Bad Business by Robert B. Parker Page A

office with a bag of donuts and two large cups of coffee. He sat and handed me a coffee.
    â€œDunkin’ Donuts,” he said. “I get the cop discount.”
    He held the bag of donuts toward me and I took one. Cinnamon, my favorite.
    â€œI thought it might be time for us to compare notes,” Healy said.
    â€œWow,” I said. “You are really stuck, huh?”
    â€œHere’s what we know,” Healy said. “Somebody shot Trent Rowley to death.”
    I waited. Healy didn’t say anything.
    After a while I said, “That much.”
    â€œJust barely,” Healy said. “Whaddya got?”
    â€œWhat have I got, just like that? A cup of coffee and a donut and I spill my guts to you?”
    â€œThat was my plan,” Healy said.
    We each drank some coffee. Healy and I had beensort of friends for a long time. Which did not mean I needed to tell him everything I knew unless there was something in it for me. There might be.
    â€œThe security guy at Kinergy,” I said. “Gavin. He hired two, ah, marginal private eyes to follow the wives of a couple of his employees, including Marlene Rowley.”
    â€œTell me about that,” Healy said.
    I told him.
    â€œAnd you can’t find either gumshoe,” Healy said.
    â€œMaybe I just keep missing them,” I said.
    â€œMaybe. I’ll have someone run it down.”
    â€œCan you let me know?” I said.
    â€œAs quick as you did,” Healy said.
    I gave him my big charming smile.
    â€œBetter late than never,” I said.
    â€œYeah,” Healy said, “sure.”
    My big charming smile generally worked better with women.
    â€œWhat’s Gavin have to say about it?”
    â€œDenies everything.”
    â€œAnd he paid them cash.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œSo the only way we know he hired them to do the tail job is because they told you.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œAnd now you can’t find them.”
    â€œSo far,” I said.
    â€œSo unless we find them we have no evidence that Gavin did anything except what you say they told you.”
    â€œExactly,” I said.
    â€œWe know how much that’s worth,” Healy said.
    â€œSadly, yes,” I said.
    â€œHell, even if it was worth anything it doesn’t prove it was Gavin; there’s a lot of blond guys with mustaches.”
    â€œI know,” I said. “It would have to be an ID by O’Neill or Francis.”
    â€œWhich we can’t get if we can’t find them.”
    Healy and I both took a bite of donut and looked at each other while we chewed.
    When he was through chewing, Healy swallowed and said, “Might be we won’t find them.”
    â€œThat occurred to me,” I said.
    â€œStill, we got Gavin,” Healy said.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor looking into,” Healy said.
    â€œIt’s a start,” I said.

27
    S usan was wearing white pants that fit well, and a top with horizontal blue and white stripes and a wide scoopy neck which revealed the fact that she had the best-looking trapezius muscles of any woman in the world. I was nearly as dashing, though flaunting it less, in jeans and sneakers and a black tee shirt. I was carrying a gun so I wore the tee shirt not tucked in. We were sitting in the lobby at the Chatham Bars Inn amid a maelstrom of yuppies, mostly male, in bright Lacoste shirts, maroon and green predominating, pressed khakis, and moccasins, mostly cognac-colored, no socks. The women followed the same color scheme, the khaki varying among slacks, skirts, and shorts, depending, Susan and I agreed, on how they felt about their legs. Bob Cooper moved among them, wearing a starched white button-down shirt, top two buttons open, black linen trousers, and black Italian loafers: the patriarch, his grayhead visible among the acolytes, laughing, squeezing shoulders, hugging an occasional woman, accepting obeisance. Gavin moved always near Cooper, wearing one of those