“Ain’t it something,” he said.
“Can you do me a favor?” I said.
“Long as mum’s the word,” Crosby said.
I smiled.
“Prince was teaching a seminar called ‘Low-Country Realists’ when he was killed,” I said. “A teaching assistant is finishing it up. Class meets from two to five on Tuesdays.”
“You want to sign up for it?” Crosby said.
“I want a list of the students,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “You got a fax?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m a high-tech sleuth.”
I gave him my card.
“I’ll fax it to you this afternoon,” Crosby said. “Why do you want it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just blundering around in the brush here, see what I kick up.”
Crosby grinned.
“That’s called police work,” he said.
14
I called Rita Fiore in the morning. Rita had once been a Norfolk County prosecutor. Now she was a litigator at Cone, Oakes.
“Tell me about a lawyer named Morton Lloyd,” I said.
“Mort the Tort,” she said. “Got his own firm, Lloyd and Leiter, offices downtown, Milk Street, maybe. What are you looking for.”
“Wish I knew,” I said. “What should I know about him?”
“He’s smart. He’s tough. I don’t think he tests out so good on ethics, but if I were going to sue somebody, Mort would be my guy. You want to sue somebody?”
“Nope. I’m just nosing around,” I said.
“I hear you’re involved in that art heist and murder,” Rita said.
“Who says?”
“I’m sort of friendly with Kate Quaggliosi,” Rita said.
“Isn’t she a blabbermouth,” I said.
“What are friends for?” Rita said. “She’s a pretty smart cupcake.”
“Smart as you?” I said.
“Of course not,” Rita said. “Not as hot, either.”
“Who is?” I said.
“How would you know,” Rita said.
“I am a skilled observer,” I said.
“You’re not ready to cheat on Susan, are you?” Rita said.
“When I am, you’ll be the first to know,” I said.
“How encouraging,” Rita said.
“I assume Lloyd charges a lot for his services,” I said.
“A lot,” Rita said.
“Ashton Prince, the guy that got blown up, claims that Lloyd was his attorney.”
“On a professor’s salary?” Rita said.
“Maybe pro bono?” I said.
“Mort doesn’t do pro bono,” Rita said. “You going to talk to him?”
“I suspect that he wouldn’t tell me which way east was, if I went in.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Rita said. “You want me to talk with him?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything he’ll tell you. Did he have a professional relationship with Ashton Prince? If he did, what for? How was Prince planning to pay his fee? Stuff like that.”
“No problem,” Rita said. “Mort’s always lusted for me.”
“And you for him?”
“No,” Rita said. “But he doesn’t know that.”
“Is it ethical to use sex as a tool of exploitation?”
“ ‘Tool’ may be an unfortunate choice of words,” Rita said. “But the nice thing about Mort is you don’t have to sweat ethics or morality with him.”
“Makes it easier,” I said.
“Do you want your name mentioned?”
“Not unless you think you need to, and I can’t see why you would.”
“Me, either,” Rita said. “I assume this is pro bono.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I plan to reward you with a long lunch at Locke’s.”
“I accept,” Rita said. “And afterward?”
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“Damn,” she said.
15
Susan and Pearl were spending the weekend. Pearl was sprawled on the couch with her head hanging off, snoring faintly. I was making some green-apple fritters. Susan stood at the living-room window, looking down toward the Public Garden.
“When I took her down there this morning,” Susan said, “Pearl kept snuffing around, and stopping and looking at me, and then snuffing around some more. I think she was looking for Otto.”
“Love alters not when it alteration finds,” I said.
“I’ve noticed that,” Susan said. “Especially when Rita Fiore is around.”
“I’m not sure that’s love,” I said. “And I’m not sure I’m its exclusive object.”
“Probably not,” Susan said. “Have you seen her lately?”
“Talked to her today on the phone.”
“About the art-theft murder?”
I was peeling an apple.
“Yep. She’s going to find some stuff out from a lawyer she knows,” I said, “whom she says lusts after her.”
“I’m sure he does,” Susan said. “She’s very attractive.”
“She is,” I said.
“Great hair,” Susan said. “You don’t always see a redhead with hair that good.”
“That’s probably not why Morton Lloyd lusts after her,” I said.
Susan continued to look down toward the Public Garden.
“I’m going to take her to lunch at Locke’s,” I said. “As a payoff.”
Susan turned and looked at me.
“I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” she said.
“I’m sure I will,” I said. “Rita’s a lot of fun.”
“And she’s so good-looking,” Susan said.
“She is,” I said.
Susan was quiet. I peeled my apples. Pearl snored.
“Do you think she’s better-looking than moi?” Susan said.
What kind of idiot wouldn’t know the right answer to that? But in fact I did think she was better-looking than Rita, though the gap was maybe not as wide as I would imply.
“No,” I said.
“Do you think I’m better-looking than she?” Susan said.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Would you care to elaborate a bit?”
“Sure,” I said.
I tossed my sliced apples in a bowl with a little lemon juice to keep them from turning brown.
“You are the best-looking woman I’ve ever known,” I said. “Also, your hair is better than Rita’s.”
“Black hair is easier,” she said.
I measured some flour into another bowl.
“No doubt,” I said. “But it remains true. And if it didn’t, if none of it were true, would it really matter? We love each other, and we’re in it for the long haul.”
“Yes,” Susan said.
I sprinkled some nutmeg into the flour.
“So what difference does it make?” I said.
Susan nodded.
“You don’t think her ass is better than mine?” Susan said.
“No one’s is,” I said. “And I pay close attention.”
She nodded and turned back to the window. I broke a couple of eggs into my batter mix.
“What do you need to learn from this lawyer?” Susan said.
“I don’t know, really. It’s like what I do. I look into something and I get a name and I look into the name and it leads to another name, and I keep finding out whatever I can about whatever comes my way, and sometimes you find something that helps.”
Susan left the window and came and sat on a stool at my kitchen counter. She had on tight black jeans tucked into high black boots. On top she was wearing a loose aqua silk T-shirt, narrowed at the waist by a fancy belt.
“So what have you found so far?” Susan said.
I told her what I knew. She listened with her usual luminous intensity.
“The male version of Rita Fiore,” Susan said.
“How unkind,” I said.
“Horny?” Susan said.
“I was thinking of something a little more technical,” I said.
“Satyriasis?” Susan said.
“There you go,” I said. “Is it real, or just a term, like nymphomania, which ascribes an illness to behavior we disapprove of.”
“Both can be legitimate,” she said. “Though talking of nymphomania is sort of incorrect these days. But both are tied to a definition which depends to some extent on the observer’s view of normal and abnormal.”