Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,18

nodded.

“So you probably won’t fill me in on her marriages, her relationships with her ex-husbands, her relationship with her daughter, her son-in-law, his family, her financial circumstances, her sex life, her social life. Friends? Booze? Drugs? Gamble? Debt?”

“Oh my God, no,” Jimmy said. “Jesus . . . no comment. No fucking comment.”

I nodded.

“Rita said you asked for someone smart, tough, and presentable,” I said.

Jimmy recovered from his horror sufficiently to smile self-effacingly.

“The firm’s language,” he said.

“But I assume she didn’t ask for stupid, fearful, and repellent,” I said.

“We tried to rephrase her accurately,” Jimmy said. “Obviously, you’re the kind of guy she had in mind.”

“And wasn’t I useful,” I said.

“I’m sure you did what you could,” Jimmy said. “One man . . .”

I nodded.

“And you had your girlfriend to look out for,” Jimmy said.

I nodded. Apparently, Jimmy knew more than he pretended to about the stormy night on Tashtego.

“You arrange the Tashtego security patrol?” I said.

“We located the proper company for her, and made the deal.”

“What’s the company?”

Jimmy thought about it for a moment, and decided it was not in violation of his sacred honor to tell me.

“Absolute Security,” he said. “In Providence.”

“Who do I talk to?”

“Artie Fonseca,” Jimmy said. “He’s the CEO.”

“Who might want something like this to happen?” I said.

“The killing, the kidnapping? I assume some psychopath thought he could make some money.”

I shook my head.

“I know the guy who ran the operation,” I said. “He probably wouldn’t do a kidnapping for money. There are a lot of easier ways. And if he did do a kidnapping for money, he wouldn’t do it this way. Helicopters, for crissake?”

“You think somebody hired him?”

“I do.”

“Who on earth . . . ?”

“My question exactly,” I said.

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“I lost four guys,” Fonseca said.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“I don’t like it,” Fonseca said. “Losing people.”

“It’s tough,” I said.

“I don’t like it,” he said.

He was a spare, middle-sized man with a shaved head and a big mustache. He looked in shape.

“Tell me about the operation,” I said.

“The patrol?”

“The patrol,” I said. “The company. Anything that might be useful.”

“We do business around the country. Rich, low-profile people mostly, estate security, bodyguards . . . you know.”

“Heidi Bradshaw is hardly low-profile.”

“Her money’s as good as if she were,” Fonseca said.

“Do any investigation?”

“Nope, strictly protection,” Fonseca said.

“Ever run into anything like this before?” I said.

“No.”

“How’d it work?” I said.

“Tashtego? Three four-man patrols plus a supervisor. When the guys got killed it was the second shift. Two Jeeps. Two guys in a Jeep. Radio. Sidearms. One shotgun per Jeep. Locked in a mount.”

“Supervisor?” I said.

“No. He only works during the day. Senior guy was in charge.”

“He was?”

“Chet. Chester DeMarco, one of the guys killed.”

“How many people do you employ?” I said.

“You mean overall?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Whole company.”

“Two hundred eighty-seven,” he said. “Plus the home office staff of thirteen, myself included.”

“Who knew about the Tashtego operation?” I said.

“Home office, guys on Tashtego, I don’t know, some others, I’m sure. It wasn’t secret or anything.”

“You have files on all your employees?”

“Your guys got them already,” he said.

“My guys?”

“Couple Massachusetts detectives came in, borrowed all the records.”

“Okay,” I said. “They’ll do all the fact-crunching. Leaves me to do the genius stuff.”

Fonseca looked at me. He had shiny blue eyes that looked almost metallic.

“You do much of that?” he said.

“Genius stuff?” I said. “Hardly any.”

He nodded.

“They were okay guys,” Fonseca said. “You know? Guys like you play ball with, drink beer, talk about broads. Ordinary. They all had some experience. Cops, military. None of them had a record. All of them were trained . . . not one of them cleared his piece.”

“They were up against something unusual,” I said.

“Guy that pulled this off, what’s his name, Rugar?”

“That’s the one he was using when he pulled it off,” I said.

“You need anything from me to help catch him,” Fonseca said, “you got it.”

I nodded.

“If you need one,” Fonseca said, “I can put together a small army. Pretty good men. Some women, too. None of them happy about this.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.

“Cops told me no ransom demand yet.”

“That’s what they tell me, too,” I said.

“So what kind of kidnapping is this?” Fonseca said. “Why didn’t they just wait until after the honeymoon and grab her off the street on her way to the supermarket.”

“I doubt that she goes to the supermarket,” I said.

“Or the polo field? Wherever people like her fucking go,” Fonseca said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Anyone say anything to you about me being there?”

“At the wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope,” he said.

“She