Free Mortal Stakes by Robert B. Parker Page A

the back. She was wearing an off-white sleeveless linen dress with blue and green piping at the hem and along the neckline. Her legs were bare and tanned.
    ”Please sit down,“ she said. ”I see you have a drink.
    Good. How may I help you?“ I sat on the sofa. She sat opposite me on an ottoman. Her knees together, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap.
    ”I’m looking for information about a girl named Donna Burlington who you probably knew about eight years ago.“ I showed her the picture.
    ”And why would you think I know anything about her, Mr. Spenser?“
    ”One of your colleagues suggested that she had left his employ and joined your firm.“
    ”I’m sorry, I don’t understand.“ Her blue eyes were direct and steady as she looked at me. Her face without lines.
    ”Well, ma’am, I don’t mean to be coarse, but an East Village pimp named Violet told me she moved uptown and went to work for you in the late fall of nineteen sixty-six.“
    ”I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Violet,“ she said.
    ”Tall, thin guy, aggressive dresser, but small-time. No reason for you to know him. The Pinkerton Agency has never heard of me either.“
    ”Oh, I’m sure you’re well known in your field, Mr.
    Spenser.“ She smiled, and a dimple appeared in each cheek.
    ”But I really don’t see how I can help you. This Violet person has misled you, I suppose for money. New York is a very grasping city.“
    The room was cool and silent, central air conditioning.
    I sipped the Calvados, and it reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since about seven thirty. It was now almost four thirty. ”Ms.
    Utley,“ I said, ”I don’t wish to rock your boat and I don’t want anything bad to happen to Donna Burlington, I just need to know about her.“
    ”Ms. Utley,“ she said. ”That’s charming, but it’s Mrs., thank you.“
    ”Okay, Mrs. Utley, but what I said stands. I need to know about Donna Burlington. Confidential. No harm to anyone, and I can’t tell you why. But I need to know.“ I finished the brandy. She stood, took my glass, filled it, and set it down on the marble-topped coffee table in front of me. Her movements were precise and graceful and stylish. So was she.
    ”I have no quarrel with that, Mr. Spenser, but I can’t help you. I don’t know the young lady, nor can I imagine how anyone could think that I might.“
    ”Mrs. Utley, I know we’ve only met, but would you join me for dinner?“
    ”Is that part of your technique, Mr. Spenser? Candlelight and wine and perhaps I’ll remember something about the young lady?“
    ”Well, there’s that,“ I said. ”But I hate to eat alone.
    The only people I know in the city are you and Violet, and Violet already had a date.“
    ”Well, I don’t know about being second choice to—what was it you said—an East Village pimp?“
    ”I’ll tell you about my most exciting cases,“ I said.
    ”Why, I remember one I call the howling dog caper.
    The dimple reappeared.
    “And I’ll do a one-hand push-up for you, and sing a dozen popular songs, pronouncing the lyrics so clearly that you can hear every word.”
    “And if I still refuse?”
    “Then I go down to Foley Square and see if I can find someone in the DA’s office that knows you and might put in a word for me.”
    “I do not like to be threatened, Mr. Spenser.”
    “Desperation,” I said. “Loneliness and desire make a man crazy. Here, look at the kind of treat ahead of you.” I put my glass on the end table, got down on the rug, and did a onehand push-up. I looked up at her from the push-up position, my left hand behind my back. “Want to see another one?” I said.
    She was laughing. Silently at first with her face serious but her stomach jiggling and giving her away, and then aloud, with her head back and the dimples big enough to hold a ripe olive.
    “I’ll go,” she said. “Let me change, and we’ll go. Now, for God sakes, get off the floor, you damn fool.”
    I got up. “The old