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  SPARE CHANGE

  THE SPENSER NOVELS

  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

  High Profile

  Sea Change

  Stone Cold

  Death in Paradise

  Trouble in Paradise

  Night Passage

  THE SUNNY RANDALL NOVELS

  Blue Screen

  Melancholy Baby

  Shrink Rap

  Perish Twice

  Family Honor

  ALSO BY ROBERT B. PARKER

  Appaloosa

  Double Play

  Gunman’s Rhapsody

  All Our Yesterdays

  A Year at the Races (with Joan H. Parker)

  Perchance to Dream

  Poodle Springs (and Raymond Chandler)

  Love and Glory

  Wilderness

  Three Weeks in Spring (with Joan H. Parker)

  Training with Weights (with John R. Marsh)

  SPARE CHANGE

  ROBERT B. PARKER

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  New York

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  Published By The Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Usa) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (A Division Of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)• Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London Wc2R 0Rl, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen‘s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (A Division Of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (A Division Of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (Nz), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand (A Division Of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London Wc2R 0Rl, England

  Copyright © 2007 By Robert B. Parker

  Excerpt from Robert B. Parker’s Blood Feud copyright © 2018 by The Estate of Robert B. Parker

  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. Published simultaneously in Canada.

  Library Of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  Parker, Robert B., date.

  Spare Change / Robert B. Parker.

  P. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0726-0

  1. Randall, Sunny (Fictitious Character)—fiction. 2. Women Private Investigators—

  Massachusetts—boston—fiction. 3. Boston (Mass.)—fiction. I. Title.

  PS3566. A686S59 2007 2007003137

  813'.54—DC22

  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, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Version_4

  For Joan: once in a lifetime

  Contents

  Also by Robert B. Parker

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Excerpt from Robert B. Parker’s Blood Feud

  SPARE CHANGE

  1

  I sat with my father at the kitchen table and looked at the old crime-scene photographs. Four men and three women, each shot behind the right ear. Each with a scatter of three coins near their head as they lay on the ground. There was in the implacable crime-scene photography no sense of lives suddenly extinguished, fear suddenly snuffed, no smell of gunshot or sound of pain. Just some dead bodies. The pictures were accurate and inclusive, but they distanced me from the subject. I didn’t know if it was me or the process. Paintings didn’t do it.

  “The Spare Change Killer,” I said.

  My father grunted. “Papers liked that name,” he said. “Because of the coins, we thought at first ma
ybe the perp was a panhandler, you know? ‘Spare change’? And when the guy starts to give him some, the killer pops him and he drops the coins.”

  “Pops him in the back of the head?” I said.

  “Yeah, that sort of bothered us, too,” my father said. “But you know how it goes. You got something like this, you try out every theory you can.”

  “I remember this,” I said.

  “Yeah, you were about twelve,” my father said, “when it started. And maybe fifteen when it was over.”

  “My memory was of how much you weren’t home,” I said.

  My father nodded.

  “And then it just stopped,” I said.

  My father nodded again.

  “And you never caught him,” I said.

  My father shook his head.

  “Maybe this time,” he said.

  “You think it’s the same guy?” I said.

  “Don’t know,” my father said. “Same bullet behind the ear. Same spare change on the ground.”

  “Same gun?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t mean much,” I said. “He could certainly have acquired another gun.”

  “There were different guns in the first go-round,” my father said. “Spare Change said he liked to experiment.”

  “He wrote you,” I said.

  “Regularly.”

  “You specifically?” I said.

  “I was the head of the task force,” my father said. “FBI, State, Boston Homicide.”

  “God,” I said. “I didn’t even remember that there was a task force.”

  “You were pretty much caught up in puberty at the time,” my father said.

  “Boys were pretty much everything I was interested in,” I said.

  “But now?”

  “The boys are older,” I said.

  My father shrugged.

  “Progress, I guess,” he said.

  “Why were you in charge?” I said.

  “First two murders were in my precinct,” my father said. “Plus, of course, I was the very paradigm of law-enforcement perfection.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes, that, too.”

  “Since I retired,” my father said, “I been reading a lot. Even books with big words. I been dying to say paradigm.”

  “I’m proud to call you Daddy,” I said.

  He took a big manila envelope from a pile on the table and opened it. He took out a crime-scene photo and a letter, and put them on the table in front of me. The photograph was just like the other crime-scene photos. In this case a young black man was sprawled on the ground, facedown. There was a dark spill of blood around his head. A nickel, a dime, and a quarter lay in the blood.

  “The new one?” I said.

  “Yes,” my father said. “Read the letter.”

  The letter said:

  Hi, Phil,

  You miss me? I got bored, so I thought I’d reestablish our relationship. Give us both something to do in our later years. Stay tuned.

  Spare Change

  It was neatly printed in block letters on plain white printer paper by someone probably using a fine-point Sharpie.

  “Sounds like him?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything from the paper, or the ink, or the handwriting?”

  “Nothing from the paper and ink. Possibly the same handwriting. Block printing is hard. Probably right-handed.”

  “You’d guess that from the shot being behind the vic’s right ear,” I said.

  “You would.”

  “So there’s nothing to say this isn’t the same guy.”

  “No,” my father said. “I tried to keep his letters to me out of the papers, but I couldn’t. The case was too hot. Some cluck in the mayor’s office released them.”

  “So anyone could copycat it,” I said.

  “It’s not a complicated writing style,” my father said.

  “You’re back in this?” I said.

  “Yes. They’ve asked me to consult. Even gave me a budget.”

  “And you want to do this?” I said.

  “Yes,” my father said.

  I nodded and didn’t say anything.

  “And I want you to help me,” my father said.

  “Because?”

  “You were a cop. You’re smart. You’re tough. You’re pretty.” My father grinned at me. “You, too, are a paradigm of law-enforcement perfection, and you’re my kid.”

  I looked at him across the flat, deadly photographs. He was a thick, squat man with big hands that always made me think of a stonemason.

  “Because I’m pretty?” I said.

  “You get that from me,” he said. “Will you help?”

  “Daddy,” I said, “I’m flattered to be asked.”

  2

  It was Monday morning. My bed was made; the kitchen counters gleamed. I had applied makeup carefully, taken a lot of time with my hair. The loft had been vacuumed and dusted, and there were flowers on the breakfast table. I was wearing embroidered jeans so tight that I’d had to lie down to put them on. My top was a white tee that drifted off one shoulder. I’d been doing power yoga with a trainer, and I was happy with the way my shoulders looked. My shoes were black platform sneakers that bridged the gap between casual and dressy in just the right way. Richie brought Rosie back from her weekend visit on Monday mornings, and it takes a lot of work to look glamorous when you are trying very hard to look as if you aren’t trying to look glamorous.

  When they arrived I was casually painting under my skylight while the sun was good, and had been for a good five minutes. I put the brush down and picked Rosie up when she came in, and kissed her on the nose while she squirmed and wagged her tail and let me know simultaneously that she was thrilled to see me and wanted to be put down. I put her on the floor.

  “Place looks great,” Richie said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You do, too.”

  I smiled.

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Richie put a paper bag on the breakfast table next to the flowers.

  “What’s in there?” I said.

  “Coffee,” Richie said, “and some corn and molasses muffins.”

  “Did you have in mind sharing?” I said.

  “Sure,” Richie said.

  He opened the bag and took out two big paper cups of coffee and four muffins.

  “Corn and molasses,” I said. “My total fave.”

  Rosie went to her water dish and drank loudly and at length. I sat at the counter with Richie and picked up a muffin.

  “Did my kumquat have a good time?” I said to Richie.

  “She did.”

  “Did she go for walks?”

  “Yes. We took her out every day on the beach.”

  “We being you and the wife.”

  Richie nodded.

  “Kathryn,” Richie said.

  I nodded.

  “And she likes Rosie?”

  “She does.”

  “Where does Rosie sleep when she’s there?” I said.

  “In bed with me and Kathryn,” Richie said.

  He had taken the plastic cap off his coffee cup.

  “And she doesn’t mind?”

  “Kathryn? Or Rosie?” Richie said.

  “Not Rosie,” I said.

  “Kathryn doesn’t mind,” Richie said. “Love me, love my dog.”

  “Our dog,” I said.

  “I get her two weekends a month,” Richie said. “I think it’s clear that she’s not mine exclusively.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Richie nodded. He was physically well organized.
Maybe six feet tall. Strong-looking. Very neat. He always looked like he’d just shaved and showered. His thick, black hair was short. All his movements seemed precise and somehow integrated. He had a lot of the interiority that my father had. We ate some of our muffins and drank some of our coffee. Rosie eventually finished her water and came over and sat on the floor between us.

  “Do you suppose all bull terriers drink water like that?” I said.

  “I think it’s some kind of ‘glad to see you’ ritual,” Richie said. “She does it when she first gets to my house, too.”

  “Remember when we first got her?” I said.

  “Right after we were married,” Richie said.

  “She was about the size of a guinea pig,” I said.

  “Maybe not that small,” Richie said.

  “And we had to be so careful of her at first so as not to roll over on her in bed.”

  We were both quiet.

  “You okay?” Richie said after a time.

  “Sure,” I said. “You?”

  “Yeah,” Richie said. “I’m fine.”

  We drank some coffee and ate some muffin.

  “Felix says he gave you a hand with something a while back.”

  I nodded.

  “As far as your Uncle Felix goes, I’m still part of the family.”

  “Felix likes who he likes,” Richie said. “Circumstance doesn’t have much effect on him.”

  “I assume that he also dislikes who he dislikes,” I said.