Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,34

wacko,” Healy said. “Might be some harebrain who had nothing to do with the kidnapping.”

“Along for the ride,” I said. “Thinks he can score a little cash from somebody else’s crime.”

“It happens,” Healy said.

“I know. You think it’s one of those?”

“They usually show up sooner than this, also,” Healy said.

“Yeah,” I said. “They do.”

“You got a theory?” Healy said.

“The ransom’s an afterthought,” I said.

“What kind of a kidnapping has the ransom as an afterthought?” Healy said.

“One not about the ransom,” I said.

“Most not-ransom kidnappings are about child custody,” Healy said. “Or sexual perversion, or another kind of ransom.”

“Give us the plans to the atom bomb or you’ll never see your daughter again,” I said.

“Something like that.”

“None of those seem to be in play here,” I said.

“No. This seems like something being made up as they go along,” Healy said. “You know this guy, Rugar. That his style?”

“No.”

“Some people took a run at you, and bungled it.”

“You know about that,” I said.

“I’m a trained investigator,” Healy said. “That Rugar’s style?”

“No.”

“But it was Rugar did the kidnapping,” Healy said.

“I saw him do it,” I said.

“Maybe that’s what you were there for?”

“You think?” I said.

“I don’t think,” Healy said. “I guess. If I knew something, maybe I could think.”

“If I was there for a purpose related to the kidnapping, then it would mean that Heidi knew it would happen,” I said. “She’s the one who hired me.”

“So?”

“So if she is, your theory of the crime is that she had six people killed, including her new son-in-law, and her daughter kidnapped, and hired me to be there so I could watch.”

“It’s a theory,” Healy said.

“Motive?” I said.

“Picky, picky,” Healy said.

We were quiet. I realized I didn’t know what I was looking at out the window. I turned from the window and sat back down at my desk.

“Suppose the son-in-law had a will?” I said.

“Of course he did. People in that bracket, they have wills and trusts and pre-nups and post-nups and up-nups . . .”

“Be nice we could see the pre-nup and the will,” I said.

Healy was quiet for a time, looking at the thought.

“Wouldn’t do any harm,” he said. “But even if it is for money, the very late ransom demand makes no sense.”

“So maybe it’s time to unleash the forensic accountants,” I said. “Can you do that?”

“I am a captain in the Massachusetts State Police,” Healy said.

“I’ll take that for a yes,” I said.

Healy grinned.

“Tallyho!” he said.

36

Despite that it was November, Susan and I spent two days at a resort in Rhode Island, in a big cottage on the beach. The cottage had a fireplace and a king-sized bed, and in the late afternoon of the first day we were lying on the bed, with the fire burning, looking at the ocean. It was a clear blue day, just starting to darken, and the pre-winter ocean looked gray and hard as it rolled up onto the smooth sand where the seabirds hopped about.

“‘Roll on,’” I said, “‘thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sail over thee in vain.’”

“Is that Byron?” Susan said.

“Maybe,” I said.

Outside our picture window, the seabirds were very busy at the edge of the waves, scooting back and forth as the waves came in and broke and spread out on the beach. I assumed they were looking for things edible that the waves had roiled up. But I never did know for sure, and when I brought the question up to Susan, she trivialized it. I got up and added wood to the fire and came back and re-propped my pillow and lay on the bed beside her.

“Are we just going to lie on the bed all afternoon and look at the ocean?” Susan said.

“We can look at the fire, too,” I said.

“That’s it?”

“Except for occasional outbursts of scandalous sexuality,” I said.

“Oh,” Susan said.

She stood up and took off her tank top, and unsnapped her bra and let it slide down her arms.

“Do you feel such an outburst approaching?” I said.

“I fear that I’m in its grasp,” Susan said.

She unzipped her skirt and dropped it to the floor and stepped out of it, and wiggled out of her fairly exotic underpants.

“Would you experience it as depravity,” I said, “if I suggested that you leave the high heels on?”

“I would,” she said.

“But?” I said.

“I admire depravity,” she said.

“Does this mean I should disrobe?” I said.

“Yes,” Susan said.

So I did. And when I was done, Susan smiled, gave me a thumbs-up, and jumped on me. Then, for a