Bad Business by Robert B. Parker Page B

laughed.
    â€œThe radio guy?”
    â€œYeah. What do you think of him professionally?”
    â€œDarrin O’Mara?” Susan laughed again and flapped her hands as she searched for the right phrase. “He’s a . . . he’s a talk show host.”
    â€œHe make any sense?”
    â€œNo, of course not. He looks good and he has a nice voice, and his show has a catchy title.”
    â€œ Matters of the Heart, ” I said.
    â€œYes,” Susan said. “And I listen to it sometimes, because some of my less worldly patients listen to him.”
    â€œSo do I hear you saying you don’t hold with courtly love?” I said.
    â€œCourtly love is a poetic conceit,” Susan said. “You know that.”
    â€œWe’re not married,” I said.
    â€œThat’s true. And it’s true that we love each other. And it has nothing to do with the conventions of Provençal poetry. We haven’t married because the two of us have autonomy needs that marriage doesn’t serve.”
    â€œGee,” I said. “Not so we’d be free to love uncoerced?”
    â€œYou know that we’d love each other married or unmarried. But we are probably happier—though neither more nor less in love—unmarried.”
    â€œSo you are not one to promote adultery.”
    â€œIt is the most destructive act in a relationship,” Susan said. “You know all this perfectly well. You just like me to talk about us.”
    â€œI do,” I said.

17
    A fter lunch, Susan went home to shuffle her new clothes around, and I went down to 100 Summer Street to visit the Templeton Group, which was a small office in a big building. There were two desks in the office, and a client chair and a telephone. Jerry Francis was at one of the desks. No one was at the other.
    â€œNot the biggest group I ever saw,” I said when I went in.
    Francis remembered me.
    â€œHey,” he said. “There’s another guy here, too.”
    â€œTempleton?” I said.
    â€œThere is no Templeton,” Francis said. “My partner’s name is Bellini. We thought Templeton Group sounded good with the address.”
    â€œNothing is as it appears,” I said. “I’m looking for a little help. Gumshoe to gumshoe.”
    â€œI’m starting to choke up,” Francis said. “Whaddya want?”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about Marlene Rowley? Or her husband?”
    â€œIt’s against company policy . . .” Francis said.
    I said the rest of it with him. “ . . . to discuss any aspect of a case with any unauthorized person.”
    â€œFast learner,” Francis said.
    â€œYeah. I was hoping for collegial cooperation here,” I said. “But I see that’s not forthcoming. Lemme try another approach. Your client was murdered. I have made no mention of you to the investigating officers.”
    â€œAnd if I stand firm on company policy?” Francis said.
    â€œThen the cops will be asking you.”
    â€œYou’d rat me out to the cops.”
    â€œWell put,” I said.
    â€œWhat happened to collegiality?” Francis said.
    â€œOutmoded concept,” I said. “Tell me about Marlene and Trent.”
    He wasn’t wearing his fancy sunglasses inside, and it left his eyes looking sort of vulnerable. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk and clasped his hands behind his head.
    â€œNice names,” he said. “Marlene and Trent. It’s like they were born to be yuppies.”
    â€œJust fulfilling their destiny,” I said.
    â€œSo this guy Trent Rowley comes in to see us, says he thinks his wife is fooling around on him, wants her followed.”
    â€œDid he say how he came to you?”
    â€œNo, and we didn’t ask.”
    â€œThe cash up front made a good bona fide.”
    â€œIt did,” Francis said. “So Mario—Bellini, my partner—Mario asks