Robert B. Parker’s Revenge Tour

Forty-Six

I already knew where the office was, at the corner of Berkeley and Boylston. If you did what I did for a living, you thought it should be given landmark status.

Dr. Susan Silverman had said she’d call ahead to tell him that I was coming.

“Is this like a referral?” I said to her.

“More like a warning,” she said. “And you did say you occasionally thought about calling him.”

I knocked on the door now.

“It’s open,” I heard from inside.

He was behind his desk, a cup of coffee near his left hand, the right-hand top drawer of his desk open, The Globe turned to the comics page, an open box of Dunkin’ Donuts next to his coffee.

I smiled.

“Spenser,” I said.

He smiled back.

“I am he,” he said.

He was bigger in person, even seated, than Susan Silverman said he was. I had known for some time, even before she came clean to me, that the man of her dreams to whom she occasionally referred was the most famous private detective in town. And the best. Present company very much included.

And despite a nose that she’d told me had been broken several times when he was still a boxer, he was exactly as she had described him:

A hunk.

And a half.

Almost as much of one as the African American man stretched out on the office couch, Thomas Friedman’s new book open on his chest. He wore jeans faded nearly to white, brand-new sneakers that even I knew were old Jordans, an impossibly tight black T-shirt. Overhead lights made his bald head gleam brilliantly.

“Hi, Hawk,” I said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

He smiled brilliantly.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“Coffee, Ms. Randall?” Spenser said.

“Sunny.”

“Coffee, Sunny?” he said.

I told him cream, one sugar, would be fine. He got up, poured me a mug out of a Cuisinart pot, spooned in sugar, got some half-and-half out of his refrigerator, placed the mug on a coaster in front of me.

“A coaster?” I said. “In the presence of the two toughest guys in Boston?”

Spenser grinned.

“For Dr. Silverman,” he said. “Who recently gifted me with this desk, after the old one got shot up. She prefers, rather forcefully, that I not leave rings on it.”

We each drank coffee. Hawk went back to reading his book.

“So how are things going in your slasher movie?” Spenser said.

“You’ve spoken to Belson, obviously,” I said.

“I have,” Spenser said. “And to Susan.”

“Did she specifically tell you why I wanted to see you?” I said.

“Just that you might need some assistance,” Spenser said. “In more general terms, on the right side of patient confidentiality.”

I winked at Hawk. “And now here we all are.”

Hawk smiled at me again and this time I felt as if my heart might have just possibly skipped a beat.

I turned back to Spenser.

“So how can we help you?” he said.

“ ‘We’?” Hawk said. “Here we go.”

I told them both, as quickly and as comprehensively as I could, everything that had happened since the pages and the knife had appeared in Melanie Joan’s suite at The Newbury, through the murder of Richard Gross and my trip to Utica, all the way to the murder of Chaz Blackburn in his home on Ash Place. I concluded by telling them that if we didn’t have a full-fledged serial killer at work here, we seemed to have one on training wheels.

Spenser took it all in. As he did, I saw him absently close the right-hand drawer to his new desk.

“Gun in there?” I said.

He nodded.

“I do the same thing when I don’t know who’s coming through the door,” I said. “Even though I don’t have Hawk.”

“Who do?” Hawk said.

“I hear you’ve got a pretty solid wingman of your own,” Spenser said.

“You know about Spike?” I said.

“Few don’t,” he said.

I drank more coffee. It was very good. Better than Keurig.

“I find myself in a situation,” I said, “where I’m not sure I can protect everybody who might be in danger. And that’s why I was hopeful that I might be able to hire you.”

I asked what he charged. He told me.

I said, “Melanie Joan can afford it.”

“I’m sure she can,” Spenser said, “but in this case, it’s irrelevant, because I’m heading out to Los Angeles on a case in the morning.”

“Well, fuckety fuck,” I said.

Spenser pushed the box of donuts in my direction.

“I forgot to offer you before,” he said. “Pretty sure there’s a couple cinnamons left. I can’t speak for you. But donuts generally make me more optimistic about almost everything except the state of the union.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I’m watching my figure.”

“Same,” Hawk said.

He smiled again.

I once again managed to maintain control.

“I made a few calls about you,” Spenser said. “Just as a way of keeping myself sharp.”

“Gonna take more than a few calls get that done,” Hawk said.

“Heard that you’ve also been dealing with your father’s problems with Joe Doyle,” Spenser said.

“Which make them my problems,” I said.

“Hence the need for reinforcements.”

I grinned. “Hence.”

Spenser said, “What about Vinnie Morris?”

“Texas,” I said. “On a thing.”

“ ‘Thing’ with Vinnie can cover an expanse of territory as great as the Great Plains,” Spenser said. “What about Tony Marcus?”

“All accounts between us are squared at the present time,” I said. “I’d prefer to keep them that way.”

“He mentioned to me when I last spoke to him that you owe him one.”

“Pretty of him to think so,” I said.

“Tony is one transactional son of a bitch,” Spenser said.

“Aren’t we all?” I said.

I picked up my mug and took it over to his sink and rinsed it, telling him Susan would be so proud.

“I’ll figure something out,” I said. “And it was nice to finally meet you.”

Hawk sat up.

“Fuck Tony Marcus,” he said. “And fuck Vinnie. I got this.”

“Seriously?” I said.

“Already told Susan,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said to Hawk.

“You better off with me than my trusty sidekick, anyway,” he said. “Case we got to cut a few corners.”

“I thought you were the sidekick,” Spenser said.