“Second, I believe.”

“And Bradshaw?”

“Current husband,” Maggie said. “Estranged.”

Maggie opened the door and stepped aside, and I went in past her. The room was amazing. It was all glass, including the domed roof, and in all directions it offered a view of the Atlantic Ocean stretching empty into the distance, hinting of eternity. The men wore blazers in various tones of blue and brown, green and gray, striped and solid. Most of them wore white or pale tan slacks. The women were in little cocktail dresses, some black, some flowered, all showing a lot of suntanned arms, backs, shoulders, and chests. A woman in a long, roomy white dress was in an alcove against the wall of the main house, playing a large harp and using a lot of wrist flourish to do it. She had a flower in her hair.

There was a bar near the harpist, and a bartender in a white jacket and a black bow tie. There were two cocktail waitresses dressed in the short-skirted black dress, white apron getup that had been the staple of dirty French-maid postcards in my early youth. At the far window, with her hair piled high, and the sun shimmering on her jewelry, wearing a very minimal white cocktail dress and very high heels, Heidi Bradshaw was talking to a man with shoulder-length blond hair who looked like he might be the lead dancer for the Chippendales. He was stuffed into a wheat-colored unstructured linen jacket over a maroon polo shirt with the collar turned up. They were sipping something that from where I stood looked like mojitos.

Heidi saw me and waved and gestured me over. I went.

“Here you are,” she said, and gave me a small air kiss near my cheek. “This is Clark.”

I said, “Hello, Clark.”

He nodded. Probably too muscular to speak.

“ Clark ’s looking out for me,” Heidi said.

“That’s nice,” I said.

One of the French maids came by with a tray.

“Mojito, sir?” she said.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“Oh, don’t be a poop,” Heidi said. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t care much for mojitos,” I said.

Clark looked like he wanted to smack me for not liking mojitos. But he contained it.

“Bring Mr. Spenser something he likes,” Heidi said to the waitress.

The waitress looked at me.

“Beer would be swell,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, and she walked away toward the bar. I watched her. She did a nice walk-away.

“Could we take a few minutes to talk?” I said.

“About what?” she said.

“About your daughter, that sort of thing,” I said.

“That is of no further concern to you,” she said. “I asked my accountant to pay you. Has he not done so?”

“He has,” I said. “Have you heard anything from your daughter’s kidnappers?”

“I prefer not to talk about it,” Heidi said.

“Why did you agree to see me?” I said.

“I was trying to be agreeable. I didn’t want you to think that I was angry with you for failing to prevent the awful thing that happened. I just thought you’d stop by, have a drink, and we’d part on good terms.”

My beer arrived. Heineken. I took the bottle, left the glass on the tray. In a minute, I knew, I was going to hear from Clark. I was annoyed. I knew nothing, and the more I nosed around, the less I knew. I had no idea what Heidi was doing. I was being lied to. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like the growing suspicion that I had been used in some capacity I couldn’t figure out. And I didn’t like Clark. I didn’t like his hair, or his linen jacket, or his stand-up collar, or his square jaw. I didn’t like his tan, or his muscles, or the honey-colored woven-leather loafers he had on. I didn’t like his proprietary glare. Or his erroneous assumption that he could knock me down and kick me if he needed to.

“Do you have any idea where your daughter is?” I said.

“I’ve answered that already,” she said.

“What did you hire me for?” I said.

“I regret that I did,” she said.

“Me, too,” I said. “But the question stands.”

She looked at the Chippendale.

“ Clark?” she said.

He nodded.

“Ms. Bradshaw has told you she don’t wish to speak of it,” he said. “You’ll have to leave.”

I had a brief internal struggle, which I lost. I was too frustrated.

“What’s option B?” I said.

“I remove you,” Clark said.

“I’ll take that one,” I said.

“What?”

“I’ll take option B,” I said. “Remove me.”

Clark looked at Heidi. Heidi had an odd look on her face.

“Remove Mr. Spenser, Clark.”

He was so spectacularly big and muscular that it probably didn’t occur to him that he couldn’t. Most times he probably just frightened people into submission. He put his left hand flat against my chest and pushed.

“Okay,” he said. “Move it.”

I brought both hands up and knocked his hand away, which left both my hands up, and in convenient position for step two. Clark initiated step two by throwing a big roundhouse right hand at me. I deflected it with my left and stepped back.

“ Clark,” I said. “That’s not the way.”

He lunged at me and I put a stiff jab on his nose.

“Get your feet under you,” I said. “Left one forward.”

I gave him another jab and ducked under his left and moved to my right.

“See, if you don’t have your legs under you, you don’t turn well. Which lets me get around you and bang up your body.”

I hooked him left, then right, to the ribs. I heard him gasp. He wouldn’t last long, even if I didn’t hit him. There’s shape, and there’s fighting shape. Clark was maybe in posing shape. He was already starting to suck air. He was slower throwing the big right again. I brushed it away with my left.

“And don’t loop your punches,” I said. “Lead with your hip. Keep your elbows in. Guy your size, you should be working in close anyway, use your muscle.”

I doubled up on a jab to the nose and then stepped in and hit him a big right-hand uppercut, and Clark fell over.

“See how I started my hip first?” I said. “And let the punch follow it?”

Clark wasn’t out. But he was through. He sat on the floor. I knew his head was swimming. He was breathing as hard as he could.

“The companions you hire,” I said to Heidi, “don’t seem to be working out.”

Her face was a little flushed. Her eyes were shiny. She ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. I turned and walked out of the atrium. Behind me the harpist was still playing. As I walked down the hall toward the front door, two security guards came in, walking fast.

“What happened,” one of them said to me.

“ Clark just got knocked on his ass,” I said.

“Good,” he said, and kept on past me into the atrium.

“Well,” Susan said. “That worked out swell.”

It was Sunday morning. We were in her kitchen. She was sipping her coffee, watching me make clam hash for breakfast.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said.

“And what was gained from this venture?” she said.

“The considerable satisfaction of giving Clark a big smack,” I said.

“That’s why your right hand seems swollen.”

“I deserve it,” I said. “The uppercut was showing off. Another minute or so and he’d have run out of oxygen.”

“It didn’t seem to bother you earlier this morning,” Susan said. “Does it hurt?”

“Only if I punch somebody.”

“Which you do much less of these days,” Susan said.

“I’m maturing,” I said.

“But not aging,” Susan said.

I smiled at her.

“You’re thinking about earlier this morning, aren’t you.”

“Hard not to,” Susan said.

I was chopping onions.

“Is there a pun in there?”

“Not unless you are a lecherous pig,” Susan said.

“Oink,” I said.

“And bless you for it,” Susan said. “You might have learned some things. You said Heidi Bradshaw acted strangely.”

“The fight excited her,” I said.

“Fights can be exciting?”