Free The Professional by Robert B. Parker Page A

husband, her job, her children’s regard.”
    “And her self,” Susan said.
    Occasionally as we drove we could see the Connecticut River flowing south beside us, heading for Long Island Sound. The year had gone too far into November for there to be much leaf color left. Here and there a yellow leaf, or none, or few, but mostly spare grayness, hinting of cold rain.
    “So are you saying,” I said, “that Gary’s current victims in the gang of four haven’t got enough guilt?”
    “A little guilt is not always a bad thing,” Susan said.
    “And you a psychotherapist,” I said.
    “I’m also Jewish,” she said.
    “I think that’s a tautology,” I said.
    “Oy,” Susan said.
    “You think I should start berating them,” I said. “Make them feel more guilty?”
    “I don’t know if it would work,” Susan said. “But I suspect it’s not your style.”
    We came to the pike and headed east. I had one of those toll transponders that allow you to zip through the fast lane unhesitatingly. It made me feel special.
    “It is interesting, though, that none of them feels guilty enough for your scenario to work.”
    “It would suggest something about their marriages,” Susan said.
    “And about them,” I said. “Some of them feel they’d be ruined if this all came out. One couple, the husband is gay, for instance, and in line for a big job. He and his wife are close. She knows, of course, and they remain friends, with a, necessarily, open marriage.”
    “You don’t think that such fears beset Clarice Richardson?” Susan said.
    “And they are not illegitimate fears,” I said. “She was lucky to be in a situation where decency could prevail.”
    “That, too, would probably influence her,” Susan said.
    “The recognition of those circumstances, and the hope that decency would prevail,” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “Maybe I could get them to see you professionally, and you could berate them.”
    “Until they felt guilty enough to cure themselves?”
    “Exactly,” I said. “How would that fly at the Psychoanalytic Institute?”
    “Banishment, I think,” she said. “It is, however, not a position I’m prepared to take.”
    “Is there a position you are prepared to take?” I said.
    Susan smiled her fallen-angel smile. One of my favorites.
    “How about prone, big boy?” she said.
    “Shall I stop on the roadside?” I said.
    Susan smiled.
    “No,” she said.

Chapter24

    WHEN GARY EISENHOWER came into my office on a rainy Monday morning, he had a purple bruise on his right cheekbone and a swollen upper lip. He moved stiffly to one of my chairs and eased himself into it. When he spoke he sounded like his teeth were clenched.
    “I need a gun,” he said.
    “I would guess that you do,” I said.
    “I’m a convicted felon,” he said. “I can’t just buy one.”
    “Also true.”
    “Can you give me one?”
    “Probably not,” I said. “Who beat you up?”
    He made a slight movement with his lips, which, if it hadn’t hurt, might have turned into a smile.
    “How’d you know?” he said.
    “I’m a trained detective,” I said.
    “Couple guys came around, tole me to stay away from Beth Jackson.”
    “You’re still seeing her?” I said.
    “Yeah.”
    “Even though she hired me to put you out of business?” I said.
    “Yeah,” Gary said.
    “She your mole in the gang of four?” I said.
    “How’d you know there was a mole?”
    “You knew who hired me,” I said.
    He shook his head and winced.
    “And—” I said.
    “You’re a trained detective,” Gary said.
    “You tell them to take a hike?” I said.
    “The two guys?” he said. “No, I said, ‘Sure thing.’ ”
    “But?”
    He started to shrug and remembered that everything hurt and stopped in mid-shrug.
    “But she kept coming around and”—again the try at a smile—“what’s a boy to do?”
    “So they caught you again and decided to get your attention,” I said.
    “Yeah.”
    “One of the guys slim and dark, sort of