Painted Ladies

“Spenser,” she said, and wrote in a small notebook that was open in front of her.

I nodded and put a little wattage into my killer smile. She survived it.

“First name?” she said.

I told her. She wrote that down in her little notebook. Then she looked straight at me and spoke. Her voice was very clear, and her speech was precise.

“I have nothing to say.”

“You know,” I said, “I don’t, either. These first meetings are awkward as hell, aren’t they.”

She leaned back a little and folded her arms. She frowned, though it wasn’t an angry frown. She looked good. She had thick black hair that she wore long. She had Tina Fey glasses and was wearing a white shirt and a fitted black tunic with brass buttons. I couldn’t see what she was wearing below that because the desk was in the way. But what showed of her was very well made up, very pulled together, and hot.

“Once we get to know each other,” I said, “we’ll be chattering like a couple of schoolgirls, but the first moments are always hard.”

“Well,” she said in her clear, precise way, “you are not the standard cop.”

I smiled and tilted my head a little in obvious modesty.

“I know,” I said.

She looked at me some more. I dialed my smile up a little higher. She smiled back at me.

“Does this crap usually work for you?” she said.

I grinned.

“Sometimes,” I said.

“Well,” she said. “This is one of those times. Sit down. Tell me what you need.”

Magnified by the fancy glasses, her dark eyes seemed even bigger than they probably were. She knew they were a good feature. She let them rest steadily on me. She didn’t blink. She sat and looked and waited.

“Okay,” I said. “Right from the beginning, I want there to be no secrets between us.”

She didn’t smile. But something sort of glittered in her eyes.

“I’m not a cop. I’m a private detective.”

“You were adroit at letting me think you were a cop, without actually saying so.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“So who is your client,” she said.

“Nobody,” I said. “I’m the guy who was supposed to protect Ashton Prince when he delivered the, ah, ransom.”

“And you are not satisfied with your performance,” she said.

“No.”

“What I know of the event, I don’t see what you could have done differently,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“So,” she said, “the, ah, deceased is, in a sense, your client.”

“You could say so, I suppose.”

“What do you need from me?” she said.

“I’d love to know who’s working on it from your end,” I said.

“Me,” she said.

“Bingo,” I said. “First at bat. What can you tell me?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Except there is a lot here you do not understand and cannot find out. You did the best you could. It was not enough. Were I you, I would leave it and move on.”

“Can’t do that,” I said.

She nodded.

“Were you ever a police officer?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Did you clear every case?”

“No,” I said.

“Was that always because there wasn’t enough evidence?”

“No.”

“Occasionally, was it because too many important people did not want the case cleared?”

“Yes.”

She was still leaning back in her chair with her arms folded. She nodded slowly. And kept nodding for a while.

“You ever a cop?” I said.

“I was with the Bureau for a while. Before that I was with the Secret Service.”

“Protection?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“I have children,” she said.

“Husband?” I said.

“No,” she said.

I nodded again.

“This job is regular hours,” she said. “Better pay, and good benefits.”

“And fun as hell,” I said.

“When you have children and you are a single parent, fun is not part of the equation.”

“Too bad,” I said. “Can you tell me anything about any important people who might not want this case cleared?”

“No,” she said.

I nodded.

“Point me in any direction?”

“No.”

“You going to settle the claim?” I said.

“Too early to say.”

We sat and looked at each other. She knew I wasn’t going to take her advice. I knew she wasn’t going to tell me anything.

“Your first name is Winifred?” I said.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a Winifred to me,” I said.

“Nor to me,” she said. “But which nickname would you prefer: Winnie or Fred?”

I smiled.

“Good-bye, Winifred,” I said.

“Good-bye.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Which you won’t take,” she said.

“No.”

She stood and came around the desk. She was wearing a skirt. Her legs were great. I stood. She put out her hand. I took it.

“Be careful,” she said.

“Within reason,” I said.

“Most of us, I suppose, do what we must, more than what we should,” she said.

“Sometimes they overlap,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said.

We shook hands, and I left. I was glad her legs were great.

9

It was raining and very windy. I had swiveled my chair around so I could look out my office window and watch the weather. As I was watching, there was a sort of self-effacing little tap on my office door. I swiveled around and said, “Come in.”

The door opened about halfway, and a woman peeked in with her head tilted sideways. She had gray-brown hair, and she was wearing glasses with metal frames that looked sort of government-issue.

“Mr. Spenser?”

“Yes.”

“May I come in?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t have an appointment,” she said.

I smiled.

“I can squeeze you in,” I said.