floating in it. “Would you like a margarita?” indicating the pitcher. “They’re very good. Lupe’s special recipe.”
“Nothing, thanks.”
Sharon Rossi poured her glass three-quarters full, took a sip that lowered it to the halfway mark. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and for the first time, watching her, Fallon realized she was a little drunk.
“Now then,” she said, “I’d like to know exactly why you want to find Court Spicer.”
“First tell me this. Is Spicer a friend of your husband’s?”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Business acquaintance?”
“No.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Hardly.
“Then why did you agree to see me?”
“Your motives first, Mr. Fallon. Then we’ll get to mine.”
Lay it out for her? He couldn’t see any reason not to, up to a point. He said, “When I find him, I’ll also find his son.”
“His son.” The way she said the words told him she hadn’t known about the boy. “And why do you want to find his son?”
“Spicer kidnapped him four months ago, in San Diego. No one’s been able to find them since. The boy is eight and a half, asthmatic, and his mother is desperate to get him back.”
“I see. And what is your interest?”
“Let’s just say I’m a friend of the mother.”
“Your Unidyne card says you’re a security officer. Does that mean you have experience in detective work?”
“Not if you mean finding people. Military police for four years, private security work for the past dozen.”
“I see,” she said again. Another sip of her margarita. She seemed to be thawing a bit. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe what he’d told her. Or maybe a little of both. “What made you come here to ask about Court Spicer?”
“A jazz musician who knows Spicer saw him at a jam here last Sunday.”
“Ah, yes. David’s all-consuming passion for jazz.”
“Did you see Spicer then?”
“I saw him, yes.”
“Talk to him?”
“No. We have nothing to say to each other.”
“So he’s been here before. At other parties.”
“But not to listen to the music. On business, I think.”
“What kind of business?”
“My husband prefers not to tell me that.”
Fallon said, “Spicer was with a man called Bobby J. last Sunday.”
“Was he? I wouldn’t know.”
“The initial J. Bobby J.” Fallon described him. “Familiar?”
“Vaguely. I seem to recall the tattoo. But there were quite a lot of people here. There always are at one of my husband’s jams.”
“His jams?”
“Ours,” she amended, but a faint resentment lingered in her voice. David Rossi was the jazz buff, not his wife.
“Was Spicer playing at the Sunday jam?”
“No. He wasn’t a spectator either. He and my husband spent some time together in David’s study.”
“Any idea why?”
“No, but I’d like to know. I’d very much like to know.” Sharon Rossi drank again before she added, “My motives now, Mr. Fallon.”
He waited.
“Do you know anything about my husband?”
“Not much, no.”
“He’s usually very sure of himself. I’ve never known him to be afraid of anything or anyone—except Court Spicer.”
“How do you mean, afraid?”
“Just that. Nervous, on edge—afraid. Every time Spicer has come here, David has looked and acted the same, during and afterward.” She made a low, mirthless chuckling sound. “It’s almost Pavlovian, the effect that man has on him. And I haven’t a clue why. The one time I asked him about Spicer, he told me to mind my own damn business.”
Fallon asked, “How long has he known Spicer?”
“I’m not sure. A while.”
“More than three years?”
“At least that long.”
“How often does Spicer show up here?”
“Not often. And when he does, judging from David’s reaction, it’s without an invitation.”
“I wonder if your husband knows where he’s living now.”
“He might. It would depend on their business, wouldn’t you say?”
“What do you think that business is?”
She poured her
“Nothing, thanks.”
Sharon Rossi poured her glass three-quarters full, took a sip that lowered it to the halfway mark. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and for the first time, watching her, Fallon realized she was a little drunk.
“Now then,” she said, “I’d like to know exactly why you want to find Court Spicer.”
“First tell me this. Is Spicer a friend of your husband’s?”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Business acquaintance?”
“No.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Hardly.
“Then why did you agree to see me?”
“Your motives first, Mr. Fallon. Then we’ll get to mine.”
Lay it out for her? He couldn’t see any reason not to, up to a point. He said, “When I find him, I’ll also find his son.”
“His son.” The way she said the words told him she hadn’t known about the boy. “And why do you want to find his son?”
“Spicer kidnapped him four months ago, in San Diego. No one’s been able to find them since. The boy is eight and a half, asthmatic, and his mother is desperate to get him back.”
“I see. And what is your interest?”
“Let’s just say I’m a friend of the mother.”
“Your Unidyne card says you’re a security officer. Does that mean you have experience in detective work?”
“Not if you mean finding people. Military police for four years, private security work for the past dozen.”
“I see,” she said again. Another sip of her margarita. She seemed to be thawing a bit. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe what he’d told her. Or maybe a little of both. “What made you come here to ask about Court Spicer?”
“A jazz musician who knows Spicer saw him at a jam here last Sunday.”
“Ah, yes. David’s all-consuming passion for jazz.”
“Did you see Spicer then?”
“I saw him, yes.”
“Talk to him?”
“No. We have nothing to say to each other.”
“So he’s been here before. At other parties.”
“But not to listen to the music. On business, I think.”
“What kind of business?”
“My husband prefers not to tell me that.”
Fallon said, “Spicer was with a man called Bobby J. last Sunday.”
“Was he? I wouldn’t know.”
“The initial J. Bobby J.” Fallon described him. “Familiar?”
“Vaguely. I seem to recall the tattoo. But there were quite a lot of people here. There always are at one of my husband’s jams.”
“His jams?”
“Ours,” she amended, but a faint resentment lingered in her voice. David Rossi was the jazz buff, not his wife.
“Was Spicer playing at the Sunday jam?”
“No. He wasn’t a spectator either. He and my husband spent some time together in David’s study.”
“Any idea why?”
“No, but I’d like to know. I’d very much like to know.” Sharon Rossi drank again before she added, “My motives now, Mr. Fallon.”
He waited.
“Do you know anything about my husband?”
“Not much, no.”
“He’s usually very sure of himself. I’ve never known him to be afraid of anything or anyone—except Court Spicer.”
“How do you mean, afraid?”
“Just that. Nervous, on edge—afraid. Every time Spicer has come here, David has looked and acted the same, during and afterward.” She made a low, mirthless chuckling sound. “It’s almost Pavlovian, the effect that man has on him. And I haven’t a clue why. The one time I asked him about Spicer, he told me to mind my own damn business.”
Fallon asked, “How long has he known Spicer?”
“I’m not sure. A while.”
“More than three years?”
“At least that long.”
“How often does Spicer show up here?”
“Not often. And when he does, judging from David’s reaction, it’s without an invitation.”
“I wonder if your husband knows where he’s living now.”
“He might. It would depend on their business, wouldn’t you say?”
“What do you think that business is?”
She poured her
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