Rough Weather: A Spenser Novel

very interested in why she didn’t get better psychiatric treatment for her daughter after she attempted suicide.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to know that, too. I would also like to know if she knew Rugar in Bucharest.”
    “Do you think she’ll tell you?”
    “Probably not,” I said. “But something might come out.”
    “Nothing ventured …” Susan said. “Are you going there?”
    “No,” I said. “She’s coming to me.”
    “Noblesse oblige,” Susan said.
    “Yes,” I said. “I’m thrilled.”
    “Have you ever thought about how much it must cost,” Susan said, “to be Heidi Bradshaw?”
    “More than the GNP of Albania?” I said.
    “Probably,” Susan said. “She doesn’t spin, neither does she sow.”
    “She’s dependent on the kindness of husbands,” I said.
    Susan nodded.
    “The most recent of whom seem to be broke, or nearly so,” I said. “According to Epstein.”
    “Might want to factor that in,” Susan said.
    “Yeah,” I said. “You know what I don’t get? Epstein says Van Meer is broke. Van Meer says he’s rich.”
    “Drunks are the royalty of denial,” Susan said.
    “Especially while drinking,” I said.
    “Which for someone like Van Meer is probably nearly always,” Susan said.
    “Maybe that’s why he drinks. Denial is a much more pleasant reality than the one he’d have to face,” I said.
    “Maybe,” Susan said. “Some people drink because they like it, you know, and then get addicted and drink because they must.”
    “I’m still at the
like it
part,” I said.
    “You won’t get addicted,” Susan said.
    We were both drinking coffee. Susan had ordered a soft-boiled egg and some toast. I went a bit heartier: orange juice, three eggs over easy, sausages, home fries, toast, and of course, the basis of all gourmet breakfasts, pie.
    “Why not?”
    “You won’t,” she said.
    “I’m kind of addicted to you,” I said.
    “That’s because you love me,” Susan said.
    “And I don’t love booze?”
    “No,” Susan said. “You don’t, nor would you.” She smiled. “You’re much too loyal.”
    The waitress brought my orange juice. I drank some. She refilled both our coffee cups.
    “Doesn’t addiction mean that you are beyond controlling it?” I said.
    “Which is why you would never have one,” Susan said.
    “Because I’m addicted to self-control?”
    “Or not being controlled,” Susan said. “You are much too autonomous to ever let something get hold of you … or someone.”
    “Except?” I said.
    Susan smiled.
    “Nope, not even me,” she said. “There are, after all, things you will not do, even for me.”
    The waitress returned and put the soft-boiled egg in front of Susan and my breakfast in front of me.
    “How’d you know which of us got the big plate?” I said.
    The waitress stared at me for a moment. Then she looked at Susan and looked at me.
    “Just a wild guess,” she said. “You need anything else right now?”
    We didn’t.
    “There’s not much that I can think of that I wouldn’t do,” I said, “if you asked.”
    “It’s because I know better than to ask,” Susan said.
    “That’s crazy,” I said.
    “You’d do anything I asked?” Susan said.
    “Absolutely,” I said.
    “Can I have your pie?” Susan said.
    “No,” I said. “Of course not.”

 
    It was like a presidential visit.
First into my office were two Tashtego security guys in plain clothes with walkie-talkies.
    “You Spenser?” one of them said.
    “Yes, I am,” I said.
    They both looked at Hawk, who was sitting on Pearl’s couch.
    “Who’s he?”
    “Security consultant,” I said. “His name’s Hawk.”
    “He’s with you?” the Tashtego patrol guy said.
    “He is,” I said. “No one else would have him.”
    Hawk smiled a friendly smile.
    “Okay,” the guy said. “We’re bringing Mrs. Bradshaw in.”
    He spoke briefly into his walkie-talkie. Then he and his partner moved to stand on either side of the door. We waited. In aminute, four more security guys came to the door and stood aside and from among them, like an old Esther Williams water ballet, Heidi emerged and came into the office. She was wearing a fur coat, which she slid out of as she sat and let it drape over the back of her chair. She had on a stretchy, tight-fitting sleeveless black top and a camel-colored skirt. The skirt was short above black boots.
    She looked around my office, her glance lingering on Hawk. Then she said, “Okay, Michael, you and