'Actually,' Susan said. 'I believe I learned it from you.'
'Glad you've been paying attention,' I said.
'And, of course you have agreed to continue.'
'Well, the pay is good, and she did cry-you know how l hate crying-and I'm sort of curious about who killed her husband while I was outside watching.'
Susan smiled.
'What?' I said.
'Even if the pay were bad and she didn't cry,' Susan said.
'You think I'd do it just because I'm curious?'
'Without question,' Susan said.
'You shrinks think you know everything,' I said.
'Am I right?' Susan said.
'Yes.'
14
Between Washington Street and Tremont, near the Boylston Street corner, in what publicists were trying to call the Ladder District, a second Ritz Carlton Hotel had been built in the same redevelopment effort that produced the movie theater complex where Marlene said she had seen Chicago. Associated with the hotel was a passel of high- end condominiums, in one of which, on the top floor, Ellen and Bernard Eisen lived in maybe less harmony than they had once hoped. Ellen was expecting me.
When I had seen her the other night, coming out of the Hyatt Hotel with Trent Rowley, I had noted, in a professional sort of way, that she was a semi-knockout. But seeing her in tile bright morning light I decided to upgrade her knockout-ness to full. In tight maroon sweats, her legs didn't seem heavy after all. Just strong.
'Let's sit in the living room,' she said. 'There's a nice view of the Common.'
I followed her down a small corridor and into a big bright room with wall-to-wall carpet and big windows through which there was in fact a nice view of the Common. And the Public Gardens. And the Charles River Basin. And Cambridge. And, maybe, on a clear day, eternity. The room had been organized around the view. There was a big beige couch facing the window, and two big tan leather high-backed wing chairs, kittycorner to the window so that the occupant could look at the view and still talk with someone on the couch. Seated in perfect repose in one of the chairs was a man with dark, very big, very deep-set eyes. He was a slender guy with a short gray beard. His hair was gray, and what was left was wavy and long in the back. His high forehead was nicely tanned.
He rose from the chair effortlessly when Ellen Eisen introduced us. Standing he was maybe two inches taller than I was. Which made him tall. His name, she said, was Darrin O'Mara. We shook hands. His handshake, for all the near theatricality of his appearance and movements, was soft. His deep-eyed gaze was direct and sort of reassuring. When he spoke I heard a faint lilt. Irish maybe.
'Pleasure to meet you,' he said.
'What can we do for you, Mr. Spenser,' Ellen said.
O'Mara sat back down and crossed his legs effortlessly. His freshly creased slacks were the color of butterscotch. His wingtipped loafers were burgundy. He wore no socks. He had on a starched white shirt, open at the throat, and a blue blazer with brass buttons. My clothes must never fit that well, I thought. I'd be overwhelmed with sexual opportunities, and never get any work done. I promised myself to be careful.
'I have sort of a delicate matter to discuss,' I said.
'You may speak freely in front of Darrin,' Ellen said.
'Are you her lawyer?' I said to Darrin.
He smiled gently. I thought maybe I'd seen him someplace before.
'Oh, God, no,' Ellen said. 'I hate lawyers. Darrin is my advisor. I asked him to be here.'
'This isn't a financial thing,' I said.
'I'm an advisor in matters of the heart,' Darrin said in his soft lilt.
I t was the matters-of-the-heart phrase that made me remember him. He had a local talk show called 'Matters of the Heart.' It was a call-in radio talk show from seven to midnight three nights a week. In the last year or so one of the local stations had begun to televise the radio show live.
'Ah yes,' I said. 'That Darrin O'Mara.'
He put his fingertips together and put them to his mouth and smiled modestly. Ellen looked at him as if he had just strolled in across the harbor.
'As I mentioned,' I said to her, 'I'm looking into the death of Trent Rowley.'
'Yes.'
'You knew Mr. Rowley?'
'Yes. He and my husband worked together.'
I looked at O'Mara. He smiled at me sweetly over his fingertips. I thought a little.
'I have no secrets from Darrin,' Ellen said.
