“We have a whole-life policy on Nathan Smith,” he said.
“How much?”
Bannister hesitated only a moment. “Ten million dollars,” he said.
“There’s some premiums to pay,” I said.
“Not as much as you might think,” Bannister said. “It was taken out for him at birth, by his grandfather.”
“Beneficiary?”
“Mary Smith.”
I didn’t say anything. Bannister had tilted back in his chair again and reclasped his hands.
“That doesn’t help your cause,” Bannister said.
“Not much,” I said. “Can I get a copy of the policy?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Yeah, but you and Barry Cone are buddies.”
Bannister smiled. “I’ll have somebody run it off and FedEx it over,” he said. “May I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why, if you are trying to clear Mary Smith, are you investigating Mary Smith?”
“I have nowhere else to investigate,” I said. “Think of it as cold-canvassing.”
Bannister smiled. “I never sold insurance,” he said. “My last job was at Pepsi-Cola.”
“Management is management,” I said.
Bannister nodded and smiled. “Good luck with the cold canvass,” he said.
CHAPTER SIX
It was almost May. The azaleas were blooming. The swan boats were active in the Public Gardens. The softball leagues had begun across Charles Street, on the Common. And, in the Charles River Basin, the little rental sailboats skidded and heeled in the faint evening wind.
“You’re working for that hussy again,” Susan said.
“Rita?”
“Miss Predatory,” Susan said.
“I like Rita,” I said.
“I know.”
“Are you being jealous?” I said.
“Analytic,” Susan said. “Rita is sexually rapacious and perfectly amoral about it. I’m merely acknowledging that.”
“But you don’t disapprove.”
“Professionalism prevents disapproval,” Susan said.
“So the term ”hussy“ is just a clinical designation,” I said.
“Certainly,” Susan said. “She has every right to wear her skirts as short as she wishes.”
“She wears short skirts?” I said.
“Like you didn’t notice.”
“So do you like Rita, Ms. Professional?”
“Red-haired floozy,” Susan said.
“I so admire professionalism.”
Susan and I stood on the little barrel-arched bridge over the lagoon and watched Pearl the Wonder Dog as she tracked the elusive french-fry carton. Her face was gray. She didn’t hear well. Her back end was arthritic and she limped noticeably as she hunted.
“Old,” Susan said to me.
I nodded.
“But her eyes are still bright and she still wags her tail and gives kisses,” Susan said.
“Me too.”
“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about the tail wagging,” Susan said.
Pearl found a nearly bald tennis ball under the island end of the bridge and picked it up and brought it to us and refused to drop it. So we patted her and Susan told her she was very good, until Pearl spotted a pigeon, lost interest in the ball, dropped it, and limped after the pigeon.
“She hasn’t got long,” Susan said.
“No.”
