Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

17

Two days later, Mattie and I were back in South Boston looking for Chloe Turner. Calls, texts, and emails had gone unanswered.

“Maybe she’s on vacation,” I said.

“Sure,” Mattie said. “That’s it. She left Southie and jetted off for the South of France.”

“Did you try her sister?”

“Of course I tried her sister,” Mattie said. “You think I’m a freakin’ idiot? That’s how we got into this shit in the first place. She says Chloe’s been home all week. And now Chloe has decided to ghost me. After all we did for her.”

“I had to put on a coat and tie for the sycophants at the Blackstone Club.”

“If she’s scared, she should just say so.”

“She was scared.”

“But she said if we found more victims, she’d talk,” Mattie said. “This is complete bullshit. You can’t let a guy like Steiner do whatever the hell he wants.”

I parked along L Street where it met Sixth. Mattie and I got out of the car and crossed the street to the triple-decker duplex where Chloe Turner lived. We barely made it to the sidewalk before a middle-aged woman in a sleeveless pink top and blue jeans walked out onto the porch and down two steps. Her blond hair had been touched by a curling iron, and she’d put a lot of time and effort into her makeup. Her fingernails were long and red. I had a chance to study them as we got close and her index finger pointed straight at my chest. “You that Spenser guy?”

“I’m incognito,” I said. “Usually I wear a cape.”

“She said you were big,” the woman said, shaking her finger. “Said you looked like a pro wrestler with a big neck and a busted nose.”

I turned to Mattie. “Chloe’s mom?”

Mattie nodded.

“So shines a good deed in this weary world,” I said.

“Mattie,” the woman said. “Is this the guy?”

She looked at me. “This is the guy, Mrs. Turner.”

“You should know better,” Mrs. Turner said to Mattie. “Your mother brought you up to have more sense. God rest her soul. Don’t bring these people down here to make trouble. I had to miss work yesterday because of all this crap. Knocking on doors, asking people personal questions. You’re not a cop. You’re just a freakin’ kid.”

“I’m twenty-two,” Mattie said.

I introduced myself and handed her a business card. I explained that Mattie worked for me. As Mrs. Turner studied the card, I noticed she had on very tall, very pointy suede heels. The kind that could twist into the back of a grown man’s hand and make him beg for mercy.

“A private investigator?” the woman said. “Bullshit. You can get those cards printed anywhere.”

I opened my wallet and showed her my license. It had both my photograph and an impressive and complex watermark.

“Look, I heard about the backpack,” Mrs. Turner said, hand resting on one hip. “And Chloe admitted to me about the shit she’d pulled. Taking the T into town and going to some fancy club. I told her she got exactly what she deserved. What did she think she was doing for five hundred dollars? Playing Parcheesi?”

“Did she tell you what the man did?” I said. “It wasn’t Parcheesi.”

“More like pop goes the weasel,” Mattie said.

“Yeah?” Mrs. Turner eyed me and nodded. “She told me enough of it. And I heard his side of things from the attorney who showed up two days ago.”

“The esteemed Counselor Greebel?” I said.

Mrs. Turner nodded. She pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights from her purse and fired one up with a plastic lighter. She turned her head and blew smoke off the porch.

“That Greebel guy is a creep,” Mattie said.

“He said the guy thought Chloe was eighteen,” Mrs. Turner said. “Whose fault is that, Mattie? My own daughter acting like a goddamn whore.”

“That’s not what happened,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “What the fuck do you know, Ace Ventura? This is my little girl we’re talking about. She’s a good kid when she’s using her head. Going to give a man a rubdown for five hundred dollars. Do you really think I like my neighbors knowing about this crap?”

“This man is a predator,” I said. “Your daughter was lucky to have gotten away.”

“That’s why she never should have gone in the first fucking place,” Mrs. Turner said, pointing two fingers at me now, the cigarette stuck between them.

I looked to Mattie. She placed her hands into her Sox pitcher’s jacket. Her red hair pulled into a ponytail. Her jaw working on some bubble gum.

“What did this Greebel guy tell you?” I said.

“Nothing,” Mrs. Turner said, shrugging.

“Did he offer you more money?”

“More money?” she said. “No.”

“Did he threaten you?”

Mrs. Turner didn’t answer. She touched her tongue to her upper lip and turned to Mattie. She just shook her head. Mattie leaned against the railing and looked over to me. Mrs. Turner stood in heels as tall and thin as matchsticks.

“How’d he threaten you?” I said.

“I don’t want trouble.”

“Too late,” I said. “This guy sexually assaulted your daughter. This guy Greebel is trying to intimidate you.”

Mrs. Turner took in a long drag of the cigarette, turned her head, and blew out the smoke. “He knew I had a job with the city.”

I nodded.

“He said if you guys kept on making trouble, maybe I wouldn’t have that job anymore.”

Mattie blew a pink bubble, and it quickly popped. Mrs. Turner just stood at the porch and stared at me. “I don’t want trouble,” she said again.

“He hurt some other girls, Mrs. Turner,” Mattie said. “We know he raped at least one.”

“Jesus,” Mrs. Turner said, cigarette burning down in her fingers. “Jesus Christ.”

“All of ’em kids,” Mattie said.

“This wasn’t Chloe’s fault,” I said.

“This guy Greebel said he was connected with some powerful people,” Mrs. Turner said. “He said you were a bottom-feeder looking for money. And that if you tried to blackmail them, you’d get taught a lesson.”

“Eek.”

“You a toughie?” Mrs. Turner said. She smiled for the first time, eyeing me. She was more attractive when she smiled, again touching her upper lip with her tongue.

I shrugged in a weak attempt to appear modest.

“Can I please talk to Chloe?” Mattie said.

“She’s not here,” she said. “She got scared. She’s with her loser father. Like he’s gonna do something. Someone comes after Chloe, and he’d probably throw his back out getting out of the way.”

“Can you tell her to call me?” Mattie said.

Mrs. Turner looked to Mattie, smoke scattering off the porch and down the street, and then back to me. I stood straighter to make sure she knew I was indeed a toughie.

She nodded slowly. “But please let this go,” Mrs. Turner said. “No cops. Not here with my little girl.”