“Ten thirty.”
“See you then.”
“I don’t want anyone else to know I’m there, Spenser.”
“Then you say, ‘Make sure you’re not followed.’ And I say, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.’”
“Well, I don’t. I meant it.”
“Okay, kid. I’ll be there.”
We hung up. Susan was in the bathroom doing make-up. I stuck my head in and said, “I have to go out and work for a while.” She was doing something with a long thin pencilish-looking item to the corner of her mouth. She said, “Unh-huh,” and kept on doing it.
When Susan concentrates, she concentrates. I put on my white wide-wale corduroy pants, my dark-blue all- wool Pendleton shirt, and my Herman survivors. I put my gun in its hip holster on my belt; I got into my jacket, turned up the fleece collar, pulled on my watch cap, slipped on my gloves, and went forth into the storm.
Except for the snow, which still fell hard, the city was nearly motionless. There was no traffic. The streets were snow-covered, maybe two feet deep, and the snow had drifted in places high enough to bury a parked car. Arlington Street had been partially plowed, and the walking was easier. I turned right on Beacon and headed up the hill, leaning now into the wind and the snow. I pulled my watch cap down over my ears and forehead. It didn’t look rakish, but one must compromise occasionally with nature. An enormous yellow bulldozer with an enclosed cab and a plow blade approximately the size of Rhode Island came churning slowly down Beacon Street. There were no people and no dogs, just me and the bulldozer and the snow. When the bulldozer passed, I had to climb over a snowbank to get out of the way of the plow spill, but after it had passed, the walking was much better. I walked up the middle of Beacon Street with the old elegant brick houses on my left and the empty Common on my right. I could see the houses okay, but ten feet past the iron fence the Common disappeared into the haze of snow and strong wind.
At the top of the hill I could see the State House but not the gold dome. Nothing was open. It was downhill from there and a little easier. By the time I got to the Parker House, where Beacon ends at Tremont, I was cold and a little strange with the empty swirling silence in the middle of the city.
There were people hanging around in the lobby of the Parker House and the coffee shop on the Tremont Street side was nearly full. I spotted Julie Wells alone at a table for two by the window looking out at the snow.
She had on a silver ski parka which she’d unzipped but not removed; the hood was thrown back and the fur trim tangled with the edges of her hair. Underneath the parka she wore a white turtleneck sweater, and with her big gold earrings and her long eyelashes she looked like maybe 1.8 million. Susan was a two million.
I rolled my watch cap back up to rakish and then walked over and sat down across from her. The Parker House used to be Old Boston and kind of an institution. It had fallen on hard times and was now making a comeback, but the coffee shop with the window on Tremont Street was a good place. I unzipped my coat.
“Good morning,” I said.
She smiled without much pleasure and said, “I am glad to see you. I really didn’t know who else to call.”
“I hope you didn’t have to walk far,” I said. “Even an Olympic walker like myself experienced some moments of discomfort.”
Julie said, “There’s someone after me.”
I said, “I don’t blame him.”
She said, “There really is. I’ve seen him outside my apartment. He’s followed me to and from work.”
“You know the cops have been looking for you.”
“About Rachel?”
I nodded. The waitress came, and I ordered coffee and whole-wheat toast. There was a plate with most of an omelet still left on it in front of Julie Wells. The waitress went away.
“I know about the police,” she said. “I called the agency, and they said the police had been there, too. But they wouldn’t follow me around like that.”
I shrugged. “Why not tell the cops about this guy that’s following you. If it’s one of them, they’ll know. If it’s not, they can look into it.”
She shook her head.
“No cops?”
She shook her head again.
“Why not?”
She poked at the omelet with the tines of her fork, moving a scrap of egg around to the other side of the plate.
“You’re not just hiding out from the guy that’s following you?” I said.
“No.”
“You don’t want to talk with the cops either.”
She started to cry. Her shoulders shook a little, and her lower lip trembled a little, and some tears formed in her eyes. It was discreet crying though—nothing the other customers would notice.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I don’t want to be involved in all of this. I want people to leave me alone.”
“You got any thoughts on where Rachel might be?” I said.
She blew her nose in a pink Kleenex and inhaled shakily.
