Promised Land by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online

had been a pathetic overdressed quality to her as she came out of the shabby two-story on Centre Street. She’d had on pendant earrings.
    It was nine-thirty when I got back to the motel. The dining room was still open so I went in and had six oysters and a half bottle of Chablis and a one-pound steak with Bearnaise sauce and a liter of beer. The salad had an excellent house dressing and the whole procedure was a great deal more pleasant than hanging around in a doorway with an incontinent wino. After dinner I went back to my room and caught the last three innings of the Sox game on channel six.

Chapter 8
    In the morning I was up and away to New Bedford before eight. I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts shop for a training-table breakfast to go, and ate my doughnuts and drank my coffee as I headed up the Cape with the sun at my back. I hit New Bedford at commuter time and while it wasn’t that big a city its street system was so confused that the traffic jam backed up across the bridge into Fairhaven. It was nine-forty when I got out of the car and headed for the incongruous front door at 3 Centre Street. There was no doorbell and no knocker so I rapped on the red panels with my knuckles. Not too hard, the door might fold.
    A big, strong-looking young woman with light brown hair in a long single braid opened the door. She had on jeans and what looked like a black leotard top. She was obviously braless, and, less noticeably, shoeless.
    “Good morning,” I said, “I’d like to speak with Pam Shepard, please.”
    “I’m sorry, there’s no Pam Shepard here.”
    “Will she be back soon?” I was giving her my most engaging smile. Boyish. Open. Mr. Warm.
    “I don’t know any such person,” she said.
    “Do you live here?” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you Rose Alexander?”
    “No.” Once I give them the engaging smile they just slobber all over me.
    “Is she in?”
    “Who are you?”
    “I asked you first,” I said.
    Her face closed down and she started to shut the door. I put my hand flat against it and held it open. She shoved harder and I held it open harder. She seemed determined.
    “Madam,” I said, “if you will stop shoving that door at me, I will speak the truth to you. Even though, I do not believe you have spoken the truth to me.”
    She paid no attention. She was a big woman and it was getting hard to hold the door open effortlessly.
    “I stood outside this house most of yesterday and saw Pam Shepard and another woman come out, go shopping and return with groceries. The phone here is listed to Rose Alexander.” My shoulder was beginning to ache. “I will talk civilly with Pam Shepard and I won’t drag her back to her husband.”
    Behind the young woman a voice said, “What the hell is going on here, Jane?”
    Jane made no reply. She kept shoving at the door. The smaller, black-haired woman I’d seen with Pam Shepard yesterday appeared. I said, “Rose Alexander?” She nodded. “I need to talk with Pam Shepard,” I said.
    “I don’t…” Rose Alexander started.
    “You do too,” I said. “I’m a detective and I know such things: If you’ll get your Amazon to unhand the door we can talk this all out very pleasantly.”
    Rose Alexander put her hand on Jane’s arm. “You’d better let him in, Jane,” she said gently. Jane stepped away from the door and glared at me. There were two bright smudges of color on her cheekbones, but no other sign of exertion. I stepped into the hall. My shoulder felt quite numb as I took my hand off the door. I wanted to rub it but was too proud. What price machismo?
    “May I see some identification?” Rose Alexander said.
    “Certainly.” I took the plastic-coated photostat of my license out of my wallet and showed it to her.
    “You’re not with the police then,” she said.
    “No, I am self-employed,” I said.
    “Why do you wish to talk with me?”
    “I don’t,” I said. “I wish to talk with Pam Shepard.”
    “Why do you wish to talk with