The light changed. We crossed Beacon and went out onto Storrow Drive westbound.
“In 1940,” I said, “after the Nazis conquered the Netherlands, the Herzbergs were arrested by the Gestapo and sent to Auschwitz, where all but the youngest son died. The great art collection of the Herzberg family was confiscated by the Nazis, including Lady with a Finch. The son was liberated in 1945 by the Russians, and disappeared.”
“Dutch, Jewish, Holocaust, Herzberg,” Belson said. “And artwork.”
“So far,” I said.
“You talk with Lloyd yet?”
“No, but Rita Fiore has.”
“Good-looking redhead?” Belson said. “Used to be a prosecutor in Norfolk County?”
“Yep.”
“She talk to him before or after they tried to hit you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Find out,” Belson said.
“I will,” I said.
The river was on our right; no one was on it or in it. No sculls training for the Head of the Charles Regatta. No college crews readying for the season. No ducks, no geese, no loons, no cormorants, no seagulls, no sailboats, no canoes, no kayaks, just the gray water, looking cold, with ice formed along the riverbanks, where the current wasn’t as strong.
“You want me to talk to Lloyd?” Belson said. “The more we’re in it, the more it defuses their reasons to kill you.”
“And the more we lose that connection,” I said.
“We’ll lose it altogether, they scrag you,” Belson said.
“I’ll try to prevent that,” I said.
“And you’ll talk to Lloyd?” Belson said.
“Both,” I said.
41
When Susan came up from the office, I was sitting on the couch with Pearl, drinking scotch and soda with a lot of ice. Susan kept some for me. She wouldn’t drink it.
“How nice,” she said when she saw me.
“What’s for eats?” I said.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “I had friends over the other night. There’s cheese and fruit, and adorable little dinner rolls, and, I think, some cold chicken left, too. And Iron Horse champagne.”
“Zowie,” I said. “How adorable, exactly, are the dinner rolls.”
“You’ll see,” she said. “Mind if I unwind with a little wine before I set the table?”
“I was hoping you would,” I said.
Susan got some pinot grigio and brought it to the couch and sat on the side of me where Pearl was not.
“There’s a police car parked outside,” Susan said.
“Cambridge?” I sat.
“There was a Cambridge one,” Susan said. “Now it’s a state police cruiser.”
“Healy,” I said.
“You’ll explain,” she said.
“I will.”
We each sipped our drink.
Then she said, “So it is not just unbridled lust that brings you here.”
“Well, that, too,” I said.
“But there’s something else,” Susan said.
“Yes.”
“Unbridled lust I’m used to,” Susan said. “Tell me about the something else.”
She listened quietly while I did. People had tried to kill me before. She wasn’t exactly used to it, but she knew it was part of the package. But it wasn’t anything she liked.
When I got through, she put her wineglass on the coffee table and put her arms around me and pressed her face into my neck. I put my arm around her. Finally she took in a deep breath and let it out and sat back.
She smiled at me.
“Just because you’re a fugitive doesn’t mean you can lie in bed with me and watch basketball all night,” she said. “I hate basketball. One of the many reasons we don’t live together is that I don’t like to watch what you like, and vice versa.”
“It’s more fundamental than that,” I said. “I like the TV off; you like it on.”
She nodded.
“You won’t let them kill you,” she said.
“I will not,” I said.
“I believe you,” she said. “You never have.”
I got up and made another drink. And poured some more wine for Susan.
When I sat back down, I put my arm around her, and she rested her head against my shoulder. Pearl looked vaguely annoyed.
“Hey,” I said to Pearl. “Did I give you a big look when you were flirting your brains out with Otto?”
Pearl remained unabashed. She lapped her muzzle a couple of times and continued the look as she settled back down and put her chin on my thigh.
“You know what struck me when you were telling your story?” Susan said.
I shook my head.
“They are obviously dangerous people. They tried to kill you twice now, and they killed the poor super, just because he was inconvenient.”
“He was a witness,” I said.
“I mean, they could have blown up the whole building.”
“Could,” I said.
“Killers do things like that,” Susan said. “These people seem quite contained.”
“They are very professional,” I said. “On the other hand, so am I.”
“I’m counting on it,” Susan said. “And they did seem quite careful to make the explosive charge small and very local, so it would kill only you.”
“Also true,” I said.
“They’ll kill,” she said. “But not carelessly.”
“If they need to,” I said.
“You’re like that,” she said. “You’ve killed people.”
“When I’ve had to,” I said.
“And you’re careful,” she said.
“I am,” I said.
“They probably think they have to,” Susan said.
“In a good cause?” I said.
“Maybe,” Susan said.
“Hitler probably thought that he was acting in a good cause.”
“And he was wrong,” Susan said. “I’m just saying there’s some reason, perhaps, to think they may be acting on behalf of a cause they believe in.”
“Instead of just greed, or hatred.”
“There may be much of that, but maybe they are able to sort of camouflage those impulses with the colors of a high-minded cause.”
“Like a foundation or something?” I said. “Say the Herzberg Foundation?”
“Maybe,” Susan said.
“For a Harvard Ph.D., you’re pretty smart,” I said.
She nodded and sipped from her wineglass.
“You and I,” she said, “have something few people ever get. And we’ve worked our asses off to get it.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t bear it if they killed you,” she said.
I grinned at her.
“Me, either,” I said.
42
There was a big farmer porch on the front of the house that Ashton Prince had shared with Rosalind Wellington. There was a big tree in the front yard. If it had leaves, I might have known what kind it was. But in winter, with snow on all the limbs and no birds singing, I knew only that it was a tree and would probably have offered swell shade for the porch in summer.
It was a cold morning, and spitting snow. I ate in my car with the engine running and the heater on. The exhaust vapors would have alerted me or anyone like me to the presence of someone in the car. But Rosalind was not anyone like me, and was so self-absorbed that I thought it possible that she was never really alert to anything.
She came out her front door about nine-thirty wearing a striped multicolored knit cap pulled down over her ears and a bulky black quilted coat that reached her ankles. She paid neither my exhaust vapors nor me any heed at all, and strode off toward the college six blocks away.
When she was gone I took a small gym bag of tools and went to her front door. She hadn’t locked it with a key when she came out, so if it was locked, it would be a spring bolt and not a deadbolt. I took out a little flashlight and looked at the door latch. The door didn’t close snugly, and I could see the tongue of the spring bolt. Made duck soup look difficult. I took a small putty knife with a flexible blade from my gym bag and slid it into the opening. It took me less than a minute to lever the bolt back and open the door. I put my flashlight and putty knife back in the gym bag, zipped it up, and put it down just inside the front door. I took my jacket off and hung it on the inside doorknob. Spenser, King of the Burglars. B&E our specialty.