Now and then - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,47

was Claire Goldin, who last saw him in 1994 when his name was still Turner.”

“When did Red meet him?” Susan said.

“Somewhere around 1996,” I said. “When his name had changed to Alderson.”

“So whatever caused him to change his name happened between 1994 and 1996,” Susan said. “Are you ready to talk with Epstein yet?”

“No.”

“The FBI has considerable resources. They might be able to fi nd out a little about Bradley Turner.”

“Do I tell you how to shrink the loonies?” I said.

“Wow,” Susan said. “I’ve never heard it described that way.”

“One of the women I talked to told me I was fun,” I said.

“She has no idea,” Susan said.

We were quiet for a moment listening to the soundless distance between us.

“I miss you,” Susan said.

“I know,” I said. “I don’t like this either.”

“How soon?” Susan said.

“I got a guy to talk with tomorrow. Then maybe I can come home.”

“Good.”

“Who’s with you now?”

“Chollo and Vinnie are downstairs in the study. Hawk is in the living room with Pearl reading the New York Times from this morning.”

“I wonder who’s reading to whom,” I said.

51.

Fred schuler was still in business. He had an offi ce on Ontario Street, near the Justice Center. He must have been doing okay because it was a nice office, with a reception area, in a good building . . . with a secretary.

“Have a seat, brother,” Schuler said.

He was tallish and lean with white hair and bright blue eyes.

“You had a job tailing someone named Bradley Turner,” I said.

“In 1994. His wife apparently thought he was cheating on her.”

“I tail a lot of husbands, for a lot of wives,” he said. “And that was a while ago. What’s this about?”

“Murder case in Boston. I think this guy Turner killed a couple of people. He was using the name Perry Alderson.”

“How come you’re involved?” he said.

“I was hired by one victim to check on the other.”

Schuler nodded.

“And they both got killed?” he said.

I nodded.

“I feel like I shouldn’t let clients get murdered without doing something about it,” I said.

“You been a cop?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “You?”

“Nope. I was an insurance investigator and sort of drifted into this. Mostly divorce work. Good money, a steady stream of clients. Not a lot of heavy lifting.”

“Most adulterers aren’t too hard to catch,” I said.

“You got that right,” Schuler said.

“How about Turner?” I said. “You remember him?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Schuler said.

“You have fi les?” I said.

He grinned at me.

“Files and someone who knows how to use them,” he said. He went to the door and stuck his head into the reception area.

“Honey,” he said. “You want to see what you can find in the fi les on a Bradley Turner, around 1994?”

He came back and sat down at his desk.

“Wow,” I said. “This is like a private eye movie. A nice offi ce, a secretary you call honey?”

“That’s her name,” Schuler said. “Honey Schuler.”

“Relative?”

“Wife.”

“Ah,” I said. “She on salary?”

Schuler grinned again.

“No,” he said. “I am.”

Honey came in with a file folder and put it on Schuler’s desk. She was attractive, stylish and silver-haired, with an ornate wedding ring. She smiled at me and went out.

“Married long?” I said.

“Forty-two years,” Schuler said.

“And you like it.”

“Being married?” Schuler said. “To her? Best thing ever happened to me.”

He picked up the fi le folder and looked through it. I waited.

“Yeah,” he said, “I remember this guy.”

He took a photograph of Perry Alderson out of the folder and held it up. I nodded.

“That’s him,” I said. “How long were you on him?”

“About a month, I think.” Schuler shook his head. “In my line of work you see some cockhounds, but this guy. Whoa!

Different woman every day, sometimes more than one. Made me tired just watching him.”

“Got pictures?”

“I don’t know that it’s good for business if I just empty out the whole bag for you.”

“I know,” I said. “What we say here stays here.”

“Like Las Vegas,” Schuler said.

“Sort of.”

“No insult, but how do I know I can trust you?” Schuler said.

“You don’t, but the other alternative is I make one phone call and the FBI will descend upon you like the wolf upon the fold.”

“What’s their interest?” Schuler said.

“One of the vics was an agent,” I said.

Schuler was silent for a moment.

“And they don’t know about me?” he said.

“Not yet,” I said.

He smiled and took a smaller brown envelope from the folder and handed it to me.

“I’ve decided to trust you,” he said.

“Oh good,” I said, and began to look at the photographs. It