“He can’t leave his wife.”
“Why?”
She shook her head again. Men were so dumb.
“He just can’t. She’s too dependent on him, and men can’t do the hard things. He’s such a baby.”
“Might have been smart to wait until he left her, before you left your husband,” I said.
“I’m not that way,” she said. “When I commit, I commit entirely. I give everything.”
“Would you have left your husband if you hadn’t thought you’d be with him?” I said.
“And what? Live in this gruesome goddamned apartment by myself? Burt and I lived in a castle.”
“Do you still see your boyfriend?” I said.
Again the downcast eyes. Her mouth pouting like a sad child, albeit a cute one, she traced a small circle on her kneecap with the forefinger of her right hand.
“No.”
“Why not?”
She began to cry. I waited, letting the question hang. She placed both her hands over her face, being careful of her makeup, and cried some more. I was pretty sure I was supposed to go and sit on the couch and put my arm around her, in which case she would turn in and bury her head on my shoulder and weep as if her heart would break. I stayed where I was. Finally after waiting as long as was decorous she stopped crying and lowered her hands, and raised her head so she could look searchingly into my eyes.
“Men are such babies,” she said.
“Maybe not all of them,” I said.
“You’re not, are you?”
“Except when I don’t get my way,” I said. “How come you and the BF are not still an item?”
“Somehow, I know this sounds… something… anyway, somehow when we were both married and sleeping with each other it was, like even. But then I was divorced and he was the only one that was cheating. He couldn’t stand it.”
It did in fact sound… something.
“Sure,” I said. “What is his name?”
“Oh, I can’t give you his name,” she said.
“You can if you wish me to work for you.”
“Aren’t you already hired, I mean, I’ve told you all this stuff.”
“KC, the surest way to prevent the stalker involves knowing who he is. Probably is your ex-husband; but it might be your ex-boyfriend, it might be somebody else. If I’m going to do what you are trying to hire me to do, I will do it better and quicker if you tell me what I ask.”
She bit her lower lip gently and, with her hands laced over her knees, rocked slightly on the couch.
Finally she said, “Louis.”
“That’s a start,” I said.
More lower-lip biting until finally she said, quite tragically, I thought, “Vincent.”
“Louis Vincent,” I said.
Her voice softened almost reverentially. “Yes.”
“And where does he live?”
“Hingham.”
“Does he have a place of business?”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t seem discreet to approach him at home,” I said.
“Oh God, you can’t approach him. He’d never forgive me.”
“He’ll never know I got it from you,” I said.
Again a long and fully acted out period of silent pondering.
“He’s a stockbroker,” she said. “Hall, Peary.”
“Fifty-three State,” I said.
She nodded. I had made her thoroughly miserable.
“Would you feel safer if I had someone outside your house until I, ah, crack the case?”
“I went down to the police department,” she said. “The sergeant was so nice, really lovely to me.”
“I’ll bet he was.”
“He says they’ll keep an eye on my apartment.”
