Crimson Joy by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online Page A

black hooker."
    "And four others."
    "I hoping he does some white broad in shopping from Wellesley Hills, man," the pimp said. "Then we see some action."
    "What do you call this?" I said.
    "This? You here talking with me? Asking me about kinky Johns? That ain't action, man, that's blowing fucking smoke, man. That say, "Hey, we down here looking for who killing you jigaboos, boy. We trying."
    Shit."
    "You got any suggestions for action?"
    "Not to you, man. We gonna catch the motherfucker one day and we gonna kill the motherfucker."
    "We?"
    "That's right, man, motherfucking we. People of fucking color, man, all right? That's who's gonna give you some action."
    "I hope so." I handed him my card. "If it starts," I said, "I'd like to come watch."
    He watched me get back in my car and pull away. In the rearview mirror I saw him put the card in his pocket.

CHAPTER 10

     
    Susan had her home and office in a big old house on Linnaean Street with a slate mansard roof and a wide front porch. She lived on the second floor, her office and waiting room occupying the half of the first floor to the left of the center entrance hall. I was drinking a bottle of Sam Adams in her living room while she got supper ready.
    Getting supper ready in Susan's case meant getting gourmet take-out from Rudi's in Charles Square and reheating as required. She sipped a Diet Coke while she put two chicken breasts with apricot and pistachio stuffing into a red casserole dish to heat in the oven.
    She had just finished running two seven-minute miles on the treadmill at her health club and she still wore her black sweat pants and pale blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and the neckline lowered. Her running shoes were Nikes with a purple swoosh.
    "I talked with that family counselor today," Susan said.
    "Rebecca Stimpson, MSW?"
    "Yes. She had been doing some marriage counseling with the Washburns and it was sort of delicate because of confidentiality. But, phrased just right, it's pretty clear that Ms. Stimpson, MSW, did not feel that the Washburns were on the road to reconciliation."
    "She have any views on Ray's potential for violence?"
    "Not really. She couldn't rule it out, but, as you know, predicting behavior is nearly impossible. Also, in truth Ms. Stimpson doesn't seem like a therapeutic heavyweight."
    "She has a master's in social work," I said.
    "Yes, and I believe in the value of fuller and more specialized training; but it's not her academic credentials; there are people with PhDs in psychology and M.D. psychiatrists who aren't therapeutic heavyweights either. It's temperament and, for lack of a better word, simple intelligence. Ms. Stimpson isn't very smart."
    "You trust her opinion on Washburn?"
    Susan sipped some more Diet Coke. She was tossing a salad composed of endive, julienne of red and yellow peppers, and arugula.
    "It's hard to see how she could have been totally misled. She saw them together once a week for several months."
    "So if she's not misled, then Ray was lying," I said.
    "Not necessarily," Susan said. "Some clients simply want something so badly, they believe it despite everything."
    "And if they are forced to see the truth?" I said.
    Susan shook her head. "Need is a powerhouse," she said.
    "So if the therapist is right…" I said.
    "Counselor," Susan said. "Not therapist. She wasn't doing therapy."
    I grinned. "Correct, just a test to see if you were listening. So if the counselor is right, Raymond is somewhat obsessed, or he is lying. Or the counselor is wrong and it's another Red Rose killing, or both. Or neither, and something we haven't any idea about is going on."
    "Fascinating work," Susan said.
    "Not unlike your own," I said.
    Susan put a loaf of fresh French bread on the table and the salad, served on two glass salad plates.
    "Metaphors for life," she said. "Your profession and mine."
    I sat at the table beside her.
    "You be Simone de Beauvoir," I said, "and I'll be Sartre and we'll consider defining life by