I snapped some pictures of Linda and the living room from different angles.
“Do you get nervous watching Marty pitch, Linda?” I lay on the floor to get an exotic angle, shooting up through the glass top of the coffee table.
“No, not so much anymore. He’s so good, you know-it’s more, I’m surprised when he loses. But I don’t worry.”
“Does he bring it home or leave it at the park?”
“When he loses? He leaves it there. Unless you’ve been watching the game, you don’t know if he won or lost when he comes in the door. He doesn’t talk about it at all. Little Marty barely knows what his father does.”
I placed the five color shots on the coffee table in front of Linda Rabb.
“Which one do you like best?” I said. “They’re only idea shots; if the publishers decide to go to the big picture format, we’ll use a pro.” I sounded like Arthur Author—it pays to listen to the Carson show.
She picked up the last one on the left and held it at an angle to the light.
“This is an interesting shot,” she said. It was the one I’d taken from floor level. It was interesting. Casey Crime Photographer.
“Yeah, that’s good,” I said. “I like that one too.” I took it from her and put it in an envelope. “How about the others?”
She looked at several more. “They’re okay, but the one I gave you first is my favorite.”
“Okay,” I said. “We agree.” I scooped the other four into a second envelope.
Bucky Maynard said, “We got us a real barn burner here, Doc. Both pitchers are hummin‘ it in there pretty good.”
“You’re absolutely right, Bucky. A couple of real fine arms out there tonight.”
I stood up. “Thank you, Linda. I’m sorry to have barged in on you like this.”
“That’s okay. I enjoyed it. The only thing is, I don’t know about pictures of me, or of the baby. Marty doesn’t like to have his family brought into things. I mean, we’re very private people. Marty may not want you to do pictures.”
“I can understand that, Linda. Don’t worry. There are lots of people on the team, and if we decide to go to visuals, we can use some of them if Marty objects.”
She shook my hand at the door. It was a bony hand and cold.
Outside, it was dark now, and the traffic was infrequent. I walked up Mass Ave toward the river, crossing before I got to Boylston Street to look at the Spanish melons in the window of a gourmet food shop. Mingled with the smell of automobiles and commerce were the thin, damp smell of the river and the memory of trees and soil that the city supplanted. At Marlborough I turned right and strolled down toward my apartment. The small trees and the flowering shrubs in front of the brick and brownstone buildings enhanced the river smell.
It was nine fifteen when I got in my apartment. I called the Essex County DA’s office on the chance that someone might be there late. Someone was, probably an assistant DA working up a loan proposal so he could open an office and go into private practice.
“Lieutenant Healy around?” I asked.
“Nope, he’s working out of ten-ten Commonwealth, temporary duty, probably be there a couple of months. Can I do anything for you?”
I said no and hung up.
I called state police headquarters at 1010 Commonwealth Ave in Boston. Healy wasn’t in. Call back in the morning. I hung up and turned on the TV. Boston had a two-run lead over Kansas City. I opened a bottle of Amstel beer, lay down on my couch, and watched the ball game. John Mayberry tied the game with a one-on home run in the top of the ninth, and I went through three more Amstels before Johnny Tabor scored from third on a Holly West sacrifice fly in the eleventh inning. While the news was on, I made a Westphalian ham sandwich on pumpernickel, ate it, and drank another bottle of Amstel. A man needs sustenance before bed. I might have an exciting dream. I didn’t.
Next morning I drove over to 1010 Commonwealth.
Healy was in his office, his coat off, the cuffs of his white shirt turned back, but the narrow black knit tie neat and tight around the short, pointed collar. He was medium height, slim, with a gray crew cut and pale blue eyes like Paul Newman.
He looked like a career man in a discount shirt store. Five years ago he had gone into a candy store unarmed and rescued two hostages from a nervous junkie with a shotgun. The only person hurt was the junkie.
He said, “What do you want, Spenser?” I was always one of his favorites.
I said, “I’m selling copies of the Police Gazette and thought you might wish to keep abreast of the professional developments in your field.”
“Knock off the horse crap, Spenser, what do you want?”
I took out the envelope containing my Polaroid picture of Marty Rabb’s coffee table.
“There’s a photograph in here with two sets of prints on it. One set is mine. I want to know who the other one belongs to. Can you run it through the FBI for me?”
“Why?”
“Would you buy, I’m getting married and want to run a credit check on my bride-to-be?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Okay. It’s confidential. I don’t want to tell you if I don’t have to. But I gotta know, and I’ll give you the reasons if you insist.”
“Where do you buy your clothes, Spenser?”
“Aha, bribery. You want the name of my tailor, because I’m your clothing idol.”
“You dress like a goddamned hippie. Don’t you own a tie?”
“One,” I said. “So I can eat in the main dining room at the Ritz.”
“Gimme the photo,” Healy said. “I’ll let you know what comes back.”
I gave him the envelope. “Tell your people to try and not get grape jelly and marshmallow fluff all over the photo, okay?”
Healy ignored me. I left.
Going out, I got a look at myself in the glass doors. I had on a red and black paisley sport coat, a black polo shirt, black slacks, and shiny black loafers with a crinkle finish and gold buckles. Hippie? Healy’s idea of aggressive fashion was French cuffs. I put on my sunglasses, got in my car, and headed down Commonwealth toward Kenmore Square. The top was down and the seat was quite hot. Not a single girl turned to stare at me as I went by.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THIRTEENTH STREET WAS a twenty-five-minute walk downtown and 116 was in the East Village between Second and Third.
There was a group of men outside 116, leaning against the parked cars with their shirts unbuttoned, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer from quart bottles. They were speaking Spanish. One Sixteen was a four-story brick house, which had long ago been painted yellow and from which the paint peeled in myriad patches. Next to it was a six-story four-unit apartment building newly done in light gray paint with the door and window frames and the fire escapes and the railing along the front steps a bright red. The beer drinkers had a portable radio that played Spanish music very loudly.
I went up the four steps to number 116 and rang the bell marked CUSTODIAN. Nothing happened, and I rang it again.
One of the beer drinkers said, ”Don’t work, man. Who you want?“
”I want the manager.“
”Inside, knock on the first door.“
”Thanks.“
In the entry was an empty bottle of Boone’s Farm apple wine and a sneaker without laces. Stairs led up against the left wall ahead of me, and a brief corridor went back into the building to the right of the stairs. I knocked on the first door and a woman answered the first knock.
She was tall and strongly built, olive skin and short black hair. A gray streak ran through her hair from the forehead back. She had on a man’s white shirt and cutoff jeans.
Her feet were bare, and her toenails were painted a dark plum color. She looked about forty-five.
I said, ”My name is Spenser. I’m a private detective from Boston, and I’m looking for a girl who lived here once about eight years ago.“
She smiled and her teeth were very white and even.