Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

22

By noon the next day, we’d landed in Fort Lauderdale. Two hours later, I waited for Mattie in the lobby of the Boca Raton Resort and Club. I had already unpacked and changed into khakis and a blue polo shirt. As I stood by the concierge desk, I began to wonder if I should have packed an ascot. Or at least borrowed one from Hawk. The lobby had a certain Old World elegance, with high white ceilings, marble columns, and potted palms.

“Jesus, Spenser,” Mattie said, coming up behind me. “Are you sure we can afford this?”

“I can afford this,” I said.

“But you’ll expense it,” she said. “It’s part of the case.”

“Of course.”

“The guy at the front said they got five pools,” she said. “And a private beach.”

“Pity we won’t have time to enjoy them all.”

Mattie had on the same thing she’d worn on the plane: a V-neck T-shirt with red and white stripes, skinny jeans, and black Chuck Taylor low-tops. Some classics never change. She had her hair in a ponytail and a notebook in hand.

“What are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s go find Steiner’s house. You already know the address.”

I nodded. “Patience,” I said. “Time to learn the hard facts about sleuthing.”

“What’s that?”

“Not much glitz and glamour,” I said. “First stop is the county courthouse, and then we need to stop by the local newspaper. I’ve learned it’s best to get the lay of the land before storming the castle.”

“Is that what we’re going to do?” Mattie said. “Storm the castle?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But I do hope to get a pretty good view of the drawbridge. And maybe of Steiner, too.”

Mattie leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I’ve got a phone next to my toilet.”

“All the comforts of home.”

“Two sinks, a freakin’ huge bathtub, and a view of the ocean,” Mattie said.

“Business trips don’t have to suck.”

“This doesn’t suck,” Mattie said. “Not by a long shot.”

We walked out to the porte cochere, and I handed the valet my ticket. I whistled “Moon Over Miami” while we waited, although I knew it to be geographically incorrect. I knew the Connee Boswell version but didn’t recall Betty Grable singing in the film. Perhaps I was too transfixed by her legs.

“Maybe when this is all over, we can expense the trip to Peter Steiner,” I said.

“How often do the bad guys get what they deserve?”

“In my experience?” I said.

Mattie nodded.

“Fifty-fifty,” I said.

“But you try anyway,” she said. “I kept on thinking what Chloe and Amelia told us. It makes me want to puke.”

“Don’t clutter your mind up with it,” I said. “People like Steiner are a virus.”

“Your mind is clear?”

“And my heart is pure,” I said. “That’s why my strength is the strength of ten.”

“Cool your jets,” she said. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself.”

I shrugged. The valet brought around my car, which was silver, appropriately dull, and generic enough for the work that needed to be done.

We wheeled away from the hotel, and I headed toward I-95, which would get you anywhere you wanted to go on the East Coast. South Florida was not Boston, and I immediately turned the air conditioner to full blast.

“But later?” Mattie said. “When we’re done with work.”

“The pools?”

Mattie nodded.

“All work and no play makes for a dull sleuth.”

“You think?”

I slipped on my sunglasses. “I know.”