Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me

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It was early evening and early summer, and my bay window was cracked open above Berkeley Street. I had a half-eaten turkey sub on my desk and the sports page from The Globe splayed out underneath. Dan Shaughnessy proclaimed Mookie Betts to be overrated. I’m sure many said the same thing about me. But I was pretty sure being overrated was better than being underrated. A mistake few made twice.

I contemplated Mookie’s situation as I heard a knock on the anteroom door.

“Second door on your left,” I said.

Mattie Sullivan entered my office.

“Still having trouble with the advertising firm?”

“Bad advertising to list their own address wrong.”

“Freakin’ morons,” Mattie said.

Like me, Mattie suffered few fools. And as my occasional secretary, part-time assistant, and sleuthing apprentice, she didn’t take kindly to the two-person agency that had rooms down the hall. Mattie leaned into the doorframe. She’d grown into a tall girl with long limbs, long red hair, and a heart-shaped Irish face full of freckles. When she smiled, she could light up a room. But Mattie rarely smiled and wasn’t smiling now.

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