Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

20

Later that afternoon, I took Pearl home and changed out the bloody shirt for a fresh one before meeting Rita Fiore at Legal at Long Wharf. She was waiting at the bar, keeping the full attention of the bartender who appeared to be rightfully taken with his customer.

“What are we drinking?” I said.

“A mojito,” Rita said.

I ordered a Sam Adams on draft and an ice water.

“Ice water?” she said.

“Had an early-morning workout.”

Rita looked as stunning as always. She had on a black pencil skirt that hit right above her knees and a cream-colored silk top that showed off her arms and highlighted her other assets. Her red hair was pinned up on top of her head, and she wore a pair of emerald earrings bigger than a cat’s eye. She smelled like Paris in April.

“What’s the occasion?” she said.

“I hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“How’s the background work coming?”

“It’s coming.”

“But you’re not done?”

“Close,” I said. “But no cigar.”

Rita sipped on her mojito. There was a lot of fresh mint nestled among the crushed ice. I knew it probably looked much better than it tasted. I never cared for mojitos. The bartender brought me the beer and winked at Rita. Rita winked back at him.

“Flirting in my presence,” I said. “I’m hurt.”

“You’ll always be my number-two backup.”

“Number two?”

“Sixkill has moved to the top of the charts.”

I grasped my heart to let her know how much she’d wounded me. “I grow old, I grow old,” I said. “I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.”

She peered down at my neatly cuffed blue jeans over my Red Wing boots. She looked up at me and grinned. “Too late,” she said.

I drank some beer and set the cold glass against my swelling knuckles. Along the docks, sailboats stirred in the early-afternoon breeze. A nearly cloudless day on the harbor.

“The reason you’ve been slow on my case—” Rita said, crossing her lovely pale legs.

“Is because of Susan.”

“My legal case,” Rita said, running a finger up and down her wet glass. “Is because you have found another.”

“Never.”

“Peter Steiner?” she said. Her green eyes were very large and very beautiful and very judgmental.

“Oh, no,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Do I need to remind you that Boston is but a small town?”

“I was reminded of that only this morning,” I said. “Assistance had to be brought in from Rhode Island.”

“Is that why there is a slight bruise against your neck and your right hand is swollen?”

“Old lady tried to take my parking spot.”

The bartender returned, and we both ordered lunch. Crab cake salad for Rita, and I had a tuna burger with fries and coleslaw. The bartender acted as if I didn’t exist, keeping eye contact with Rita.

“Peter Steiner should be rotting in prison,” she said.

“Please,” I said. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

“He’s this city’s version of the Marquis de Sade.”

“Yikes.”

“Yep,” she said. “And everything you heard from Lorraine Glass about my former boss royally fucking up the case is spot-on.”

“Did he fuck it up,” I said. “Or did he drop it?”

“Was he paid?”

I nodded.

“Maybe,” she said. “But we’re talking about a man who had more skeletons in his closet than the Haunted Mansion at Disney.”

“Glass said they had everything they needed.”

“She’s right.”

“I didn’t know you and Glass were friends.”

“There is much about me you don’t know, buster,” Rita said. “You could fill an encyclopedia with it.”

A crowd of schoolkids had gathered in front of the aquarium. An exasperated young woman counted heads as the kids milled about the docks, playing at the edge of the water, seagulls swirling overhead. Above them a marquee to the IMAX theater boasted a film about great white sharks.

“Can I get him now?” I said.

“Hard to get traction on an old case that already went to the grand jury.”

“That’s something I didn’t know.”

“DA made a deal with Steiner,” she said. “He admitted to solicitation. Two years later, he had the charge expunged.”

“These girls weren’t prostitutes.”

“They were sisters,” Rita said. “One was fifteen.”

I told her about Chloe Turner, Debbie Delgado, and Amelia Lynch, although I didn’t mention any of their names.

“You’re thinking of a class-action civil suit?” she said.

“Precisely.”

Rita nodded. She drank some mojito at a much faster rate than Susan enjoying a glass of white wine. She sipped even more and raised a finger at the young bartender. His service was polite and prompt. He could not keep his eyes off Rita, and I didn’t blame him.

Rita nodded and pursed her lips. Her makeup was flawless.

“Have any of these girls been taken out of state?” she said.

“Not that I know of.”

“But you think there are others?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I recall Steiner having some kind of compound in Miami,” Rita said. “Only rumors about what he did down there. Maybe a private island? Horny old wealthy men are the worst. Lots of young women. A hedonistic fuckfest.”

“Please,” I said. “Slow with the legal terminology.”

“Do you know anyone in Miami?”

“By chance, I happen to know the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Miami office.”

“Does he like you?” Rita said.

“Surprisingly enough,” I said. “He adores me.”

“Adores?”

“He likes,” I said. “And most importantly tolerates.”

“That’s where I’d go,” she said. “You’ll have much better luck with the Feds. I don’t know who Steiner knows now. But I still don’t trust the Suffolk DA’s office to follow through. Do you have any idea of the wealth this guy has?”

“Like a dirty Scrooge McDuck.”

“Only it’s not golden coins he wants to swim in.”

“Sick,” I said.

“And well insulated.”

The bartender served us our lunch. He asked Rita if there was anything else he could do. Anything else at all. She cut her eyes at me and smiled.

“Hold that thought, kid,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”