She lifted her face and looked at me and said, ”Could you kill him?“
I said, ”No.“
She nodded, without expression. ”What would be the best way to confess?“
”I will find you a reporter and you tell the story any way you wish, but leave out the blackmail. That way there’s no press conferences, photographers, whatever. After he publishes the story, you refer all inquiry to me. You got any money in the house?“
”Of course.“
”Okay, give me a dollar,“ I said.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a dollar bill. I took out one of my business cards and acknowledged receipt on the back of it and gave it to her.
”Now you are my client,“ I said. ”I represent you.“
She nodded again.
”How about Marty?“ I said. ”Don’t you want to clear it with him or discuss it? Or something?“
”No,“ she said. ”You get me the reporter. I’ll give him my statement. Then I’ll tell Marty. I never bother him before a game. It’s one of our rules.“
”Okay,“ I said. ”Where’s the phone?“
It was in the kitchen. A red wall phone with a long cord. I dialed a number at the Globe and talked to a police reporter named Jack Washington that I had gotten to know when I worked for the Suffolk County DA.
”You know the broad who writes that Feminine Eye column? The one that had the Nieman Fellowship to Harvard last year?“
”Yeah, she’d love to hear you call her a broad.“
”She won’t. Can you get her to come to an address I’ll give you? If she’ll come, she’ll get a major news story exclusively. My word, but I can’t tell you more than that.“
”I can ask her,“ Washington said. There was silence and the distant sound of genderless voices. Then a woman’s voice said, ”Hello, this is Carol Curtis.“
I repeated what I’d said to Washington.
”Why me, Mr. Spenser?“
”Because I read your column and you are a class person when you write. This is a story that needs more than who, what, when, and where. It involves a woman and a lot of pain, and more to come, and I don’t want some heavy-handed slug with a press pass in his hatband screwing it up.“
”I’ll come. What’s the address?“
I gave it to her and she hung up. So did I.
When I hung up, Linda Rabb asked, ”Would you like more coffee? The water’s hot.“
”Yes, please.“
She put a spoonful of instant coffee in my cup, added hot water, and stirred.
”Would you care for a piece of cake or some cookies or anything?“
I shook my head. ”No, thanks,“ I said. ”This is fine.“
We went back to the living room and sat down as before. Me on the couch, Linda Rabb on the ottoman. We drank our coffee. It was quiet. There was nothing to say. At two fifteen the door buzzer buzzed. Linda Rabb got up and opened the door The woman at the door said, ”Hello, I’m Carol Curtis.“
”Come in, please. I’m Linda Rabb. Would you like coffee?“
”Yes, thank you.“
Carol Curtis was small with brown hair cut short and a lively, innocent-looking face. There was a scatter of freckles across her nose and cheekbones, and her light blue eyes were shadowed with long thick lashes. She had on a pink dress with tan figures on it that looked expensive.
Linda Rabb said, ”This is Mr. Spenser,“ and went to the kitchen. I shook hands with Carol Curtis. She had a gold wedding band on her left hand.
”You are the one who called,“ she said.
”Yeah.“
”Jack told me a little about you. It sounded good.“ She sat on the couch beside me.
”He makes things up,“ I said.
Linda Rabb came back with coffee and a plate of cookies, which she placed on the coffee table in front of the couch.
Then she sat back down on the ottoman and began to speak, looking directly at Carol Curtis as she did.
”My husband is Marty Rabb,“ she said. ”The Red Sox pitcher. But my real name is not Linda, it’s Donna, Donna Burlington. Before I married Marty, I was a prostitute in New York and a performer in pornographic films when I met him.“
Carol Curtis was saying, ”Wait a minute, wait a minute,“ and rummaging in her purse for pad and pencil. Linda Rabb paused. Carol Curtis got the pad open and wrote rapidly in some kind of shorthand. ”When did you meet your husband, Mrs. Rabb?“
