I looked for people I knew in the shots. And names of the charities she supported. I’d been to enough of these things with Susan that I’d developed a mental Rolodex.
On the third viewing, I noticed that in three different shots at three different events, she stood side by side with the same man. He was medium-sized and silver-haired, with dark tan skin and a face that some women might consider handsome. His face looked properly craggy and distinguished, like a profile you’d see on a Roman coin. He seemed to be perpetually laughing, and in two shots had his hand on Poppy’s waist.
The man’s name was Peter Steiner.
I made a screengrab of the photo, zoomed in on his face, and emailed the picture to Mattie.
I went back looking at more photos of Poppy Palmer. And then started a separate search for Peter Steiner.
One cutline named him Peter Steiner of Steiner and Associates. Being a trained detective, I googled Steiner and Associates and found out it was an investment firm that worked with select clients to help them achieve their maximum potential. They listed no address or phone number, only a generic email for serious inquiries.
After a few minutes my phone buzzed. A text from Mattie said Showed to Chloe. That’s the bastard.
I felt like giving myself a high five. Instead, I picked up the phone and called one of the people I’d spotted in the party photos, Bill Barke. Bill and I went way back to the old jazz clubs of Cambridge that had gone by the wayside.
“Spenser,” Bill said. “You still owe me for those Sox tickets.”
“It was a lousy game,” I said. “They lost.”
“Go cry to John Henry.”
“Do you happen to know a guy named Peter Steiner?”
There was a long pause. “Do I know Peter Steiner?”
“Is that a rhetorical question or is your hearing going?”
“Sorry, I’m driving back to Plymouth in the convertible,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve met Peter Steiner. What the hell do you want to know about Peter Steiner?”
“Who is he?” I said. “And what does he do beyond helping a select group of Bostonians reach their maximum potential?”
“He’s a fucking hedge-fund guy,” Bill said. “He lives in a big brownstone on Comm Avenue. Flies to Florida on the weekends in his private jet. Hangs out with ex-presidents, CEOs, and has-been actors and athletes. He’s one of those guys. You know the type.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Ever seen his girlfriend?”
“Poppy Palmer.”
“She’s a real hot tamale,” Bill said. “That accent kills me.”
“She looks like she could break a man’s pelvis with her thighs.”
“She does CrossFit, triathalons, and all that,” Bill said. “I think Steiner does, too. They’re always back and forth to some place in the Caribbean. Out of our league, pal.”
“Ever heard anything untoward about him?”
“Untoward,” Bill said. “You’re always so damn formal. What the hell do you mean ‘untoward’?”
“Sex stuff.”
“Nope.”
“Criminal stuff?”
“I wouldn’t invest my money with him,” Bill said. “But more because I think he’s an arrogant hot dog. Not anything I’ve heard.”
“He appears to never meet a charitable event he wouldn’t attend.”
“Some guys are like that,” Bill said. “Probably thinks he looks great in a tux.”
I named some of the events where I’d spotted him and Poppy Palmer. I asked Bill if he knew anyone connected to those charities who might know more about him.
“Do you care if he knows you’re asking?”
“Maybe a little.”
“If it were me, I’d check in with Wayne Arnett,” Bill said. “He’s an auctioneer at these things and goes by the name Mr. Money Raiser. Susan probably knows him. He’s very close with these people. Big guy on the social scene. Definitely knows Steiner. And he definitely loves to talk. I come out to raise money for the kids. But I’d rather be at home listening to old King Oliver 78s with my dog, Dixie.”
“The reason we’re friends.”
There was another long pause. “Sorry to hear about Pearl.”
“It’s been a few tough months.”
“Maybe you should think about getting a new one,” he said. “Life’s not worth living without a good dog.”
“Already happened.”
“And who’s this?” Bill chuckled.
“A German shorthaired pointer,” I said. “And her name happens to be Pearl, too.”
“Of course it is.”
11
As Susan Silverman happened to know everyone who was anyone, Susan just happened to know Wayne Arnett, AKA Mr. Money Raiser. And she arranged for us to meet him at the bar at the Eliot Hotel that evening.
“That’s a terrible moniker,” Susan said.
“What about the Maestro of Money,” I said.
“Even worse.”
We were walking together on Newbury Street. She’d met me at my office after her last appointment, and we’d left both of our cars to take an evening stroll. The light was golden, the evening cool, and a great many people were dining al fresco. The cafés and bars shoulder to shoulder and chair to chair. Susan wasn’t into people-watching. She was more interested in the window-shopping, studying the mannequins and deciding which summer dresses she’d like to add to her closet.
“Auction Jackson.”
“I kind of like that one,” Susan said. “But it doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’ve attended many of those things with you,” I said. “Few make sense.”
“But some do,” she said. “And as silly and trite as they may seem, they raise a great deal of money and do a lot of good.”
“The Maestro of Money,” I said. “I’m going to suggest it.”
Susan had on a knee-length blue silk dress with tall leather heels that made her legs look about a mile long. Her skin was dark and tan, and she’d worn her black hair up off her neck. She smelled like good soap and summertime.
I began to whistle some Cole Porter as we strolled.
“Thanks for bringing my jacket,” I said. I slipped into a linen navy sport coat to accentuate the jeans and T-shirt.