Hugger Mugger by Robert B. Parker Page A

the foot of the bed, and curled up and lay still, only her eyes moving as she watched Susan and me reintegrate our snuggle.
    â€œPostcoital languor is more difficult with Pearl,” Susan said.
    â€œBut not impossible,” I said.
    â€œNothing’s impossible for us.”
    I looked at the familiar form of the crown molding along the edge of Susan’s bedroom ceiling. On the dresser was a big color photograph of Susan and me, taken fifteen years ago on a balcony in Paris, not long after she had come back from wherever the hell she had been. We looked pretty happy.
    â€œWe were pretty happy in that picture,” I said.
    â€œWe had reason to be.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWe still do.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWould you be happier now if Mr. Clive hadn’t been killed in Georgia?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œEven though you were not responsible for him getting killed, nor could you have been expected to prevent it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSend not therefore asking for whom the bell tolls,” Susan said.
    â€œWell, sometimes,” I said, “it actually does toll for thee.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œOn the other hand,” I said, “we do what we can, not what we ought to.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAnd you can’t win ’em all,” I said.
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œAnd all that glitters is not gold,” I said.
    â€œAnd a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” Susan said.
    â€œI always thought that saying was sort of backwards,” I said.
    I couldn’t see her face: it was too close to my neck. But I could feel her smile.
    â€œWell-bred Jewesses from Swampscott, Massachusetts,” she said, “do not lie naked in bed and talk about bushes.”
    â€œWhere did you go wrong?” I said.
    â€œI don’t know, but isn’t it good that I did?”
    At the foot of the bed, Pearl lapped one of her forepaws noisily. Susan rubbed my chest lightly with her right hand.
    â€œIs there anything you can do to clean that up in Georgia?” she said.
    â€œNo one wants me to,” I said.
    â€œWhen has that ever made a difference to you?” Susan said.
    â€œI have no client,” I said. “No standing in the case.”
    â€œYou think it was the person shooting the horses?”
    â€œReasonable guess,” I said. “I had no clue who was doing that, and no clue really about where to go next.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd,” I said, “I’ve been away from you about as long as I can stand.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œSo I’m going to put this one in the loss column and start thinking about the next game.”
    â€œWise,” Susan said.
    â€œAfter all,” I said, “a bush in the hand . . .”
    â€œNever mind,” Susan said.

TWENTY-TWO

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    I T WAS M ONDAY morning, bright, still early June and not very hot. I was in my office, drinking coffee and reading the paper while I waited for business. I’d drunk my allotment of coffee, and read the paper, and put it away before any showed up, but when it came it was interesting. A woman came into my office, briskly, as if offices were designed for her to walk into. I began to stand up. She indicated there was no need to, but by that time I was on my feet anyway.
    â€œI’m Valerie Hatch,” she said, and put out her hand. “You’re Spenser.”
    â€œRight on both counts,” I said, and shook her hand.
    â€œOwen Brooks suggested I might speak to you about my situation. You know Owen?”
    â€œYes.”
    Owen Brooks was, improbably, the district attorney of Suffolk County. He was black, Harvard-educated, smart, humorous, pleasant, tolerant, and tougher than a Kevlargumdrop. In a political office, he seemed primarily concerned with the successful prosecution of criminals.
    â€œHe said this was a circumstance that might best be dealt with informally, that is to say, by