Robert Parker - Rough Weather

“How’d you meet?” I said.

“My wife at the time, Megan, was a big patron of the arts, you know? I was with her at some gallery reception for some whack job that threw paint on his canvas, you know?”

“I sort of like paintings where a horse looks like a horse, or at least reminds me of a horse,” I said.

“You and me both, brother,” Van Meer said. “Anyway, my wife at the time, Megan, is taking this dildo around, and introducing him to the guests, and I’m trying to gag down enough white wine to get me through the evening, and I look around and I’m standing beside this firecracker of a broad. You seen her?”

“I have,” I said.

“Then you know what I mean,” Van Meer said. “So she looks at me and says, ‘You bored?’ And I say, ‘Not a big enough word for what I am,’ and she goes, ‘Do you like white wine?’ And I say, ‘No.’ And she says, ‘Me, either. Let’s get out of here and get a real drink.’ So we did.”

“When was this?”

“Nineteen eighty-two,” he said.

“She still married to Washburn?” I said.

“The art professor, yeah.”

“ Adelaide was born in 1985?” I said.

He nodded.

“You having any luck finding her?” he said.

“I’ve not found her yet,” I said.

“But you will.”

“Yes,” I said. “I will.”

He went to the sideboard and made himself another drink.

“I’m a lush,” he said. “But a jolly one.”

He drank some of his cognac and soda. His face darkened.

“And I love my daughter.”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I need to ask if you’re sure she’s yours.”

His face stayed dark.

“We never DNAed her,” Van Meer said.

He sipped his drink.

“You know,” he said. “Even if we DNAed her now, and she turned out to be Washburn’s or something? It wouldn’t matter. She’s my daughter.”

His eyes were wet-looking. I thought he might cry.

“Do you think she’s alive,” he said.

“Have you heard from the kidnappers?” I said.

“No.”

“There’s no reason to do such an elaborate kidnapping and then kill her,” I said. “She’s alive.”

“What do they want?” Van Meer said.

“I don’t know yet.”

“I have tons of money,” Van Meer said.

“Can’t hurt,” I said.

“I can hire you to find her,” Van Meer said. “Any amount, doesn’t matter.”

“No need,” I said. “I’m looking for her now.”

“If you need anything, anything that money can buy, just say so. It’s yours.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. “How long did the marriage last?”

“Me and Heidi? We got divorced when Adelaide was five.”

“Nineteen ninety,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Why did you get divorced?”

Van Meer took a slow drink and shrugged.

“Bradshaw,” he said.

“She was having an affair with him.”

“Yeah, sure. I mean that wasn’t such a big deal. She’d fooled around before. Hell, so did I. All during the marriage. We both did. But Bradshaw…”

He finished his drink and went to the sideboard and refreshed the glass.

“She was too far into Bradshaw,” he said. “She stopped coming home. Stopped having sex. Stopped being fun. When she was with you, Heidi could be a big lot of fun.”

He stayed at the sideboard holding his drink.

“Divorce contentious?” I said.

“No. I liked her. Hell, I probably loved her.”

“Generous settlement?” I said.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I set up a big trust fund for Adelaide. She’s set for life. And Heidi got a lump-sum settlement instead of alimony. It was how she wanted it. Alimony would have stopped as soon as she married Bradshaw.”

“Ever meet Bradshaw?” I said.

“No.”

“Know anything about him?”

“No,” Van Meer said. “Heidi never talked about him. Never said a word.”

“Who asked for the divorce?”

“Her,” Van Meer said. “Told me she was in love with Bradshaw and wanted a divorce so she could marry him.”

“And he was the one she’d been seeing?”

“I assume so.”

“But you don’t know,” I said. “You didn’t put a private eye on her or anything?”

“No,” he said. “But I can tell you there was someone. On the rare occasions in that period when she would consent to sex, I knew. I don’t know how. I just knew I wasn’t the first one of the day. You know?”

I nodded.

“Do you know Heidi’s birth name?” I said.

“No.”

“Do you know where she’s originally from?”

He shook his head. He was looking past me now, out across the Public Garden, at the slow rise of Beacon Hill.

“Why would someone take Adelaide?” he said. “And not ask me for money?”

I had no answer for him. Which was all right, I guess, because I don’t think he was asking me. He took a drink. There were tears on his face. He kept studying the view out his expensive window.

“I want to know why that is,” he said.

Epstein came into my office on the day before Halloween and sat down, put his feet on the edge of my desk, and tilted his chair back.

“Hilda Gretsky was in fact born in Dayton,” he said. “She attended Stebbins High School but didn’t graduate, went to beautician school and didn’t finish, worked at a bookstore called Books amp; Co. for a couple years, and headed for New York, looking, I assume, for Mr. Right.”

“That’s where he usually is,” I said.

“I’ll mention it to my daughters,” Epstein said.

“You have daughters?”

“Three.”

“Wife?” I said.

“Not currently,” Epstein said.

“Anything else interesting about Heidi?” I said.

“People at the bookstore say she wasn’t much of a bookseller. Said she spent most of her time reading the books,” Epstein said.

“That’s it?” I said.

“Yep. No record. Nobody much remembers her.”

“Parents?”

“Deceased,” Epstein said.

“Siblings?”

“None.”

“Boyfriends?” I said.

“None that we could find,” Epstein said. “We have located her current husband.”

“From whom she’s estranged.”

“Yeah.”

“Healy gave me an address in Padanarum, on the south coast,” I said.

“That’s one,” Epstein said. “He’s got houses in London and Tuscany, too.”

“What’s he do?”

“Seems to be some sort of consultant for the Information Agency.”

“That doesn’t support three houses.”

“Probably not,” Epstein said.

“So,” I said. “He’s got money, too.”

“Apparently.”

“What a coincidence,” I said. “All her husbands have been rich.”

“Lucky her,” Epstein said.

“Where’s Bradshaw now?” I said.

“Padanarum, last we checked,” Epstein said.

“How did he make his money?”

“The old-fashioned way,” Epstein said. “His father earned it.”

“What’s he do with the Information Agency?” I said.

“Information adviser.”

“Propaganda?” I said.

“We don’t do propaganda,” Epstein said. “Our enemies disseminate propaganda. We provide information.”

“It’s good to be us,” I said.

“Used to be,” Epstein said.

“Is that subversive?” I said.

Epstein shook his head and didn’t answer.

“Is it a civil service job?”

“Nope,” Epstein said. “I don’t think so. I think it’s a campaign contribution at the right time to the right guy’s job.”

“He work regularly?”

“He consults from time to time,” Epstein said.

“How long they been separated?” I said.

“Year and a half,” Epstein said.