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Chapter 1

I had been urban-renewed right out of my office and had to move uptown. My new place was on the second floor of a two-story round turret that stuck out over the corner of Mass Ave and Boylston Street above a cigar store. The previous tenant had been a fortuneteller and I was standing in the window scraping her patchy gilt lettering off the pane with a razor blade when I saw him. He had on a pale green leisure suit and a yellow shirt with long pointed collar, open at the neck and spilling onto the lapels of the suit. He was checking the address on a scrap of paper and looking unhappily at the building.

“I’ve either got my first client in the new office,” I said, “or the last of Madam Sosostris‘. ”

Behind me Susan Silverman, in cut-off jeans and a blue-and-white-striped tank top, was working on the frosted glass of the office door with Windex and a paper towel. She stepped to the window and looked down.

“He doesn’t look happy with the neighborhood,” she said.

“If I were in a neighborhood that would make him happy, he couldn’t afford me. ”

The man disappeared into the small door beside the tobacco store and a minute later I heard his footsteps on the stairs. He paused, then a knock. Susan opened the door. He looked uncertainly in. There were files on the floor in cardboard boxes that said FALSTAFF on them, the walls still smelled of rubber-based paint and brushes and cans of paint clustered on newspaper to the left of the door. It was hot in the office and I was wearing only a pair of paint-stained jeans and worse sneakers.

“I’m looking for a man named Spenser,” he said.

“Me,” I said. “Come on in. ” I laid the razor blade on the windowsill and came around the desk to shake his hand. I needed a client. I bet Philo Vance never painted his own office.

“This is Mrs. Silverman,” I said. “She’s helping me to move in. The city knocked down my old office. ” I was conscious of the trickle of sweat that was running down my chest as I talked.

“My name is Shepard,” he said. “Harvey Shepard. I need to talk. ”

Susan said, “I’ll go out and get a sandwich. It’s close to lunchtime. Want me to bring you back something?”

I shook my head. “Just grab a Coke or something. When Mr. Shepard and I are finished I’ll take you to lunch somewhere good. ”

“We’ll see,” she said. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Shepard. ”

When she was gone, Shepard said, “Your secretary?”

“No,” I said. “Just a friend. ”

“Hey, I wish I had a friend like that. ”

“Guy with your kind of threads,” I said, “shouldn’t have any trouble. ”

“Yeah, well, I’m married. And I work all the time. ”

There was silence. He had a high-colored square face with crisp black hair. He was a little soft around the jowls and his features seemed a bit blurred, but he was a goodlooking guy. Black Irish. He seemed like a guy who was used to talking and his failure to do so now was making him uncomfortable. I primed the pump. “Who sent you to me, Mr. Shepard?”