The Professional - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,52

looked at me as if I was something she stepped in.

“I don’t want coffee,” she said.

“I’ll buy you whatever you want,” I said.

“I don’t want anything,” she said.

“Well, here’s the thing,” I said. “I’m going to keep annoying you until you talk with me for a little while, so why not get it over with now.”

“If you continue to annoy me,” she said, “I shall call the police.”

“Sure,” I said. “In the meantime, lemme buy you some coffee and talk with you about Boo.”

She stared at me for a moment, then sighed.

“Very well,” she said, and stalked ahead of me to the snack bar.

I knew Boo would get her, and if it didn’t, it would mean whoever Vinnie saw wasn’t Boo. If it was Boo, she would have to talk to me enough to find out what I knew. We ordered coffee.

“What about this Boo person, or whatever Boo is?” she said.

“Boo is the slugger used to work for your husband,” I said.

“He and a guy named Zel.”

The coffee arrived. I added some sugar and took a swallow. “Oh,” she said, “Boo. I hadn’t thought of Boo since Chet died.”

“Until Monday,” I said.

“Monday?”

“Boo stopped you in front of your house. You and he argued. You shoved him and went in. He stayed outside for a while and looked at your door.”

She didn’t say anything. She looked at me silently for a long time. I let her look. I was interested in what she’d come up with.

Finally she said, “Are you spying on me?”

“Yuh,” I said.

“Why?”

“What did Boo want?” I said.

“Boo,” she said. “So that’s who that was.”

“You didn’t recognize him,” I said.

“No. I mean, I thought he looked familiar, but . . . no.”

“And what did he want?” I said.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I have no idea. I thought he was some kind of stumblebum, you know? I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

I nodded.

“And I object to you lurking around spying.”

“Noted,” I said.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Got nothing else to do,” I said.

“Do you think I’m doing something bad?”

“Are you?” I said.

“Gary and I are just trying to live our lives,” she said, “in the midst of terrible tragedy.”

“Boo want money?” I said.

“No . . . I don’t know. . . . I just wanted to get away from him,” she said.

“What’s the first thing he said to you?”

Her face got sort of squeezed up. Her cheeks reddened a little.

“I won’t talk about this anymore,” she said. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I won’t let you question me as if I have.”

She stood up abruptly and walked to the elevator. I watched her go.

Spenser, the grand inquisitor.

Chapter63

ONE OF SPENSER’S RULES for criminal investigation is that most things have two ends. I’d gotten nothing much from Beth’s end, so I decided to try the other end, and went out to JP to visit Boo.

Zel was cooking sausage and peppers when I got there, and I sat at the kitchen table and drank a beer he gave me while he cooked.

“Boo ain’t here,” Zel said.

“Where is he?” I said.

“Out,” Zel said.

“What’s he doing while he’s out?” I said.

“Got me,” Zel said.

He moved the peppers and sausage around with a spatula.

“Low heat,” Zel said. “Cook it slow. That’s the secret.”

“He go out much alone?”

Zel looked at me.

“Boo’s forty-two years old,” he said. “Course he goes out alone.”

I nodded.

“You and he doing any business with Beth Jackson?” I said.

“Beth? Chet’s wife? No, thank you,” Zel said.

“Trouble?” I said.

“With a capital T,” Zel said. “And that rhymes with B, and that stands for bitch.”

“You don’t like Beth,” I said.

“Good call,” Zel said.

“I’m a trained detective,” I said.

“No,” Zel said. “I don’t like her.”

“Because?”

“Because I kind of liked Chet.”

“And she cheated on him,” I said.

“She didn’t give him no respect,” Zel said.

I nodded.

“Boo like her?” I said.

Zel looked at me sharply.

“Why?”

“He had a confrontation with her Monday,” I said. “Outside her house.”

“Shit!” Zel said.

He poured some sherry wine over the sausage and peppers and watched it boil up briefly and then start to cook away. He lowered the heat to simmer, then turned from the stove and went to the refrigerator and got a bottle of beer for himself and another one for me. He put mine on the table in front of me and went and leaned on the counter near the stove. He drank some of his beer and looked at me.

“Boo ain’t right,” he said. “We both know that.”

I nodded.

“But like I said, he’s forty-two years old. I try to look