Rough Weather - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,51

“So ten feet from the back, there’s a hill nearly level with the second floor.”

“Shoulda asked for a front room,” Hawk said.

Healy nodded and ate some of his sandwich. Hawk and I each had a beer. We were hoping to do better than the Wagner Coffee Shop for dinner.

“Footprints on the hill?” I said.

“Nope, ground’s dry. Lotta people have walked around up there; grass is sort of trampled.”

“Peeping Toms?” I said.

“Everybody needs a nice hobby,” Healy said.

“So whoever shot him knew where he was and was good with a gun. Put one in Bradshaw’s head through the glass,” I said.

“From maybe twenty feet,” Healy said. “Didn’t have to be Annie Oakley.”

“One shot,” I said. “That’s confidence.”

“Maybe, but from the hill you can’t see the floor of the room,” Healy said. “When Bradshaw went down, he was out of sight.”

“One in the middle of the forehead, one try only?” I said. “Guy must have had some confidence in himself, unless he was aiming for the middle of the mass and missed badly.”

“Wasn’t Bradshaw some sort of spook?” Hawk said.

“Maybe,” I said.

“He knew he in danger,” Hawk said. “Why he called you.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Shoulda known better than hide in a room at somebody’s eye level,” Hawk said.

“And stand looking out the window with the lights on,” Healy said. “There was a scatter of glass particles on his face.”

“Maybe he wasn’t a spook,” I said.

“Maybe not too bright,” Hawk said.

“Fear makes you stupid sometimes,” I said.

Hawk grinned.

“Wouldn’t know,” he said.

“He thought no one knew he was in the motel,” I said.

Hawk nodded.

“Hole looks like a small-caliber, and we found a twenty-two slug in the mattress,” Healy said. “Maybe a target gun.”

“Which means the shooter’s a pro,” I said. “Or such an amateur that it was the only gun he could get.”

“I’m voting for pro,” Healy said.

“So who we got in this mess that’s a pro?” I said.

“Tony Marcus,” Healy said. “Actually, Ty-Bop.”

“Ty-Bop’s just the gun,” I said. “Tony pulls the trigger.”

“I know,” Healy said.

“Or Rugar,” Hawk said.

“I think that’s a union violation,” I said. “You’re detecting.”

“Nope,” Hawk said. “Just thinking out loud. Prove that I can.”

“Why would Rugar kill this guy?” Healy said.

“We knew that,” I said, “we might know everything.”

“Wouldn’t that be refreshing,” Healy said.

57

It was Sunday. We were at the counter of the Agawam Diner, the world’s leading restaurant, having a late breakfast. Hawk had taken Sunday off, on the hopeful assumption that no one in Rowley would try to kill me. From where we sat I could see that Pearl had settled down in the driver’s seat of my car and gone to sleep just as if she didn’t know we were in there eating without her.

“I got a call,” I said, “from Heidi Bradshaw.”

“Really.”

“She wants to see me.”

“Of course she does,” Susan said. “Who wouldn’t.”

“She sounded sort of scared,” I said.

“Of what?”

“She’d heard about Bradshaw,” I said. “I think she’s scared it will happen to her.”

“She say why she thinks that?”

“No.”

“Be good to know,” Susan said.

“It would,” I said. “Any other questions you think I should ask?”

“None, I’m sure, that you haven’t thought of,” Susan said. “Myself, I would be very interested in why she didn’t get better psychiatric treatment for her daughter after she attempted suicide.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to know that, too. I would also like to know if she knew Rugar in Bucharest.”

“Do you think she’ll tell you?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But something might come out.”

“Nothing ventured . . .” Susan said. “Are you going there?”

“No,” I said. “She’s coming to me.”

“Noblesse oblige,” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m thrilled.”

“Have you ever thought about how much it must cost,” Susan said, “to be Heidi Bradshaw?”

“More than the GNP of Albania?” I said.

“Probably,” Susan said. “She doesn’t spin, neither does she sow.”

“She’s dependent on the kindness of husbands,” I said.

Susan nodded.

“The most recent of whom seem to be broke, or nearly so,” I said. “According to Epstein.”

“Might want to factor that in,” Susan said.

“Yeah,” I said. “You know what I don’t get? Epstein says Van Meer is broke. Van Meer says he’s rich.”

“Drunks are the royalty of denial,” Susan said.

“Especially while drinking,” I said.

“Which for someone like Van Meer is probably nearly always,” Susan said.

“Maybe that’s why he drinks. Denial is a much more pleasant reality than the one he’d have to face,” I said.

“Maybe,” Susan said. “Some people drink because they like it, you know, and then get addicted and drink because they must.”

“I’m still at the like it part,” I said.

“You won’t get addicted,”