Bad Business
Authors: Robert B. Parker
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Bad Busine$$
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A
Berkley
Book / published by arrangement with the author
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All rights reserved.
Copyright ©
2004
by
Robert B. Parker
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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ISBN:
978-1-1012-0480-1
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A
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Electronic edition: May, 2005
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THE SPENSER NOVELS
Bad Business
Back Story
Widow's Walk
Potshot
Hugger Mugger
Hush Money
Sudden Mischief
Small Vices
Chance
Thin Air
Walking Shadow
Paper Doll
Double Deuce
Pastime
Stardust
Playmates
Crimson Joy
Pale Kings and Princes
Taming a Sea-Horse
A Catskill Eagle
Valediction
The Widening Gyre
Ceremony
A Savage Place
Early Autumn
Looking for Rachel Wallace
The Judas Goat
Promised Land
Mortal Stakes
God Save the Child
The Godwulf Manuscript
THE JESSE STONE NOVELS
Stone Cold
Death in Paradise
Trouble in Paradise
Night Passage
THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS
Shrink Rap
Perish Twice
Family Honor
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ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER
Gunman's Rhapsody
All Our Yesterdays
A Year at the Races
(with Joan Parker)Perchance to Dream
Poodle Springs
(with Raymond Chandler)Love and Glory
Wilderness
Three Weeks in Spring
(with Joan Parker)Training with Weights
(with John R. Marsh)
FOR JOAN:
good business
“D
o you do divorce work?” the woman said. “I do,” I said.
“Are you any good?”
“I am,” I said.
“I don't want likelihood,” she said. “Or guesswork. I need evidence that will stand up in court.”
“That's not up to me,” I said. “That's up to the evidence.”
She sat quietly in my client chair and thought about that.
“You're telling me you won't manufacture it,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You won't have to,” she said. “The sonovabitch can't keep his dick in his pants for a full day.”
“Must make dining out a little awkward,” I said.
She ignored me. I was used to it. Mostly I amused myself.
“I always have trouble convincing people that any man would cheat on a woman like me. I mean, look at me.”
“Unbelievable,” I said.
“My attorneys tell me you are too expensive,” she said. “But that you are probably worth it.”
“The same could be remarked of Susan Silverman.”
She frowned.
“Who the hell is Susan Silverman?” she said.
“Girl of my dreams.”
She frowned again. Then she said, “Oh, I see. You're being cute.”
“It's my nature,” I said.
“Well, it's not mine,” she said. “Do you want the job?”
“Sure.”
“My attorneys will want a strict accounting of what you spend,” she said.
“I'll bet they will,” I said.
She was good-looking in kind of an old-fashioned way. Sort of womanly. Before personal trainers, and StairMasters. Like the women in
Life
magazine when we were all much younger. Like she would look good in a small-waisted white polka-dot dress, and a huge straw hat with a white polka-dot band. In fact, of course, she was wearing a beige pantsuit and big pearls. Her reddish blond hair was long and thoroughly sprayed, and framed her face like the halo in a mediaeval religious painting. Her mouth was kind of thin and her eyes were small. I imagined cheating on her.
“I'm represented by Frampton and Keyes,” she said. “Do you know the firm?”
“I don't.”
“You'll do all further business through them. The managing partner is Randy Frampton.”
“Why didn't you let them hire me,” I said.
“I don't let other people make judgments for me. I wanted to look you in the eye.”
I nodded.
“Do you have pictures of your husband?” I said. “Names of suspected paramours? Addresses? That sort of thing?”
“You can get all that from Randy.”
“And a retainer?”
“Randy will take care of that as well.”
“Good for Randy,” I said. “Will he tell me your name, too?”
“I'd rather keep that confidential for now,” she said. “This is a very sensitive situation.”
I smiled.
“Ma'am,” I said. “How long do you think it will take me to find out your name once I know who your husband is?”
“I . . .”
I smiled my sunny good-natured smile at her. I could melt polar ice caps with my sunny good-natured smile. She was no match for it.
“Marlene,” she said. “Marlene Rowley. My husband is Trenton Rowley.”
“How do you do,” I said. “My name is Spenser.”
“Of course I know your name,” she said. “How do you think I got here?”
“I thought you looked up handsome in the phone book,” I said. “And my picture was there.”
She smiled for the first time that morning.
“Well,” she said. “Maybe you are a little bit handsome in a rough sort of way.”
“Tough,” I said. “But sensitive.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Will you speak with Randy?”
“Right away,” I said.
F
rampton and Keyes had offices on the second floor of a two-story building in downtown Beverly. It was one of those block-long brick buildings built before the Second World War when most of the bigger towns were discrete entities rather than suburbs of Boston. There was less open space than you found in the big Boston firms. More small offices, but no partitioned cubbies. In the small reception area was a four-foot-long model of a clipper ship. There were paintings of ships on the walls. The magazines on the small reading table were devoted to golf and sailing.
At the reception desk was a young woman with a big chest and a small sweater, who probably wasn't devoted to golf and sailing. She smiled at me happily as I came in. I suspected that she smiled at most men happily.
“My name is Spenser,” I said. “To see Randy Frampton.”
“Concerning?” she said.
“I'm trying to establish if that's his first name or a descriptive adjective,” I said.
She looked at me and frowned for a minute and then smiled widely.
“That is most definitely his first name, Mr. Spenser. Is there anything else you need to see Mr. Frampton about?”
“Tell him Marlene Rowley sent me,” I said.
“Yes sir,” she said and smiled at me and her eyes were lively.
Randy Frampton, the managing partner, had a corner office. Randy was not very tall. His weight was disproportionate to his height. He had gray hair that needed cutting. His dark blue suit needed pressing and wasn't much better than the one I owned. His tie was yellow silk, and he wore a white broadcloth shirt with one collar point slightly askew. I couldn't see because he was behind his desk, but I suspected that his shoes weren't shined.
“So she decided to hire you,” Frampton said.
“Who wouldn't?” I said.
Frampton sighed a little.
“Marlene is sometimes erratic,” he said. “Did she instruct you that everything goes through this firm?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I'm not sure she meant it.”
Frampton smiled pleasantly.
“That sounds like Marlene,” he said. “But I mean it. You and I need to be on the same page.”
“She was pretty clear that you took care of paying me,” I said.
“You'll submit your expenses, carefully kept, weekly, and we'll pay them weekly. When the investigation is
complete, you'll submit your final bill. Shall we discuss rates?”
I told him my rates. He shook his head.
“I'm sorry, but that's out of line.”
“Sure,” I said.
“We'll need to negotiate that a little.”
“Nope,” I said.
“You won't negotiate?”
“Nope.”
“Then I'm afraid we can't do business,” Frampton said.
“Okay,” I said, and stood up. “You want to tell Marlene, or shall I.”
“That's it?” Frampton said. “No discussion? Nothing?”
“Marlene doesn't look like she'll be fun to work for,” I said.
“You require fun?”
“Fun or money,” I said.
Frampton sat back in his chair and swiveled away from me and looked out his window.
“You know you've got me over a barrel,” he said.
“I do.”
“You know I don't want to tell Marlene that we wouldn't hire you.”
“I know,” I said.
“Will you require a contract?”
“Handshake's fine,” I said.
“That's foolish,” he said. “You should have a contract.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wanted to see your reaction.”
Frampton looked at me thoughtfully.
“You are a little different,” he said. “Aren't you?”
All the answers to that question seemed dumb, so I didn't give one.
“We'll draft a contract and you can run it past your attorney,” Frampton said.
“Okay.”
“Are you prepared to begin now?” Frampton said.
“Sure.”
“Very well,” he said. “What do you know.”
“Marlene wants me to catch her husband cheating on her.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“What would you like from me?”
“Her husband's name; his address, home and business; a couple of different pictures of him; description of his car, plate number. And maybe your reaction to her suspicions.”
He reached into a file drawer and took out a big manila envelope and tossed it on his desk in front of me.
“Pictures,” he said. “Of Trenton Rowley. He's forty-seven years old. He and Marlene live here, in Manchester. The address is in the envelope. So is his business address. He has several cars, I don't know what kind. I don't have the plate numbers. His business is off Totten Pond Road in Waltham. Company named Kinergy, got their own building.”
“Kinergy?” I said.
Frampton shrugged.
“I have no idea what it means,” he said.
“What do they do?”
“Energy trading of some kind,” Frampton said.
“That doesn't mean they run a power plant,” I said.
“No, no. They're tradersâbrokers. They buy power here and sell it there.”
“Gee,” I said. “Just like the legislature.”
Frampton smiled a little.
“Kinergy,” he said, “is an enormously successful company.”
“And what does he do there?”
“He's the chief financial officer.”
“Mr. Rowley is wealthy?”
“Yes. And he has a lot of clout.”
“Yikes,” I said. “Do you folks represent him as well?”
“Oh, God, no. Obviously we couldn't represent both sides in a divorce, but, even if we could. No, no. The company does business with Cone, Oakes, and Baldwin. I would assume they might represent him as well.”
“What about the last part of my question?”
“What do I think?”
I nodded.
“Trent Rowley has, for a long time, gotten everything he wanted. He has always given Marlene everything she wanted.”
“So do you think he's cheating on her?”
“I don't know. I think he would if he wanted to.”
“Marlene have any evidence?”
“I don't know. She says she knows he's cheating. But she adds nothing of substance to the accusation.”
“Doe she have much of substance?”
“In this case?”
“In any case,” I said.
Frampton shook his head slowly.
“Marlene is a client,” he said. “It is unbecoming an attorney to discuss his clients' personal quirks.”
“Heavens,” I said. “Integrity?”
“One finds it in the most unlikely places,” Frampton said. “Even, now and then, in law firms.”
“I'm heartened,” I said.