Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

24

I bought Cuban sandwiches and Cokes at a gas station, and we drove onto Seagrass. I used the pass De Santos had given me to enter the gates, and soon we found our way onto the isthmus that ran parallel to Florida’s east coast. It was a sliver of real estate between Palm Beach and Boca with a two-lane road running north and south. I estimated most of the houses cost more than the GDP of Bora-Bora.

The estates were immense, barrel-roofed, with unfettered views of the Atlantic. The lawns full of palm trees, seagrape, bougainvillea, and birds-of-paradise. We weren’t on Comm Ave anymore.

“I didn’t know people lived like this,” Mattie said.

“Ever been to Marblehead?”

“No.”

“This is like Marblehead with palm trees.”

We found Steiner’s compound within five minutes. The avenue was long and narrow, with no shoulder or turnarounds. It appeared as if it was almost designed for people who put a premium on privacy. There were little to no places where a respectable snoop could park, eat a sandwich, and sit on a house.

“How am I expected to do my job?” I said.

“You drive,” Mattie said. “I’ll eat.”

“That defeats the purpose of a stakeout,” I said. “The best part is eating. Or drinking coffee.”

“Too hot for coffee,” Mattie said.

I made a U-turn in front of another waterfront mansion and doubled back to Steiner’s address. This time I drove slower and more carefully, not being able to see much behind the large iron gate and twisting brick driveway. Tall palms dotted the property, and a long stucco fence faced the main road.

“Can you drive up to the gate?” she said.

“Cameras would catch us.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a bad thing if we wish to remain discreet.”

“Isn’t one of your rules of detecting ‘bother the crap out of someone until they do something stupid’?”

“Rule number eleven.”

“Do you really remember the numbers?”

“One day, I’ll write them all down,” I said. “For posterity.”

“But that’s what you do?” she said. “When you don’t have jack shit?”

I shrugged and kept on heading north. That was pretty much the action along the Seagrass strip. Cruise north and then south and then do it all again. Maybe head on down to the malt shop and hang out with Potsie and the Fonz. There was little to see outside the tall gates, fences, and high shrubs. A common man had to rely on his imagination.

“Do you think he’s here?” Mattie said.

“That’s what I was told.”

“I’d like him to know we are here, too.”

“You’re the boss.”

“But what would you do?”

I thought about it, driving north and then doubling back again. “I’d find a way to say hello,” I said. “And get under his skin.”

“Like a big Fuck You.”

“Sure,” I said. “Something like that.”

I slowed in front of Steiner’s compound and pulled into the expanse of patterned brick before the iron gate. I stopped in the shade of two palms, let down the windows, and turned off the ignition. It was very quiet, the smell of the sea strong.

“What now?” Mattie said.

“We wait for someone to tell us to buzz off.”

“And what will you say?”

“I’ll ask to speak to their boss,” I said. “Tell them I’m a master of the art of shiatsu.”

“What’s that?”

“A Japanese massage technique.”

“I don’t think you’re his type,” she said. “Big and hairy.”

I reached behind my seat for the sandwiches and handed one to Mattie. I unwrapped the other while watching the big gate not ten feet away from where I’d parked. I finished my sandwich in record time while Mattie worked on the first half.

“He already knows we’re onto him,” Mattie said.

I nodded.

“I can’t believe he threatened Chloe’s mom like that,” she said.

“I can.”

“Creep.”

“A well-moneyed creep,” I said. “The worst.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Eat an entire Cuban sandwich in under three minutes?”

“Not go bullshit on these people,” she said. “I want to climb that fence and take a baseball bat to Steiner.”

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“That’s called assault,” I said. “You can go to jail for that. Trust me. It happens.”

“Don’t men like this bother you?”

“They do.”

“But you don’t show it.”

I nodded. “I don’t like what they are and what they do,” I said. “But if I allow their behavior to influence me, then I might get sloppy.”

“Do something stupid,” she said. “Like knocking a bastard’s teeth in with a baseball bat.”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Takes time,” I said. “And a few years of experience.”

Mattie finished the first half of her sandwich. She wrapped up the second half in wax paper and placed it back in the bag. “I don’t like all this sneaking around,” she said. “I’d rather go straight to it. Cut out the bullshit.”

“The bullshit is what some might call investigating.”

“You can’t arrest anyone,” she said. “You can’t make a case against these creeps.”

“But I know people who can.”

Mattie nodded, her Sox cap down far in her eyes. Beyond the gate and the well-manicured lawn, the light began to turn a soft gold. The sea shimmered blue and endless off the sea wall, a gentle roiling among the sailboats and pleasure crafts.

“How can Steiner live with himself?”

“Susan would say because he’s a sociopath,” I said. “And I would agree.”

“No feelings?”

“None whatsoever.”

“But kids,” Mattie said. “Christ.”

I was about to ask Mattie for the second half of her sandwich when our presence drew the attention of a white Ford Explorer with a light bar on the cab. The patrol car stopped. Two white men in uniform got out and walked toward our rental.

“Mission accomplished,” I said.

“Now what?” she said.

“Don’t you recall Spenser’s lesson number twelve?”

“Bullshit your way through anything.”

“Ah.” I smiled. “You were listening.”