The Professional - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,26

“What’s the most interesting thing about him?”

“Interesting?”

“Unusual, maybe,” I said. “What’s different about him?”

“That’s easy. He is into it all the way.”

“Is he more intense than other men?” I said.

“He is all over you. He gets hold of you, and you better like it, because if you don’t, you’re going to have to do it anyway, you know?”

“Forceful,” I said.

She nodded.

“And you like forceful?” I said.

“Yeahhhh,” she said.

She was breathing fast, now, as if she had just run up stairs. And the tip of her tongue was running fast back and forth across her lower lip. When she spoke her voice sounded a little hoarse.

“You get off on this?” Beth said. “Talking about it?”

“Which do you like best?” I said. “Being with Gary or thinking that someone might try to kill him because of it?”

She put her steepled fingers to her mouth again and pressed and turned her head a little so that she was looking at me from the corners of her eyes.

“Both are nice,” she said.

Chapter30

MY FURTHER RESEARCH into Susan’s theories of the case began the next morning. I called Abigail Larson and asked her if she could stop by my office. She seemed happy to be asked.

She arrived about four in the afternoon dressed to the nines and smelling of martini. She arranged herself in one of my client chairs and crossed her legs. Her skirt was short.

“I thought you were off the case,” she said.

“Mostly because I have no case,” I said. “But I’m a nosy guy, and in my free time I still poke around at it.”

“Well,” she said.

“Can we talk about you and Gary a little?”

“Sure,” she said. “But first, can a girl get a martini around here?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m a full-service gumshoe.”

“Up,” she said. “With olives.”

I went to the little alcove where I had a refrigerator and a small cabinet, and made her a martini. I served it to her in a lowball glass.

“Sorry about the glass,” I said. “I haven’t gotten around yet to specialty glassware.”

“Just so it contains alcohol,” Abigail said.

I went back around my desk and sat. She drank some martini.

“God, that’s good,” she said. “I like a man that can make a good martini.”

“Me, too,” I said.

She didn’t need a drink. She was drunk when she arrived. On the other hand, drunks are often talkative. The martini I gave her was big.

“Could I ask you some stuff about your sex life with Gary?”

“Well, aren’t you quite the voyeur,” she said.

She pronounced “quite” like “quit.”

“It’s an incidental benefit,” I said. “Is there anything about Gary’s behavior during sex that stands out in your memory.”

“Hoo,” she said. “You go right to it, don’t you?”

“I do,” I said.

“Turn you on to talk about it?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s talk about it and see.”

“Men are weird,” she said.

“You bet,” I said. “What was there about him during sex that made him different, unusual, whatever?”

“Like was he big or not?” she said.

“Anything that seemed different from other men,” I said.

“I had a lot other men, ya know,” she said.

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “How was Gary different.”

She uncrossed her legs and slumped a little in the chair while she thought, or tried to. Her legs were straight out in front of her. The short skirt crept up her thighs a little higher.

“John . . . husband . . . just lays there, makes me do all the work, you know?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Gary, he grabs hold of you . . .”

“And does the work?”

“Yes . . . no . . . holds me down, like . . .”

She stopped and looked at me blankly for a moment, then closed her eyes and began to slide slowly out of the chair. I got out around the desk in time to keep her off the floor, although her skirt was up around her waist. I got my arms around her under the arms, and got her up and sort of waltzed her slowly across my office toward the couch. She tried to kiss me as we went, and got the side of my mouth. I got her there and down onto the couch and straightened her legs, and pulled down her skirt.

Then I went back to my desk and got out a yellow pad and made a couple of notes. So far I had learned several things. Abigail Larson was a boozer. Her husband was not a sexual athlete. She bought lingerie at La Perla. None of which seemed very useful. But it