“Amir,” she said.
“Amir Abdullah?”
“Yes.”
“He told you Prentice Lamont and Robinson Nevins were having an affair?”
“Yes. And that Robinson broke it off cruelly and Prentice killed himself.”
“He say how he knew this?”
“No.”
“And you took it and reported it whole, as he told it.”
“I had no – have no – reason to doubt him. Amir is a very principled man.”
I had some reservations about exactly how principled Amir Abdullah was, but I let them slide, because Bass Maitland had arrived. He was strolling in from the front door. By the way Lillian was looking at him he might have been walking on water.
“Bass,” she said.
“Hi, Lil,” he said in his big round satisfied voice.
He was wearing a seersucker jacket, well-faded blue jeans, a black polo shirt with the collar turned up, and deck shoes, no socks.
Lillian said, “You remember Mr… the detective we talked to.”
“Spenser,” I said.
“Oh, absolutely. How are you?”
He gave me the kind of big firm handshake that a big firm man would give. He was so pleased with himself that it was infectious. I almost liked him.
“Is this a coincidence,” he said with a big smile, “or are you staking us out?”
“Holding your place for you,” I said, and stood up.
“Appreciate it.”
He took my seat and smiled again, like an affable crocodile. He was probably a very principled man, too. So were they all, all principled men. And women. There were few things more annoying than a visibly principled person. Or more troublesome. Most of the ones I’d met could have used a little uncertainty to dilute their principled-ness. But it didn’t seem a fruitful topic to discuss with Bass and Lillian, so I said good-bye and went off to get my dog.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The call came from KC Roth just after I had settled in to watch the Sox and the Angels from the West Coast.
“Come quickly,” she said. “Please. I need you.”
She sounded teary.
“What’s your problem?”
“Louis.”
“What about Louis?”
“He came back.”
“Really?”
“Oh, please, come quickly. Please.”
“Why?”
“He, he… please come.”
“What did he do?”
“He… violated me.”
“Do you mean he raped you?”
She was silent.
“Did he rape you?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Oh, God no, I can’t talk about this with the police. I, please, I have to see you, you’re the only one.”
“When did this happen,” I said.
“Just now. He just left.”
“He’s gone.”
“Yes. He beat me and he violated me.”
“Have you been to the doctor?”
“No. I told you. I can’t…”
“Don’t take a shower,” I said. “Don’t bathe or wash yourself. Stay still. I’ll be there in half an hour. Will you be all right until then?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. When I get there I’m going to take you to the doctor.”
“No.”
“Unless you agree to that I won’t come.”
“I… I can’t…” She was crying.
“You’ll have to promise. Otherwise I’ll hang up and call the Reading cops and it’ll be you and them.”
“No… oh why are you so awful?”
“Promise?”
She was silent, sobbing. I waited.
“Oh yes, goddamn you,” she said and hung up.
I got dressed and drove up to Reading. She was hugging herself looking out the door waiting for me. Until I saw her I thought she might be making it up. Now I was pretty sure she wasn’t. Someone had slapped her around pretty good. Her upper lip was swollen and one eye was puffed. It would be shut by morning. She had on a white tee shirt and gray sweatpants and moccasins. Her hair was a mess.
“Oh God,” she said, and backed away as I came in.
“Come on,” I said. “Hospital.”
“You’re really going to make me?”
“You bet,” I said.
I took her arm. She flinched away for a moment. But I kept hold and she relaxed enough to go with me.
The on-call gyno who showed up at the emergency room was a young woman with red hair and a good backside who whisked into the examining room, took one look at KC, and whisked me out with one brisk all-inclusive gesture. I sat in the waiting area and looked at people with bruises and cuts and breathing problems and stomach pains as they came and went. I read several ancient copies of People magazine, which left me feeling like I’d eaten too much fudge.
After about an hour, the gyno came out and said, “Mr. Spenser?”
“Me,” I said.
“Come in please.”
I went in. KC was in a johnny and those silly slippers that they give you. Her hair had been combed and her face washed and she seemed a little foggy. A large black woman in a nurse suit hovered around and looked at me disapprovingly.
“I’m Dr. Tripp,” the red-haired woman said. “Mrs. Roth says I may speak freely with you. What is your relationship to her?”
“Employee,” I said.
“In what capacity?”
“I’m a detective. She hired me to prevent this from happening to her.”
“She may wish to rethink that,” Dr. Tripp said.
“She may,” I said. “Was she raped?”
“She was.”
“No doubt of it?”
“None. There’s vaginal bruising. There’s semen. The police have been notified.”
KC stared at her.
“No,” she said thickly. “I don‘ wan’ that.”
“Mrs. Roth, I’m required to,” she said. “Neither you nor I have a choice.”
“Tranquilizer?” I said.
“Valium. You’re not with the police.”
“No. I’m a private detective.”
“Really,” she said. “Do you know who did this?”
“I think so,” I said.
“No. He din’t,” KC said. “I will swear he din’t.”
Dr. Tripp stared at her.
“You’ll protect the man who did this?”
“I don‘ know who did,” KC said.
Dr. Tripp looked at me. I shrugged.
“I would like to keep her overnight,” Dr. Tripp said.
“I think that’s a good idea,” I said. “Maybe you can put the cops off until tomorrow.”
“One reason I want her to stay,” Dr. Tripp said.
“Will you stay wi‘ me?” she said to me. “I won’ stay ‘less you stay wi’ me.”
“It’s permitted,” Dr. Tripp said.
“Oh good,” I said.
Spending the night sitting in a chair by KC Roth’s bedside was about as appealing as a Howard Stern film festival. I took in a lot of air through my nose and let it out the same way. Dr. Tripp and the black nurse and KC all stared at me with various degrees of male-oriented hostility.
“Sure,” I said. “Be glad to.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
In the morning, under the stern gaze of Dr. Tripp, the Reading cops were solicitous, and KC was uninformative, and I was tired. KC insisted that she didn’t know her assailant. The cops clearly did not believe her but couldn’t figure out why she’d protect him, and neither could I. They had a young female assistant from the Middlesex DA’s office who seemed bright and sympathetic and was pretty clever in some of her questions but not bright enough, or apparently sympathetic enough. KC refused to change her story and finally resorted to crying, which worked. The crying may have been sincere. She had been beaten and raped, but I also knew that she could cry at will, and life had made me cynical.
After the cops left and the bright young sympathetic DA went with them, Dr. Tripp told KC that a social worker would stop by to talk with her in a while. And that Dr. Tripp felt that KC should stay another night. KC nodded. Her crying had dwindled to sniffling. She patted her unswollen eye with a Kleenex and blew her nose and sat up a little higher in the bed.