Bad Business

14

Between Washington Street and Tremont, near the Boylston Street corner, in what publicists were trying to call the Ladder District, a second Ritz Carlton Hotel had been built in the same redevelopment effort that produced the movie theater complex where Marlene said she had seen Chicago. Associated with the hotel was a passel of high-end condominiums, in one of which, on the top floor, Ellen and Bernard Eisen lived in maybe less harmony than they had once hoped. Ellen was expecting me.

When I had seen her the other night, coming out of the Hyatt Hotel with Trent Rowley, I had noted, in a professional sort of way, that she was a semi-knockout. But seeing her in tile bright morning light I decided to upgrade her knockout-ness to full. In tight maroon sweats, her legs didn't seem heavy after all. Just strong.

"Let's sit in the living room," she said. "There's a nice view of the Common."

I followed her down a small corridor and into a big bright room with wall-to-wall carpet and big windows through which there was in fact a nice view of the Common. And the Public Gardens. And the Charles River Basin. And Cambridge. And, maybe, on a clear day, eternity. The room had been organized around the view. There was a big beige couch facing the window, and two big tan leather high-backed wing chairs, kittycorner to the window so that the occupant could look at the view and still talk with someone on the couch. Seated in perfect repose in one of the chairs was a man with dark, very big, very deep-set eyes. He was a slender guy with a short gray beard. His hair was gray, and what was left was wavy and long in the back. His high forehead was nicely tanned.

He rose from the chair effortlessly when Ellen Eisen introduced us. Standing he was maybe two inches taller than I was. Which made him tall. His name, she said, was Darrin O'Mara. We shook hands. His handshake, for all the near theatricality of his appearance and movements, was soft. His deep-eyed gaze was direct and sort of reassuring. When he spoke I heard a faint lilt. Irish maybe.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said.

"What can we do for you, Mr. Spenser," Ellen said.

O'Mara sat back down and crossed his legs effortlessly. His freshly creased slacks were the color of butterscotch. His wingtipped loafers were burgundy. He wore no socks. He had on a starched white shirt, open at the throat, and a blue blazer with brass buttons. My clothes must never fit that well, I thought. I'd be overwhelmed with sexual opportunities, and never get any work done. I promised myself to be careful.

"I have sort of a delicate matter to discuss," I said.

"You may speak freely in front of Darrin," Ellen said.

"Are you her lawyer?" I said to Darrin.

He smiled gently. I thought maybe I'd seen him someplace before.

"Oh, God, no," Ellen said. "I hate lawyers. Darrin is my advisor. I asked him to be here."

"This isn't a financial thing," I said.

"I'm an advisor in matters of the heart," Darrin said in his soft lilt.

I t was the matters-of-the-heart phrase that made me remember him. He had a local talk show called "Matters of the Heart." It was a call-in radio talk show from seven to midnight three nights a week. In the last year or so one of the local stations had begun to televise the radio show live.

"Ah yes," I said. "That Darrin O'Mara."

He put his fingertips together and put them to his mouth and smiled modestly. Ellen looked at him as if he had just strolled in across the harbor.

"As I mentioned," I said to her, "I'm looking into the death of Trent Rowley."

"Yes."

"You knew Mr. Rowley?"

"Yes. He and my husband worked together."

I looked at O'Mara. He smiled at me sweetly over his fingertips. I thought a little.

"I have no secrets from Darrin," Ellen said.

I nodded.

"Okay," I said. "I know you and Trent Rowley were intimate."

She stared at me calmly. O'Mara continued to give me the benign eyeball.

"How do you know that?" Ellen said.

"Reasonable supposition," I said. "I tailed him to the Hyatt in Cambridge last week. You and he were in room seven-seventeen together for about three hours."

"And you choose to give that fact the most lurid interpretation possible."

"I do."

She looked at O'Mara.

Speaking softly, he said, "Trust the truth, Ellie, remember?" She looked into his eyes for a little while.

"There is no deceit involved," she said. "My husband and I have an open marriage."

O'Mara looked proud.

"And your husband is aware of that," I said.

"Oh, don't be small-minded. It is very unbecoming."

"So he didn't object to you spending time with Trent Rowley."

"No. Of course not."

O'Mara spoke in his deep gentle voice.

"Are you familiar, Mr. Spenser, with the ancient tradition of courtly love?"

"Love is available only without the coercion of marriage?" I said.

O'Mara hadn't expected me to know. He was far too deeply centered to blink, but he did pause for a moment.

"Only in circumstances where love is unbidden by law or convention can it truly be given and received."

"That too," I said.

"In my work I apply the courtly love tradition to contemporary marriage. Only when a wife is free to choose another can she be free to choose her husband."

"Heady," I said. "Do you have any idea why someone would wish to shoot Trent Rowley?"

"Lord, no," Ellen said.

"Enlightened as he is about courtly love," I said, "your husband wouldn't put several jealous slugs into Rowley's head, would he?"

"Don't be coarse," she said.

"He did hire a guy named Elmer O'Neill to follow you around," I said. I had no idea where I was going. I was just poking into the anthill to see if any ants came out.

"Excuse me?"

"Elmer O'Neill, private eye. We met at the Hyatt, me tailing Rowley, Elmer tailing you."

"That can't be true," Ellen said. "My husband and I have traveled far beyond the petty constraints of jealousy."

"Then why would he have you followed?" I said. She looked at O'Mara. He nodded gently.

"It seems apparent," he said, "that Ellen cannot attest to the truth of your allegation."

"I wasn't asking her to," I said. "I was asking her why she thought her husband might do it."

"A quibble," O'Mara said. "I believe we are through with this interview."

"That so, Mrs. Eisen?"

She looked at O'Mara again. He nodded gently again. "Yes," she said. "Please go."

There was a small schoolyard impulse, a vestige of my more heedless youth, that made me want to say no, and see what O'Mara did. But it wouldn't take me anywhere useful, so I nodded pleasantly instead.

"Thanks for your time," I said.

"What are you going to do?" she said.

"I'll be traveling beyond the petty constraints of rejection," I said.