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Melancholy Baby

Robert B. Parker

“Yes,” he said. “I’m not, of course, saying any of this in court. But it’s him.”

He frowned suddenly.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re not wired, are you?”

“Now you ask,” I said. “But no. I’m not.”

“How do I know?”

“Because I just told you,” I said. “And you trust me completely.”

“Well, I... oh, fuck,” he said, and took a bite of his cheeseburger.

“Did Mr. Franklin say anything about why he wanted you to intimidate us?”

Karp chewed on his cheeseburger a minute and swallowed, and washed it down with a little coffee.

“Just showed me the cash,” he said.

“What better reason,” I said.

He nodded. His cheeseburger was gone.

“If there’s nothing else,” he said. “I gotta run.”

“There’s nothing else,” I said.

“You got the check this time?” he said.

“This time,” I said.

“Thanks, nice talking to you,” he said.

He finished his coffee in a long swallow and put the cup down. He stood.

“Thanks for lunch,” he said.

I smiled. He headed for the door. I picked up the uneaten half of my tuna sandwich and took a bite. Crime fighting was hungry business.

36

It was raining hard outside. I was sitting against the wall at the far end of my loft, rolling a tennis ball to the other end. When I rolled it, Rosie would race the length of the loft, snatch it, and trot back to me proudly, give me the ball, turn, and wait quivering with intent for me to throw it again. Rosie disliked the rain and refused to walk in it, so I had to improvise. I’d been doing it for twenty minutes when my phone rang. I rolled the ball down the loft again and went and picked it up.

“Miss Randall?”

“Yes.”

“This is George Markham.”

Rosie was back at my feet, dropping the ball and picking it up and dropping it and picking it up. I bent over and got it and tossed it down the loft again.

“How are you, Mr. Markham?”

“I’m terrible, thank you. This stupid investigation has disrupted my home life, badly upset my wife, and estranged me from my daughter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

Rosie brought the ball back and dropped it and picked it up.

“I’m determined to bring it to a conclusion,” George said.

“Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Markham.”

I put the phone down and looked Rosie dead in the eyes and said, “That’s it,” and made a safe sign with my spread hands. Rosie stared at me with her impenetrable black eyes. I held the safe sign and stared back at her. We held our positions for a moment. I could hear Rosie breathing around the ball in her mouth. Then she turned and walked off — haughtily, I thought — and jumped on my bed and began to chew the ball.

“Sorry,” I said into the phone. “What are you planning to do?”

“I’ll have the damned DNA test,” he said. “I find it demeaning and very, very infuriating. But I’m going to do it.”

“That seems sensible,” I said. “Would you like help arranging it?”

“No. I just want you to know I’m going to do it so we can put the damned issue at rest.”

“Will your wife take one, too?”

“She will not. She is far too angry and upset. She would find it humiliating. And she would find it spiritually compromising.”

“Really?” I said. “ ‘Spiritually compromising.’ ”

“My wife is a spiritual person,” he said.

“And God bless her for it,” I said. “For this to have the desired effect, it will need to be a reputable lab, not some DNA-R-Us outfit you found on the Internet.”

“I’ll do it through my local hospital,” Markham said. “It will be legitimate.”

From the bed, Rosie eyed me while she chewed the ball. I felt like Mommie Dearest.

“I applaud your decision, Mr. Markham.”

“Well, I hope once it is done that you will, for God’s sake, leave us alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone when Sarah is confident of her parentage,” I said.

“Bitch,” George Markham said, and hung up the phone. I hung up on my end, and looked at Rosie, glaring at me from the bed.

“Gee,” I said. “He thinks so, too.”