Elizabeth introduced them.
“Abigail Larson, Beth Jackson, Regina Hartley, Nancy Sinclair.”
They each had a small notepad in front of them. And a ballpoint pen. Doubtless provided by the firm. They all smiled at me. All of the smiles displayed white, even teeth. They were all extremely well dressed. They all had very good haircuts. They all looked in shape. None looked older than thirty-five. It is easier to be good-looking when you’re thirty-five, and even easier if you’re rich. Though Elizabeth Shaw, who was probably neither, was holding her own. I smiled back at all of them.
No one said anything. They all looked at Elizabeth. “Perhaps you could tell us a little about yourself,” Elizabeth said to me.
“I used to be a cop, now I’m a private detective,” I said.
“Do you have a gun?” Regina said.
“I do.”
“Have you ever shot anyone?” she said.
“I have.”
“Could you tell us about that?” she said.
“No.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Regina said.
She had very black hair, which she wore in bangs over her forehead. Her eyes were large and made to seem larger by her eye makeup. She had on a simple print dress that had probably cost more than Liechtenstein, and her skin was evenly tanned, which in October, in Boston, meant she had either traveled to warmer climes or used an excellent bronzer.
“If we’re going to hire you, I think we should be able to ask you questions,” Abigail said.
I think she was trying to sound stern, but her voice was too small for stern.
“You can ask anything you want,” I said. “Doesn’t mean I have to answer.”
“Well, how are we supposed to decide,” she said.
“Me telling you about shooting somebody won’t help.” Abigail was blonde, with a short haircut that had probably cost as much as Regina ’s little dress. Her eyes were blue. She looked tan.
“I just think it would be so interesting,” she said. “I mean, I bet nobody here even knows anyone who has shot someone.”
“I am hopeful that I won’t have to shoot anyone on this job,” I said.
Abigail said, “I wouldn’t actually mind if you shot the bastard.”
“No,” Beth said. “I don’t think any of us would mind.” Both Beth and Abigail were blonde. In fact, everyone at the table was blonde except Regina, and me, and Elizabeth. Maybe they did have more fun.
“Tell me about him,” I said.
All the women looked at Abigail. She shrugged.
“He’s one slick item,” she said. “He’s handsome, charming, fun to be with, wears clothes beautifully, and he’s very sexy, the sonovabitch.”
“So far, except for sonovabitch,” I said, “we could be talking about me.”
The women all looked at me without response.
“So much for lighthearted,” I said. “Can you give me anything more substantive? Like where he lives?”
“I…” Abigail paused. “I don’t actually know.”
“Who does,” I said.
They all looked at one another and discovered that none of them knew. It startled them.
“Okay,” I said. “Where did you get together?”
“We’d meet for cocktails,” Abigail said. “Or drinks and dinner in, like, suburban restaurants. At least that’s what he and I did.”
All the other women nodded. That’s what they did, too.
“And where did you, ah, consummate your relationship,” I said.
Spenser, the soul of delicacy.
“I, for one, am not going to discuss that,” Regina said.
“Oh, for crissake, Reggie,” Abigail said. “How the hell did he get the goods on you?”
She looked at me.
“We were all bopping our brains out with him,” she said.
“With me it was usually in a motel along 128.”
“Sometimes we’d go away for a weekend,” Beth said. “ Maine, the Cape, New York City.”
Beth had a small, attractive overbite, and wore sunglasses that probably cost more than Abigail’s haircut.
“Did you go often to the same motels?” I said.
“I did,” Abigail said. “There was one near the Burlington Mall we went to four, five times.”
“The one with the little fountain in the lobby?” Regina said.
All of them had been there. He had several favorites that all of them had been to. They showed no geographic pattern.
“And no one has an address for him,” I said.
No one did.
“Or a phone number?”
They had phone numbers, but they weren’t the same numbers.
“I’ll make a prediction,” I said. “These will all turn out to be prepaid disposable cell phones.”
“Which means?” Elizabeth said.
“That we won’t know who the owner was or where he lived.”
“It sounds as if he didn’t ever want us to be able to find him,” Regina said.
“Be my guess,” I said.
“Then… that means… that means he was never, ever sincere, even at the start,” she said.
This guy was really good, I thought. Even after he started blackmailing them, there was still the hope for something.
“Probably not,” I said.
“So how can you ever find him?” Abigail said.
“It’s not as hopeless as it sounds,” I said. “Each of you has been with him, quite often. We’ll talk, each of you and me. One of you, maybe more than one, will remember something.”
“Do you really think you can find him?” Abigail said.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’m very resourceful,” I said.
“Can you be more specific?” Abigail said.
“No,” I said.
“If you do find him,” Regina said, “what will you do?”
I grinned at her.
“Step at a time,” I said.
“But how will you make him leave us alone?” she said. “You look like you could beat him up. Will you beat him up?”
“Soon as I find him,” I said.
Reggie seemed satisfied.
Chapter 3
SUSAN AND I were having drinks before dinner in the South End at a slick new restaurant called Rocca. Susan was sipping a Cosmopolitan. I was moving more quickly on a Dewar’s and soda.
“It’s sort of an elaborate scam,” Susan said. “Isn’t it?”
“Kind of,” I said. “But he gets a double dip out of it.”
“Sex and money?” Susan said.
“Yep. With an assortment of handsome women.”
“All of whom,” Susan said, “are married to older men.”
“Rich older men,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean none of them love their husbands,” Susan said.
“No, it doesn’t,” I said. “But none of the women love their husbands enough to stay faithful.”
“Often it’s not a matter of love,” Susan said.
“I know.”
“Still,” Susan said, “he chose wisely.”
“Which suggests it’s not random,” I said.
My scotch was gone. I looked around for a waiter, and found one, and asked for more. A handsome, well-dressed man walked past our table with a group of people. The handsome man stopped.
“Susan,” he said. “Hello.”
“Joe,” Susan said. “What a treat.”
She introduced us.
“Joseph Abboud?” I said. “The clothes guy.”
“The clothes guy,” he said.
“You got anything off the rack would fit me?” I said.
Abboud looked at me silently for a moment and smiled.
“God, I hope not,” he said.
We laughed. Abboud moved on after his group. I drank my second scotch. We looked at the menu. The waitress took our order.
“Is that how you’re going to find him?” Susan said. “That it’s not random?”
“There must be some connection among the women and with him,” I said.
“Do you have a thought?” Susan said. “On what it might be?”
“No,” I said.
“But you will,” she said.
“I will,” I said.
“These women don’t know each other?”
“They do now,” I said. “But they didn’t originally, except a couple of them.”
“So what they have in common seems to be,” Susan said, and smiled, “Gary Eisenhower.”