21
The special agent in charge of the Boston
FBI office was a guy named Epstein who looked less dangerous than a
chickadee, and had killed, to my knowledge, two men, both of whom
had probably made the same misjudgment. I had coffee with him in a
joint on Cambridge Street.
“Winifred Minor,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“She used to be FBI,” I said.
“Yep, but why do you ask?”
“You know I’m involved with that art theft where
the guy got blown up,” I said.
“Ashton Prince,” Epstein said. “Hermenszoon
painting.”
“Wow,” I said. “Sees all, knows all.”
“Only a matter of time,” Epstein said, “before I’m
director.”
“No dresses,” I said.
“Prude,” Epstein said. “What’s your interest in
Winifred Minor?”
There was a platter of crullers under a glass cover
on the counter. I eyed them.
“She’s a claims adjuster now,” I said. “For a big
insurance company.”
“Shawmut,” Epstein said.
“You keep track,” I said.
“I do,” Epstein said.
“They insured the painting,” I said.
“And the claim is her case,” Epstein said.
“And her daughter was a student of Prince’s, and
probably they had a relationship.”
“Which is to say he was fucking her?” Epstein
said.
“You civil servants speak so elegantly,” I said.
“But yes. I believe he was.”
“Could all mean nothing,” he said.
“Could,” I said.
“But it’s probably more productive to think it
means something,” Epstein said.
“You know who the father is, or was?” I said.
“Didn’t know Winifred was married,” Epstein
said.
“Don’t know that she was.”
Epstein nodded.
“How old’s the kid,” he said.
“Nineteen, twenty,” I said.
“So Winifred was still with the Bureau,” Epstein
said, “when the kid was born.”
I nodded. Epstein drank some of his coffee. I
studied the plate of crullers some more.
“You ask either of them about the father?” Epstein
said.
“I did,” I said.
“And?”
“They won’t talk about him,” I said.
“When the baby was born she probably used her
health insurance,” Epstein said. “Bureau will have a record. I’ll
see what I can find out. What’s the kid’s name?”
“Melissa Minor,” I said. “Goes by Missy.”
Epstein nodded. He didn’t write it down. He rarely
wrote things down. I sometimes thought he remembered everything
he’d ever heard.
“Why are you interested in the father?”
“Seems odd they won’t talk about him,” I
said.
Epstein nodded.
“Anything’s better than nothing,” Epstein
said.
“But harder to come by,” I said. “You know Winifred
Minor?”
“Casually,” Epstein said. “Bureau regarded her as a
good agent, maybe a little gung ho.”
“Aggressive?”
“Yep. Probably proving something ’cause she was a
female agent,” Epstein said.
“She know anything about explosives?”
Epstein shrugged.
“No reason she should,” he said. “I don’t.”
“I thought special agents in charge knew
everything,” I said.
“They do,” Epstein said. “I was just being
modest.”