Silent Night: A Spenser Holiday Novel (4 page)

O
NCE IN A GREAT WHILE,
Susan asked me to escort her to one of her charity events. The most important one of the year was to take place ten days before Christmas and would be held at the Taj. The cause was Meals with Heart, which provided free food to those in Boston who had fallen through other social-program nets.

We were on our way to the Taj on the appointed night.

“You look stunning,” she said.

I was wearing a navy blue cashmere blazer she had given to me, made probably by hand by cloistered nuns on a remote Scottish isle. She had chosen a navy-and-red striped silk necktie, which I was told was Hermès but to my eye could have been Syms. A crisp white shirt, the neck a bit too snug for my liking, and dark gray slacks completed my ensemble. As a form of silent protest, I wore black loafers polished to a high gloss with no socks. Still, I felt like I was going off to dancing school. Susan was resplendent in a crimson satin gown that showed off her perfect skin. As she would be giving a speech at the dinner, she had sought the services of a professional makeup artist, though I thought it was gilding the lily. She sparkled.

“Brad and Angelina,” I said.

“Too many kids.”

“You’ve got a point.” We made our way to the elevator.

Though all eyes would be on her, I knew Susan liked having me there. Knowing it was only for her was all that made it worthwhile.

We came into the huge ballroom hung with Christmas decorations, where we got the sticky labels with our names on them to put on and therefore ruin our outfits, and place cards with our table number. Ours was predictably table one, right up front by the dance floor. The Beantown Swing Orchestra was performing Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” as we found our seats.

“I detect a bar at the back of the room,” I said. “Can I get you something?”

“God, no,” Susan said. “Not until I’m done with my speech. I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.” As self-possessed as she was in virtually all other situations, Susan was invariably nervous before giving speeches, and unfailingly flawless in her delivery.

“That would be an impossibility,” I said. “But I need a strong beverage to steel myself for this crowd.” I headed off toward the bar.

When I returned with my martini, others had joined our table. They stood, and we introduced ourselves. Everyone’s names matched their name tags. A tall, tanned Hispanic man in black tie bowed formally and said, “My name is Juan Alvarez. I’m happy to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Spenser.”

Susan put out her hand. “Dr. Susan Silverman. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Spenser,” I said. Direct.

“This is my friend Carmen,” Alvarez said.

A tall, slender young woman with movie-star good looks smiled and shook Susan’s hand, then mine. She wore a tight-fitting blue silk jacket, black slacks, and turquoise drop earrings. Her eyes were the color of lapis lazuli. Her handshake told me she was stronger than she looked.

“Of course, Dr. Silverman,” Alvarez said. “My apologies. You are the force behind this whole endeavor. Congratulations on your fine work. We on the board are very proud of your achievements.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alvarez,” Susan said.

“Please—Juan,” Alvarez said.

“Susan,” Susan said with a radiant smile.

I took a long swallow of my drink and eyed Carmen over the rim of my glass. She looked back at me and smiled. She had very white teeth, full lips, and a tan in December.

A large middle-aged woman in a flowing floral gown approached the microphone and gave an elaborate throat-slashing signal to the band. Apparently, the program would precede dinner, which had both advantages and disadvantages. In my vast experience accompanying Susan to charity events, I learned that pre-dinner programs tended to be shorter, and permitted a quick departure once the table was cleared. On the other hand, listening to speeches on an empty stomach made me want to chew on the tablecloth, which Susan frowned upon. I settled in and covertly eyed the bread basket.

The large woman was wrapping it up. “And so I introduce our patron saint and great friend, Dr. Susan Silverman.”

I had missed the preamble because I had been trying to catch the eye of a waiter for a refill of my drink. With success.

Susan made her usual brief and intelligent speech, which was met with thunderous applause, due to both its brevity and its excellence. Then the auction began. A portly, ruddy-faced man in black tie and tails took the stage and launched into the familiar rapid cadence of a professional auctioneer. His associates prowled among the tables, eagerly pointing out frantic bidders in case the auctioneer somehow missed the manic waving of bidding paddles. The crowd, fueled by alcohol, a competitive nature, and a compassionate spirit, shed its reserve and became boisterous. There were books autographed by local authors, Celtics tickets, and Cape Cod resort vacations, each lot more enticing than the last, all sold at prices far above any reasonable measure of value. Finally, the auctioneer announced the last lot, the most prized item of the evening.

“And now we are excited to present one of the greatest tennis players in the world, winner of the U.S. Open, two-time winner at Wimbledon, winner of the Australian Open, French Open, and too many other Grand Slam events to name. In short, a supreme athlete. Come on up here, Carmen, to announce the fabulous prize that awaits our top bidder!”

Our tablemate rose and went up to the stage. Now I remembered her. I was not a tennis fan, but I had caught one or two of her matches while surfing for Red Sox games in the past. She had disappeared from the tennis world a few years ago.

Next to the auctioneer, Carmen stood tall, her lean body in perfect proportion. Her voice was strong and low and resonant.

“I have two front-row box seats to next year’s U.S. Open, including meals at a variety of four-star New York City restaurants, plus entertainment, travel, and lodging.” She waved the tickets in the air, and the professional auctioneer started the bidding. Again, the crowd exploded. The bidding continued for several minutes, until only two competitors remained. They were both trim, well-dressed captains of industry, sitting at adjacent tables. Neither of them appeared accustomed to losing. They traded bids with authority, slowing the pace by raising the stakes in ever-smaller increments. They were cheered on by the admiring crowd and by what appeared to be matching trophy wives. Finally, the combatant at the table nearest us signaled surrender, and when further cajoling by the auctioneer failed to elicit another bid, the gavel went down. The winner paid $100,000 for the week and the thrill of victory. I wondered if he’d be as excited about the price of victory tomorrow morning.

Dinner was served with efficiency as soon as the auction ended. Our dinner companions were surprisingly pleasant and engaging. No one pontificated about politics. No one prattled on about their jewelry or wine collection. Everyone liked the Red Sox’s chances come spring.

The event began to wind down after coffee. “I just have to thank a few people,” Susan said, touching my hand, before walking off into the crowd. I was alone at the table with Juan Alvarez. Carmen was standing by the podium, surrounded by admirers.

“I’ve met your brother Jackie,” I said.

Alvarez smiled. “Really? Dear Joachim, the youngest of my siblings. How do you know him, if I may ask?”

“He came to me for help. He’s under the impression someone is trying to drive him and his organization out of their home. I understand you own property on the same block.”

Alvarez apparently found something interesting in the centerpiece and shifted his gaze in that direction. “I do own quite a lot of real estate in Boston.” He smiled. “Isn’t Carmen something?”

“Yes. She still play?”

“Not professionally. She had to retire. Bad knees, you know. It happens to . . .” He stopped as Carmen approached and sat down.

“You did very well,” he said to her.

“Thank you, Juan. It’s a good cause. Dr. Silverman does good work.”

“That she does.” I smiled dashingly. Something about her reminded me of Ava Gardner.

“Have you two met before?” Alvarez said. His smile belied the vague accusatory undercurrent in his tone.

“Never,” I said.

“We Puerto Ricans say that we met in another life,” she said. “But Juan, I met you in this life and that is all you need to know.” She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek.

She looked up at me. I was standing, ready to go. “Good to meet you, Spenser.”

“Yes, Spenser, I hope you and Susan will come out to see us at the farm in Weston. I’ll arrange it,” Alvarez said, and stood up to shake my hand. He had a thin scar that ran from his left eye to his mouth. I hadn’t noticed it before. His eyes were round and very dark, and despite his incessant smile, I saw an expression of what I imagined a hawk would look like at the instant it swooped down on the rabbit in the meadow.

“That would be delightful,” I said, and saw Susan coming across the room to save me.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Hawk and I drove to Weston, where both the old and new rich had big horse farms and eighteenth-century houses or McMansions and at least twenty acres of land each to keep them on, all just fifteen minutes from downtown Boston. We were sitting in my car, off the road but within view of the Alvarez compound. Snow sifted down and veiled the pastures before us. We had coffee and donuts. The heater was on, and it was still cold inside.

I had done a little research on Alvarez. A Google search and a short conversation with Susan, but it still qualified as research. Google told me that Juan Alvarez graduated from the London School of Economics. Worked in London for a few years at Morgan Stanley. There was an early marriage to a British woman and a divorce five years later. No children. Then the bio stopped and picked up again in Boston. His import/export firm’s success was noted, and his philanthropic interests included everything from large donations to the Boston Symphony to Dana-Farber research to Meals with Heart.

“Why do you suppose Juan Alvarez lives at the hotel Taj instead of getting himself a swell condo at One Charles or someplace more befitting his image?” I said.

“Somehow a hotel more loose,” said Hawk. “You come, you go. No one notices or cares. Plus he got this fine farm.”

“Good point,” I said. “Why have a place in Boston at all?”

Hawk yawned. “Pied-à-terre, babe,” he said. “All rich white boys got a pied-à-terre in the big city. Place to do the things you don’t want no one to know about back on the farm.”

“And somehow he became Father Flanagan and Santa Claus and a prince of Boston high society all rolled into one. In most big cities, all you need is money to give to the key charities. They have to put you on the board. Before you know it, as long as you don’t eat your peas with a knife, you’re invited to all the best parties,” I said.

“I prefer my peas on a knife,” Hawk said.

“They tend to frown on switchblades at fancy dinner parties,” I said. “You’d probably feel out of place.”

“Not the only reason I’d feel out of place,” Hawk said. He looked out toward the Alvarez house. “We have a plan here? Or we just gonna sit here till we run out of gas.”

“No plan,” I said. “But we do have choices. One, we sit and watch, or two, move and stir things up. Right now we’re sitting and watching.”

“How ’bout I take a nap till we get to the move-and-stir-things-up part of the program?”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “But don’t expect me to share all the important clues with you if I find them while you’re asleep.”

“Already know what you gonna learn. Gonna learn when the mail gets delivered. Gonna learn how long it take that icicle on the roof gutter to melt. Ain’t gonna learn nothin’ we need to know, like what goes on over there and how many guns they got on the place. They could be building weapons of mass destruction in the side yard and we ain’t gonna learn that, sittin’ where we are.”

I sipped my coffee and looked at the big colonial house. There was a Jeep parked off to the side of a long circular driveway. I could see the Christmas wreath on the front door. I could see the icicle hanging from the roof gutter. I couldn’t see any signs of life or activity. Knowing when the mail got delivered wasn’t going to help me. And that icicle wasn’t going to melt for a long time.

“Okay, you win,” I said. “Saddle up, Kemosabe. Let’s go look at some horses.”

I drove slowly down the road that led to the smaller houses on the property, where I supposed employees lived. At the end of the road I could see a large barn and what looked like a long, low stable. There were fences with those three black slats you see in photos of Kentucky horse farms. Maybe all horse fences had them. An emblem.

It was early afternoon and no one was at home.

The snow was thick now, and blurred my vision. I squinted.

In front of us in the middle of the dirt road, looking like a snow bunny, was a short, squat man holding a rifle. It was pointed at my head. I stopped the car, pulled the Beretta from my shoulder holster, and dropped my gun hand to my side. I knew Hawk would be doing the same.

The man held his rifle on me and approached my side of the car. I rolled down the window.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is this the way to Pottery Barn?”

It took a bit longer than I would have expected for him to comprehend what I was saying. I could see him almost mouthing the words until they sunk in.

“There’s no fucking Pottery Barn out here, asshole. This here is private property, and you’re trespassing.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, “but try telling that to Clarabelle.”

The man leaned in to look into the car and squinted at Hawk. Hawk slowly turned his head toward the man and flashed an even smile.

“Who the hell is Clarabelle?” the man said.

“The navigation system in my car,” I said. “I like to give a name to the voice that gives the directions. Makes it more personal, don’t you think?”

Rifle Man was mouthing the words again. I waited.

“Listen, smart-ass. This here is private property, and you’re trespassing.” He repeated the lines, as if he had been trained to say them, which was probably the case. Those words, backed up by the gun, were probably enough to scare off most interlopers.

“Okay,” I said. “So it’s not a Pottery Barn. What goes on out here? Bird sanctuary?”

He brought the gun back up level with my head. I pulled the Beretta up to my lap.

Someone came out of the cottage to my left. A short, dark woman with a child. She spoke in Spanish to the man with the rifle. I understood enough to know her child was sick and that she needed a ride to the emergency room.

Rifle Man became flustered and annoyed. He tried to keep his gun trained on me while he barked back at the woman. Clearly, multitasking wasn’t his strength. I couldn’t understand all that he was saying, but his tone didn’t convey sympathy. The woman started to cry, and there was desperation in her voice that required no translation.

“You understand this?” I said to Hawk.

“Woman’s baby be really sick. She say he need to get to the hospital right away. He say that too bad, he ain’t bringing them to the hospital, don’t care if the baby live or not.”

The woman rushed closer to the man, pleading and wailing and trying to show him her sick child. He pushed her away, and she and the baby fell to the ground.

Hawk opened his door and got out of the car.

“Hey! Hey!” Rifle Man swung his rifle over the top of the car toward Hawk. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot. This here’s private property and you’re trespassing.”

Hawk ignored him and walked around the car to the woman and her baby. As Rifle Man swiveled to train his gun on Hawk, I pushed open my car door and slammed it into his left side. He collapsed with a grunt and the rifle flew from his hands, landing a few feet away. I stepped from the car. As Rifle Man tried to stand, I leaned in and kicked him in the stomach. He fell to the ground and rolled onto his back. I stood over him with my Beretta pointed at his nose.

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s the deal. We’re taking this young woman and her baby to the hospital. You’re going to pull yourself together, and in two hours you are going to drive to the hospital and pick them up. Do you understand me?”

Rifle Man was having an even harder time with comprehension. I waited for him to mouth the words and then digest them. Finally, he nodded.

“You have dented my car door, and worse than that, you’ve annoyed us. Being men of goodwill in this holiday season, we’re willing to forgive you. But if you try to stop us, or if you cause any harm to this woman or her child, I am going to come back here and extract my insurance deductible from you. Do you understand that?”

Again he mouthed the words. He seemed to have problems with “extract.” I tried again.

“If you shoot at us, or if you harm the woman or her baby, I will come back here and hurt you. Do you understand?”

Fear materialized on Rifle Man’s face, and this time he nodded without having to do much thinking. He shouted something in rapid-fire Spanish to the woman.

“Hawk?” I said.

“He tell our new friend here that he’ll come by the hospital in two hours to check on her and the bambino. He also tell her he hope the baby be okay.”

I holstered my Beretta, walked over to the rifle, cracked open the barrel and collected the shells and put them in my pocket. Then I grabbed the rifle by the barrel with both hands and flung it over the car and far into the trees.

Hawk had led the woman and the baby over to my car and put them in the backseat. I got back in the car, did a three-point turn, and drove slowly back out the dirt road. In my rearview mirror, I could see Rifle Man slowly getting to his knees and looking dumbly at our taillights.

We reached the open highway, and she said,
“A la derecha.”
I could see in the rearview mirror that she was young, maybe twenty. She wore her hair in a kind of bun, and her winter coat was patched and threadbare. The baby wore a good-quality parka and was nestled down in it, asleep.

Hawk said,
“Cómo se llama?”

“Martita.
Mi hijo se llama
Juanito
. Tiene mucho fiebre.
”

“Habla inglés?”
Hawk said.

“Sí. Un poco.”
She smiled and I could see she was missing a front tooth and the rest of them looked brown.

“Do you know Carmen?” I said.

“Sí, sí! Es un angel!”
She smiled some more. “She is my amiga.”

“Your friend. And Slide?” I said.

“
Sí.
She takes care of him.” She smiled and shook her head slowly. “He is like a little brother to her.”

“Do they live near you?” I said.

“Sí, sí.”
She put her hands together.

“Carmen lives with you, not at the big house?” I said.

“Sí, sí.”
She smiled some more.
“Por uno o dos días.

“Ah!
A la izquierda!
” she added.

“Left,” Hawk said.

Halfway down the block in a storefront was a medical building. A line of people, looking miserable in the cold, waited to get inside. Above them, the Christmas decorations, big red bells and candy canes and sleighs with Santa in them, were hung along the lines between the telephone poles. Hawk got out with Martita. She was headed to go to the end of the line, but Hawk took her under the arm and marched her into the building. I thought I would let him take care of this situation. He could be very convincing when he wanted to be. I watched the line of people—men, women, and children, all sick with something—patiently waiting to get medical attention, at a place that looked nothing like Mass General.

Hawk returned, quicker than I would have thought.

“I told them I was President Obama’s cousin,” he said.

“See how well the health-care system works,” I said, “when you give it a chance.”