Walking Shadow by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online Page B

pound sledge and a crowbar.
    I had a radio playing jazz in the kitchen. Pearl moseyed around in the fenced-in fields finding disgusting things to roll in. She came back periodically to show off her new smell, negotiating the debris with easy dignity. I could see Susan through the front windows.
    She had her axe, her long-handled clippers, her bow saw, and her machete. She hacked and cut and clipped and sawed and stopped periodically to haul the cuttings into a big pile for pickup. Her tee shirt was dark with sweat. But, she was, I knew, tireless. For all of her self-mocking parody of the Jewish American Princess, she loved to work. And was rarely more happy than when she was fully engaged.
    I got the crowbar under one edge of the lath and plaster wall and pried away a big chunk, exposing one of the stair stringers. With the three-pound sledge I knocked the stringer loose and the stairs canted slowly and then came down with a satisfying crash.
    This is a lot better, I thought, than trying to find who killed Craig Sampson.

CHAPTER 13
    I was in my office with my feet up, drinking coffee from a paper cup and reading "Doonesbury." Behind me, two stories down, on Berkeley Street, tourists, brightly lit by the October sun, were posing with the teddy bear sculpture outside F. A. O. Schwarz. I finished "Doonesbury" and watched the photography for a moment, speculating on the tendency of tourists to be larger than their wardrobes. I was able to reach no conclusion about that, so I gave up and turned to the sports page to read "Tank McNamara." I was rereading it to make sure I'd missed no hidden meaning when my door opened and in came three Asian guys. The door opened straight onto the corridor. I had no waiting room. I'd had one once in another location and no one had ever waited in it. One Private Eye. No Waiting. I folded the paper and put it down on the desk and said hello.
    The tallest one did the talking.
    "You're Mister Spenser?" he said.
    "Yeah."
    "My name is Lonnie Wu," he said.
    "I believe you know my wife."
    "Rikki," I said.
    "Yes."
    Lonnie Wu was maybe 5' 10" and slim. He had polished black hair combed straight back, and a small, neat black moustache. He was wearing a gray cashmere jacket with a big red picture frame plaid in it that fitted him as if they had grown up together, and probably cost more than my whole wardrobe. He wore a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck, and black slacks, and black loafers that were shinier than his hair.
    "Have a seat," I said.
    He coiled fluently into my client chair. There was only one. He said something to the two guys who'd come with him, and they stood against the wall on either side of my office door. I opened the right-hand top drawer of my desk a little.
    "Couple of waiters from the restaurant?" I said.
    "No."
    "They from the north?"
    "They are from Vietnam."
    Wu smiled. The companions seemed to be barely out of their teens. They were both shorter than Wu, small-boned and lank haired One of them had a horizontal scar maybe two inches long under his left eye. They both wore jeans and sneakers and maroon satin jackets. The guy without the scar wore a blue bandana on his head.
    "You are a detective," Wu said.
    I nodded.
    "And you are investigating the murder of an actor in Port City."
    I nodded again.
    "You had lunch recently with my wife."
    "Sure," I said.
    "In your restaurant."
    "And you questioned her."
    "I question everybody," I said.
    "While you're here, I'll probably question you."
    "I wish to know why you are questioning my wife."
    "See previous answer," I said.
    "Excuse me?"
    "Like I said, I question everybody. Your wife is simply one of the people involved with the theater."
    "My wife," Wu said calmly, "is not 'simply' anything. She is Mrs. Lonnie Wu. And I would prefer that you not speak to her again."
    "How come?" I said.
    "It is unseemly."
    "Mrs. Wu didn't seem to think so," I said.
    "What Mrs. Wu thinks is not of consequence. It is unseemly for her to be having lunch