Rough Weather: A Spenser Novel

different?”
    “No,” I said.
    Epstein grinned.
    “That’s right,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”

 
    Peter Van Meer
lived in a very big condominium on top of the Four Seasons, with a view of the Public Garden and eternity. I had a long time to study eternity because Van Meer kept me waiting for at least twenty minutes in the room where the maid left me. It was a big room with heavy furniture and leather-bound books. Many of the books had Latin titles and looked as if they had been printed in the nineteenth century. Van Meer probably called the room his study. Everything was expensive and perfectly matched and color-coordinated, and arranged, and appropriate, and as warm as a display room in Bloomingdale’s.
    I turned from the window when he came in.
    He said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, my man.”
    He put out his hand as he walked toward me.
    “Pete Van Meer,” he said.
    He was a large man with a big, square face, gray hair, and a swell tan. He wore a black shirt with several buttons undone, and a black watch plaid sport coat over pearl-gray slacks. We shook hands and I sat down in a dark brown leather armchair on the far side of a low mahogany coffee table with fat curved legs. Van Meer stood beside his desk.
    “Drink?” Van Meer said.
    “No, thanks,” I said.
    Van Meer grinned.
    “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
    He went to a sideboard, which concealed a refrigerator, and made himself a tall Courvoisier and soda. He brought it back with him and sat on the edge of his desk. He made a faint toasting gesture toward me and took a pull.
    “First of the day,” he said.
    “Always the best,” I said. “You were married to Heidi Washburn.”
    He smiled down at me happily.
    “Man,” he said. “What a ride that was.”
    “Tell me about it,” I said.
    He took another pull.
    “She could fuck the hinges off a firehouse door,” Van Meer said.
    “Good to know,” I said.
    “Oh, momma,” he said, and drank some more cognac.
    “How’d you meet?” I said.
    “My wife at the time, Megan, was a big patron of the arts, you know? I was with her at some gallery reception for some whack job that threw paint on his canvas, you know?”
    “I sort of like paintings where a horse looks like a horse, or at least reminds me of a horse,” I said.
    “You and me both, brother,” Van Meer said. “Anyway, my wife at the time, Megan, is taking this dildo around, and introducing him to the guests, and I’m trying to gag down enough white wine to get me through the evening, and I look around and I’m standing beside this firecracker of a broad. You seen her?”
    “I have,” I said.
    “Then you know what I mean,” Van Meer said. “So she looks at me and says, ‘You bored?’ And I say, ‘Not a big enough word for what I am,’ and she goes, ‘Do you like white wine?’ And I say, ‘No.’ And she says, ‘Me, either. Let’s get out of here and get a real drink.’ So we did.”
    “When was this?”
    “Nineteen eighty-two,” he said.
    “She still married to Washburn?” I said.
    “The art professor, yeah.”
    “Adelaide was born in 1985?” I said.
    He nodded.
    “You having any luck finding her?” he said.
    “I’ve not found her yet,” I said.
    “But you will.”
    “Yes,” I said. “I will.”
    He went to the sideboard and made himself another drink.
    “I’m a lush,” he said. “But a jolly one.”
    He drank some of his cognac and soda. His face darkened.
    “And I love my daughter.”
    I nodded.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I need to ask if you’re sure she’s yours.”
    His face stayed dark.
    “We never DNAed her,” Van Meer said.
    He sipped his drink.
    “You know,” he said. “Even if we DNAed her now, and she turned out to be Washburn’s or something? It wouldn’t matter. She’s my daughter.”
    His eyes were wet-looking. I thought he might cry.
    “Do you think she’s alive,” he said.
    “Have you heard from the kidnappers?” I said.
    “No.”
    “There’s no reason to do such an elaborate kidnapping and then kill her,” I said. “She’s alive.”
    “What do they want?” Van Meer said.
    “I don’t know yet.”
    “I have tons of money,” Van Meer said.
    “Can’t hurt,” I said.
    “I can hire you to find her,” Van Meer said. “Any amount, doesn’t matter.”
    “No need,” I said. “I’m looking for her now.”
    “If you need anything, anything that money can buy, just say so. It’s yours.”
    “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said.