Hundred Dollar Baby by Robert B. Parker Page A

had said there was no indication of sexual activity. Which meant only that she'd gotten right to the shooting. If she was a she. Lionel was the kind of guy might use a .22, nothing big and heavy that might break the line of his suit. Or it might be some pro trying to confuse us. If so, what happened to Ollie's crew? Did they sell him out? Were they frightened away? If it was a woman, was it April? Why would she shoot him? We'd already chased him off. Could she shoot him? It was hard to figure April. She had not lived like most people.
    Maybe it had nothing to do with anything I knew anything about. Ollie was a freelancer and busy. It could have nothing to do with me. But assuming that didn't lead anywhere. I wanted it to go somewhere. Things didn't make sense enough for me to leave it be. I didn't want to blow April's cover. But I wasn't exactly clear on what she was covering. I understood why she and her professional staff wanted to stay off the screen. She was running an illegal enterprise, and if it went public, the cops would be obliged to bust her. I didn't care about the illegal enterprise. Prostitution was probably bad for a lot of prostitutes. But it seemed pretty good to the group I was dealing with. And I had a limited attention span for larger issues. Smaller ones were hard enough.
    I sat for a while longer in the silent room, made more silent by the white sound of the refrigerator. I let the silence sink in, looking for an intuition. I didn't get one. Maybe Belson never did, either.

35
     
    I was back in New York. I had spent so much time in New York on this thing that people were beginning to greet me on the street. Spenser, Mr. Broadway.
    It was the middle of February. The sun was bright. The snow had melted except in occasional shady lees. Either spring was early this year or the gods were making sport of us. The gods seemed more likely. On the other hand, pitchers and catchers had reported in Florida. And the first spring training game was only fifteen days away.
    I met Patricia Utley for lunch uptown at Cafe Boulud. She had a glass of white wine. I had a Virgin Mary.
    "You still in the same place?" I said, just to say something.
    "No, after Stephen died, I moved a little east," she said, and a little uptown."
    "He was more than a bodyguard," I said.
    "Yes," Patricia Utley said. "He was."
    "Do you have someone now?"
    "I have a security man who works the house when there are clients. He's very capable."
    "I hear a but," I said.
    "But he is not there except during business hours. He is not Stephen."
    "I'm sorry," I said.
    "Love makes you vulnerable," she said.
    "Better than not love," I said.
    "Yes," she said. "That's probably true. I'm glad I didn't miss it."
    It was the first time she had ever alluded to a relationship with Stephen. We were quiet. The room was comfortably full but not noisy, with no sense of crowd.
    "Is someone paying you for all of this?" she said when her wine arrived.
    "Goodness is its own reward," I said.
    She took a small sip and enjoyed it. Then she smiled at me.
    "No," she said. "It isn't."
    "It's not?" I said. "You mean I've been living a lie?"
    "Sadly, yes," Patricia Utley said. "Is there more trouble with April?"
    I nodded.
    "And you need something from me on that score?"
    "Maybe," I said.
    She nodded and sipped some wine. I drank some Virgin Mary. I didn't like it, but it was there. Susan contended that I drank automatically, and that if I were given turnip juice, I would drink five glasses.
    "I have gone nearly as far as I care to with April," Patricia Utley said. "I had very little reason to go anywhere with her. But years ago, when you brought her to me, I relaxed my cynicism enough to get caught up in your Goody Twoshoes passion."
    "Goody Two-shoes?"
    "I have been in the flesh trade in New York City for thirty years," she said. "I have earned my cynicism. I know in your own way you are probably more cynical than I am. Yet it hasn't made you cynical."
    "You might be losing me," I