“I can’t really recall. Larson? Do you recall when I talked with Brink last?”
“I believe you and he spoke shortly after Nathan’s death. He was handling the estate.”
“Yes. That’s right. Brink came over. He was so kind. He said he’d take care of everything.”
“The broker’s handling the estate?” I said.
“He’s an attorney as well,” Rita said.
“Renaissance man,” I said. “Aren’t you ashamed, Rita, just doing law law?”
“And that badly,” Rita said.
“And how is your estate?”
Mary looked a little vague. “Fine.”
She looked at Rita.
“Estate’s in a kind of legal limbo,” Rita said. “Until the cause of death gets clarified a little.”
“Do you know how much you’ve inherited?” I said.
Mary shook her head. “Nathan always said we didn’t talk about our money. That it wasn’t dignified.”
“It might be dignified to know how much you had,” I said.
She looked helplessly at Larson Graff.
“Mary, I’m sorry. I’m in no position to know your finances.”
“Well,” Mary said. “Certainly your bill is always paid on time, Larson.”
“Oh yes. It certainly is,” Larson said.
The waitress brought lunch, which consisted of three salads and a sandwich. I got the sandwich.
“So, just so I understand,” I said to Mary. “You don’t know what your financial situation is, or you know, and feel it’s undignified to say?”
Mary looked down at her salad. She speared a small slice of avocado and put it delicately in her mouth and chewed it more vigorously, I thought, than it required. When she had swallowed it, she took another sip of her champagne cocktail. Mary was dumb. But she moved very slowly. She looked at me and laughed as if she might be embarrassed.
“I don’t really know, Mr. Spenser.”
“Do you object if I find out?” I said.
“Well, I really.”
She looked at Larson. Larson wasn’t helpful. She looked at Rita. Rita nodded firmly.
“Well, I really think it’s kind of, I don’t want to be offensive, but I really think it’s kind of nosy.”
“God forbid,” I said.
Rita smiled.
“You never got a call from Brink Tyler last Tuesday asking if Spenser could look at the investment statements?”
“Oh, Rita, I’m just so sure he didn’t.”
Rita looked at me. I looked at Rita.
“So who’d he call?” Rita said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Hawk was in my office when I returned. He was sitting in my chair with his feet up on my desk, reading Simon Schama’s History of Britain.
“You interested in British history?” I said when I came in.
“Naw. Read this dude’s book on Rembrandt. I like him.”
“Lot of big words,” I said.
“Thought you could help me.”
“White man’s burden,” I said. “Gimme my chair.”
Hawk grinned and dog-eared his page and closed the book and got up and came around and plonked in a client chair. I sat at my desk.
“There,” I said. “You looking for a place to sleep?”
“Nope. Since I ain’t following anybody for you at the moment, and since somebody tried to shoot your ass the other night, I thought maybe I should hang around with you, case somebody try again.”
“Plus,” I said, “you could learn a lot.”
“Be a privilege,” Hawk said. “Whyn’t you bring me up to date on what you doing, so I’ll know who to shoot.”
