“I hate coincidences,” I said. “They don’t do anything for anybody, and they muddy up the water to beat hell.”
She studied her anchovies some more.
“Who’s her father?” I said.
Winifred shook her head silently.
“I’m almost sure there has to be one,” I said.
“He died,” Winifred said.
“Sorry to hear that,” I said. “Is it recent?”
“He died a long time ago.”
“What was his name?” I said.
She shook her head again.
“How come Missy won’t talk about him, either?”
Winifred took in a long, slow breath. It sounded a little shaky. Then she stood.
“Thanks for lunch,” she said, and left me alone with her anchovies.
Spenser, master inquisitor.
21
The special agent in charge of the Boston FBI office was a guy named Epstein who looked less dangerous than a chickadee, and had killed, to my knowledge, two men, both of whom had probably made the same misjudgment. I had coffee with him in a joint on Cambridge Street.
“Winifred Minor,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“She used to be FBI,” I said.
“Yep, but why do you ask?”
“You know I’m involved with that art theft where the guy got blown up,” I said.
“Ashton Prince,” Epstein said. “Hermenszoon painting.”
“Wow,” I said. “Sees all, knows all.”
“Only a matter of time,” Epstein said, “before I’m director.”
“No dresses,” I said.
“Prude,” Epstein said. “What’s your interest in Winifred Minor?”
There was a platter of crullers under a glass cover on the counter. I eyed them.
“She’s a claims adjuster now,” I said. “For a big insurance company.”
“Shawmut,” Epstein said.
“You keep track,” I said.
“I do,” Epstein said.
“They insured the painting,” I said.
“And the claim is her case,” Epstein said.
“And her daughter was a student of Prince’s, and probably they had a relationship.”
“Which is to say he was fucking her?” Epstein said.
“You civil servants speak so elegantly,” I said. “But yes. I believe he was.”
“Could all mean nothing,” he said.
“Could,” I said.
“But it’s probably more productive to think it means something,” Epstein said.
“You know who the father is, or was?” I said.
“Didn’t know Winifred was married,” Epstein said.
“Don’t know that she was.”
Epstein nodded.
“How old’s the kid,” he said.
“Nineteen, twenty,” I said.
“So Winifred was still with the Bureau,” Epstein said, “when the kid was born.”
I nodded. Epstein drank some of his coffee. I studied the plate of crullers some more.
“You ask either of them about the father?” Epstein said.
