Painted Ladies

21

The special agent in charge of the Boston FBI office was a guy named Epstein who looked less dangerous than a chickadee, and had killed, to my knowledge, two men, both of whom had probably made the same misjudgment. I had coffee with him in a joint on Cambridge Street.

“Winifred Minor,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“She used to be FBI,” I said.

“Yep, but why do you ask?”

“You know I’m involved with that art theft where the guy got blown up,” I said.

“Ashton Prince,” Epstein said. “Hermenszoon painting.”

“Wow,” I said. “Sees all, knows all.”

“Only a matter of time,” Epstein said, “before I’m director.”

“No dresses,” I said.

“Prude,” Epstein said. “What’s your interest in Winifred Minor?”

There was a platter of crullers under a glass cover on the counter. I eyed them.

“She’s a claims adjuster now,” I said. “For a big insurance company.”

“Shawmut,” Epstein said.

“You keep track,” I said.

“I do,” Epstein said.

“They insured the painting,” I said.

“And the claim is her case,” Epstein said.

“And her daughter was a student of Prince’s, and probably they had a relationship.”

“Which is to say he was fucking her?” Epstein said.

“You civil servants speak so elegantly,” I said. “But yes. I believe he was.”

“Could all mean nothing,” he said.

“Could,” I said.

“But it’s probably more productive to think it means something,” Epstein said.

“You know who the father is, or was?” I said.

“Didn’t know Winifred was married,” Epstein said.

“Don’t know that she was.”

Epstein nodded.

“How old’s the kid,” he said.

“Nineteen, twenty,” I said.

“So Winifred was still with the Bureau,” Epstein said, “when the kid was born.”

I nodded. Epstein drank some of his coffee. I studied the plate of crullers some more.

“You ask either of them about the father?” Epstein said.

“I did,” I said.

“And?”

“They won’t talk about him,” I said.

“When the baby was born she probably used her health insurance,” Epstein said. “Bureau will have a record. I’ll see what I can find out. What’s the kid’s name?”

“Melissa Minor,” I said. “Goes by Missy.”

Epstein nodded. He didn’t write it down. He rarely wrote things down. I sometimes thought he remembered everything he’d ever heard.

“Why are you interested in the father?”

“Seems odd they won’t talk about him,” I said.

Epstein nodded.

“Anything’s better than nothing,” Epstein said.

“But harder to come by,” I said. “You know Winifred Minor?”

“Casually,” Epstein said. “Bureau regarded her as a good agent, maybe a little gung ho.”

“Aggressive?”

“Yep. Probably proving something ’cause she was a female agent,” Epstein said.

“She know anything about explosives?”

Epstein shrugged.

“No reason she should,” he said. “I don’t.”

“I thought special agents in charge knew everything,” I said.

“They do,” Epstein said. “I was just being modest.”