Read Online The Professional by Robert B. Parker - Free Book Online

you ran her to ground.”
    “Who knew,” I said.
    “Makes me think well of the school,” Susan said.
    “Yes,” I said.
    The secretary returned.
    “President Richardson will see you shortly,” she said, and went back to her desk.
    Susan and I sat. The outer office was paneled in oak, with a big working pendulum clock on the wall and a wine-colored Persian rug on the floor.
    “You think it’s politically correct,” I said to Susan, “to call that a Persian rug?”
    “Iranian rug doesn’t sound right,” she said.
    “I know.”
    “How about Oriental?” Susan said. “More general.”
    “I think Oriental may be incorrect, too,” I said.
    “How about a big rug from somewhere east of Suez?”
    The door opened to the outer office and a strapping woman came in carrying a gun and wearing a uniform with a Hartland College police emblem on the sleeve. She glanced at us and went on down to the president’s office, knocked, opened the door, went in, and closed the door.
    “She’s kind of scary,” Susan said.
    “Yeah, she’s big,” I said. “But for simple ferocity, I like your chances.”
    The secretary stood and said, “President Richardson will see you now.”

Chapter21

    CLARICE RICHARDSON stood when we came in. I had no real idea what a standard-issue college president looked like, but I was pretty sure Clarice Richardson wasn’t it. She had to be in her early fifties, but she looked ten years younger. She had the kind of patrician face that you see around Harvard Square and Beacon Hill, and sandy hair cut short. She was wearing a cropped black leather jacket over a pencil skirt, black hose, and black boots with two-and-a-half-inch heels. She wore very little jewelry, except for a wedding ring, and her makeup was understated but expert. Especially expert around the eyes. She had big eyes, like Susan, and she crackled with a warm, intelligent sexuality that would call to you across a crowded cocktail party. She wasn’t quite Susan, but together in a relatively small room, Susan didn’t overpower her.
    The big female cop stood against the wall behind and to my right of Clarice’s big modern desk. There was a modern credenza in the bay behind the desk, in front of the big picture window. On it were pictures of a gray-haired man with a beard, two young women, and a white bull terrier.
    “Mr. Spenser?” Clarice said.
    “Yes, ma’am, and this is my associate, Dr. Silverman.”
    If you have it, you may as well flaunt it.
    “Susan,” Susan said.
    “Really,” Clarice said. “Doctor of what, Susan?”
    “I have a Ph.D. in psychology,” Susan said. “I’m a therapist.”
    “Where did you do your doctorate?”
    “Harvard,” Susan said.
    “Really? I did, too,” Clarice said. “In history. When were you there?”
    Susan told her. Clarice shook her head.
    “I was there before you,” she said.
    “But we’re both really smart,” Susan said.
    Clarice smiled.
    “We must be,” she said, and looked at me. “Because you said you wished to discuss a very charged subject, I have taken the liberty of asking Officer Wysocki to join us.”
    Officer Wysocki nodded. I nodded back. I had the strong impression she didn’t like me.
    “May I speak freely?” I said. “President Richardson.”
    “You may,” said Clarice. “And please, call me Clarice.”
    “I’m a private detective,” I said. “In Boston. I was employed recently by a group of women to locate a man who is blackmailing them. He was using the name Gary Eisenhower, but his real name as far as I can tell is Goran Pappas.”
    “Susan works with you?”
    “Susan is with me,” I said. “I thought she might be helpful in our conversation. And in truth, when she’s not around, I miss her.”
    Clarice nodded. I looked at the photographs on the credenza.
    “Your husband?” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “Your daughters?”
    “Yes, and our dog, Cannon. The girls used to call him Cannon Ball, but we shortened it to Cannon.”
    “And you’re all