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.
18
“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 didn’t ask you for a referral?”
“Nope.”
“You’d be the logical choice,” I said.
“If it was a security question,” Fonseca said. “Maybe it wasn’t.”
“Or maybe she thought you wouldn’t like her hiring somebody else.”
“Maybe,” Fonseca said.
“You know Jimmy Gabriel?”
Fonseca shrugged.
“Professionally,” Fonseca said. “He put us together with Ms. Bradshaw.”
“You like him?”
“He’s a freakin’ lawyer,” Fonseca said.
“That makes it hard,” I said.
“Don’t
dis
like him,” Fonseca said.
“Any thoughts on why she might have wanted me there?”
“Don’t know why she wanted you there,” Fonseca said.
“Me, either,” I said.
“Didn’t make much difference,” Fonseca said.
Through the big window in the wall behind Fonseca’s ornately carved cherrywood desk, I could see the Providence River where it passed through the downtown.
“No,” I said. “None at all.”
Fonseca took a business card from a small holder on his desk and slid it across to me.
“Offer holds,” Fonseca said. “Any help I can give you, finding that fucking Rugar, I’ll do it.”
I picked up the card and put it in my shirt pocket.
“You got a card?” Fonseca said.
I gave him one of mine.
“You ever do security work?” Fonseca said.
“Not really. Bodyguard now and then.”
“Well, you got the build for it,” Fonseca said. “Used to box, too, didn’t you.”
“Face give it away?” I said.
“Uh-huh. Around the eyes a little, and the nose.”
“You ever box?” I said to Fonseca.
“Not really,” he said. “We all do a little martial-arts training in the company, ’cept the secretaries, but I never did any boxing. I might need a guy like you sometime. I’ll give you a call.”
“Sure.”
“What you gonna do now?” Fonseca said.
“I’ve asked everybody else why Ms. Bradshaw hired me. I guess I may as well go ask her.”
“Good thinking,” Fonseca said.
19
Susan was busy trying to help
the deranged, so she didn’t come with me to Tashtego again. Too bad. I was interested in seeing how her relationship with Heidi would develop. Susan did not like women who flirted with me in front of her, or, I assume, at other times, but at other times the issue didn’t come up. She was also far too classy to let it show, and I was always fascinated at the thoughtful solutions to that problem that she came up with. However, her location, in the heart of Cambridge, gave her a huge market for her skills, and in the fall, when Harvard was cranked up to its maximum silliness, Susan had very little free time.
The Tashtego patrol had obviously been augmented since the wedding. There was a security search on the dock in New Bedford before we went on the launch.
“Can’t go aboard with a weapon,” the security guy said. “We’ll hold it here for you.”
I didn’t argue. Gun hadn’t done a hell of a lot for me last time.
There were guards with shotguns on the launch. On the island, one man in each Jeep carried his shotgun on his lap. No antebellum carriage ride for me this time. I got in the front seat of one of the Jeeps. The guy with the shotgun sat behind me in the backseat.
“There’s cocktails in the atrium,” Maggie Lane said when I presented myself at the door. “Heidi has asked that you join us.”
Heidi was, apparently, not in seclusion. Maggie led me briskly down the hall. I hated briskly. When I wasn’t rushed, I liked to saunter. She paused at the atrium door to wait for me. She didn’t say anything, and her face didn’t show anything. But her shoulders looked impatient. I could hear the sound of a stringed instrument and the low sound of elegant conversation.
“Before I plunge into the social whirl,” I said, “how did you happen to get this job with Heidi?”
“We both went to Lydia Hall College,” Maggie said. “Though we weren’t there at the same time. But when Heidi was looking for an assistant she called the placement office, and they sent me out, and we . . .” Maggie spread her hands to imply that the rest was history.
“You know when she graduated?” I said.
“Oh, before my time. Nineteen eighty, maybe.”
“What was her maiden name?” I said.
Maggie looked slightly startled.
“Maiden name? Before she got married?” Maggie said. “Hell, I don’t know. When she hired me her name was Heidi Van Meer.”
“First husband?” I said.
“Second, I believe.”
“And Bradshaw?”
“Current husband,” Maggie said. “Estranged.”
Maggie opened the door and stepped aside, and I went in past her. The room was amazing. It was all glass, including the domed roof, and in all directions it offered a view of the Atlantic Ocean stretching empty into the distance, hinting of eternity. The men wore blazers in various tones of blue and brown, green and gray, striped and solid. Most of them wore white or pale tan slacks. The women were in little cocktail dresses, some black, some flowered, all showing a lot of suntanned arms, backs, shoulders, and chests. A woman in a long, roomy white dress was in an alcove against the wall of the main house, playing a large harp and using a lot of wrist flourish to do it. She had a flower in her hair.
There was a bar near the harpist, and a bartender in a white jacket and a black bow tie. There were two cocktail waitresses dressed in the short-skirted black dress, white apron getup that had been the staple of dirty French-maid postcards in my early youth. At the far window, with her hair piled high, and the sun shimmering on her jewelry, wearing a very minimal white cocktail dress and very high heels, Heidi Bradshaw was talking to a man with shoulder-length blond hair who looked like he might be the lead dancer for the Chippendales. He was stuffed into a wheat-colored unstructured linen jacket over a maroon polo shirt with the collar turned up. They were sipping something that from where I stood looked like mojitos.
Heidi saw me and waved and gestured me over. I went.
“Here you are,” she said, and gave me a small air kiss near my cheek. “This is Clark.”
I said, “Hello, Clark.”
He nodded. Probably too muscular to speak.
“Clark’s looking out for me,” Heidi said.
“That’s nice,” I said.
One of the French maids came by with a tray.
“Mojito, sir?” she said.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Oh, don’t be a poop,” Heidi said. “Have a drink.”
“I don’t care much for mojitos,” I said.
Clark looked like he wanted to smack me for not liking mojitos. But he contained it.
“Bring Mr. Spenser something he likes,” Heidi said to the waitress.
The waitress looked at me.
“Beer would be swell,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” she said, and she walked away toward the bar. I watched her. She did a nice walk-away.
“Could we take a few minutes to talk?” I said.
“About what?” she said.
“About your daughter, that sort of thing,” I said.
“That is of no further concern to you,” she said. “I asked my accountant to pay you. Has he not done so?”
“He has,” I said. “Have you heard anything from your daughter’s kidnappers?”
“I prefer not to talk about it,” Heidi said.
“Why did you agree to see me?” I said.
“I was trying to be agreeable. I didn’t want you to think that I was angry with you for failing to prevent the awful thing that happened. I just thought you’d stop by, have a drink, and we’d part on good terms.”
My beer arrived. Heineken. I took the bottle, left the glass on the tray. In a minute, I knew, I was going to hear from Clark. I was annoyed. I knew nothing, and the more I nosed around, the less I knew. I had no idea what Heidi was doing. I was being lied to. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like the growing suspicion that I had been used in some capacity I couldn’t figure out. And I didn’t like Clark. I didn’t like his hair, or his linen jacket, or his stand-up collar, or his square jaw. I didn’t like his tan, or his muscles, or the honey-colored woven-leather loafers he had on. I didn’t like his proprietary glare. Or his erroneous assumption that he could knock me down and kick me if he needed to.
“Do you have any idea where your daughter is?” I said.
“I’ve answered that already,” she said.
“What did you hire me for?” I said.
“I regret that I did,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said. “But the question stands.”
She looked at the Chippendale.
“Clark?” she said.
He nodded.
“Ms. Bradshaw has told you she don’t wish to speak of it,” he said. “You’ll have to leave.”
I had a brief internal struggle, which I lost. I was too frustrated.