The Professional - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,4

flossy thing on Tremont?” I said.

“You know it?” she said.

“I was there once with a client,” I said.

Another lemon-drop martini arrived.

“Do you work out?”

“Some,” I said.

“You look very fit,” she said.

“You, too,” I said.

Mistake.

She smiled again and her face flushed slightly.

“You should see me with my clothes off,” she said.

“Probably should,” I said.

She smiled again and her face flushed a little more.

“Do you have a room upstairs?” she said.

“Sadly, no,” I said.

“I could probably get us one,” she said.

“It’s a kind offer,” I said. “But no, thank you.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“But?”

“But I’m in love with Susan Silverman, and we’ve agreed on monogamy.”

“My goodness,” Abigail said.

“I know,” I said. “Makes me kind of boring, but there it is.”

“What a waste,” she said.

“Everyone says that.”

I drank another swallow of beer.

“When did the money stuff come up?” I said.

“Not right away. He paid for everything the first time we were together, here. I don’t think he took any money from me for, oh, I’d say at least a year, year and a half. Then he said there was some waterfront property in Chatham, which was way underpriced, and he knew he could buy it, we could go there and spend time, and later when the market rose, he’d sell it for a nice profit.”

“But all his money was tied up, and he didn’t want to cash in a CD because of the penalties,” I said. “So maybe you could lend him the down payment and you’d get it back with interest when the house was sold.”

“That’s almost exactly right,” she said. “How did you know?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” I said. “You ever see the house?”

“Yes, we spent several weekends there.”

“And your husband?”

“He thought I was with my girlfriends,” Abigail said. “You know. He used to call it a sisterhood retreat.”

“Your husband doesn’t know,” I said.

“God, no, that’s the big reason we hired you.”

“No suspicions? Then or now?”

“None. He’s very busy and very important. Tell you the truth,” she said, “I don’t think it occurs to him that it could happen.”

“You are intimate?”

“Sure. John’s not in the very best shape, and he gets tired at night, and, you know, he’s sixty-eight.”

“So your intimacy is not as frequent as it might be,” I said.

“Or as long-lasting, or as . . . ah, enthusiastic.”

“So Gary Eisenhower was an appealing alternative.”

“Very,” she said. “I think I would have let him get away with the money.”

“The ride was worth the money,” I said.

“Yes. But the blackmail. I can’t live that way, none of us can. My husband can’t know.”

“You have a picture of Gary?” I said.

“No, I threw them out as soon as I found out what he was,” she said.

“Too bad.”

“I didn’t want my husband finding them, either.”

“You love your husband?”

“Love?” She shrugged. “I care about him, certainly. Why do you ask?”

“Just a curious guy,” I said.

Chapter 5

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER NINE in the morning on an overcast day with some thin fog in the air. I was drinking coffee and reading “Arlo & Janis” when Nancy Sinclair came carefully into my office, as if she was entering the confessional.

“Mr. Spenser?” she said. “I’m Nancy Sinclair, from the other day at Elizabeth Shaw’s office?”

“Of course,” I said.

As far as I could recall, she had not spoken when we had our meeting. She looked like a dressed-up cheerleader: a plaid skirt and a white shirt, dark stockings and boots. She was small. Her hair was short and thick. Her jewelry was gold and simple, and so was her wedding band. Her eyes were blue and very big, and she seemed to have a look of permanent surprise, as if the world amazed her. She sat opposite me, in front of the desk, with her knees together and her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t say anything.

“How ’bout them Sox?” I said.

She smiled brightly.

After a while I said, “How you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Is there something you’d like to discuss?” I said.

She nodded.

“Is it about Gary Eisenhower?” I said.

She nodded again. I waited. She smiled at me hopefully. I nodded helpfully.

“I love my husband,” she said.

“That’s nice,” I said.

“He loves me,” she said.

“Also nice,” I said.

“We love each other,” she said.

“Good combo,” I said.

“I don’t . . .”

She seemed to be thinking of how to say whatever it was she wanted to say.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she said.

“I’d be thrilled with any idea,” I said.

She smiled brightly again. It was what she did when she didn’t understand something. I was already pretty sure that understanding stuff wasn’t