Rough Weather: A Spenser Novel

foreclose on his condo,” Epstein said.
    “When you talk with him, he seems to have not a care in the world,” I said. “Except maybe he still misses Heidi.”
    “He’s a drunk,” Epstein said. “Drunks are good at denial.”
    “Have to be, I suppose,” I said. “How about the pre-nup and stuff.”
    “ Pre-nup, Lessard’s will,” Epstein said. “It’s all in there in more detail than you’d ever want. From the moment of marriage, Adelaide and Maurice became each other’s primary heir. And no matter what the family does later, each is entitled to the estate as it existed at the time of marriage.”
    “And the Lessard lawyers bought that?” I said.
    “Lawyers can only do what the client will agree to,” Epstein said. “Far as I can see, the Lessards thought they were marrying up. They probably thought the arrangement was in their favor.”
    I picked up the folder. It was thick. I put it down.
    “You suppose,” I said, “all this, helicopters, and shoot-outs, and assassination attempts, and kidnapping, and FBI and state cops, and Boston cops, and a lot of people dying … you suppose it’s all about fund-raising?”
    Epstein shrugged.
    “What is it usually about?” Epstein said. “Any crime?”
    “Love or money,” I said.
    “Or both,” Epstein said.

 
    I met Ives on the little bridge
over the Swan Boat Pond in the Public Garden. It was rainy again, and Ives was under a colorful golf umbrella. I was wearing my leather jacket and my Boston Braves cap (circa 1948). Umbrellas are for sissies.
    “You called?” I said.
    Even though there was no one within twenty yards of us, Ives softened his voice when he answered. Maybe you had to have a heightened sense of drama to be a spook.
    “The Gray Man,” Ives said, “was in our employ in Bucharest in the early 1980s.”
    It was too late in the year for swan boats. They were putaway. But the ducks were still here, and they cruised the pond hopefully.
    “He was probably fun-loving and carefree in those days,” I said.
    “Mr. Bradshaw was, at that time, at the American embassy in Bucharest.”
    “Small world,” I said.
    “It gets smaller,” Ives said. “In 1984 Mrs. Van Meer visited Bradshaw in Bucharest.”
    “Heidi Van Meer?” I said. “Now Heidi Bradshaw?”
    “Yes.”
    “In 1984 she was married to Peter Van Meer,” I said.
    Ives shrugged. We were silent as two very dressed-up women strolled past us. We both watched them as they passed and for a time afterward.
    “You think they might be enemy agents?” I said, as Ives stared after them.
    “No,” Ives said. “The woman on the right, I was admiring her ass.”
    “Discriminating,” I said. “I was admiring both.”
    “My dear Lochinvar,” Ives said. “I went to Yale.”
    “And never recovered,” I said. “So we have Heidi, Bradshaw, and Rugar all in Bucharest in 1984. Rugar and Bradshaw both working for the Yankee dollar.”
    “And Mrs. Van Meer, involved romantically with Bradshaw.”
    “Any concrete connection,” I said, “between Rugar and Bradshaw?”
    “They worked out of the same building,” Ives said. “Beyond that I don’t know, and can’t find out.”
    “Even though you went to Yale?” I said.
    Ives smiled.
    “All of us,” he said, “went to Yale, Lochinvar.”
    “I know,” I said. “Why aren’t there any spooks from, say, Gonzaga, or Florida State?”
    “Imponderable,” Ives said.
    “How long was Heidi in Bucharest?” I said.
    “Don’t know,” Ives said. “Mr. Bradshaw was there through 1986.”
    “Rugar?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Is he working for you now?” I said.
    “No.”
    “You know who he is working for?” I said.
    “To my knowledge Mr. Rugar is not currently working for anyone.”
    Below us a small vee of ducks paddled industriously under the bridge in the fond possibility that there’d be peanuts.
    “Anything else?” I said.
    “No, I appear to have emptied the purse,” Ives said.
    “I appreciate it.”
    Ives nodded his head to accept my thanks.
    “We both live in worlds where the cynicism is age-old and millennium-deep,” Ives said. “We are both cynical, and withgood reason. But you are not just cynical, Lochinvar. I find it refreshing.”
    “How about you,” I said. “Are you just cynical?”
    “Yes,” Ives said.
    We both smiled and were quiet, and watched the ducks for a while before Ives went his way and I went mine.

 
    Hawk joined us
for Thanksgiving dinner at my place.
    “Have we had