Stardust

PRAISE FOR ROBERT B. PARKER AND THE SPENSER NOVELS . . .

“A MASTER OF MURDEROUS IRONY.”

—Los Angeles Times

“ONE OF THE GREAT SERIES IN THE HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN DETECTIVE STORY.”

—The New York Times

NOW & THEN

Investigating a case of infidelity sounds simple—until it plunges Spenser and his beloved Susan into a politically charged murder plot that's already left three people dead.

“This is vintage Parker, filled with banter and repartee, swagger and rule-skirting . . . a page-turner.”
—The Boston Globe

HUNDRED-DOLLAR BABY

Deadly complications arise when Spenser crosses paths with a runaway girl he had helped years ago.

“Parker in top-notch form.”
—The Seattle Times

SCHOOL DAYS

When a young boy is accused of a mass murder, only his grandmother is convinced of his innocence.

“Crackling prose and juicy repartee.”
—Entertainment Weekly

COLD SERVICE

When his closest ally is attacked, Spenser redefines friendship in the name of vengeance.

“One hot mystery.”
—The Washington Post

“DETECTIVEDOM'S MOST CHARMINGLY LITERATE LOUT.”

—People

“EVERYONE INTERESTED IN MYSTERY AND CONTEMPORARY WRITING IN GENERAL SHOULD READ AT LEAST ONE OF THE SPENSER NOVELS.”

—Library Journal

BAD BUSINESS

A suspicious wife and a cheating husband pose a few dangerous surprises for Spenser.

“A kinky whodunit . . . snappy . . . sexy.”
—Entertainment Weekly

BACK STORY

Spenser teams with Jesse Stone to solve a murder three decades old—one that's still cold as death.

“Good and scary. This [is] superior Parker.”
—The Boston Globe

WIDOW'S WALK

Spenser must defend an accused murderess who's so young, cold, rich, and beautiful, she
has
to be guilty.

“Delicious fun. Bottom line: A merry
Widow
.”
—People

POTSHOT

Spenser is enlisted to clean up a small Arizona town.

“Outrageously entertaining . . . a hero who can still stand up for himself—and us.”
—The New York Times Book Review

HUGGER MUGGER

Spenser hoofs it down south when someone makes death threats against a Thoroughbred racehorse.

“Brisk . . . crackling . . . finishes strong, just like a Thoroughbred.”
—Entertainment Weekly

HUSH MONEY

Spenser helps a stalking victim—only to find himself the one being stalked . . .

“Spenser can still punch, sleuth, and wisecrack with the best of them.”
—Publishers Weekly

SUDDEN MISCHIEF

A charity fund-raiser, accused of sexual harassment by four women, is wanted for a bigger offense: murder . . .

“Smooth as silk.”
—Orlando Sentinel

SMALL VICES

Spenser must solve the murder of a wealthy college student—before the wrong man pays the price . . .

“His finest in years . . . one can't-put-it-down story.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

CHANCE

Spenser heads to Vegas to find the missing husband of a mob princess—but he's not the only one looking . . .

“As brisk and clever as always.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review

THIN AIR

Spenser thought he could help a friend find his missing wife. Until he learned the nasty truth about Lisa St. Claire . . .

“Full of action, suspense, and thrills.”
—Playboy

THE SPENSER NOVELS

Sixkill

Painted Ladies

The Professional

Rough Weather

Now & Then

Hundred-Dollar Baby

School Days

Cold Service

Bad Business

Back Story

Widow's Walk

Potshot

Hugger Mugger

Hush Money

Sudden Mischief

Small Vices

Chance

Thin Air

Walking Shadow

Paper Doll

Double Deuce

Pastime

Stardust

Playmates

Crimson Joy

Pale Kings and Princes

Taming a Sea-Horse

A Catskill Eagle

Valediction

The Widening Gyre

Ceremony

A Savage Place

Early Autumn

Looking for Rachel Wallace

The Judas Goat

Promised Land

Mortal Stakes

God Save the Child

The Godwulf Manuscript

THE JESSE STONE NOVELS

Split Image

Night and Day

Stranger in Paradise

High Profile

Sea Change

Stone Cold

Death in Paradise

Trouble in Paradise

Night Passage

THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

Spare Change

Blue Screen

Melancholy Baby

Shrink Rap

Perish Twice

Family Honor

THE VIRGIL COLE/EVERETT HITCH NOVELS

Blue-Eyed Devil

Brimstone

Resolution

Appaloosa

ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

A Triple Shot of Spenser

Double Play

Gunman's Rhapsody

All Our Yesterdays

A Year at the Races

   (with Joan H. Parker)

Perchance to Dream

Poodle Springs

   (with Raymond Chandler)

Love and Glory

Wilderness

Three Weeks in Spring

   (with Joan H. Parker)

Training with Weights

   (with John R. Marsh)

STARDUST

R
OBERT
B. P
ARKER

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

STARDUST

 

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

G. P. Putnam's Sons hardcover edition / June 1990

Berkley mass-market edition / May 1991

Berkley premium edition / December 2008

 

Copyright © 1990 by Robert B. Parker.

Cover photograph:
Gun
copyright © by BrandX/SuperStock;
Bullet Holes
copyright © by fStop/SuperStock;
Director's Chair
copyright © by Creatas/SuperStock.

Cover design by Judith Lagerman

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

ISBN: 9781101546550

 

BERKLEY
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Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY
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The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

40 39 38 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

For Joan: No dream in vain

1

W
HEN
you walk across the Common from the Beacon Street side, coming up from Charles Street and angling toward Park Street, you are walking up one of those low urban hills that no one notices, unless they are running. At the top, with the State House at about ten o'clock and the Park Street Church straight ahead at twelve o'clock high, you look down toward the Park Street Station. Which is what Susan and I were doing on an early winter day, with maybe three inches of old snow on the ground, and the temperature about seventeen. Below us, at the corner of Park and Tremont, the big subway kiosk was surrounded by trailers and trucks and mysterious equipment. Thick cables ran into the subway entrance, maybe two hundred people bustled about in various kinds of arctic wear. There were big yellow trucks with Hertz-Penske lettered on the sides. There were long trailers with many small doors.

“It looks like Hertz-Penske is invading Park Street Under,” I said.

Susan nodded. Her nose was slightly red from the cold and her gloved hand was firm in mine.

“Show business,” she said. “Can you smell the greasepaint?”

“That's my shaving lotion,” I said. “Besides, I don't think they use greasepaint in television.”

“It's just an expression,” Susan said. “Have you no feeling for the romance of the theater?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure I do.”

We walked down the hill toward the film site. The snow was crisp, and dry as sand in the cold. The trees around the Common were black and angular with hard snow in the places where the big limbs branched out. The fountain, where in summer the bums reclined, glaring at the tourists, was still and icy, and people cutting across the Common for a late breakfast meeting at the Ritz or the Four Seasons were hunch-shouldered, high-collared, hurrying stiffly through the chill. I had on a black Navy watch cap and a leather jacket with the fleece lining zipped in, and my gun in a shoulder holster under my left arm, to keep the bullets warm.

Inside the kiosk the stairs ran down steeply to the station. An escalator ran parallel to the stairs and the hot industrial smell of the subway system rose to meet us as we went through the door. The camera and light cables ran down along the sides of the stairs and a couple of MBTA cops were there to steer the subway customers past them. The station was still fully functioning, and the filming worked around that fact. Mixed among the customers was a squadron of technicians, each a mismatched ode to Eddie Bauer in down parka and insulated moon boots.

“Used to have those in Korea,” I said to Susan. “Called them Mickey Mouse boots. They were a little less colorful, but just as ugly.”

At the foot of the stairs to the left of the turnstiles, a small area was brightly lit with the big movie lights that you always see in ads. A couple of high-backed black canvas chairs stood just outside the lighted circle. On the back in white script was written,
Fifty Minutes.
There were cameramen and lighting men and sound men with earphones. There were assistant directors to herd the civilians around the shooting area, and a first assistant with the script in a big leather holster. A guy wearing a hat that looked like a World War I aviator's helmet, with the straps undone and the earpieces flapping, was setting up the shot; and there in the middle of the bright area wearing a tight red dress and a black mink coat thrown over her shoulders was Jill Joyce, America's honey-bun.

Susan nudged me. I nodded.

Jill Joyce said, “Harry, for crissake, how long are you going to fuck around with this shot?”

“Pretty soon, Jilly,” the guy with the earflaps said. “I want you to look just about perfect, Jilly.” Harry was looking through a lens he wore on a string around his neck and he spoke to Jill Joyce the way you speak to your puppy, in a kind of remote coddling tone that expects neither comprehension nor response. Jill Joyce waggled one of her hands toward a production assistant. He put a lighted cigarette in her hand. She took it without looking, dragged in a big lungful of smoke, and let it out in two streams through her nose.

Harry backed away a little, gazing through his lens, then he straightened and nodded. The first assistant director spoke into a bullhorn, “Quiet, please . . . rolling for picture.” A red-haired woman with a thick sheaf of script open on a clipboard stepped in and took Jill's cigarette. Jill stared into the camera; her face got prettier. A little guy with a straggly beard and an orange down vest jumped into the shot with a clacker and clacked. Behind Jill the subway train that had been idling there patiently began to creep forward. “. . . and action,” Harry yelled. Jill looked off camera right and called out, “Rick? It's all right, Rick, I'm here.” Her eyes scanned past the camera, looking for Rick. The train pulled on through behind her and moved on down the tunnel. The camera panned after it as it went and held on, its taillights disappearing, and Harry said, “Cut. It's a keeper.”

Jill put her hand out again in the general direction of the script person and waggled it. The script woman handed her the lighted cigarette and she took another big drag, dropped it on the floor, shrugged deeper into her mink, and headed toward the escalator. A uniformed Boston cop named Ray Morrissey walked ahead of Jill and moved people out of her way.

“Wow,” I said. “Was that magic, or what?”

Susan grinned. “God save me, I could watch it all day.”

“Really?” I said.

“You think I'm deeply disturbed?” Susan said.

“Yes,” I said.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I think you're right.” Then she smiled her smile that made Jill Joyce look like a cow flap and nodded her head toward a group standing beyond the escalator.

“There's Sandy,” she said.

Sandy was state-of-the-art Eddie Bauer. He had on a full-length gold-colored down-lined jumpsuit, with black fur-topped thermal boots half zipped and a black knit ski cap with a large golden tassel. He was short and probably wiry but who could tell in the down jumpsuit. He had a goatee. With him was a hatless man with a lot of black curly hair, a strong nose, and dark skin. As we moved through the crowd toward them, the crew was packing up equipment, folding light stands, coiling cable, dismantling the cameras, packing up the sound gear. Everyone seemed to know what he was doing, which made this a unique enterprise in my experience.

Susan said, “Sandy.”

Sandy turned and smiled at her. His glance took me in too, but it didn't harm the smile.

“Susan,” Sandy said. “And this has got to be Mr. Spenser.” Beyond Sandy and the guy with the black curly hair was a youngish guy with a round face and rimless glasses. He looked at both of us without expression.

Susan introduced me. “This is Sandy Salzman,” she said. “He's the line producer.” Susan had been consulting on the show for less than a month now and already she spoke a language as arcane as the psychological tech talk of which I'd but recently cured her. We shook hands.

“This is Milo Nogarian,” Susan said, gesturing toward the guy with the curls, “the executive producer, and Marty Riggs, from Zenith.” We shook hands.

“Susan is the consultant we hired, Marty,” Sandy said. “And Mr. Spenser is a, ah, private security consultant, that maybe is going to give us a hand with Jill.”

Marty Riggs gazed at me with his gray expressionless eyes, enlarged a bit by the rimless glasses. He was wearing a tweed cap and a cable-stitched white wool sweater under a thick Donegal tweed jacket with a long scarf wrapped around his neck. The loose ends of the scarf reached to his knees. He gave me a small stiff nod. I smiled warmly.

“Susan actually is a psychotherapist, Marty,” Nogarian said. “Sees to it that we don't get our complexes mixed up.” Susan smiled even more warmly than I had.

“I'm sure,” Marty said. “Milo, just remember what I said. I don't want to have to go in to the network again and defend a piece of shit that you people have labeled script and sent over,
capice
?”

“Time, Marty,” Nogarian said, “you know what the time pressures are like.”

“And you know what cancellation is like, Milo. You have the top television star on the planet and you haven't broken the top ten yet, you know why? Script is why. Jill's been raising hell about them and she's right. I want something better, and I want to start seeing it tomorrow.”

“How come your scarf's so long?” I said. Susan put her hand on my arm.

Riggs turned and looked at me. “What?” he said.

“Your scarf,” I said, “is dangerously long. You might step on it and strangle yourself.”

Susan dug her fingers into my arm.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Riggs said.

“Your scarf. I may have to make a citizen's arrest here, your scarf is a safety hazard.”

Riggs looked at Nogarian and Salzman. “Who the fuck is this guy, Milo?”

Nogarian looked as if he'd eaten something awful. Salzman seemed to be struggling with laughter. Susan's grip on my arm was so hard now that if I weren't tougher than six roofing nails it might have hurt.

“Looks dandy though,” I said.

Whoever Riggs was he was used to getting more respect than I was giving him, and he couldn't quite figure out what to do about me.

“If you want to work around here, buddy,” he said, “you better watch your step.” Then he glared at all of us and turned and walked away. In a moment he was on the ascending escalator, and soon he had risen from sight.

Nogarian said, “Jesus Christ.”

Salzman let out the laughter he'd been suppressing. “Wonderful,” he said as he laughed, “a citizen's arrest. You gotta love it.”

“Who is he, anyway?” I said.

“Senior VeePee,” Salzman said, “Creative Affairs, One Hour, Zenith Meridien Television.”

“Why'd you lean on him?” Nogarian said.

“He seemed something of a dork,” I said.

Salzman laughed again. “You start leaning on every dork in the television business, you're going to be a busy man.”

“So many dorks,” I said, “so little time.”

“It's not going to help us with the studio,” Nogarian said.

“Milo, it was worth it,” Salzman said, “watching Marty try to figure out who Spenser was so he could figure out if he should take shit from him or fire him.” Salzman snorted with laughter. “You ready for some lunch?”

“Since breakfast,” I said.

“Come on,” Salzman said, and we followed him up the escalator. The subway station was empty of film crew. The equipment was gone, the cables had been stowed. It was as if they'd never been there.

As we went up the escalator Susan put her arm through mine. “I know why you needled Marty Riggs,” she said.

“Sworn duty,” I said, “as a member of the dork patrol.”

“You needled him because he ignored me.”

“That's one of the defining characteristics of a dork.”

“Probably,” Susan said.

We rode the rest of the way to the top, where the light, filtered through the glass, looked warmer than it was, and went out into the cold behind Salzman and Nogarian.