Robert B. Parker's Angel Eyes (Spenser) - Hardcover

Robert B. Parker was the author of seventy books, including the legendary Spenser detective series, the novels featuring police chief Jesse Stone, and the acclaimed Virgil Cole-Everett Hitch westerns, as well as the Sunny Randall novels. Winner of the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award and long considered the undisputed dean of American crime fiction, he died in January 2010. Ace Atkins is the New York Times bestselling author of the Quinn Colson novels, two of which were nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. In addition, he is the author of several New York Times bestselling novels in the continuation of Robert B. Parker's Spenser series. Before turning to fiction, he was a correspondent for the St. Petersburg Times, a crime reporter for the Tampa Tribune, and, in college, played defensive end for the undefeated Auburn University football team (for which he was featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated). He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.

1
“Whoever said it never rained in Southern California lied,” I said.
            “Albert Hammond,” Zebulon Sixkill said.
            “Albert Hammond wrote it?” I asked.
            “Albert Hammond and Mike Hazlewood,” Z said. “Albert Hammond sang it. 1972. I can’t recall the label.”
            “I can recall record labels and ball players,” I said. “It’s one of my many gifts.”
            “What are your other gifts?”
            I shrugged, trying to look modest. “I don’t like to brag. But there’s a reason Susan stays with me. Beyond my obvious good looks and stellar charm.”
            “Must be your fashion sense.”
            “I color-coordinated my ball cap with the T-shirt,” I said. “Didn’t you notice?”
            “I did,” he said. “You’ll look right at home on Rodeo Drive. They’ll think you’re a wealthy eccentric.”
            “And they’d be half right.”
            We sat parked outside a mid-century modern apartment building in West Hollywood, not far from the Runyon Canyon Park. I’d brought breakfast burritos and two hot coffees from my hotel and graciously shared with Z. Every few seconds, the windshield wipers on his highland-green Mustang would tick tock across the glass. Downslope, the L.A. Basin spread far and wide from the hills. Tall palms moved as if blown by a gentle breath. “What do you know about 1972?” I said. “You weren’t born yet.”
            “You live long enough in Los Angeles and you pick up things,” Z said.
            “Ray-Bans,” I said. “Sports car. An office in Hollywood. You’ve become the cliché of a private eye.”
            “Might I remind you I am a full Cree Indian?” he said. “That gives me character.”
            “Character only gets you so far,” I said. “Right now, I’d settle for a clue.”
            “Have you spoken with Samuelson yet?”
            “I put in a call,” I said. “He’ll be thrilled to hear from me.”
            “You think the cops know more than us?”
            “Wouldn’t take much,” I said and opened the paper around the burrito and started to eat. I hadn’t eaten since asking for an extra pack of pretzels on flight from Boston. No one came from the building, which was guarded with a steel gate and punch-key entry. The rain continued to ping the car. It was overcast and cloudy at nine in the morning. But who was I to complain? It was like summertime compared to the Back Bay at the moment.
            “Tell me again about Gabby,” Z said. He was tall and thick-muscled, with a wide, flat face and long black hair. For three years he’d been my sleuthing apprentice, now on his own. His claim to fame was being the only mortal man who could out-bench-press me and Hawk. And he never let us forget.
            “Gabrielle Leggett,” I said. “Twenty-three. From Cambridge. Her mother takes yoga with Susan. The girl came out here two years ago. She rented this apartment, joined an acting class, and got a job as a dog walker and personal assistant for a publicist in West Hollywood. She did some modeling, shot a few commercials, and expanded her career as a social media influencer.”
            “Influencer,” Z said. “Good work if you can find it. These people don’t have to pay for a damn thing. They get comped clothes, meals, hotels.”
            “Maybe we should try it.”
            “What would you influence?”
            “Beer and donut consumption,” I said.
            “And what does Gabby use to influence people?”
            “Gabby,” I said. “I scrolled through her Instagram before I flew out.”
            “Ugly?” he said.
            “Hideous.” I pulled out my phone and showed Z a picture. Blonde, tan, long-limbed and lithe, Gabby Leggett posed in a microscopic black bikini and a ridiculously large hat. Another photo had her in cut-off shorts and a crop top, a flower wreath in her hair, at some big music festival I’d never heard of. Z stared at the screen for a while and then let out a very long breath.
            “Impressed?”
            “Sure,” he said. “My left leg won’t stop shaking.”
            “Young enough to be my daughter,” I said. “Or so Susan claims.”
            I handed him my phone and he scrolled through her account. He raised his eyebrows. “When did you get Instagram?”
            “Yesterday.”
            “And your handle is Pearl the Wonder Dog?”
            “She already has twenty followers,” I said. “Don’t tell her. She’ll get cocky.”        
We both looked up as a white BMW wheeled into a space across the road and a thin young man crawled out and walked toward the apartment. He appeared to be the man we’d been waiting for all morning.
            “What do you think?” I said.
            “Could be,” Z said. “Hard to tell. All you white people look the same.”
            I opened the passenger door and walked toward the young guy as he punched numbers on the keypad. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a Hitler youth haircut and wore a three-piece navy suit with a skinny blood red tie. He stood a little under six feet in tall lace-up boots favored by Victorian-era jockeys.
            “Mr. Collinson?’
            He nodded, a leather satchel hanging over his shoulder. The metal door sprung open.
            “My name’s Spenser,” I said. “I work for the Leggett family.”
            “I know who you are,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t return your calls. To be honest, I don’t feel comfortable with this.”
            “You agreed to let us into Gabby’s apartment,” I said.
            “That was before I spoke to the police,” he said, trying to let the door close. “I’d rather you handle your business with the family and leave me out of it.”
            I wedged my foot in the door frame. I wore Red Wing boots with steel toes and didn’t feel a thing. Z had gotten out of the Mustang and hung back, oblivious to the rain. Indians were like that. One with nature.
            “Hey,” Collinson said.
            I gripped his upper arm and walked with him into the apartment building. “The Leggett family greatly appreciates your cooperation. I’m sure you realize they’re quite concerned. They haven’t heard from her in ten days.”
            The boy stopped, grunting, trying unsuccessfully to shake my grip. He had the general upper body build of Mr. Salty. “Twelve.”
            “Excuse me?” I said.
            “Twelve days,” he said. “Gabby’s been gone for twelve days. I’ve been looking for her since then. I’ve told the police all I know. I don’t know what else to do.”
            “When did you see her last?”
            “Would you please let go of my arm?”
            “Is that your arm?” I said. “I thought it was a chicken leg. How about you let me into Gabby’s apartment and we can talk?”
            “Ouch,” he said. “You’re hurting me.”
            I let go and Collinson looked back through a large plate glass window. He seemed transfixed by the sight of the extra-large Native American standing next to the Mustang. Z leaned against the hood with his sizable arms folded over his chest. Collinson pointed his chin in Z’s general direction. “Who the hell’s that?”
            “My associate,” I said.
“What’s he do?”
“Runs the West Coast office.”
            “And you?”
            “Boston talent scout.”
            “You guys look like thugs,” he said.
            “Thanks,” I said. “We do our very best.”
            “I told Gabby’s mother I didn’t feel comfortable with letting you in,” he said. “I just need to pick up some scripts and contracts. Materials confidential to the agency.”
            “You used to date,” I said. “And now you’re her agent?”
            “That’s right,” he said. “Is that a problem?”
            “And you kept her key?”
            “It’s complicated,” he said.
            “Uh-huh,” I said. “Any ideas of where she might have gone?”
            “Why don’t you ask her new boyfriend,” he said. “Or her so-called friends.”
            “And who’s her new boyfriend?”
            “That’s her business,” he said. “And I have mine. Now please.”
“Did I mention I took the red-eye from Boston last night and had to sit next to a fat guy with halitosis and sleep apnea?” I said. “I’m tired, need a change of clothes, and wish to get into Gabby’s building.”
            “You don’t stop, do you?” he said.
            “It’s never suited me.”
            Collinson sighed and shook his head. “Maybe you should come work with me at the agency,” he said. “You seem to have the temperament.”
            I looked over at Z and waved, following Collinson deeper into the apartment lobby. He punched up the elevator and waited with a cellphone in hand, staring down at the screen, scrolling with his thumb. There was a bulletin board by an empty reception desk with flyers for lost dogs, sofas for sale, roommates wanted, and a killer metal band seeking intense drummer. Collinson hooked a thumb into the leather satchel’s strap as we waited.
            “You mind me asking what happened with you and Gabby?”
            He looked up and said, “We weren’t suited for each other.”
            “How’s that?”
            “She’s six years younger,” he said. “She said I was stifling her personal growth.”
            “I can see that,” I said.
            “Our relationship isn’t any of your concern.”
            “That’s where you’re wrong, Eric,” I said. “All this is my concern now.”
            The elevator opened and we zipped up to the third floor, Collinson already ahead of me down an unremarkable hall and slipping the key into an unremarkable door. The carpet was an industrial gray with black metal sconces placed about every eight feet. The air in the hallway was hot and stuffy, smelling as stale and musty as an old attic. As we walked inside, my eyes had to adjust to the darkness until Collinson found the switch.
The apartment was an absolute mess. Broken glass, stuffing from cushions, and upturned drawers. It didn’t take a detective to see someone had been looking for something and wanted to find it very badly.
            “Holy shit,” he said. “What the hell?”
             I walked over and picked up an overturned poster of Boston. A picture taken at twilight across the harbor with a wonderful view of the Custom House Tower and the city skyline. The kind of print you might find at the Quincy Market. It was enough to make me feel slightly homesick.
            “God,” he said. “What a fucking mess. These people.”
            “What people, Eric?”
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