Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel by Robert B. Parker Page B

stable, this tennis facility . . .”
    “I know ten guys out of work who’d be happy spending the night in one of the horse stalls if they’re as grand as I think they are,” I said. “Not me. Horses scare me.”
    Carmen smiled. “A big handsome guy like you?”
    She handed me back the notepad and pen.
    “Hard to admit, but true.”
    We walked toward my car. “You’ll make sure Slide gets my present? Even if something were to happen to me?” She looked at me, her hand held up to shield her eyes from the bright morning sun.
    “I will. And I’ll do my best to see that you give it to him yourself.”
    “Good. Take this, too.” She handed me a piece of paper. “All my bank stuff. My accounts, my contact there. I want Slide to have it. I spoke to my dad and the bank when all this started with Juan, but there has been no time to make a new will. I know a written codicil is legal, and I have sent one to my dad and my lawyer. I know it is probably overly dramatic, but I want Slide to have something for his education, his future, if I were to meet with an accident . . . you understand.” She stood very still.
    “I do.”
    “Thanks, Spenser.” She stood on the balls of her feet and gave me a kiss on my cheek.
    “
Adiós,
Carmen.” I got in my car and drove away.

I CALLED JUAN ALVAREZ and made an appointment to see him at his office, which was on Exchange Place on State Street. The building was a tall glass column with a black marble entrance. Inside the heavily gilt-painted lobby were the biggest potted palms I had ever seen outside the set of
Aida
. Over in one corner was a huge fir tree decorated with blue and silver balls for Christmas, which clashed with the brushed-gold elevator door.
    I got off at the twenty-fourth floor. The elevator doors opened directly into a spare modern reception area. A young woman with strawberry-blond hair, brown eyes, and matching freckles sat behind a black granite workstation.
    “I’m here to see Mr. Alvarez,” I said.
    “You must be Mr. Spenser?”
    “I am,” I said, flashing her what I hoped was a roguish grin.
    She was not moved. “You’re a bit late for your appointment. Mr. Alvarez doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
    So young. So jaded.
    She got up and led me down a hallway and through a tall double door. Juan Alvarez got up from his half-crescent desk. “Spenser. Come in, come in.” He waved me in. “Alice, what can we get for Spenser? Coffee, tea, or something stronger?”
    He was wearing an expensive charcoal-gray bespoke suit with a faint chalk stripe and a floral Turnbull & Asser tie. His desk was burnished oak. On top of the desk were several neat piles of papers and three clocks showing different time zones.
    “No, thanks,” I said.
    “Let me give you the nickel tour. I can’t get enough of this view.” He led me around the large room, which had a panoramic view of Boston Harbor and, on a particularly clear day, probably a good chunk of Newfoundland. The paintings on the walls reeked of expensive original. Picasso, Bacon, a Turner. Obviously not a discerning collector, but maybe it didn’t matter when you had lots of money.
    He waved me to one of the chairs opposite his desk, and we sat down. “Before you tell me why you are here, please allow me to apologize for my outburst the other day. I regret I came on a little strong. I have always been a very private man, and I find any intrusions into my affairs upsetting.” He smiled.
    I smiled. Amigos again. Just like that.
    “Apology accepted, Juan,” I said. “My innate curiosity isn’t always understood or appreciated. Some people have told me I can be annoying.”
    He chuckled, but he didn’t disagree.
    I looked around. “This is a swell office,” I said. “What type of business gets you the picture-postcard view?”
    “I run an import/export business. Art, textiles, some clothing, small leather goods.” He smiled some more, and I smiled back. After a moment, he said, “And to what