Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

10

The car was registered to a woman named Patricia Palmer. But it didn’t take too many strokes of the keyboard the next morning to learn she went by Poppy. I’d clicked through so many party photos of Poppy Palmer on the Boston scene that I started to feel underdressed.

She was forty-three, born in Surrey, England, and operated some type of consulting company not far from the Quincy Market. It didn’t appear she had ever been sued. Or arrested. I found a bland and vague company website that told me only that she worked with many Fortune 500 companies. Doing what, I had no idea. She was thin but muscular, with severe, somewhat masculine features and short black hair and black eyes. She kept constant company with men in tuxes and women in sequins.

In every photo, she seemed to be having a hell of a time lifting a champagne glass to fight illiteracy, poverty, cancer, blindness, hunger, domestic violence, and animal abuse. I didn’t see Save the Whales, but maybe I hadn’t been at it long enough.

Around lunchtime, I called Bill Brett, who took most of the event photos for The Globe.

He remembered the parties. But didn’t know anything about Poppy. “Do you have any idea of how many of these things I’ve gone to? Jeez, Spenser.”

“I have a birthday coming up,” I said. “Catered by Karl’s Sausage Kitchen. Front-page material.”

He hung up. I kept scrolling through pictures.

I took a few notes, walked across the street to Starbucks, and returned with a tall coffee. I drank the coffee and put my feet up on my desk. After several minutes, I took them back down. I drank some more coffee and stood up. I looked across the street to an office building that used to be a completely different office building where a woman named Linda Thomas had once worked. I wondered what became of her.

I finished the coffee and began to click through the photos again. Most had appeared in The Globe, Boston, and Boston Common. Poppy Palmer seemed to have a dazzling array of cocktail dresses. Sequins. Silk. Backless and scoop-necked. And I noted, she was quite fit. Not fit in the way Susan Silverman was fit but more like a woman who might deadlift the back of a Buick.

I looked for people I knew in the shots. And names of the charities she supported. I’d been to enough of these things with Susan that I’d developed a mental Rolodex.

On the third viewing, I noticed that in three different shots at three different events, she stood side by side with the same man. He was medium-sized and silver-haired, with dark tan skin and a face that some women might consider handsome. His face looked properly craggy and distinguished, like a profile you’d see on a Roman coin. He seemed to be perpetually laughing, and in two shots had his hand on Poppy’s waist.

The man’s name was Peter Steiner.

I made a screengrab of the photo, zoomed in on his face, and emailed the picture to Mattie.

I went back looking at more photos of Poppy Palmer. And then started a separate search for Peter Steiner.

One cutline named him Peter Steiner of Steiner and Associates. Being a trained detective, I googled Steiner and Associates and found out it was an investment firm that worked with select clients to help them achieve their maximum potential. They listed no address or phone number, only a generic email for serious inquiries.

After a few minutes my phone buzzed. A text from Mattie said Showed to Chloe. That’s the bastard.

I felt like giving myself a high five. Instead, I picked up the phone and called one of the people I’d spotted in the party photos, Bill Barke. Bill and I went way back to the old jazz clubs of Cambridge that had gone by the wayside.

“Spenser,” Bill said. “You still owe me for those Sox tickets.”

“It was a lousy game,” I said. “They lost.”

“Go cry to John Henry.”

“Do you happen to know a guy named Peter Steiner?”

There was a long pause. “Do I know Peter Steiner?”

“Is that a rhetorical question or is your hearing going?”

“Sorry, I’m driving back to Plymouth in the convertible,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve met Peter Steiner. What the hell do you want to know about Peter Steiner?”

“Who is he?” I said. “And what does he do beyond helping a select group of Bostonians reach their maximum potential?”

“He’s a fucking hedge-fund guy,” Bill said. “He lives in a big brownstone on Comm Avenue. Flies to Florida on the weekends in his private jet. Hangs out with ex-presidents, CEOs, and has-been actors and athletes. He’s one of those guys. You know the type.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Ever seen his girlfriend?”

“Poppy Palmer.”

“She’s a real hot tamale,” Bill said. “That accent kills me.”

“She looks like she could break a man’s pelvis with her thighs.”

“She does CrossFit, triathalons, and all that,” Bill said. “I think Steiner does, too. They’re always back and forth to some place in the Caribbean. Out of our league, pal.”

“Ever heard anything untoward about him?”

“Untoward,” Bill said. “You’re always so damn formal. What the hell do you mean ‘untoward’?”

“Sex stuff.”

“Nope.”

“Criminal stuff?”

“I wouldn’t invest my money with him,” Bill said. “But more because I think he’s an arrogant hot dog. Not anything I’ve heard.”

“He appears to never meet a charitable event he wouldn’t attend.”

“Some guys are like that,” Bill said. “Probably thinks he looks great in a tux.”

I named some of the events where I’d spotted him and Poppy Palmer. I asked Bill if he knew anyone connected to those charities who might know more about him.

“Do you care if he knows you’re asking?”

“Maybe a little.”

“If it were me, I’d check in with Wayne Arnett,” Bill said. “He’s an auctioneer at these things and goes by the name Mr. Money Raiser. Susan probably knows him. He’s very close with these people. Big guy on the social scene. Definitely knows Steiner. And he definitely loves to talk. I come out to raise money for the kids. But I’d rather be at home listening to old King Oliver 78s with my dog, Dixie.”

“The reason we’re friends.”

There was another long pause. “Sorry to hear about Pearl.”

“It’s been a few tough months.”

“Maybe you should think about getting a new one,” he said. “Life’s not worth living without a good dog.”

“Already happened.”

“And who’s this?” Bill chuckled.

“A German shorthaired pointer,” I said. “And her name happens to be Pearl, too.”

“Of course it is.”