he said.
I nodded ingenuously. He leaned back some more.
“By God, you’re a big fella, aren’t you,” he said.
“I try to be modest about it,” I said.
“You play some sports?”
“Used to be a fighter,” I said. “I’m not sure it was play.”
“Ah, the sweet science,” he said.
“Sweet science is what happened to my nose,” I said. “Were you KC Roth’s boyfriend?”
“What is this in regard to?”
“A criminal case.”
“Something happen to her?”
“Nothing permanent,” I said.
“Well, I… I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”
“She’s fine,” I said. “You were her boyfriend?”
He shrugged and grinned. His teeth gleamed.
“Well, I can count on your discretion?” he said.
“In my business,” I said, “you’re discreet or you’re not in business.”
It wasn’t really true. I’d blab his name in a minute if I needed to, but there was no point in telling him that. And the answer I gave him sounded like the kind of answer he’d want to believe.
“Yeah, same in my business. You know? You’re fucking with people’s money, babe, and their hair stands up real stiff.”
“So you and KC Roth?”
He grinned, hands still clasped behind his head. He put his feet up on the corner of the desk.
“She could fuck the balls off a brass monkey,” he said.
“Good to know.”
“Don’t misunderstand,” he said. “I’m married and plan to stay that way, but, ah, you’ve seen KC?”
“Un huh.”
“So you can see how easy it would be to wander off the reservation one time.”
My guess was that he’d been wandering off the reservation since his voice changed.
“Easy,” I said.
“Well, I did and I’m not proud of it, but it was a ride.”
He winked at me. We knew the score, he and I. Couple of studs. More notches on the weapon than John Wesley Harding.
“Why’d it end?” I said.
“For crissake she left her husband. She wanted me to marry her.”
“Don’t you hate when that happens,” I said.
“You better believe it. I got three kids, big job, my wife’s no slouch in the sack either, mind you. KC wanted us to go to Key West and live on the beach.”
He laughed. I laughed. Women are so silly. Fortunately there are a lot of them.
“What a ditz,” he said. “I told her this isn’t about love, KC, this is about fucking. You know what she said? You wanna know?”
“What’d she say?”
“She says, ‘What’s the difference?’ You believe that? What’s the difference.”
He chuckled. I chuckled too. Man of the world.
“She didn’t threaten you when you dumped her?” I said.
“With what?”
“Tell your wife?”
“No. She wouldn’t. She’s not like that. She’s a really sappy broad, but she’s not mean. Besides I think she likes the drama. She’s all drama. She likes the drama of a clandestine affair, and she likes the drama of a sorrowful breakup, and being heartbroken and all that.”
Vincent was a little smarter than he seemed. Or I was as dumb as he was. I too thought that life for KC was a series of dramatic renditions.
“Somebody is stalking her,” I said.
“And you’re coming to me?”
“Ex-husbands, ex-boyfriends, that’s where you usually go,” I said.
“Hey pal, I dumped her, you know. I’m not some heartbroken loser sneaking around in the dark. There’s plenty more where she came from. Try her husband.”
“You replace her yet?” I said.
He grinned at me.
“Like Kleenex,” he said. “Use once and discard. There’s plenty more.”
“Your wife?” I said.
He shrugged.
“She’s fine. House in Weston. Kids in private school. Drives a Range Rover. Plays golf. Sex is still good. I’m home at least three nights a week.”
“What could be better?” I said.
He nodded enthusiastically. Irony was not his strength.
“It’s a pretty good gig,” he said. “I gotta admit it. There much money in your line of work?”
“No,” I said. “But you meet interesting people.”
He stood and put out his hand.
“Nice talking to you.”
“You have no thoughts on who might be stalking KC?” I said. “Knowing KC,” he said, “she probably made him up. Have fun.”
I nodded.
“Fun’s what it’s all about,” I said.
“And the winner dies broke,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Susan and I were walking back to Linnaean Street from the Charles Hotel where we had lunched with her friends Chuck and Janet Olson at Henrietta’s Table.
“Your friends are nice,” I said.
“Yes, they are.”
“As nice as my friends?” I said.
“Like Hawk, say? Or Vinnie Morris?”
“Well, yes.”
“Please!” Susan said.
We were on Garden Street walking past the Harvard Police Station. I decided to move the conversation forward, and told her about my encounter with Louis Vincent at Hall, Peary.
“Kleenex?” Susan said. “Women are like Kleenex?”
“Un huh. Use and discard. There’s plenty more.”
I watched her ears closely to see if any steam escaped. But she was controlled.
“The man is an absolute fucking pig,” she said.
“There’s that,” I said.
“I want him to be the stalker.”
“Because he’s a pig?”
“Yes.”
“Does he fit the profile?”
Susan glared at me for a moment, before she said, “No.”
“He appears to be one of the masters of the universe,” I said. “Good-looking, well married, good job, lots of dough, endless poon tang on the side. Stalkers are usually losers.”
“I know.”
“It’s usually about control,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’d guess this guy is in control.”
“Not of his libido,” Susan said.
“No, maybe not,” I said. “On the other hand KC wasn’t bopping him under duress.”
Susan gave a long sigh.
“No,” Susan said, “she wasn’t.”
“And she didn’t dump him, did she?”
Susan thought about that.
“In one sense,” she said, “maybe not. She left her husband to marry him. He said, ‘I won’t marry you.’ But who said, ‘Therefore it’s over’?”
I raised both eyebrows. I could raise one eyebrow, like Brian Donlevy, but I didn’t very often, because most people didn’t know who Brian Donlevy was, or what I was doing with my face.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll ask.”
Susan looked pleased.
“Maybe he could still be the stalker.”
“We can always hope,” I said.
We reached Linnaean Street and turned right toward Susan’s place.
“How about that thing you’re doing for Hawk?”
“Well, it is, I believe, turning into a hair ball.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t think the Lamont kid killed himself.”
“Why not?”
I told her how his friends said he was happy and how they were scornful of the possibility that he was having an affair with Robinson Nevins and how the window was hard to open and how Lamont was said to be approximately the size of a dandelion, but not as strong.
“Suicides often appear happy prior to the suicide,” Susan said. “They’ve decided to do it.”