Read Online Green Monster by Rick Shefchik - Free Book Online

pan-fried scrod is terrific. And you should ask for the Fireplace Butler.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThe Fireplace Butler. He brings whatever kind of wood you want, and lights the fire for you. I’ve always liked the cherry, but birch is quicker.”
    Sam put in the order for two servings of scrod and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, and asked to be transferred to the Fireplace Butler. After hearing a rundown on the various woods—birch, cherry, oak, and maple—he went with Heather’s cherry. He was in no hurry. The butler said he’d be right up.
    â€œYou do this a lot?” he asked her after hanging up.
    Heather was seated in the armchair by the rain-spattered window, her feet up on the ottoman, her blazer unbuttoned, and her shoes on the floor. She couldn’t have looked more comfortable if she’d been in a bubble bath in her own home.
    â€œThis is my favorite hotel in the world,” she said.
    A bellhop knocked on the door and left a bucket of ice. Sam poured a glass of bourbon on the rocks, handed it to Heather, and poured one for himself. She clinked her glass against Sam’s and said, “Let’s get to the bottom of this.”
    â€œThe drink?”
    Heather actually laughed. It was a rich, throaty chuckle, which suggested to Sam that perhaps she wasn’t the ice queen he’d feared. But despite the drink and the laugh, she was still a business executive who had a $50,000,000 problem to solve. Maybe she was trying to find out whether Kenwood could really trust Sam to do the job. Whatever her purpose for visiting his room, Sam had done as much as he could do for the night, and it was time to unwind a little. If Heather didn’t like a detective who was able to relax when he was off the clock, she could go back to the yellow pages.
    There was another knock on the door, this time by the Fireplace Butler, a man in a plaid shirt and suspenders, carrying a basket of wood. He displayed a smile of practiced satisfaction, as though he’d just chopped down a cherry tree in the Public Garden, split the wood himself, and carried it up to Sam’s room. He opened the glass fireplace doors, arranged the logs in the fireplace and used kindling to begin a small blaze. Sam found a $5 bill in his wallet and handed it to the man, who nodded, put the bill in his pocket and picked up his basket.
    â€œJust call if you need more wood,” the Fireplace Butler said as he left.
    Sam picked up the remote and checked the in-house video menu for music channels. They had the usual stale formats: blues, rock, contemporary, country, and smooth jazz. There was also a jack for an MP3 player. He plugged his iPod directly into the TV sound system.
    â€œWant some jazz?” Sam asked her.
    â€œNot that Kenny G crap…”
    â€œNo, I meant jazz.”
    He dialed up the jazz playlist from the menu and started with Cannonball Adderley’s recording of “Autumn Leaves,” with Miles Davis on trumpet.
    â€œNow, that’s not bad,” Heather said when the music began filling the room.
    Sam went to the window and pulled the drapes wide open so they could see the lights of the city through the streaks of raindrops.
    â€œDo you work out?” Heather asked him.
    â€œNot much,” Sam said. He felt a flush of pride that this attractive younger woman seemed to be admiring his form.
    â€œYou should.”
    I walked into that one, Sam told himself.
    When the waiter arrived with their scrod and their wine, they set their plates on the marble table in front of the fireplace and talked as they ate. She asked Sam how long he’d been a Minneapolis cop, and he told her about himself: about his father being a cop, about going to the police academy after college, about becoming a homicide detective, about being shot in the knee and taking almost two years off to rehab—mostly on golf courses.
    â€œSo why didn’t you go back to the