Robert B. Parker's Wonderland by Ace Atkins

mine.

21
    I DID NOT HEAR from Weinberg or his people all the next day. I checked in with my answering service several times while Susan and I frolicked with Pearl. We later shopped at Harvard Square and ate a late lunch at the Russell House Tavern, accompanied by a couple of Bloody Marys.
    At five, I drove back to the Harbor Health Club and followed Henry home. He parked and went up to his apartment with a jug of red wine under his arm. There was no sign of trouble. I returned to my office to check my mail, hoping Weinberg or Blanchard had slipped a note under my door. No such luck. I picked up the bills I had found under the mail slot and sat at my desk. Night was just coming on, and I opened a window and sat down in my chair, contemplating dinner choices with Susan. We had talked about Grill 23, and although I did love Grill 23, I thought about Meyers and Chang in the South End. I was inspired by the thought of Korean barbecue sloppy joes.
    Jemma Fraser knocked on my door.
    “I take it you didn’t stop by with restaurant recommendations?” I said.
    I opened my right-hand desk drawer and waited for Blanchard or another tough to follow her. But she closed the door with a light click and took a seat. I closed the drawer.
    “Your office is exactly the way I expected.”
    “I’m saving up for a neon sign of a smoking gun.”
    “And I like your real voice better.”
    I shrugged with modesty.
    “Fooled me,” she said. She wore an immaculate cream-colored sheath dress that pinched in at the waist and accentuated the shape of her shoulders and tan skin. She wore a couple of gold bracelets on her left wrist. Her dark hair hung loose and straight around the shoulders.
    Jemma looked around my office some more, eyes stopping for a moment on my Vermeer prints, and raised her eyebrows. “Well, you certainly have gotten Rick’s attention.”
    I waited.
    “He is not pleased.”
    “Heartbreaking.”
    Jemma sat very erect in my client chair, her knees together and neck held high. She smelled very good. I would expect nothing less with that accent.
    “So Rick Weinberg is annoyed,” I said. “What do we do about it?”
    “He does not wish for his plans of development to be made public yet.”
    “His decision.”
    “But he does not wish to speak to the board about the property, either,” she said. Jemma readjusted the gold watch on her inner wrist, awaiting my response.
    “It’s one or the other.”
    “I have come here to offer you an incentive of twenty thousand dollars to leave this alone and walk away.”
    I let out a low whistle.
    She nodded. She smiled slowly at me, her eyes flickering over my face.
    “Are you flirting with me?”
    She dropped the smile and stared.
    “Twenty grand to do nothing?” I said.
    She nodded. She crossed her shapely legs. Nice shoes. Dark brown leather, very strappy and tall.
    “Shall we have a drink to close the matter?” she said.
    “Nope,” I said.
    “A man of principle,” she said.
    “I am not overly fond of anyone who would send some sluggers to harass old people.”
    “A misunderstanding.”
    “No kidding.”
    “They were supposed to make trouble, but never hurt anyone.”
    “They hurt my associate very badly.”
    “And did you not hurt the same men very badly a few nights before?”
    I shrugged.
    “So who is in the wrong?” she said.
    “Keep the money,” I said.
    “Wonderful.” She raised her eyebrows again. “Terrific.”
    “If you keep doing that,” I said, “your eyebrows might stick.”
    The eyebrows dropped. Her red mouth pursed. She leaned in close. “You are making a huge mistake.”
    “Yikes.”
    “Rick won’t be pleased.”
    “Double yikes.”
    “The offer was generous,” Jemma said, standing. She smoothed down her dress and looked out my window at the lights across Berkeley Street.
    “You will let me know,” I said. “My offer is limited. And just in case you wondered, the information still gets relayed if I am . . . um,