Free Painted Ladies by Robert B. Parker

expected,” I said.
    “You’re a professional tough guy,” Susan said. “And professional tough guys don’t hand off.”
    “Wow,” I said. “A sports metaphor.”
    “I try,” Susan said. “I want to be just like you.”
    “I’d hate like hell to be sleeping with someone just like me,” I said.
    “Funny thing,” Susan said. “I’ve never minded.”
    “A puzzle,” I said.
    “Yes,” Susan said. “But there it is.”
    Susan’s juice glass was still nearly full. She ignored it and drank some coffee.
    “It meant you had to kill two men,” she said. “How does that feel.”
    “They would have killed me,” I said.
    “Yes, they would have,” Susan said. “But how do you feel?”
    “Several ways. I won; they lost.”
    “And?” she said.
    “Glad they didn’t kill me.”
    “Me, too,” she said.
    “And I do not like killing people,” I said.
    “But you do it,” she said.
    “And will again,” I said. “But I do not like it.”
    “You could get out of this business,” Susan said.
    “I could,” I said.
    “But you won’t,” she said.
    “No,” I said.
    “Because this is what you are and who you are,” she said. “And if you quit, you would like that even less.”
    “I’d still be with you,” I said.
    “I wouldn’t be enough,” she said.
    “If you asked me to change,” I said, “I’d change.”
    “I’ll never ask you,” she said.
    “You’d be enough.”
    “We’re each enough for you,” she said. “The rest is speculation.”
    “You’re a pretty smart broad,” I said.
    “I know,” Susan said. “You’re a pretty interesting guy.”
    “I know,” I said.
    “Maybe we are about more than good sex and a fine breakfast,” Susan said.
    “Maybe we are the two most interesting people in the world,” I said.
    “Probably,” she said.

26
    I sat at my desk with a cup of coffee and a lined yellow pad. I was making a list of what I knew and questions I had about the death of Ashton Prince. I always liked making lists. It gave me the illusion of control.
    There was certainly some kind of connection among Prince and Missy Minor and, presumably, Winifred Minor. And obviously one between Prince and the museum. There was almost certainly a connection between Prince and the robbers that I didn’t see. There was no reason for them to show up for the ransom exchange already prepared to kill him, unless there was more going on than was so far evident. And somewhere along the way, as I wandered through the case, I had done something to make them want to kill me.
    We had a few leads: the two shooters now in the forensics lab, and the speculative relationship between Missy Minor and Ashton Prince. I wrote those down. I needed to learn more about Prince and the Minor women. I wrote that down. Digging into Prince would mean talking again with his wife. My heart sank. But I wrote it down. Detective work is not always pretty.
    My office door opened. I put my hand on the .357 Mag I kept in my open top right-hand drawer.
    Martin Quirk came in.
    “Don’t shoot,” he said. “I’m an officer of the law.”
    “Okay,” I said, and took my hand off the gun.
    Quirk tossed a manila envelope on my desk, poured himself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker on top of my file cabinet, and took it to one of my client chairs, where he sat down and took a sip.
    “Whaddya doing?” he said.
    “Making a list,” I said.
    “Things to do with the Prince killing?”
    “Yep.”
    “Makes you feel like you know what to do,” Quirk said. “Don’t it.”
    “It’s a very orderly list,” I said.
    “Got any information in the list?” Quirk said.
    “No,” I said.
    “But it makes you feel like you’re making progress,” Quirk said.
    “Exactly.”
    “Copy of the forensics on the two guys you iced,” he said. “Take a look, tell me what you think.”
    I opened the envelope and browsed the report. Much of it I didn’t understand.
    “You understand all this stuff?” I said.
    “Some of