Rough Weather: A Spenser Novel

Maurice Lessard,” I said. “Her momentary husband?”
    “I really saw very little of him or of them together,” Maggie said.
    I nodded.
    “She close to her mother?”
    Maggie almost sniffed in disdain.
    “Heidi never showed much mothering instinct,” she said.
    “How about spousal instinct?” I said.
    “I saw very little,” Maggie said. “It was mostly about sex and money.”
    “Her, too,” I said.
    “I think Mr. Bradshaw tried to be a good father to Adelaide and a good husband to Heidi.”
    “And to you?” I said.
    Her face, which had gotten pinkish at the mention of intimacy between Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, began to glow brightly.
    “He was a very kind employer,” she said.
    “I’m sure he was,” I said. “How about intimacy?”
    She didn’t know what to do with her face.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    I smiled at her.
    “Okay,” I said. “I won’t make you say it out loud. We bothknow there was intimacy. We both know you were taken with him. We both know it’s why you didn’t say anything until he was gone.”
    She put her head down into her hands.
    “Don’t feel bad,” I said. “Most of us have thought with our pelvis at one time or another.”

 
    We were in my office.
It was overcast outside, and raining tentatively with the promise of more vigor as the day wore on. Hawk was making coffee. I was gazing alertly out the window, assessing the rainwear of the women on the street.
    “You know what I can’t figure out,” I said.
    “Almost everything?” Hawk said.
    “There’s that,” I said. “But more specifically, I can’t figure out why women can look sexy in few clothes, and equally so in ankle-length yellow slickers.”
    “Maybe got to do with the woman more than it got to do with the outfit,” Hawk said.
    “That’s a possibility,” I said.
    “Or maybe it got to do with the observer,” Hawk said.
    “You are a deep bastard,” I said.
    “I am,” Hawk said. “And I’m glad you focused on the big issues.”
    “Like why Heidi and Harden were pretending to be estranged?”
    “No, I know we can’t figure that out,” Hawk said. “I was wondering why Bradshaw was boppin’ Miss Maggie.”
    “Because he could?” I said.
    “You and me
could
,” Hawk said.
    “But you and me wouldn’t,” I said.
    “So the question remains,” Hawk said.
    “Supply and demand?” I said.
    “Supply no issue in my life,” Hawk said.
    “Nor mine,” I said.
    “Not much variety,” Hawk said. “But very high quality.”
    “So what else could it be,” I said.
    “Taste,” Hawk said.
    My phone rang and I answered.
    “Do you know who this is?” the caller said.
    Even his voice sounded gray.
    “I do,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”
    “This is the cell phone equivalent,” Rugar said, “of a white flag. I am perhaps five minutes from your office. I have a young woman with me. I want no trouble.”
    “What do you want?”
    “I want to come to your office with the young woman and talk with you.”
    “Hawk is here,” I said.
    “I assumed he would be.”
    “Come ahead,” I said.
    “No one else,” Rugar said.
    “Nobody but me and Hawk,” I said.
    “Your word,” Rugar said.
    “My word,” I said.
    “Five minutes,” Rugar said.
    I hung up. Hawk looked at me.
    “Rugar,” I said, “five minutes. Under a flag of truce. He has a young woman with him.”
    Hawk nodded.
    “Curiouser,” Hawk said, “and fucking curiouser.”

 
    When Rugar came in
, Hawk was standing against the wall to my far left with his gun out. In honor of the truce, he let it hang at his side, pointing at the floor. I was behind my desk with my right-hand drawer open so I could reach a gun easily. Trust, but verify.
    Rugar was wearing a gray trench coat and a gray snap-brim hat. With him was a young woman in jeans and a white sweater. She wore a black down vest over the sweater. Her hair was in a ponytail tucked out through the opening in an adjustable Detroit Tigers cap. She wore very little makeup. She looked to be about twenty-one.
    “Adelaide?” I said.
    She nodded without saying anything. I looked at Rugar.
    “The truce does not extend to us letting you walk out of here with her,” I said.
    “She can do what she wishes,” Rugar said. “I am not her captor.”
    He took off his trench coat and folded it neatly over the arm of Pearl’s couch. He put his hat on top of it. As always, he was in gray, featuring a gray tweed jacket. His cuff links were sapphire. He took Adelaide’s