Bad Business (6 page)

B
etween Washington Street and Tremont, near the Boylston Street corner, in what publicists were trying to call the Ladder District, a second Ritz Carlton Hotel had been built in the same redevelopment effort that produced the movie theater complex where Marlene said she had seen
Chicago.
Associated with the hotel was a passel of high-end condominiums, in one of which, on the top floor, Ellen and Bernard Eisen lived in maybe less harmony than they had once hoped. Ellen was expecting me.

When I had seen her the other night, coming out of the Hyatt Hotel with Trent Rowley, I had noted in a professional sort of way that she was a semi-knockout. But seeing her in the bright morning light I decided to upgrade her knockout-ness to full. In tight maroon sweats, her legs didn't seem heavy after all. Just strong.

“Let's sit in the living room,” she said. “There's a nice view of the Common.”

I followed her down a small corridor and into a big bright room with wall-to-wall carpet and big windows through which there was in fact a nice view of the Common. And the Public Gardens. And the Charles River Basin. And Cambridge. And, maybe, on a clear day, eternity. The room had been organized around the view. There was a big beige couch facing the window, and two big tan leather high-backed wing chairs, kitty-corner to the window so that the occupant could look at the view and still talk with someone on the couch. Seated in perfect repose in one of the chairs was a man with dark, very big, very deep-set eyes. He was a slender guy with a short gray beard. His hair was gray, and what was left was wavy and long in the back. His high forehead was nicely tanned.

He rose from the chair effortlessly when Ellen Eisen introduced us. Standing he was maybe two inches taller than I was. Which made him tall. His name, she said, was Darrin O'Mara. We shook hands. His handshake, for all the near theatricality of his appearance and movements, was soft. His deep-eyed gaze was direct and sort of reassuring. When he spoke I heard a faint lilt. Irish maybe.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Spenser,” Ellen said.

O'Mara sat back down and crossed his legs effortlessly. His freshly creased slacks were the color of butterscotch. His wing-tipped loafers were burgundy. He wore no socks. He had on a starched white shirt, open at
the throat, and a blue blazer with brass buttons. My clothes must never fit that well, I thought. I'd be overwhelmed with sexual opportunities, and never get any work done. I promised myself to be careful.

“I have sort of a delicate matter to discuss,” I said.

“You may speak freely in front of Darrin,” Ellen said.

“Are you her lawyer?” I said to Darrin.

He smiled gently. I thought maybe I'd seen him someplace before.

“Oh, God, no,” Ellen said. “I hate lawyers. Darrin is my advisor. I asked him to be here.”

“This isn't a financial thing,” I said.

“I'm an advisor in matters of the heart,” Darrin said in his soft lilt.

It was the matters-of-the-heart phrase that made me remember him. He had a local talk show called
Matters of the Heart
. It was a call-in radio talk show from seven to midnight three nights a week. In the last year or so one of the local stations had begun to televise the radio show live.

“Ah yes,” I said. “That Darrin O'Mara.”

He put his fingertips together and put them to his mouth and smiled modestly. Ellen looked at him as if he had just strolled in across the harbor.

“As I mentioned,” I said to her, “I'm looking into the death of Trent Rowley.”

“Yes.”

“You knew Mr. Rowley?”

“Yes. He and my husband worked together.”

I looked at O'Mara. He smiled at me sweetly over his fingertips. I thought a little.

“I have no secrets from Darrin,” Ellen said.

I nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “I know you and Trent Rowley were intimate.”

She stared at me calmly. O'Mara continued to give me the benign eyeball.

“How do you know that?” Ellen said.

“Reasonable supposition,” I said. “I tailed him to the Hyatt in Cambridge last week. You and he were in room seven-seventeen together for about three hours.”

“And you choose to give that fact the most lurid interpretation possible.”

“I do.”

She looked at O'Mara.

Speaking softly, he said, “Trust the truth, Ellie, remember?”

She looked into his eyes for a little while.

“There is no deceit involved,” she said. “My husband and I have an open marriage.”

O'Mara looked proud.

“And your husband is aware of that,” I said.

“Oh, don't be small-minded. It is very unbecoming.”

“So he didn't object to you spending time with Trent Rowley.”

“No. Of course not.”

O'Mara spoke in his deep gentle voice.

“Are you familiar, Mr. Spenser, with the ancient tradition of courtly love?”

“Love is available only without the coercion of marriage?” I said.

O'Mara hadn't expected me to know. He was far too deeply centered to blink, but he did pause for a moment.

“Only in circumstances where love is unbidden by law or convention can it truly be given and received.”

“That too,” I said.

“In my work I apply the courtly love tradition to contemporary marriage. Only when a wife is free to choose another can she be free to choose her husband.”

“Heady,” I said. “Do you have any idea why someone would wish to shoot Trent Rowley?”

“Lord, no,” Ellen said.

“Enlightened as he is about courtly love,” I said, “your husband wouldn't put several jealous slugs into Rowley's head, would he?”

“Don't be coarse,” she said.

“He did hire a guy named Elmer O'Neill to follow you around,” I said. I had no idea where I was going. I was just poking into the anthill to see if any ants came out.

“Excuse me?”

“Elmer O'Neill, private eye. We met at the Hyatt, me tailing Rowley, Elmer tailing you.”

“That can't be true,” Ellen said. “My husband and I have traveled far beyond the petty constraints of jealousy.”

“Then why would he have you followed?” I said.

She looked at O'Mara. He nodded gently.

“It seems apparent,” he said, “that Ellen cannot attest to the truth of your allegation.”

“I wasn't asking her to,” I said. “I was asking her why she thought her husband might do it.”

“A quibble,” O'Mara said. “I believe we are through with this interview.”

“That so, Mrs. Eisen?”

She looked at O'Mara again. He nodded gently again.

“Yes,” she said. “Please go.”

There was a small schoolyard impulse, a vestige of
my more heedless youth, that made me want to say
no
, and see what O'Mara did. But it wouldn't take me anywhere useful, so I nodded pleasantly instead.

“Thanks for your time,” I said.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“I'll be traveling beyond the petty constraints of rejection,” I said.

I
went over to Kinergy to talk with Bernie Eisen. The security guy at the front desk took my name and made a phone call, and in a minute or two a shiny bright guy with short hair and rimless glasses appeared. His hair was so blond it was nearly white. His suit and shirt were banker gray, with a silver tie. Everything was ironed and starched and pressed and fitted. His cropped mustache was perfectly trimmed. His black wing tips gleamed with polish. His nails were manicured. He had small eyes magnified by the glasses.

“Mr. Spenser? Gavin, director of security.”

He put out his hand. We shook. His grip was everything it should have been. I went easy, so as not to frighten him.

“I wonder if you could step on into my office, for just a couple of minutes,” Gavin said.

“Sure,” I said.

Number six on the Spenser Crime Stoppers List is, go with the flow. We took the elevator to the top of the building, and walked down a bright corridor to Gavin's big office. There were three slick-looking secretaries in the outer office, all wearing skirts, and all smelling faintly of good perfume. They seemed busy. Two on computers, one on the phone.

We sat in Gavin's private office. It was almost empty. Desk, three straight chairs, a file cabinet. The walls were white. There were no pictures. The floor was darkly polished hardwood, no rugs. The only thing on Gavin's desk was a big white telephone with a lot of buttons.

“I hope you understand,” Gavin said. “We've had a terrible event just this week here, and we're trying to, ah, screen anyone who comes to see our executives.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Why did you want to see Mr. Eisen?” Gavin said.

“Personal,” I said. “I'm not sure Eisen would want me to share it.”

“Now, you're not going to give me trouble, are you?” Gavin said.

“Not if you don't annoy me,” I said.

“Do I annoy you?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Perhaps,” Gavin said, “we could ask Mr. Eisen to come in and help us work things.”

“Sure,” I said.

Gavin spoke to one of the secretaries on an intercom. While we were waiting I looked at the room some more. It was on a corner, with big windows on two sides. There were no draperies. It wasn't Gavin's fault that the
windows didn't look out on much. A view of the parking lot from one, a glimpse of Route 128 from another.

“Coffee?” Gavin said as we waited.

I said yes. He spoke again into the intercom, and in a little while the coffee came in big mugs with the Kinergy logo. The secretary who brought the coffee had bountiful dark hair and very good legs. I thought she might have looked at me speculatively, but she might have simply been evaluating me as a security risk. Eisen came into Gavin's office right after the leggy secretary left. He was carrying his own coffee in a mug that said “Bernz” on it.

“Bernie Eisen,” he said when he came in.

He gave me a manly little handshake.

“Mr. Spenser says he has something of a personal nature to discuss with you, Bernz,” Gavin said. “In light of the recent tragedy, I thought maybe we ought to sit in.”

“That's great, Gav,” Bernie said.

He looked at me.

“I don't mean to be too direct,” he said, “but who are you?”

“I'm a detective,” I said. “Investigating the death of Trent Rowley.”

“I already talked to a detective named Healy.”

“He's state,” I said. “I'm private.”

Bernie frowned. He was a short guy, with sharp features. His black hair was slicked back. His black silk suit looked as if it may have cost more than my entire wardrobe, including my lizard-skin ammo belt. He had on a gray shirt with no tie, and managed to appear both professional and relaxed, which was very likely what he
wanted to achieve. He looked like a guy who worked out regularly with his personal trainer.

“Employed by whom?” Gavin said.

“You knew,” I said to Eisen, “about your wife's relationship to Rowley.”

“Hold it right there,” Gavin said.

His jaw was hard set. His face was suddenly angular. His little eyes got even smaller. Eisen immediately had the same look.

“You should know,” I said. “You hired a guy to follow her.”

“Don't answer that,” Gavin said.

I said, “Would you prefer to talk somewhere else, Mr. Eisen?”

“He would not,” Gavin said. “This conversation is over.”

“Mr. Eisen?” I said.

“I have nothing to say,” Eisen said. He was giving me as tough a look as a guy his size could give.

“And I'll have to ask you to leave,” Gavin said to me.

It wasn't going to go well here. I thought about bouncing Gavin on his crew cut for a while, but decided that it would be self-indulgent.

“Have a lovely day,” I said, and turned, and went.

S
usan and I spent Saturday morning together in a series of flossy little stores on Newbury Street, where all the clerks knew her and called her Mrs. Silverman, except for a few of the most seriously expensive, where they called her Susan. Twice I was offered Perrier, but otherwise, they ignored me. Which was fine with me. If the store had someplace to sit, and most of the stores did, I didn't mind shopping with Susan. I liked to watch her with the clothes. I liked to watch her interact with the clerks. I liked it when she'd come out of the dressing room and model something. I liked it that she cared what I thought. I liked it that she wanted my company. I took a proprietary pleasure when she'd invite me to consult at the dressing room door, where she was half clothed. The fact that in most of the stores I fit in like a warthog at a cat show did not dampen my spirits.

For lunch we went to the refurbished Ritz Café. This
was the original Ritz, not the new one where the Eisens had their condo. It had been spruced and polished and modified, but the windows in the café still gave out onto Newbury Street. We got a seat in the window bay and watched the cold spring rain.

“Why do you suppose that security man was so icky?” Susan said.

“Part of it would probably be—what do you shrinkos call it?—characterological,” I said.

“Shrinkos,” Susan said. “How sweet.”

“And some of it, I don't know. He clearly didn't want Eisen to answer me.”

“Do you think he'll talk to you at home, or somewhere away from Gavin?”

“Eisen seems eager to be a winner, not a loser, and I'd guess that he got a firm lecture from Gavin on how loose lips sink ships.”

“So he won't?”

“Probably not. Unless there's something scares him more than Gavin.”

“Is Gavin really that scary?”

“He seems a nasty guy,” I said. “Rigid, anal, mean, spends too much time on his appearance.”

“That last is not always a fault,” Susan said.

“As we've just recently proved,” I said. “But you aside. This guy looks like he's assembled by a drill team every morning.”

“In many firms the chief of security is a middle-management functionary,” Susan said.

“I know,” I said. “You ever hear of a guy named Darrin O'Mara?”

Susan laughed.

“The radio guy?”

“Yeah. What do you think of him professionally?”

“Darrin O'Mara?” Susan laughed again and flapped her hands as she searched for the right phrase. “He's a . . . he's a talk show host.”

“He make any sense?”

“No, of course not. He looks good and he has a nice voice, and his show has a catchy title.”

“
Matters of the Heart,
” I said.

“Yes,” Susan said. “And I listen to it sometimes, because some of my less worldly patients listen to him.”

“So do I hear you saying you don't hold with courtly love?” I said.

“Courtly love is a poetic conceit,” Susan said. “You know that.”

“We're not married,” I said.

“That's true. And it's true that we love each other. And it has nothing to do with the conventions of Provençal poetry. We haven't married because the two of us have autonomy needs that marriage doesn't serve.”

“Gee,” I said. “Not so we'd be free to love uncoerced?”

“You know that we'd love each other married or unmarried. But we are probably happier—though neither more nor less in love—unmarried.”

“So you are not one to promote adultery.”

“It is the most destructive act in a relationship,” Susan said. “You know all this perfectly well. You just like me to talk about us.”

“I do,” I said.