Hugger Mugger by Robert B. Parker

is, sort of by definition,” Clive said, “a series of senseless crimes.”
    â€œSeems so,” I said.
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œMeaning it seems so senseless that maybe it isn’t.”
    Clive hadn’t become a tycoon by nodding in agreement to everything said.
    â€œThat sounds like one of those clever statements people make when they’re trying to sell you something you don’t need,” Clive said. “Does it mean anything?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I can’t say I know much about animal shootings. But for serial killers of people, you look for the logic that drives them. It’s not necessarily other people’s logic, but they are responding to some sort of interior pattern, and what you try to do is find it. The horse shootings are patternless.”
    â€œOr you haven’t found it,” Clive said.
    â€œOr I haven’t found it.”
    â€œThey are all Three Fillies horses,” Clive said. “Isn’t that a pattern?”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “But it is a pattern that leads us nowhere much. Why is someone shooting Three Fillies horses?”
    â€œYou’re not supposed to be asking me,” Clive said.
    â€œI know,” I said. “Is there anyone with a grudge against you?”
    â€œOh certainly. I can’t name anyone in particular. But I’ve been in a tough business for more than thirty years. I’m bound to have made someone angry.”
    â€œAngry enough to shoot your horses?”
    â€œWell, if they were, why would they shoot those horses? The stable pony’s worth maybe five hundred dollars. Neither of the other two horses showed much promise. Heroic Hope can’t run again, but insurance covers it. If you wish to damage me, you shoot Hugger Mugger—no amount of insurance could replace him.”
    â€œMe either,” I said. “Maybe they were chosen because their loss would not be damaging.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense.”
    â€œTrue,” I said. “If someone didn’t want to damage you they could just not shoot the horses.”
    A good-looking woman with close-cropped hair and high cheekbones and blue-black skin came in pushing a tea wagon. There was coffee in a silver decanter and white china cups and a cream and sugar set that matched the decanter. She served us each coffee and departed. I added cream and two lumps of sugar. Clive took his black.
    â€œSo what kind of security did Jon Delroy do for you?” I said.
    â€œWhy do you ask?” Clive said.
    â€œBecause I don’t know.”
    â€œAnd you find that sufficient reason?” Clive said.
    â€œAdmittedly, I’m a nosy guy,” I said. “It’s probably one of the reasons I do what I do. But that aside, doing what I do is simply a matter of looking for the truth under a rock. It’s under some rock, but I don’t usually know which one. So whenever I come to a rock, I try to turn it over.”
    â€œDoesn’t that sometimes mean you discover things you didn’t need to know? Or want to know?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut you do it anyway?”
    â€œI don’t know how else to go about it,” I said.
    Clive looked at me heavily. He drank some coffee. Outside the window some birds fluttered about. They seemed to be sparrows, but they were moving too quickly to reveal themselves to me.
    â€œI have three daughters,” he said. “Two of whom have inherited their mother’s depravity.”
    â€œPenny being the exception?” I said.
    â€œYes. They have not only indulged their depravity as girls, they have married badly, and marriage has appeared to exacerbate the depravity.”
    Clive wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t, as far as I could tell, looking at anything. His eyes seemed blankly focused on the middle distance.
    â€œDepravity loves company,” I said.
    I wasn’t sure that Clive heard me. He