“Spenser,” I said. Direct.

“This is my friend Carmen,” Alvarez said.

A tall, slender young woman with movie-star good looks smiled and shook Susan’s hand, then mine. She wore a tight-fitting blue silk jacket, black slacks, and turquoise drop earrings. Her eyes were the color of lapis lazuli. Her handshake told me she was stronger than she looked.

“Of course, Dr. Silverman,” Alvarez said. “My apologies. You are the force behind this whole endeavor. Congratulations on your fine work. We on the board are very proud of your achievements.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alvarez,” Susan said.

“Please—Juan,” Alvarez said.

“Susan,” Susan said with a radiant smile.

I took a long swallow of my drink and eyed Carmen over the rim of my glass. She looked back at me and smiled. She had very white teeth, full lips, and a tan in December.

A large middle-aged woman in a flowing floral gown approached the microphone and gave an elaborate throat-slashing signal to the band. Apparently, the program would precede dinner, which had both advantages and disadvantages. In my vast experience accompanying Susan to charity events, I learned that pre-dinner programs tended to be shorter, and permitted a quick departure once the table was cleared. On the other hand, listening to speeches on an empty stomach made me want to chew on the tablecloth, which Susan frowned upon. I settled in and covertly eyed the bread basket.

The large woman was wrapping it up. “And so I introduce our patron saint and great friend, Dr. Susan Silverman.”

I had missed the preamble because I had been trying to catch the eye of a waiter for a refill of my drink. With success.

Susan made her usual brief and intelligent speech, which was met with thunderous applause, due to both its brevity and its excellence. Then the auction began. A portly, ruddy-faced man in black tie and tails took the stage and launched into the familiar rapid cadence of a professional auctioneer. His associates prowled among the tables, eagerly pointing out frantic bidders in case the auctioneer somehow missed the manic waving of bidding paddles. The crowd, fueled by alcohol, a competitive nature, and a compassionate spirit, shed its reserve and became boisterous. There were books autographed by local authors, Celtics tickets, and Cape Cod resort vacations, each lot more enticing than the last, all sold at prices far above any reasonable measure of value. Finally, the auctioneer announced the last lot, the most prized item of the evening.

“And now we are excited to present one of the greatest tennis players in the world, winner of the U.S. Open, two-time winner at Wimbledon, winner of the Australian Open, French Open, and too many other Grand Slam events to name. In short, a supreme athlete. Come on up here, Carmen, to announce the fabulous prize that awaits our top bidder!”

Our tablemate rose and went up to the stage. Now I remembered her. I was not a tennis fan, but I had caught one or two of her matches while surfing for Red Sox games in the past. She had disappeared from the tennis world a few years ago.

Next to the auctioneer, Carmen stood tall, her lean body in perfect proportion. Her voice was strong and low and resonant.

“I have two front-row box seats to next year’s U.S. Open, including meals at a variety of four-star New York City restaurants, plus entertainment, travel, and lodging.” She waved the tickets in the air, and the professional auctioneer started the bidding. Again, the crowd exploded. The bidding continued for several minutes, until only two competitors remained. They were both trim, well-dressed captains of industry, sitting at adjacent tables. Neither of them appeared accustomed to losing. They traded bids with authority, slowing the pace by raising the stakes in ever-smaller increments. They were cheered on by the admiring crowd and by what appeared to be matching trophy wives. Finally, the combatant at the table nearest us signaled surrender, and when further cajoling by the auctioneer failed to elicit another bid, the gavel went down. The winner paid $100,000 for the week and the thrill of victory. I wondered if he’d be as excited about the price of victory tomorrow morning.

Dinner was served with efficiency as soon as the auction ended. Our dinner companions were surprisingly pleasant and engaging. No one pontificated about politics. No one prattled on about their jewelry or wine collection. Everyone liked the Red Sox’s chances come spring.

The event began to wind down after coffee. “I just have to thank a few people,” Susan said, touching my hand, before walking off into the crowd. I was alone at the table with Juan Alvarez. Carmen was standing by the podium, surrounded by admirers.

“I’ve met your brother Jackie,” I said.

Alvarez smiled. “Really? Dear Joachim, the youngest of my siblings. How do you know him, if I may ask?”

“He came to me for help. He’s under the impression someone is trying to drive him and his organization out of their home. I understand you own property on the same block.”

Alvarez apparently found something interesting in the centerpiece and shifted his gaze in that direction. “I do own quite a lot of real estate in Boston.” He smiled. “Isn’t Carmen something?”

“Yes. She still play?”

“Not professionally. She had to retire. Bad knees, you know. It happens to . . .” He stopped as Carmen approached and sat down.

“You did very well,” he said to her.

“Thank you, Juan. It’s a good cause. Dr. Silverman does good work.”

“That she does.” I smiled dashingly. Something about her reminded me of Ava Gardner.

“Have you two met before?” Alvarez said. His smile belied the vague accusatory undercurrent in his tone.

“Never,” I said.

“We Puerto Ricans say that we met in another life,” she said. “But Juan, I met you in this life and that is all you need to know.” She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek.

She looked up at me. I was standing, ready to go. “Good to meet you, Spenser.”

“Yes, Spenser, I hope you and Susan will come out to see us at the farm in Weston. I’ll arrange it,” Alvarez said, and stood up to shake my hand. He had a thin scar that ran from his left eye to his mouth. I hadn’t noticed it before. His eyes were round and very dark, and despite his incessant smile, I saw an expression of what I imagined a hawk would look like at the instant it swooped down on the rabbit in the meadow.

“That would be delightful,” I said, and saw Susan coming across the room to save me.

THE NEXT DAY Hawk and I drove to Weston, where both the old and new rich had big horse farms and eighteenth-century houses or McMansions and at least twenty acres of land each to keep them on, all just fifteen minutes from downtown Boston. We were sitting in my car, off the road but within view of the Alvarez compound. Snow sifted down and veiled the pastures before us. We had coffee and donuts. The heater was on, and it was still cold inside.

I had done a little research on Alvarez. A Google search and a short conversation with Susan, but it still qualified as research. Google told me that Juan Alvarez graduated from the London School of Economics. Worked in London for a few years at Morgan Stanley. There was an early marriage to a British woman and a divorce five years later. No children. Then the bio stopped and picked up again in Boston. His import/export firm’s success was noted, and his philanthropic interests included everything from large donations to the Boston Symphony to Dana-Farber research to Meals with Heart.