Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,16

it would miss us.”

“Of course they did,” I said.

“This smells bad,” Healy said. “The only thing that keeps it from smelling worse is that it’s so loony that maybe we’re missing something.”

“Rugar is no amateur,” I said.

“That bothers me, too,” Healy said. “And you bother me. What the fuck were you there for?”

“Arm candy?” I said.

“Besides that,” Healy said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You ask her?”

“I did. She told me the same crap about having a man at her side that she told you.”

“I bet she knows a lot of men,” I said.

“It’s like a radio signal, isn’t it?” Healy said.

“Loud and clear,” I said.

“So why hire one?” Healy said.

“She must have wanted a guy with my skill set,” I said.

“Must be the case,” Healy said. “But she’s got a security force on the island. Why hire you?”

“Because I am more powerful than a speeding locomotive?”

“But not as smart,” Healy said. “Be nice to know what she thought your skill set was.”

“I could ask her,” I said.

“And you could ask whoever recommended you to her,” Healy said.

“If we knew,” I said.

“You’re a detective,” Healy said. “Maybe you can find out.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll ask around.”

16

Neither Quirk nor Belson had had any contact with Heidi Bradshaw. In fact, Belson claimed not to know who she was.

“For crissake, Frank,” I said. “That’s like not knowing who Jackie Onassis was.”

“Who?” Belson said.

I think he was kidding.

I sat for a while with my feet up on my desk. Someone like Heidi would probably ask her lawyer. Her lawyers probably weren’t the kind who would know about the likes of me. So they’d call someone. Probably a criminal lawyer. The best one in this part of the country was Rita Fiore. I called her.

“You know who Heidi Bradshaw is?” I said.

“Of course.”

“She or anyone representing her get in touch with you and ask for a superhero?”

“As an attorney at law,” Rita said, “I am bound by the ethics of my profession to reveal nothing to you without at least extracting lunch.”

“I like a person with standards,” I said. “Grill 23 in an hour?”

“Upstairs,” she said. “It’s more intimate.”

“Intimate,” I said.

I got there first, climbed the curving staircase, and was at a table for four in a quiet corner, drinking iced tea, when Rita showed up. She might not have quite equaled Susan for gorgeous, but she was certainly as noticeable. A lot of thick auburn hair, some sort of close-fitting green outfit with a skirt that stopped above the knees, and boots that stopped below them.

Close-fitting is not always good news with lawyers, but Rita was quite precisely designed for it. She had large sunglasses pushed up onto her head, and was carrying a purse that would work as a hammock for Pygmies. She put the purse on an empty chair and sat down next to me. She leaned over and kissed me carefully, not messing up her lip gloss.

“My calendar is clear for the afternoon,” she said. “Shall we order champagne?”

“Between husbands?” I said.

“Even if I weren’t,” she said.

“Tea’s good for you,” I said.

“That’s what they said about spinach,” Rita said.

When the waiter arrived she ordered a champagne cocktail.

“So did you recommend my services to anyone?” I said.

“When I was a prosecutor,” she said, “in Norfolk County, I knew a guy in the same office named Jimmy Gabriel. He’s now the managing partner in the firm of Gabriel and Whitcomb in New Bedford.”

The waiter brought Rita her cocktail. She sampled it, looked pleased, and put it down.

“He called me and said that Heidi Bradshaw was looking for a smart, tough, presentable guy to be with her for a three-day wedding weekend. Tough and presentable, you were an easy choice,” Rita said. “I choked a little on smart but couldn’t think of anybody else.”

“He say why she wanted me?”

“No. I warned him that I had been trying for about twenty years to get you to spend a three-day weekend with me, but that you were the functional equivalent of married. He said that Heidi’s interests weren’t sexual.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Yeah,” Rita said, “I know. It’s disappointing to hear, isn’t it?”

“What kind of a firm is Gabriel and Whitcomb?” I said.

“One that specializes in clients who can afford them,” Rita said.

“In New Bedford?” I said.

“Not a wealthy city, but there’s money along the south coast.”

“I could see that,” I said. “And you didn’t want to give me a heads-up?”

Rita shook her head. She had picked up her glass again and was looking at me over it.

“I wanted