"No. All I know is that nobody made a dime, except Civil Streets."
"How much did they get?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe they didn't get anything either. They won't talk to me."
"I'll bet I can get them to talk to me," Quirk said.
"You have a winning way about you, Captain."
"Yeah. You want to make a wager what I'll find out?"
"If you get past the cooked books?"
"I got people can get past those," Quirk said.
"I'll bet they made a bundle."
"No bet," Quirk said.
We sat quiet for a time drinking coffee, both of us thinking.
"Here's what I know," I said to Quirk.
"See, spirit of concentration is working already."
"He talks a good game, and he puts up a nice front, and he won't admit it, but financially, Sterling is in the crapper. He's got alimony and child support. He can't pay his bills. He's apparently run out of people to borrow from. Even his sister won't lend him money."
I held up a last small corner of my oatmeal scone.
Pearl left Quirk and came over and I gave it to her. She ate it with a lot more enthusiasm than its size deserved.
"It's a mess," Quirk said. "But there's ways to get out of it. People get out of it all the time."
"Sure," I said. "The right kind of people. They change the way they manage their money. Restructure for debt relief until they get back on their feet. They might even get a better job, or pick up a night job. But Sterling's old man was a self-made success, and Sterling went to Harvard and played football and was in Hasty Pudding, and drives a Lexus and rents himself a corner office and thinks all those things are important."
"So he doesn't do the only thing that makes any sense," Quirk said. "He does something stupid."
"He does something stupid," I said. "And now he's involved with people like Cony Brown."
Quirk nodded. We both drank coffee again. Pearl lingered near my desk, in case I might eat another scone. Quirk got up and went to the side table and poured himself more coffee. He put in a careful measure of milk and two sugars. He took another dog biscuit from the canister and came over and gave it to Pearl and went back and sat down. Pearl ate the biscuit and resumed her scone watch.
"And," Quirk said, "there was Galapalooza, grossing all that dough."
"Ah yes," I said.
"So where's Gavin fit?" Quirk said.
"Don't know yet."
"And what is Gavin's connection to Carla Quagliozzi?"
"Don't know yet."
"And if you had been married to a guy and could call yourself Carla Sterling, why would you go with Quagliozzi?"
"Might be pride in heritage," I said.
"Yeah, that's probably it," Quirk said.
"Or it might tell you how she felt about Sterling."
"And what the hell has all this got to do with the Ronan lawsuit?"
"I don't know," I said. "Got a guess?"
"Maybe nothing," Quirk said. "Maybe it's got nothing to do with it."
chapter thirty-one
JEANETTE RONAN WANTED to meet me at ten A.M. in the food court at the Northshore Shopping Center in Peabody. Public and anonymous. I got there early and cruised the place to make sure I wasn't walking into a setup. She might have leveled with her husband, and the good jurist, officer of the court be damned, was dangerous. Other than the dangers inherent if you actually ate there, the food court looked safe enough. I got a cup of coffee and sat at one of the small tables and looked at the mall rats.
The Northshore Shopping Center had opened for business late in 1957 with a Filene's being the first. Since then it had divided and multiplied and roofed over and become a vast enclosed warren indistinguishable from a mall in Buffalo, Boise, or San Bernardino. It was someplace to go for young mothers with unhappy children, and old people on whom the walls had begun to close. It provided an indoor place with security, food, bathrooms, and other people. If all else failed, you could buy something. I was in my business suit: running shoes, jeans, a tee shirt, leather jacket, and accessorized with a short Smith & Wesson and some iridescent Oakley shades. I could see my reflection in the plate glass window of the bookstore opposite and I was everything the haute monde gum shoe was supposed to be. Maybe more.
Jeannette Ronan arrived about 10:10, which would have been right on the button for Susan, so I hadn't begun to think she was late yet. Her blonde hair was below her shoulders and gleamed of a thousand brush strokes. She wore a dark lavender suit with a short skirt, and no stockings. Her legs were very smooth and tanned the color of caramel candy. When she sat down she gave off the gentle aura of good perfume.
"Coffee?" I said.
She shook her head. Brusque. She reached into her matching purse and took out a checkbook and a big gold fountain pen.
"How much?" she said.
"To spend the night with me?" I said. "I usually get one thousand."
"Don't be coarse," she said. "How much for the photographs."
"Oh, those are free," I said. "You want the one with my body oiled, or the all-natural one?"
She spoke as if the hinges of her jaw were sore. "I will pay you for the pictures of me," she said. "How much do you want?"
She was working her tail off to be icy. But she wasn't old enough or smart enough or tough enough. She barely managed sullen.
"Jeanette," I said. "I'm not here to sell you pictures. The Polaroid stuff was just to get you here. We need to talk."
She stared at me.
"Besides, nobody will give you back blackmail items in return for a check, for heaven's sake. Next thing you'll be asking if I accept Visa or MasterCard."
She continued to stare. She held onto the checkbook and pen as if they would fend me off. Looking like she did and having money was all the defense she would ever have, if she needed one. Smart wasn't going to be part of it.
"Do you demand cash?" she said.
"No."
"Why wouldn't you take a check?"
"If I were blackmailing you, I take the check, give you the pictures, you go home and stop payment on the check. Call the cops. I try to cash it and they've got me with proof of my extortion."
"They what?" she said.
"It's okay. I'm not going to ask you for money."
"Well, how do I get the pictures?"
"You don't."
"Then…"
"I want information. I'm going to use the pictures to force you to give me information."
"See, you are blackmailing me."
"Yes I am. You change your mind about coffee?"
"I… yes," she said and her eyes shifted. "I'll have some, black."
"Fine, and if you're not here when I come back with it I will show these pictures to your husband."
"How do I know you even have the pictures?"
"There are four of them altogether," I said. "They were in with some love letters signed `J' in a shoebox under Brad Sterling's bed."
I took one out of my jacket pocket. "Here's one of them," I said.
She looked and quickly looked away. "Put that away," she said.
Under the careful tan her face and neck flushed richly. I put the picture back in my jacket pocket.
"Large coffee?" I said.
She looked around the room. No one was paying any attention. She nodded yes to my question and I went up and got her a cup and one for me, cream, two sugars, and went back to the table with them. She had crossed her legs, which was a good thing, and was leaning back a little in her chair, being serene and ladylike in a difficult situation. I put her coffee down in front of her carefully, without spilling any, and put mine in front of me and got back in my chair. We sat. While we sat I surveyed the room. No sign of anyone intending to shoot me. Jeanette didn't touch her coffee. Susan did that too. You gave her something to eat or drink and she allowed it to sit there for a while. Maybe it was a gender thing. When presented with something ingestible, I began at once to ingest it. Jeanette met my eyes in a long look.
"Did you like what you saw in the pictures?" she said.
"Absolutely," I said. "My congratulations to your trainer."