wrinkled nose and dropped it in the basket under her desk.
"Really, Dave," she said. "Did you grow up in a barnyard?"
He grinned at her and then looked at me for the first time. He had been elaborately not looking at me up until now.
"Guess there's no gunshot wound here, mister," he said.
"Silly me," I said and turned and went back out into the waiting room, The small blackhaired woman was careful not to look at me. I went on out into the parking lot and got in my car and pulled out of my parking slot. The cop ambled out and got in his cruiser and turned around the curve of the emergency room drive and fell in behind me again. As I reached the top of the drive the small blackhaired woman came out of the emergency room door and headed for her car. Two hundred yards down the road I checked the rearview mirror again and the little Ford Escort was back in line behind the cops. Maybe she wasn't following me, maybe she was following Dave. I didn't want to be egocentric. I drove straight back through town and on out Quabbin Road to my motel. I parked in the lot and walked toward the lobby. The Wheaton cruiser moseyed on by me and turned back toward town. The Ford Escort drove on past me and parked at the end of the lot. I went on into the lobby and turned and watched through the glass doors as the small blackhaired woman got out of the Escort and walked slowly toward the motel. As she walked she kept looking off in the direction the cruiser had taken. When she got to the hotel lobby, I was standing by the entry to the bar.
"Care for a cocktail?" I said.
She looked at me for a moment and said, "Yes," and walked past me into the bar and sat at a small table against the far wall. I followed her and sat down across. The lunch crowd was starting to drift into the restaurant. Virgie was behind the bar.
"What would you like," I said.
"Perrier," she said. "Wedge of lime."
I stood and went to the bar. "Perrier, Virgie," I said. "And a bottle of Sam Adams."
"Lime?" Virgie said.
"In the Perrier," I said.
"I'll bring them over," Virgie said.
I went back and sat down. The dark-haired woman had lit a cigarette and as I sat down she exhaled some smoke.
"You mind," she said. I shook my head.
Virgie came around the bar with a tray and set the drinks down and went back to the bar. The woman across the table was not very old, twenty-six maybe, twenty-seven. She was Hispanic with prominent cheekbones and dark oval eyes. Her black eyebrows were thick and she wore no makeup. Her long black hair was pulled back and clubbed behind with a tortoiseshell, clasp. She wore a white shirt with a button-down collar and mannish-looking khaki slacks and brown leather gum-soled shoes. Around her throat where the shirt gapped open she wore some kind of Indian-looking choker of blue and white beads. She had a silver ring with a big turquoise oblong set in it on the forefinger of her right hand.
She picked up the Perrier glass with the same hand that held her cigarette and gestured at me.
"Salud, " she said.
I nodded and poured some beer into my glass and made a slight gesture with it and we each took a sip. Someday I'd have to find out how all this glass-touching stuff began. People were obsessive about it. She hadn't drunk till I'd poured the beer and responded.
We put our glasses down and looked at each other. I laced my fingers together and rested my chin on them and waited.
"My name is Juanita Olmo," she said.
"You know mine?" I said.
"Spenser," she said. I nodded.
"Why did you ask if I wanted a drink?" she said.
"Saw you following me. Saw you at the hospital. Watched you park here after the cops left."
She nodded.
"I suppose you are wondering why I've been following you."
"I assumed it was my virile kisser and manly carriage," I said.
She didn't smile. "I am not interested in you as a person," she said.
"There is no other way to be interested," I said.
She tipped her head to the side and forward in a cranial gesture of apology.
"I
"Really, Dave," she said. "Did you grow up in a barnyard?"
He grinned at her and then looked at me for the first time. He had been elaborately not looking at me up until now.
"Guess there's no gunshot wound here, mister," he said.
"Silly me," I said and turned and went back out into the waiting room, The small blackhaired woman was careful not to look at me. I went on out into the parking lot and got in my car and pulled out of my parking slot. The cop ambled out and got in his cruiser and turned around the curve of the emergency room drive and fell in behind me again. As I reached the top of the drive the small blackhaired woman came out of the emergency room door and headed for her car. Two hundred yards down the road I checked the rearview mirror again and the little Ford Escort was back in line behind the cops. Maybe she wasn't following me, maybe she was following Dave. I didn't want to be egocentric. I drove straight back through town and on out Quabbin Road to my motel. I parked in the lot and walked toward the lobby. The Wheaton cruiser moseyed on by me and turned back toward town. The Ford Escort drove on past me and parked at the end of the lot. I went on into the lobby and turned and watched through the glass doors as the small blackhaired woman got out of the Escort and walked slowly toward the motel. As she walked she kept looking off in the direction the cruiser had taken. When she got to the hotel lobby, I was standing by the entry to the bar.
"Care for a cocktail?" I said.
She looked at me for a moment and said, "Yes," and walked past me into the bar and sat at a small table against the far wall. I followed her and sat down across. The lunch crowd was starting to drift into the restaurant. Virgie was behind the bar.
"What would you like," I said.
"Perrier," she said. "Wedge of lime."
I stood and went to the bar. "Perrier, Virgie," I said. "And a bottle of Sam Adams."
"Lime?" Virgie said.
"In the Perrier," I said.
"I'll bring them over," Virgie said.
I went back and sat down. The dark-haired woman had lit a cigarette and as I sat down she exhaled some smoke.
"You mind," she said. I shook my head.
Virgie came around the bar with a tray and set the drinks down and went back to the bar. The woman across the table was not very old, twenty-six maybe, twenty-seven. She was Hispanic with prominent cheekbones and dark oval eyes. Her black eyebrows were thick and she wore no makeup. Her long black hair was pulled back and clubbed behind with a tortoiseshell, clasp. She wore a white shirt with a button-down collar and mannish-looking khaki slacks and brown leather gum-soled shoes. Around her throat where the shirt gapped open she wore some kind of Indian-looking choker of blue and white beads. She had a silver ring with a big turquoise oblong set in it on the forefinger of her right hand.
She picked up the Perrier glass with the same hand that held her cigarette and gestured at me.
"Salud, " she said.
I nodded and poured some beer into my glass and made a slight gesture with it and we each took a sip. Someday I'd have to find out how all this glass-touching stuff began. People were obsessive about it. She hadn't drunk till I'd poured the beer and responded.
We put our glasses down and looked at each other. I laced my fingers together and rested my chin on them and waited.
"My name is Juanita Olmo," she said.
"You know mine?" I said.
"Spenser," she said. I nodded.
"Why did you ask if I wanted a drink?" she said.
"Saw you following me. Saw you at the hospital. Watched you park here after the cops left."
She nodded.
"I suppose you are wondering why I've been following you."
"I assumed it was my virile kisser and manly carriage," I said.
She didn't smile. "I am not interested in you as a person," she said.
"There is no other way to be interested," I said.
She tipped her head to the side and forward in a cranial gesture of apology.
"I
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