Widow's Walk Part 20

"f.u.c.k you," Pike muttered but not so loud that the manager could hear him.

He stood and looked at me. "I gotta get to work," he said. "That worth twenty to you?"

I gave him the bill. He folded it over and stuck it in his pocket. Then he had a thought. I could tell he wasn't used to it.

"Hey, you're not gonna tell Roy I was talking about him, are you?"

"Why not?" I said.

"He don't like people talking about him. You gonna tell him, I'll give you back your twenty."

"Why doesn't he like people talking about him?"

"Roy's a mean b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Pike said. "You don't know what he's gonna do."

"What might he do?" I said.

"I just told you," Pike said. "You don't never know what he's gonna do."

From his s.h.i.+rt pocket he took a little nip bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap, and drank it.

"Little c.o.c.ktail," he said. "Settle my stomach."

"I won't tell Roy," I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

"Did Amy Peters have a case?" I said.

"There's always a case," Maggie Mills said, "especially if you are one of a discriminated minority."

She was a senior partner at the law firm of Mills and D'Ambrosio, about fifty-five, and small, with crisp gray hair and hard blue eyes.

"Like women," I said.

"Women are a good example," she said. "It is nearly always possible to raise the issue of gender discrimination."

"Was it justified in this instance?"

Maggie Mills smiled. It was a somewhat frosty smile.

"That would need to be adjudicated," she said. "Clearly there was something at issue besides her professional competence."

"Why do you say so?"

"Among other things, she was frightened," Maggie Mills said.

"I know. Do you think she came to you because she was scared?"

Maggie Mills shook her head briskly.

"She came to me because her ego couldn't take it," Maggie Mills said. "She couldn't stand being fired."

"Did you gather she was afraid of her boss?"

"I didn't gather anything," Maggie Mills said. "She didn't speak of it. But I have been in business for a long time, and I can recognize a frightened woman."

"You have any reason to think she was suicidal?" I said.

"The police asked me the same thing," Maggie Mills said. "And I'll answer you the same thing I answered them. I'm an attorney, not a psychiatrist. I don't know what someone is like when they are suicidal. But it seems odd to me, personally, that she would hire a lawyer and then kill herself."

"At least until the bill came."

"The death of a young woman should not evoke levity," she said.

"One of my failings," I said, "is finding levity where it doesn't belong."

"What is your interest in the case?"

"It may be pertinent to another case I'm working on," I said.

"Do you have any other interest?"

"She came to me and told me she was scared and I rea.s.sured her."

"And you are now reconsidering that?"

"It would have been nice if I'd done something useful."

Maggie Mills studied me for a time. "So her death is not solely an occasion for levity."

"Not solely," I said.

"I didn't help her either," Maggie Mills said.

I nodded.

"It seems that both of us might have failed her."

"Seems possible," I said.

"It is my intention to continue to look into the gender discrimination matter," Maggie Mills said.

"Even though your client is dead."

"The crime didn't die with her," Maggie Mills said. "If either of us discovers anything, perhaps we could share it."

"I'm already employed by Cone Oakes," I said.

"This is not a professional matter," Maggie Mills said. "This is personal."

"Yes," I said. "It is." CHAPTER THIRTY It was Marvin Conroy's turn. No one at the bank knew where he was. His ferocious-looking secretary knew only that he wasn't there. She had no idea where he was. On my way out I picked up a copy of the bank's annual report and took it with me. I found it difficult to believe that no one at the bank knew where the CEO was, so I went and sat in my car across the street and looked at the report. In the front was a big picture of Nathan Smith and, on the facing page, a big picture of Marvin Conroy. He looked as if someone had advertised for an actor who looked like a chief executive. Square jaw, receding hair, clear eyes that looked right through the camera lens. I put the report aside with Conroy's picture up, and waited.

At 2:15 he came out of the bank and walked down First Street, toward the Cambridge Galleria, a big shopping center that backed up onto the old ca.n.a.l. This part of Cambridge wasn't one where a lot of people walked, and I had to let him get pretty far ahead of me to keep from being obvious. But Conroy wasn't looking for a tail. He was a big guy with a good tan and an athletic stride. He was balder than his picture indicated, but he made no attempt to conceal the fact, wearing his hair very short. It looked like he went to a good barber.

He went into the Galleria with me behind him and walked straight to the food court. He stood in line for a meatball sandwich and a large c.o.ke, and when he got it took it to an empty table. It was a standard shopping-center food hall with maybe fifteen fast food outlets surrounding an open area full of small tables. The patrons were mostly adolescent kids, as was the service staff.

I'd been hoping we'd end up at an elegant club that catered to CEO'S. But experienced detectives are flexible. I bought a cup of coffee and went over and sat down at his table with him. He glanced up at me, looked around at the number of empty tables still available, and looked back at me with a frown.

"Do I know you?" he said.

"This is very disappointing," I said. "The CEO of a multibranch bank and you're eating in the Galleria food court."

"Cut the c.r.a.p," he said. "Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

He had a very cold gaze. There was something cruel about the way his forehead sloped down over his little sharp eyes, something about the aggressive jut of his prominent nose, and the thickness of his wide jaw.

"Who are any of us," I said. "Why'd you fire Amy Peters?"

"What?"

"It was a two-part question. I raised the metaphysical question about human ident.i.ty, and the more worldly question of why you fired Amy Peters."

"What the h.e.l.l business is it of yours?"

"Human ident.i.ty is a concern to us all," I said.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I'm talking about Amy Peters. Why are you asking me about her?"

"Amy Peters is dead," I said. "I want to know why."

A couple of teenaged kids pa.s.sed by wearing baggy jeans and do-rags. They each had a tray of french fries and a giant c.o.ke. I wondered if there were such a thing as negative nourishment.

"Are you a policeman?" Conroy said.

I gave him my most coppish deadpan stare.

"What was she fired for?" I said.

"I know nothing of her death," Conroy said. "She was fired because she was incompetent."

"She was bringing suit against you for gender discrimination."

"Of course she was. They all do. You fire somebody and it's suddenly un-American."

"Can you tell me about her incompetence?"

Conroy leaned back in his chair a little, and gave me a hard CEO look.

"I guess I'd better see some identification," he said.

"Amy Peters told me she was fired because she talked to me."

"You're that f.u.c.king private detective," Conroy said.

I smiled at him.

"I am he," I said.

Conroy stared at me and opened his mouth and thought about what he was going to say and decided not to say it and closed his mouth. Then he thought of something else.

"f.u.c.k you," he said.

He stood abruptly and walked through the food court and out into the mall. I got up and strolled into the mall after him. At the far end I saw Vinnie Morris come out of a music store wearing a Walkman and earphones. He went out through the mall door onto the street ahead of Conroy. After Conroy went out, Hawk stopped window-shopping and drifted out after him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

"You seem down," I said to Susan. "Would you like me to have s.e.x with you and brighten up your week?"

She shook her head. We were at a small table in the high-ceilinged bar at the Hotel Meridien. I had beer. Susan was barely touching a cosmopolitan.

"That's the answer everybody gives me," I said.

"The parents of the boy who committed suicide are suing me," Susan said.

"They blame you," I said.

"Yes."

"I guess they'd probably have to," I said.

"I know."

"You've seen a lawyer?"

"I talked with Rita."