Robert B. Parker's Someone to Watch Over Me (Spenser #48)(4)

“Of course.”

“Even if she doesn’t want help.”

“Do you really have any doubts?”

I flipped the scallops, the edges turning a lovely brown color in the butter and olive oil. We were nearly ready to sit down. Pearl rambled up to my feet and looked up panting, long tongue lolling out of her little mouth as all Pearls had done before.

“Family trait,” I said.

“I wonder if she’ll be able to stalk squirrels in the Public Garden,” she said. “Maybe track a lone french fry or candy wrapper.”

“Of course,” I said, reaching down to rub her long, droopy ears. “She was born to it.”





3


TWO DAYS LATER, Mattie called.

I’d just finished working out at the Harbor Health Club, taken a steam and a shower, and had emerged onto Atlantic Avenue as fresh as a dozen daisies. The cell phone rang in my pocket as I opened the door to my well-worn Land Cruiser.

“I think I’m being followed,” Mattie said.

“Where are you?”

“The Common,” Mattie said. “Walking toward the office.”

“How many?”

“Two,” she said. “Late twenties. Early thirties. White dudes. One’s got on a Pats cap, and the other is bald.”

“Shouldn’t the bald guy be wearing a cap?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll ask ’em when they get closer.”

“Have they threatened you?”

“They got out of a car over on Tremont and followed me over to the Frog Pond.”

“Where are you now?”

“About to cross Charles and into the Public Garden.”

“I’ll be waiting at the George Washington statue,” I said. “Ten minutes. Mingle with the crowd.”

“I’m not scared,” Mattie said. “Take your time.”

“You think these guys are connected to your sleuthing?”

“I think these two fucknuts wanted to harass me after I left the Blackstone Club.”

“Did you get the backpack?”

“Nope,” she said. “Didn’t get past the first room. A guy with a gun and a blue blazer escorted me onto the street. And then I noticed these two creeps when I passed the T station.”

I drove as fast as the traffic allowed over to Park Street and then hugged the Common along Beacon, the copper dome of the State House shining with its usual early-morning luster. I parked in a loading zone by the Bull & Finch and walked across the street and into the Public Garden.

I waited in the shadow of George Washington, watching the crowds swell into a river over the Lagoon Bridge. Soon I caught sight of Mattie walking in my direction with great purpose. She had on her satin Sox pitcher jacket over a T-shirt with jeans and sneakers. Her long red hair was flying loose behind her as she spotted me.

I stood there, more still than Washington, wearing my Braves cap and Ray-Bans. I looked beyond Mattie, watching two men jostling through the crowd, half walking, half jogging, and coming up behind her. One had on a white cap with what looked to be a Pats symbol. I couldn’t really tell at this distance. But the other’s head was bald and shone brighter than the State House dome.

Mattie continued to walk toward me, milling in with the crowd, taking pictures of the bridge, the swimming ducks, and tulips poking up from the manicured grounds. When she got within five yards, I motioned toward Arlington Street with my head. She winked back and continued in the same steady gait.

The men weren’t far behind, walking past me, and the one in the hat elbowed the bald guy as Mattie exited through the iron gates. I turned and began to follow.

By the time I got to Arlington, Mattie was already across the street at the Old Ritz and then moving toward Marlborough where I used to live. Unfortunately, some years ago, an arsonist had decided to burn me out of my building, gutting the place and much of the two buildings on each side.

It was an unusually cool morning for June, and I wished I’d grabbed my windbreaker from my car. I watched as Mattie turned down Marlborough, Mutt and Jeff trailing, picking up the pace out of the Garden, not seeming to care if they were spotted.

My .38 dug into my hip as I began a slow jog.

As I turned the corner, the men had stopped Mattie in front of my old building. Her back pressed against the wrought-iron fence.

“How about you two go fuck yourselves,” Mattie said.

“What language,” I said. “If I were wearing pearls, I’d be clutching them.”

“Get lost, old man,” said the guy in the Pats cap.

I snatched the Pats cap off his head and tossed it into the middle of Marlborough Street. A speeding car soon appeared, smashing the hat into a pancake.

“Asshole,” the bald guy said. He shoved Mattie’s shoulder and turned his attention to me. “This ain’t none of your goddamn business.”

“Double negative?” I said. “And you two coming from the Blackstone Club?”

The men exchanged glances, for the first time registering the distinctive height and size advantage I had on both of them.

“Amateurs,” Mattie said. “Fucking amateurs.”

They were both white, pale, and pockmarked. The Pats fan had narrow black eyes, big floppy ears, and a little scruff of a goatee. His pal had a sloped face, like a shovel, with wide-set eyes and the thinnest trace of a beard. They smelled like cigarettes and BO.