"And she shared her theory," I said, "that Susan is drawn to men whose faults appeal to her."
"Would explain you," Hawk said.
I drank some beer and looked out the window at the tops of city buildings arranged appealingly across the line of sight.
"You take the scenario I painted for Gavin," I said, "of why he or Haskell would want to kill Carla Quagliozzi, it would work pretty well for Sterling too, if he feared she might tell. The cut tongue could be a message to Gavin."
"But he got a secret, why does he ask you
to help him with the harassment suit?"
"Because he was afraid it would shed too much light on his life and the other stuff would show."
"So why didn't he just flash the nude pictures to Jeanette Ronan's hubby?" Hawk said. "That would stop the harassment suit."
"Chivalry?"
"A dude who will kill a woman and cut out her tongue?"
I shrugged.
"You show the pictures to Judge Ronan?" Hawk said.
"Jeannette," I said.
"'Cause you didn't want to get her in trouble," Hawk said.
"I figured she'd find a way to call it off."
"You soft hearted for a guy with no neck."
"I have a perfectly good neck," I said. "I just wear my collars high, like Tom Wolfe."
"Sure," Hawk said. "So what you going to do now?"
I shook my head.
"I have no idea," I said.
chapter forty-five
I WAS SITTING ON a round bench with Susan in the center space of the Chestnut Hill Mall, which was swankier than Ivana Trump. There were several shopping bags around me on the floor, each of which had things in them that Susan had bought and I carried.
"Do you like that white silk jacket?" Susan said.
"Breathtaking."
"And you don't think it makes me look fat?"
"No I don't."
I had learned over the years not to give smartass answers to the kinds of dumb questions Susan asked when she shopped. It was nothing she could help, and no amount of smart talk on my part could dissuade her from it. Giving a widely amusing answer to such questions in fact tended to call forth more questions.
"You're not just saying that?"
"No."
"And the platform sneakers? Do you think they are, you know, too something."
"They look great," I said.
"Not too too?"
"Definitely not," I said. "'Things look good because you wear them."
There was a live combo playing jazz in the center of the mall, which meant, I suppose, that the demographics of the mall skewed mature. Like me.
"But you don't like them only because I'm wearing them," Susan said. "You'd like them on other people."
Simple yes and no, I reminded myself. You elaborate, you get into a swamp.
"They're great looking on anyone," I said. "On you they are podiatric perfection."
She was content. The combo was doing a nice job on "Sleepin Bee." We listened.
"Harold Arlen," I said.
Susan nodded as if she were interested. But I knew she wasn't. Susan didn't care whether it was Harold Arlen or Arlen Spector. The combo went into "A Foggy Day." We were alone on the bench. My hand was on her right thigh. She put her hand over mine. I took in a large breath of mall air.
"There's some reason to believe that Brad Sterling has killed two people," I said.
She was still. The music played. People moved past us carrying bags. Susan turned slowly to look at me.
"Tell me," she said.
I told her. She listened quietly. Now and then she nodded her head. When I finished she was very inward for a time. I waited. The combo moved from "Foggy Day" to an uptempo take on "Summertime."
"Well, it's logical," she said. "Though I can't imagine him doing it."
"Person or persons unknown is still an option," I said.
"But not a useful one," Susan said.
"No."
"I wonder if I overreacted when he came to me," she said. "I'm certainly capable of it, Ms. Fixit."
There was no sound of guilt in her voice. She was analytic. She could have been talking about people she barely knew.
"Someone complains to me about being overweight," Susan said with a half smile, "I immediately suggest ten steps to solve the problem, when all they wanted was for me to say, `You're not so fat."'
"Probably a useful trait though, in your profession," I said.
"Actually, a more useful trait in my profession is listening quietly."
I nodded.
"Maybe all Brad wanted when he came to me was for me to say, `Oh, poor baby.' Instead I involved you, and if you are right, it's the last thing he would have wanted."
"Or maybe he just wanted money," I said.
Susan shook her head emphatically.
"I know better than to give him money," she said.
"Or maybe he was already in way over his head and was half-hoping I could save him without knowing what I was saving him from."
Susan smiled sadly. "Yes," she said. "'That's exactly the kind of hare-brained scheming Brad would be capable of. Do you think you can find him?"
"I think he'll find us," I said.
"Because?"
"Because he's shown a pattern of running for help to the women he's known," I said.
"Yes, that's consistent."
"His sister has shut him off," I said. "Carla's dead. There's at least one other ex-wife. I don't know where. But he