

The

House

at

Hull

By

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2015

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

I am a clairvoyant, a psychic . . . though some who know me might say psycho. I know what you're thinking . . . but sometimes I just get things. I don't really plan it. It just comes. Voices . . . visions . . . the usual crap you see in lousy TV shows and movies, but in my case, it's real --- or at least I think it is. I've pieced together a decent living playing the market, consulting with the Boston police on matters only I could uncover . . . and occasionally predicting a long sea voyage or an unexpected inheritance from a long-lost relative.

I don't charge the suckers much and I consider that part of the business, an attempt to spark some hope for the hopeless. A convenient rationalization and sometimes I even get it right. If things do get tight, I have a part-time gig as a captain on one of the water taxis that ferries passengers to and from some of the downtown wharves and Logan Airport. I work cheap, but it sometimes helps pay the rent on my humble digs.

Don't judge me. I'm telling you . . . I'm the genuine article. I didn't know it until Afghanistan. The Marines discovered that more than a few of my crazy hunches were on target. They didn't understand it, but they liked it. I saved some very expensive stuff from being blown to Kingdom Come, not to mention some kids who thought they were gonna be heroes until they saw blood in the sand . . . sometimes their own. In the meantime I got promoted and the intense training taught me some useful things about killing. Some of them did become heroes . . . and some of them simply didn't come back. I'd like to tell you I'm a Jack Reacher or a Doc Ford, tall, smart, fearless, and handsome. But the truth is I'm just a skinny nerd . . . albeit a dangerous one at times. I never really know when that thing coming . . . the second sight. It overtakes me, mostly when there's an impending death, or an already lifeless body that's been defiled or discarded.

The cops don't like me much. I make 'em look bad sometimes. But Billy Frye, Homicide Detective Second Grade, puts up with me because I let him take the credit . . . when there is any. The rest of them call me the Spook behind my back and often to my face. None of them know about the military stuff. It's better that way, keeps from having to use it very often. My name is Elmo C. Dombroski. The C stands for Cathay. It doesn't exactly trip off the tongue.

For the record, I don't really believe in ghosts, but there are "things" out there that just don't fit into the neat packages that most people cling to. You can't blame them. They're just trying to maintain a shred of sanity. It's getting tougher all the time. Call those "things" what you will. I am their connection . . . their interpreter . . . sometimes the only one. I'm not saying I always understand, but I smart enough to know that, too. Sometimes it's a little scary, but it is what it is.

I eat hot dogs for breakfast, only Hebrew National on a buttered, toasted bun with mustard and slaw. I slog too much cheap wine . . . whatever jug of red is on sale at the corner Seven Eleven. I skip lunch every day, and have frozen pizza for dinner every night. I prefer DiGiorno's or Freshetta. In a pinch I'll even do a Tortino's, but I gotta be really hungry.

I guess you would say I live in a basement, but I've got my own private entrance just off the sidewalk on Hanover Street, in the north end, the heart of the Italian neighborhood. It's kind of dark down there and a little damp in the winter, but I call it cozy. I've got my CD's and a damned good speaker system. A little desk in the corner when I need to make some notes or send a heartfelt plea to the bill collectors. Luckily I haven't had to do much of that lately. Let me just say, it's home . . . and the rent is cheap.

Chapter 1

There is one person who genuinely likes me despite what she kindly calls "my eccentricities". Her name is Eleisha Mountcastle. She's a bit of a Goth. Coal black hair to the waist, which, by the way, is tiny. Fortunately, her boobs and her ass are ample compensation for whatever else is missing and believe me . . . there isn't much. Thick black eyeliner and gray eye shadow framing subtle jade eyes. A long aquiline nose with just a little crook in it, and flaming red lipstick that looks like it was applied with paint brush. Her crimson nails could have come off a grizzly bear. You almost expected them to drip blood. It's sort of Morticia Addams with a hint of Raquel Welch lurking beneath the surface. Actually, I like the combo quite a lot.

Eleisha reads Tarot and palms. She's pretty damned good at it. Her business card reads "Sha. A Gateway to Your Destiny". I know it's kind of camp and creepy at the same time, but it works. She has a steady clientele -- mostly well-heeled -- that keep the bucks coming. You ought to see her in her gypsy get-up. Scary and sexy in the same breath. She's got her own place down the block, but she has appropriated about half of my small hanging closet, and her girly stuff takes up most of the space around my bathroom sink. Small price to pay. The lady is dark dynamite.

Suddenly, my ears were assaulted by the thudding of Chopin's Funeral March on my cell. Yeah, a cliché for a psychic, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Hello, Spook."

"I wish you'd stop calling me that. Couldn't it be Elmo, or even Mo for short . . . just one time."

"My, my. A bit touchy this morning, are we, Mr. Dombroski?"

"Okay, enough of the sarcasm. What's up?"

"This one is complicated. Too much to explain on the phone. Can you come by my office this afternoon?"

"Only if there's money involved."

"Trust me. There is . . . and lots of it. You solve this one, you'll need a laundry bag to carry it all."

"Ah . . . my esteemed public servant. You have my undivided attention."

Billy and I agreed to meet at the precinct at two o'clock.

"And bring the other half of the Legion of Doom," he said before hanging up.

He meant Eleisha. I was never sure whether he actually wanted her input or just liked to stare at her boobs. Didn't make much difference. She'd been a huge help on previous investigations and even saved me from a bullet in the back on one notable occasion. And did I mention that my fellow legionnaire was also the best hacker east of the Rockies? She could massage a computer until it rolled on its back and begged for her to scratch its belly.

We were at the precinct at the appointed time. A couple of the boys in blue waited for me to pass, then spoke with voices just loud enough to be heard.

"Well if it isn't the Spook and his Mistress of the Dark. Woooooooooo . . . I don't know about you, but I'm scared shitless."

We pretended not to hear. Simple ignorance . . . we deal with it all the time. A hazard of the trade. Besides, they'd be knocking down my door if they thought I had a tip that would crack a tough case.

Billy offered a hand and sure enough, he did stare at Eleisha's boobs. Also a hazard of the trade. We sat in unforgiving wooden chairs across from a desk that even Goodwill wouldn't take. A few framed photos and mementos hung crookedly on the walls. Billy with the Police Commissioner. Billy receiving a citation from the Mayor. Billy with Roger Clemens. A diploma from Boston College. Stuff like that. I was sure everything had been dusted somewhere in the late nineties.

Billy was mid-fifties, still solid, probably 6'2", 195 lbs. or so, to my svelte 165. And I must say quite the dapper Irishman. He wore a nicely fitting gray pinstripe suit with a tasteful yellow silk tie. He still had plenty of hair – probably colored, but done quite artfully -- swept back from his temples like golden waves --- almost a Donald Trump look, but on him it looked natural. Startling blue eyes with long feminine lashes, but no facial scruff. Skin as pink and smooth as a baby's bottom. The black wing-tips shined to a finish almost like patent leather. He stared at Eleisha's boobs again and began. Fortunately he didn't drool.

"The Hull Police Department called us in. Vics were from Boston. Nice Brownstone up on Beacon Hill. Very pricey, custom furniture, and original oils on the walls. There was even a legitimate Hockney in the family room, and I think an original Lichtenstein. BMW-700 series for the master of the house, a newish Porche 911 for the lady. I think the son has an antique Mercedes convertible. Tough way to live. He was --- and I'm saying was, but no bodies, yet –- Oscar Bridgeton --- wife Melanie, two kids. Older son Todd, 24, in grad school at MIT, and daughter, Cherie, 14, still at home, a student at the Winsor School --- all girls, very expensive. Well, I said there were no bodies and there aren't, but Mom, Dad, and Cherie haven't been seen in a week. We've searched the Brownstone, checked out their beach cottage in Hull. The BMW is there, but they aren't. No signs of foul play --- no signs of nothing."

"So what about the son? He hasn't heard anything?"

"If he had, you wouldn't be here. The kid is frantic. Has access to his own trust fund. He's offered a million dollars for any information leading to the resolution of their disappearance."

"Is he legit?"

"The kid is devastated --- apparently very close to Dad and Mom, and adored little Cherie. We've interviewed him twice, even talked to his girlfriend, Shasta, a Shipley, by the way."

"As in Shipley Fine Foods?" Eleisha asked.

"The very same. They're distraught. I'd bet my last nickel that the son's real, but I'm a cop. I get paid for never being sure until all the cards all on the table."

One thing was sure. Billy had seen too much. It had made him skeptical, cynical, and hard, but unlike some of the rest of them, he was still a human being. He dove into his cases like each victim was a member of his own family. I liked that and I liked him, despite the Spook thing and his obvious appreciation for boobs.

"So who was, or is, Oscar?"

"You've seen him . . . society pages, philanthropy to the max. The lovely trophy bride on his arm, smiling and waving like the Queen. He is, or maybe was, a hedge fund manager --- apparently had ties to Buffett, and I don't mean Jimmy. Spent a lot of time flying back and forth to Omaha and New York in his Lear Jet. We can't find any serious dirt. Hell, we can't find anything. So I called the Spook."

"You are too kind, Billy. It's so nice to feel needed."

He shook his head and feigned a gagging sound. Then he grinned.

"Okay. Can you get me and Eleisha into the Brownstone or the house at Hull?"

"Does a wild bear shit in the woods? You're talking to Billy Frye, the king of unlawful entry and master of mysterious disappearances."

I knew about the bear thing, and he did.

Chapter 2

It was after five by the time Eleisha and I got back to the apartment. I poured a plastic milkshake cup of Gallo red from the fat jug and the lady had some mineral water. We sat on the sofa to compare notes.

"All right, oh prescient one. This is your chance for a big score. One million reward money? We could even buy a used car. So what's your take?"

"Family missing, but not just Jones the plumber from down the block. Wealthy, apparently well-connected. Private jets, multiple houses, I'll bet there's even a large yacht somewhere in the area . . . probably near Hull. I guess we paint by the numbers. You get into your magic tablet and research the principals. Anything you can find out about the Bridgetons . . . investments, bank accounts, social contacts, and any skeletons that might be lurking behind the designer clothes in the closets."

"So do we hit the Brownstone, and maybe the house at Hull?"

"We probably have to, but we need some time. If either one of us get weird vibes, it won't happen instantly. I'd like to talk to Todd . . . get our own take on his grief . . . a clever mask or the real thing? We'll have to arrange it all with Billy. Let him get me one of those phony-baloney Police IDs. Since the cops don't have anything, he should cooperate. Otherwise he wouldn't have called."

I drained my cup and went into the kitchen to pour another one. Then I dove into the freezer. I had two choices, either plain pepperoni or the works with extra cheese.

"Damn it, Mo, can't you ever just eat a salad?"

"I could, but I'm not a rabbit."

"Neither am I, but I'd like to think putting something healthy in my system doesn't make me a rodent."

"Rabbits aren't technically rodents, and you're too damned beautiful to be one anyway."

"Okay, Romeo, I'll shut up and massage the computer after dinner."

I set the oven at 425 on pre-heat. I grabbed the pepperoni and slathered it with a handful of asiago, romano, and mozzarella. Then I sliced some fresh portabellas and arranged the thick giants around the circumference. When the temp maxed, I set the timer on 18 minutes and prepared to feast. Eleisha gathered a garden from the fridge, three kinds of lettuce, a bit of kale, arugula, parsley, artichoke hearts, and red cabbage, then what was left of my brown mushrooms. Next it was chunks of organic ripe tomatoes, black olives and anything else that had been alive, but wasn't moving at the time. Then she sprinkled it with some multi-grain croutons, a handful of feta, and a flood of extra-virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar and spices known only to Benedictine Monks, or maybe Mama Leoni down in the next block. After we wolfed our repast, I melted onto the sofa for some CNN and coffee. She went to work.

Eleisha at the computer is a study in intensity. She looks at the screen like Medusa trying to turn Perseus to stone. Nothing gets between her and that glow. Every so often, I'd hear another sigh and the sound of her nails drumming on the desk, but I kept my mouth shut and feigned patience. She finally rolled her chair back from the desk and her eyes into the back of her head.

"Nothing," she said, "Billy was right. No dirt on the Bridgetons. He came from a humble family. Dad was a butcher and mom cleaned houses. Public schools, came up through hard work, a few timely breaks, and a damned fine brain. He was also quite the sailor. I found a custom aluminum Nelson-Marek 72 at the Hull Yacht Club. He won the Marblehead Race a couple of times and finished second in the Newport to Bermuda Race twice. There's a photo online of him with Ted Turner, Gary Jobson, and Dennis Connor \---all congratulatory smiles, hoisting glasses of champagne. He also had a Donzi Classic 22 for a tender."

She went on to tell me there were 41 recent hits on Oscar Bridgeton, several with candids of his wife and family. Lots more with dignitaries and celebrities from all over New England. By all accounts, he was admired and respected by his colleagues and had apparently made bushels of money for some very important people. It was the American success story.

There wasn't much on Todd, just a couple of mentions of him and Cherie . . . the devoted and loving family. It all sounded pretty damned neat, and maybe it was. But when there was that much money involved, people got very needy, if not downright greedy. There had to be something there. We just didn't know what it was. At least, not yet.

After very little discussion, Eleisha grabbed my hand and lead me back to the bedroom.

"I'm ready for some of that psychic stuff, but I want it in a bit more physical format," she cooed.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind still awash in the day's events. She towered over me like a dark Amazon eager for battle.

"This is the part where you ravage my body, dumb ass."

I did my best. It's very hard to argue with the lady when her mind is made up.

Chapter 3

At ten the next morning, we met Billy at the Brownstone. There was yellow crime tape blocking the door. He pulled it down and fitted the key into the lock. Wow . . . that's all I could say. Tasteful, elegant. I recognized a Copley, "Watson and the Shark", not an original, but one damned fine copy, staring down at us in the foyer. Much of the art was more contemporary. The mix was anything but subtle, yet it had a designer's flair. Colors transitioned and melted into small spectacles. A mahogany table with plates of what I guessed to be Royal Doulton was flanked by a few personal photographs. I picked up one of the family on the stern of a huge sailboat, probably the FLASH. The four of them looked like the living embodiment of the American dream.

The living room was comfortable, but sumptuous. A vase of wilted flowers tried to right itself on the coffee table. More art, more photos, the random piece of marble sculpture surrounded by bits of brass and silver. The Bridgeton's taste was somewhat eclectic, but elegant and immaculate. Every room bore its own signature. I stared and waited, but the vibes did not come.

I watched Eleisha as she picked up various items, waiting for something to strike a responsive chord. Nothing.

We spent a couple of hours going through stuff. Billy followed us like a faithful hound, doing his own brand of sniffing. I was a bit exasperated and finally bored. I can only do so much beauty and good taste. Even then it needs to be small doses. I looked at Eleisha. She shrugged, shook her head, and rolled her black eyes. It was a signal. She was satisfied that we were wasting our time.

"Thanks, Billy. It didn't help much, but it didn't hurt. I think it's time to talk to Todd, but I'd like to catch him when he hasn't had time to plan his reactions or formulate answers to questions that might make him uncomfortable. Can you arrange it?"

"He's in school, but he spends a lot of time at the Dewey Library of Management and Social Studies. It's at 30 Wadsworth St., east end of the campus. They've got computers, books, magazines, monographs, any and everything that can dole out information to curious minds looking to make their first million, or in his case the twelfth or fourteenth. I'll call him, apologize for the short notice and tell him you're coming over."

He pulled out his cell and hit the number. I couldn't hear everything he said, but he hung up and nodded. Then he handed me a temporary Boston Police ID.

The Dewey was easy to identify. It's a very modern edifice, a bit too boxy for me, but then I'm more of a Federalist kind of guy when it comes to education and government stuff. It was named after a former Economics Professor and contains all manner of info on business stuff, i.e. making money off the suckers. He had told Billy he'd be in a carrel on the east end of the second floor studying for an upcoming exam in Best Management Practices.

We took a cab over to the Dewey and entered. The place literally smelled of scholarship and money. It was only one flight up on the stairs. Todd was exactly where he said he'd be, a Megyn Kelly clone leaning over his shoulder and whispering in his ear. She heard us approach and stood tall, and shapely, an intense and curious look in her startling blue eyes. I guessed it was the heir to Shipley Fine Foods, guarding, and maybe protecting her wealthy paramour. She went into the next carrel and burrowed in a flickering computer screen, but still within eavesdropping distance.

"I'm E. C. Dombroski, consultant to the Boston Police Department, and this is my associate, Eleisha Mountcastle."

He stood and offered a hand.

"I know who you are. I must say this is somewhat irregular, but I am determined to follow any avenue which might lead to the whereabouts of my family. Let us sit."

He pointed to a round table just behind us. We each took a chair. The clone was still within hearing distance. Todd was dressed in full yuppie mode, L.L. Bean khakis, and a Polo in shocking pink. No socks, two-tone brown and tan Sperry Billfish on his feet. He was immaculately groomed, a trim that probably cost $150, no facial hair, and nails that had obviously been manicured recently. His voice was perfectly modulated, somewhat soft, but with that authoritative tone that comes with old money. His brown eyes were tepid, but cautious.

"So how can I help you? Or better yet, how can you help me?" he asked.

"As you must know, the police are somewhat stymied. They only call us in when their options are limited. We may not be able to help, but we have had some success when there are cases that defy conventional solution. I assure you, we don't mean to intrude, but the answers to a few questions could lead to something useful."

"I must be honest. I don't hold with the mumbo-jumbo that most of your clan claims as truth, but as I said before, I am willing to try anything. I loved those people dearly. They have been the center of my heart and life for too long to deny any possibility of assistance. If Detective Frye endorses you and your assistant, I will cooperate."

I felt Eleisha cringe at the use of the word "assistant", but she kept her mouth shut and pretended obeisance. I thanked him and proceeded.

Eleisha and I instantly caught the past tense in his usage of the word "loved". Did he know they were dead, or was it just a slip of the tongue? Eleisha gave me a dark look and I nodded imperceptibly. Unfortunately, we learned nothing else that wasn't readily apparent. He treasured his family, respected his father, mother, and adored Cherie. The house at Hull had been a family sanctuary. They'd gone there for years to fish, walk the beach, play, use the yacht, and generally unwind. He was proper, polite, and somewhat distant. It all seemed appropriate, given the circumstances of our meeting. I found out that he and the shapely Miss Shipley had recently become engaged. The date for the wedding had been set, but was on hold pending the outcome of the family's disappearance. Again appropriate. He seemed relieved when I signaled a conclusion to our interview. Eleisha and I stood and I thanked him.

When we started back down to the hall, the blond clone hurried over to the table and put an arm around his neck. She pecked him on the cheek and glanced at us with obvious disdain as we closed the distance to the steps.

"So what's your take?" I asked as we waited for our cab.

"I know you caught the "loved" thing. Other than that, there wasn't much we didn't already know. Still, two things occur to me. We need to talk to the fiancée. I'm sure she heard every word we said, and if she didn't, he repeated every word right after we left. She may be more involved than we know. And we need to get out to Hull soon, maybe even stay in the house overnight. I mean you're the Spook. You might get something out there that isn't apparent in the brownstone. We need to keep asking questions we already know the answers to. Maybe the rest will come."

I'd learned a long time ago not to ignore Eleisha's suggestions. She got things that I didn't . . . and she did it on a regular basis. That's just one of the things that makes her such a damned good partner. And by the way, notice I didn't use the word assistant.

Chapter 4

I called Billy the next morning. I told him about our meeting with Todd, and the eavesdropping fiancée. He just listened for a moment.

"I told you we did talk to her. Nice kid, pretty, smart, good family. I doubt that there's anything there, but let Eleisha do some of her computer magic. I got a guy here who is awfully damned good, but we break a lot of laws when we start rooting around in people's private affairs. Good way to get a decent case thrown out of court. Better for us to stick to the tried, true and honorable methods of crime detection."

There was an underlying tone of sarcasm in his voice and maybe a bit of disgust, but I ignored it.

"We want to go out to the house at Hull, look around, maybe even spend the night."

"I can arrange it," he said, "but you guys need to be less than conspicuous. A lot of people are still in the neighborhood . . . won't go home until the weather turns. Some retired folks, not much to do but watch the neighbors. Rich, the guy across the street, is friendly and helpful. He had apparently known the Bridgetons for years, watched the kids grow up and followed Oscar's rise to success and piles of the green stuff. He genuinely liked the whole family. Kids called him Uncle Rich. I'll contact him, give him a cover story to spread in case any of the locals get too curious. It'll work, Spook, and then you and Eleisha can do that voodoo that you do so well."

I manufactured a chuckle, but it was half-hearted at best.

"Unless I hear different, we'll plan to leave on the late ferry to Hull."

We did. I packed a sea bag with the few essentials we'd need for a couple of days at the last place the Bridgeton family had been seen. The ferry at Long Wharf was on time. There was an interesting assortment of passengers, men and women returning from a day's work in Boston, some school kids a little late from the classrooms of the expensive private schools that dotted the city, and miscellaneous tourists toting bags with assorted stuff they really didn't need. We left George's Island to starboard in the narrows and made the turn toward Hull Gut. In thirty minutes we were at the ferry dock only about a half a mile from the house on Channel St. There were no cabs, but we didn't need one for the short walk.

We found the address. The house was 120 years old and it looked every bit of it. The blue paint on the shingles was striped in gray where the northeast winds had whipped and stirred it with steely sands. A gray-haired gentleman sat on the porch across from the house. He clutched a cold can of something alcoholic and waved to us.

"I'm Rich," he said, "Detective Frye called and asked me to give you the key. I don't expect you to tell me exactly why you're here. I just hope it will help. The Bridgetons are damned fine people, been my neighbors for over twenty years. If anyone has hurt them, I hope they rot in hell. Anything I can do, let me know. By the way, if you want a cold beer, try Joe's. It's just across the street. And Lobster Express delivers."

He handed me a tarnished skeleton key secured to a floating fob that said Hull Yacht Club. I thanked him and we made our way up the steps of the weathered porch. I have to admit I was surprised. These people had money, but you'd never know it by looking at this house. Every doorframe listed in a different direction and the ancient heart pine floors creaked with every step. Rich had already opened the windows and a northwest breeze flooded the house with fresh, salty air. The furniture was a collection of discards and antiques, probably gathered from yard sales and throw-a-ways, discolored, scarred, dinged, but functional, and even comfortable. I knew almost instantly that this house had tales to tell. I just hoped it would tell them to us.

The kitchen floor was covered in faded linoleum, peeling at the corners. It did have the obligatory microwave, and the fridge was bare, but clean. There was a fireplace in the living room, but Rich had told us it wasn't working. No air conditioning, but there were ceiling fans in every room, the blades shedding light dust as we turned on each one. The upstairs consisted of five bedrooms and a single small bath. The fixtures were pitted in dark specks, but again, everything worked.

Eleisha and I had already decided to stay in separate bedrooms. The two of us needed to cover the house as best we could. Sometimes the vibes are focused in one place. With us at different ends of the house, one of us might be more likely to pick up something. I had chosen the bedroom that directly faced the water. It was the largest and I guess you could call it the master, but nothing more than a faded bureau on the left wall and a dressing table shoved up into the corner, its mirror cracked and shedding its silver lining. Eleisha was at the northwest end of the hall. We unpacked our meager belongings and met downstairs for a drink for me, mineral water for her, and to trade observations. Rich had mentioned that Lobster Express, a locals' favorite on Nantasket Beach, would deliver. We found an old menu. Eleisha ordered fish tacos. Lobster pizza for me. Hey, it wasn't DiGiorno's, but I was in the mood to experiment.

The porch faced dead north. It ran the length of the house, probably fifty feet from the water. There was a three-foot thick sea wall with boulders at its base. Several small jetties poked out into the blue basin. To the right was Little Brewster Island, the home of the Boston Light, the oldest continually operating lighthouse on the East Coast. To our left was the city of Boston, the setting sun bathing the skyscrapers in its golden majesty. The various islands that dot Boston Harbor poked their landscapes up from the brine, not to be ignored. The snowy clouds frolicked, then waltzed, in the northwest breeze. The entire scene was something from a fairy tale, a magnificent panorama that couldn't be captured by a camera or even at the hands of a Winslow Homer or a Renoir. We sat in a rusty swing and let the breeze and the colors bathe us until we'd been blessed by its baptismal.

Lobster Express was on time and delicious. We sat at the tired table in the kitchen. I drank some more Gallo and Eleisha sipped at the crystal water. We were wordless. It had been a full day and we were both exhausted. After a quick clean-up, each of us retired to our appointed stations. The sound of the benign swells washing the rocky beach was sweet in my ears. I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.

I had no sense of time. The breeze ruffled the curtains and the quilt felt like a warm cocoon. The timbers squeaked and groaned with a rhythm in natural concert. It seemed as if the old house was speaking a language all its own. That's when I heard something above the soft din. It was a voice, gravelly and full of a wisdom that only comes with experience and sorrow. I turned on my back and sat up on the mattress.

He stood there at the foot of the bed, a threadbare navy-blue uniform embellished with a host of shiny medals on his chest. His eyes were flecked with flashes of silver and gold like the plankton in the bow wake of a boat on a moonlit night. He wore a seaman's cap with a small brim, gold braid surrounding the crown. His stern features were carved into a face nearly covered by a salt and pepper beard that sprouted and seemed to grow as I watched. He was there, but the curtains seemed to ruffle behind him, or even through him. I didn't recognize him, but he seemed to know me . . . and perhaps even why I was there. He mumbled something gruffly. I couldn't make out the words. Then he raised his left arm, twisted his body slightly, and extended a bony finger to the northeast. I'm not sure why, but I nodded. Then he was gone.

The breeze had suddenly become cold and I lay there shivering. I pulled the light blanket up to my neck. Now I was awake, or at least I thought I was. I didn't know who he was, what to call it, or what it meant. But reality or illusion, he had stood at the foot of my bed and tried to tell me something.

I thought about waking Eleisha, but for what? It would wait until morning.

We sat at the table drinking strong black coffee. No Hebrew Nationals. I had to make do with a couple of toasted bagels and cream cheese. Eleisha had brought a bag of small peeled carrots.

"Okay," Eleisha said, "you're doing your thing. You've been contacted, but where do we go from here? So he pointed at something, but what the hell is it? There are three islands roughly in that direction, the Brewsters. Boston Light is on one of them. It is owned and manned by the Coast Guard. There's someone at the lighthouse twenty-four hours a day. Middle Brewster and Outward Brewster are mostly uninhabited, no way to get there except by boat. The guides say the shores are too rough and rocky for anyone to land on them. I would guess that includes us and most of the other people in the known universe."

"I know it doesn't make much sense, but there must be something out there. I'm thinking we need to explore a bit, find out more about the background and the history of Hull. It may give us some insight, anything that could lead us to a hunch. I think we ought to stay one more night. Maybe the old boy will return."

"Well, I'm with you, chief. Actually, I slept like a brick last night. I could use the rest. So I guess we have a plan, Kimosabe."

I nodded, pointed a finger pistol at her, squeezed the imaginary trigger, and finished my bagel. After breakfast, we decided to wander. It was warm, but a northwest breeze cooled us as we walked down to Pemberton Point. In the forties and fifties, there had been a fabulous resort that was regularly visited by the upper crust of New England. The rumor was that Joe Kennedy had romanced Greer Garson there. Other members of the Yankee royalty had frequented that, and similar playgrounds for the wealthy and privileged near Nantasket Beach. Now the Hull High School took up the land that undoubtedly held many secrets. The view at the point was magnificent. The city of Boston and the Boston Light was in full display, light swells shimmering in the finery of the early sun. Gulls croaked and small skiffs, sailboats, and massive sportfish transited the narrow channel of water known as Hull Gut.

We turned and headed back to what could barely be called a village. We passed Joe's Nautical Bar. It was closed, but I made a note to visit later on that evening. On the north side of the road we saw a sign announcing a museum. The Hull Life Saving Station was emblazoned in large golden letters on a neat slab of board. We decided to give it a try.

We were met at the door by DJ, a seventeen year old senior at Hull High. He wore plaid shorts and a T-shirt featuring some rock band I'd never heard of. It hung on him like a tent. He peered at us through thick Buddy Holly eyeglasses and smiled. We paid the admission and began our tour. DJ was a walking encyclopedia of knowledge of the community and its history. There were grainy old black and white photographs of buildings and shipwrecks from the late eighteen hundreds. Some of the local artists had painted images of the colorful pageant that the past enfolded. A replica of the Fresnel lens that topped the Boston Light was on display. There were other artifacts scattered about. Each had a small typed card explaining their uses and background.

We listened and enjoyed. Then we stepped into the main room. A large rowboat greeted us. It was probably thirty feet long and perhaps six feet abeam. I studied the heavy planks and marveled at the beefy construction. At the end of the room, he stared at me from a large fading photograph, yellow at the edges, but still clear and commanding. The bushy salt and pepper beard, the seaman's hat, the uniform adorned with medals. I knew him. He was Joshua James.

He and his volunteers at the Point Allerton Life Saving Station had rescued well over six hundred men and women, mostly mariners whose ships had foundered on the unforgiving shores, victims of the howling nor'easters that pounded the rocky beaches. At the age of eleven, he had witnessed the vicious wrath of a major storm, and experienced the deaths of his mother and baby sister in the wreck of the schooner Hepzibah on Harding's Ledge near the entrance to Boston Harbor. It was an image of horror etched indelibly on his brain and burned into his consciousness.

At fifteen he participated in his first rescue at sea. The reports of his bravery and daring spanned over sixty years. His legend inspired the formation of the modern Coast Guard. James died in 1902 at the age of seventy-five, stepping onto the beach after completing a training mission with his men, then succumbing to heart failure. In 2015 the Coast Guard had commissioned the 418 foot cutter, the James, in his honor. This was the giant who had stood at my bed the night before and pointed towards the Brewster Islands.

Chapter 5

When we got back to the house, I settled on the porch swing while Eleisha had a peanut butter sandwich with sprouts on whole wheat bread. She brought me a glass of the jug red and sat down.

"I know it's early, but I thought you might need that."

"You read my mind . . . not the first time. So what am I thinking now?"

"You're thinking we ought to try Joe's. Sometimes the best place for local knowledge is the local bar."

She wiggled her nose a bit like Samantha in the old 60's TV series "Bewitched". The woman was amazing. I drained my glass and we headed across the street. Joe's was in the basement of a warehouse that looked like it might have housed an old boat building shed. A young woman with long brown waves cascading down her back was exchanging the sign that said closed for one that said open. We followed her down the steps into what was indeed a basement. A long varnished bar lined the wall on the right. There were photos of guys grinning, holding freshly caught fish --- mostly large ones --- plastered on every inch of the walls. I walked down to the far end to see a short flight of stairs leading to a patio with tables, chairs, and umbrellas. The view of Boston and the surrounding waters was spectacular. We went back to the bar and sat on the stools. The brown haired beauty smiled at us.

"I'm Lindsey. What can I get you?"

Eleisha requested a pint of Guinness and I settled for a glass of the house Cab. We were the first customers of the afternoon. A good chance to talk.

"Did you know the Shipleys?" I asked.

"I guess I've answered that question a dozen times in the last week. But, yeah, I did. Oscar came in here regularly when they were in town. Liked to watch the Patriots, rooted for them to cover the spreads, but he followed all of the games. He always had money on them. Todd and the ladies, not really fans, but the whole clan was damned nice people. Nothing fancy about them. Just plain ol' folks getting away from the fuss and the traffic in Boston. Bothered nobody. Oscar always left a nice tip. The girl, Cherie, was a doll, giggly and sweet. She'd order some sort of Princess drink. No alcohol, but lots of sugary, fruity stuff. Polite, friendly --- all of them. I hope nothing bad has happened."

"Was Shasta ever with them?" Eleisha said and smiled.

"A few times . . ."

Lindsey scanned the space to make sure no one had come in, then continued, "now she was a little snooty, but not down-right rude. I guess she was okay."

She said it like she was trying to convince herself. We talked through the one drink and ordered another. It was a long shot, but not much good. Lindsey had told us everything she knew, which was damned near nothing. She wiped the bar with a snowy towel, then went to the sink to wash out some mugs.

"Okay," I said to Eleisha, "what am I thinking now?"

She wrinkled her nose again. It happened when she was about to announce some tidbit of prescient information that you thought was well hidden.

"You're wondering whether we should catch the late ferry back to Boston or stay one more night. You want to feel confident we haven't missed something."

I dropped my head and spoke quietly into the bar. Eleisha tuned in.

"Captain James was the ultimate life saver. Obviously his spirit is somehow connected with this house. He tried to tell me something, but I don't know what. I sort of doubt he'll appear again. So we have to figure out his message. Will it help to spend one more night? I don't know, but the last ferry doesn't leave until late this afternoon. We're in no hurry, but then again, maybe we are. The longer this mystery plays out, the more the trail goes cold, and that may lessen chance we'll find out what's driving it."

"Okay, my noted seer. I have nothing else to contribute, but I'll stay if you like. If I do, you're going to have to conjure up some serious sexual gymnastics to keep my mind and body sharp and agile."

I nodded and smiled. That was a promise I intended to keep, if not here, at my place back in town. We went back to the house at Hull and sat on the porch for another hour, no words passing between us. I studied the water, bathed in the sunshine and the breeze. I was hoping for something, but nothing came. I was about to suggest we pack up when I heard a rap on the door. Rich? Maybe another neighbor, but no. I went to the screen to see Todd and his fiancée perched on the landing.

"Come in. Maybe I can rustle up a cold beer or a glass of cheap wine."

Their smiles were both polite, but definitely forced.

"Mr. Dombroski, this is Shasta Shipley, my fiancée."

I had seen her at the MIT library, but she was definitely stunning up close. Her teeth gleamed like she was doing an ad for Crest on TV. The hair was raw blond silk. She looked down a perfect nose, pursed full ruby lips, and tried on her best "I am most gratified to meet you" expression. Something fleshy and sexy was trying to tumble over the edge of her tight red spaghetti top. The hips and legs were the perfect match. Her browned feet were barely covered in leather thongs with a bright gold medallion on each. Her eyes glinted with a blue intelligence, but there was a hint of something flinty. I pretended to ignore it.

Todd was wearing his best casual yuppie outfit. Khaki shorts, Topsiders, and a bright yellow shirt with that little alligator on the chest. He carried a small canvas bag while he attempted cordiality and command at the same time. Neither of them was working very well. I could feel Eleisha's radar honing in on the entire scene. It was certainly something neither of us had expected.

I rousted a couple of Naturals and mineral water from the fridge. Red rotgut for me. We sat uneasily around the kitchen table and waited. Todd got us started.

"I'm sure you're wondering why we are here. I must apologize for coming unannounced, but the circumstances are somewhat dire. It's been over a week now. To be quite honest, my mind is in a constant state of torment."

His voice dropped an octave and Shasta turned to peer out of the window. The breeze caught wisps of her hair, but she shook it off her face like a thoroughbred racehorse. He glanced at her. She barely nodded and he went on, his voice now quite demonstrative.

"My family and I spent many happy weekends in this house. It is a part of all of us and we are part of it. I know why you are here, but I must admit I find it intrusive. I've done some research, contacted some people, and I am aware that both of you claim quite remarkable sensibilities. The bottom line is you are in my house."

There was total emphasis on the "my house".

"That notwithstanding, you are welcome, but only if we can be certain that you have harnessed any powers that you possess."

Shasta nodded again and turned back to the table. Eleisha watched her out of the corner of her eye with an intensity, or perhaps a hostility, that I hoped only I noticed.

"I told Billy I could promise nothing. Eleisha and I want to provide any assistance we can. Nevertheless, neither of us is any sort of magician. We can only place ourselves in a space in time and hope for positive results."

"And have you had any?" she asked pointedly.

I was reluctant. It was too early. I wasn't sure of anything. There had been other times when I thought I had a breakthrough, only to find that my mind had been playing cruel tricks on me. These people were in pain. I had no intention of toying with them. I decided on a short version of the facts.

"I will tell you this. A man came to me in the twilight of the morning. I believe it was Joshua James."

They each looked at me incredulously. The word "fool" seemed to linger on their lips.

"Mr. Dombroski, James has been dead for over a hundred years."

"I am quite aware of that," I said.

I hesitated again, but I told them about the apparition, the way he pointed toward the Brewsters, and our discoveries upon visiting the museum. Shasta placed her hand on Todd's forearm and shook her head.

"Todd, let's leave the house and the hocus pocus with it. These people know about the reward. They've done their homework and now they want us to believe that they have exhumed a man whose corpse has been in the grave for a century. At best they are self-delusional charlatans, at worst, unconscionable frauds. We really don't have to put up with it."

Todd removed his hand from the table. It was visibly shaking. He placed it on his thigh in a feeble attempt to steady the appendage. Eleisha's dark eyes had become pools of poison. I was sure that one more comment from Miss Shipley and my dark lady would collar her and throw her off the landing. I didn't want that to become part of the scenario.

"Okay," I said, "I understand your skepticism and your discomfort. We will leave immediately and catch the late ferry. Perhaps we have nothing to offer. I am sorry for you losses, if that's what they are. I hope your family is safe and that you will all be reunited shortly. Certainly, you owe us nothing."

Todd seemed to calm a bit while Shasta hadn't ceased to seethe. I pushed away from the table. The sun was setting behind the city and we would soon miss the ferry.

"Wait," he whispered.

He took his fiancee's hand and squeezed a bit. She sighed and shrugged, her eyes full of fire, but she said nothing. Then he turned to Eleisha.

"I know you read Tarot, and palms, as well. Perhaps you could read mine."

Shasta snatched her hand from Todd's.

"Come on," she snarled.

He looked at her with eyes of stone. I thought he was going to tell her to shut up, but the words weren't necessary. She bit her lip. Then she turned from him and focused a glassy stare on the wall.

A hard line appeared above Eleisha's brow and the muscles in her jaw tightened. I don't think Todd or Shasta caught it, but the dark lady's mouth twitched in a way I thought only I would recognize. She stared at Todd and spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"You need to make sure what you're asking. I may see something. I may see nothing. And what I do see may cause you great pain. Your fiancée has called us charlatans. Never mind the insult. That kind of negative energy can block or distort any reading. You don't have to believe us, but your mind must be open. You must be willing to listen to the cards, and prepared to at least consider their import."

Todd looked at Shasta. She wasn't backing down. The word "shit" tried to escape from her red lips, but she held off.

"Shasta, I know what you're thinking, but this is my family . . . my dad, mom, and Cherie. We know this is the last place they were seen. The Spook says he has been contacted. Maybe he has. We've got to find out, regardless of the risks. Back me on this."

She focused on him and placed her hand palm down on the table. He covered it with his and closed his fingers over hers. Her body slumped slightly and she seemed to soften. Then she nodded.

The sun had set behind the city with a brilliant orange glow and the breeze had picked up. Soon it would be dark. We'd miss the ferry. I waited for Eleisha's pronouncement.

"Okay," she said, "let me prepare." She got up and left the room. I knew where she was going. She came back down the stairs with the Deviant Moon Tarot in her right hand. There many different decks favored by expert readers, but this was her constant choice. She went to the counter and poured a glass of the red. She never drank my jug wine unless she was trying to relax enough to meld with the proper energy state. She took a candle from a cabinet. She lit it and dripped some hot wax in the center of a saucer. Then she placed it before us on the table. Instantly the small room filled with the scent of candlewood and a hint of cinnamon. She turned out the overhead light and sat, placing the cards directly in front of her on the table. She closed her eyes and began to rock slowly from side to side. The rest of us watched incredulously.

Todd was ready . . . or at least her thought he was. I knew what Eleisha was capable of. I tried to be patient. Shasta tried to hide it, but she squirmed uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair. My dark goddess spoke.

"This is not a séance. I don't pretend to connect with some sort of spiritual world. I will give you what I can . . . tell you what I see. That is all."

She passed the cards quickly back and forth through the flame. I had seen her do this before. It was supposed to cleanse them of any negative energy. Then she placed a crystal in the center of the table. The many facets caught the light from the flame and danced across our faces and the stained ceiling. She handed the cards to Todd.

"Shuffle them three times. Concentrate on a question you want answered," she commanded, "and place them before me."

He stared at her for a moment. Then he narrowed his eyes to a squint. His jaw was taut and his teeth snapped together a couple of times. He did what she asked. The clattering of the pasteboard faded into silence. She picked up the deck and clutched it to her breast, eyes tightly shut. She sunk her teeth into her lower lip. Then she brushed her black mane behind her ear and put her fist to her forehead. We were only disturbed by the sound of the breeze and the ruffling of the browned curtains. It hesitated for a moment, then seemed to increase. A low howl assaulted our ears. The candle flickered, but recovered to cast an eerie glow on our faces. Eleisha shuffled the cards herself and seemed to chant something from deep within. Then she dealt.

Chapter 6

She started with four cards face up. They were the Magician, the Emperor, the High Priestess, and the Fool. Each had their own meaning. The story would be woven as the rest of the deck unfolded. Eleisha would look for connections, patterns, order, anything that might make the narrative. The next three were the Devil, the Tower, and the Star. She stared at them for a moment and began to peel the remaining symbols off the deck. She stopped from time to time, closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and struggled to find the thread that brought a sequence, an interpretation, and thus a meaning to the colorful mystery before us.

Todd sat quietly and waited. A look of skepticism, if not an accusation of downright deceit, was sculpted into Shasta's face. I wondered if Eleisha would demand that she leave the table. Even I could feel the negative energy emanating from her barely disguised glare.

The wind picked up again and the candle flickered, but this time it went out. The kitchen was shrouded in total darkness, only a faint glow from the streetlights. No one moved. The sound of the curtains became a high pitched droning. I looked to the doorway and a glimmer began to take on definition. I said nothing. I was afraid I could be the only one who was aware. Then I saw Todd turn his head. The lines formed, but they wavered and faded in and out of focus. It was a child, no . . . a girl. She was barefoot. She wore a pair of baggy jeans and a faded, loose fitting, top, but her form seemed to be covered by a wispy shroud. She was not quite a woman, but there was a force, a strength, within the apparition. Her neck was bathed in a lacy necklace of blood that seemed to flow over her shoulders from the back of her head. The phantom lips moved almost imperceptibly.

"Follow the old man," she said and raised a willowy arm. She pointed toward the Brewster Islands.

Todd stood suddenly and reached for her, but his hand came back empty. The wind ceased and somehow the candle flickered back to life. Eleisha was engulfed in hideous tremors.

"That never happened before," she gasped and groaned.

She dropped the members of the Deviant Moon. The cards lay scattered about the sandy linoleum floor. I rushed to her, put my arm around her shoulder, and held her tightly to me. She struggled to breathe, tears in the corners of her dark eyes. It took a moment, but I could feel her body begin to settle. The tension pulsed out in spastic waves.

Todd sat and buried his face in his hands.

"She's dead, and so are they." He sobbed in irregular bursts. Shasta got up, moved toward him, then stopped suddenly. She turned and her feet, now bare, pounded the wooden floors on the way to the porch.

I continued to hold Eleisha. She finally raised an arm and motioned for me to sit.

Todd began to compose himself. He shook his head violently and clicked his teeth a couple of times. Then he slowly placed his hands on the table.

"Outer Brewster," he said, "we used to go out there in the Donzi. Mom, Dad, Cherie and me. It's only nine miles or so offshore. We'd cut through the water. Dad would crack a few tired jokes. We'd heard them a hundred times, but it was part of the ritual. There's a small cove around the back side of the island, rocky beach, just a tiny spit. If you know where to go, you can anchor and walk ashore. Used to be an old quarry out there. Now no one on the island. We'd walk, watch the cormorants and gulls, sometimes even take sandwiches and drinks in a cooler, a little picnic. We were a family. Lots of love and more of the corny jokes. We . . ."

He began to huff and the words locked in his throat. While Eleisha and I waited, I bent down to pick up the Deviant Moon. The cards seemed hot. It was as though they wanted to leap out of my hands. I placed the deck in front of my gypsy woman, but she didn't touch them. Then she spoke.

"So could they be there? Your mom, dad, and Cherie?"

"The ground is basically rock, lots of nesting birds. Hard to get ashore. Very little topsoil, thin vegetation. I don't think so, but right now I'm not even sure I can think. I need some time."

Shasta came back into the room. She stood straight, but her face was a mask of crimson and her features seemed carved in something very hard, even impenetrable. She put her hand on Todd's shoulder and slipped back into her sandals.

"It's time to go."

He stood up slowly and gathered their small bag. I didn't know where they were going, maybe the Nelson-Marek at the yacht club, but it didn't matter. I wanted them gone. I also needed time. The last 36 hours hadn't solved anything. The mystery had only deepened and defied any direction I thought I had.

We listened to the hollow padding as they went down the steps. I turned on the dim light in the living room and sat in a ratty recliner. Eleisha blew out the candle and poured me a tumbler of wine. Then she followed. I could catch just a hint of the trembling in her hand as she handed me the cup. She sat down across from me, her shoulders drawn up tight, her fingers fiercely interlocked in her lap. We sat for several long minutes.

"There's too much going on --- Joshua James, the ghost of Cherie. They're telling us the same thing. I'm going to call Billy in the morning. He can get the marine police out to the island. It won't be hard for them to conduct a quick search. He may not believe us, but we've got enough to convince him to act. There could be something out there that'll give us some insight, or at least enable to make some decent guesses."

She nodded.

"Shasta is a sure-fire bitch," she said.

"Actually, that was a word that came to mind, but I didn't want to be a sexist bastard."

"You have my permission," she said, "and maybe, just maybe, there's more to that situation than meets the eye. I mean they're engaged. As the wife, she could stand to be in line for a rather large inheritance. Todd's dad was loaded, but the mom and the daughter were also in line. You'd think that Shasta, as an heir to Shipley Fine Foods, wouldn't have a worry in the world, but perhaps there's more. I'll do some research in the morning, see if I can find out anything else about the Shipley family fortune. You do your thing, and I'll do mine."

I took a healthy slug of the red poison. "Okay."

Neither of us slept that night, but we didn't have any weird visions or hallucinatory events. I guess I was thankful. We decided to leave on the ten o'clock ferry, but first I called Billy and told him what I wanted.

"Come on, Spook. You've been drinking too much of that red shit. It's clouded your mind. A dead guy standing at the foot of your bed pointing northeast? You got to get off that cheap red shit. The thing with Eleisha? The kid? You know how she can get. Todd and Shasta are probably out of their damned minds with grief. How am I gonna justify that to the chief? Let it go, man . . . let it go."

"Okay Billy, let's review just a bit. You called us in because you don't have a damned thing. You're clutching at straws. Well, I'm the straw. Do it however you want, but get some guys to the Outer Brewster . . . and don't call me Spook."

"All right, Mr. Dombroski. I'll do what I can."
Chapter 7

He did. That afternoon the phone did its Chopin thing.

"Okay, Mr. Clairvoyant, I got it scheduled. Told the Captain I had a hot lead. It damned sure better be one. We're gonna leave the harbor about nine in the morning. Shouldn't take us more than ninety minutes to get there. Three uniforms and a couple of dogs. I called Todd. I'm not sure it's such a good idea, but he wants to go . . . show us the cove where we can get to the beach. I couldn't exactly tell him no. I think he's going to meet us out there in their Donzi. He said you can ride if you want. I think maybe you should join him. We may need you if he gets squirrelly. That's, of course, if you don't have the Duke and Duchess on your schedule."

"Very funny, Gumshoe. I will certainly clear my busy social calendar and I'll call Todd."

"See you then," he said abruptly and hung up.

Todd agreed to pick me up near Long Wharf at seven-thirty A.M. For some reason, he wanted to drive to Hull. I didn't protest. I was there on time and so was he . . . in what looked like a '57 or '58 black Mercedes 190 SL. The top was down. The supple red leather upholstery gleamed and the ivory steering wheel looked like it had just come off the showroom floor. He revved the engine and dropped it down into first. It was like ice, smooth and definitely cool.

"One of Dad's last projects," he said, "loved the old babies. This lady was in the shop in North Carolina. They specialize in rebuilding Mercedes. It took a year and a half. He probably spent $150,000 on it. She needed a run. This seemed like as good a time as any."

I couldn't say much. "They don't build them like they used to" just wasn't going to get it. But they don't.

He elegantly fought the traffic out of Boston and we headed for the peninsula. I had some questions, but it was time for diplomacy, even a bit of delicacy. The man was obviously still hurting and given our destination, more than a little nervous.

"Shasta is certainly very attractive. Seems smart and devoted to you. So how long have you guys been engaged?"

With no more prodding, he began the whole story.

"We met a Hull's Kitchen, a little joint across form Nantasket Beach. It's most outside seating. You can get a cold beer and lobster . . . boiled, fried, grilled, darned any way you can prepare it.They had met at Hull's Kitchen across the street from Nantasket Beach. It's a small joint with mostly outside seating. You can get a cold beer and lobster... boiled, fried, grilled, darned near anyway it's prepared. Great food and reasonable prices. She was sitting with some girlfriends at a table next to me. Knocked me right out from the get-go. I smiled at her and she smiled back. Next thing I know we were talking. It was so easy. Her parents had a place just up the coast in Cohasset. I told me she was a Wellesley grad, now doing an M.B.A. at Boston College, a Shipley, and my god . . . simply ravishing. I asked her out and fell we just fell . . . 'hopelessly in love' is probably the appropriate phrase.'

He didn't say so, but between the lines I read also "hot as hell in the sack". It was the stuff of fantasy, the perfect coupling of budding New England royalty.

He didn't say much of anything about his mom, dad, or Cherie, so I didn't ask. After a while he got very quiet. I honored his silence. Soon we were pulling into the parking lot of the Hull Yacht Club. He pulled the top on the Mercedes over the interior, locked the chrome latches, and we went to the desk to get a tender out to the big yacht. Her name was DULCE REVE, which translates roughly to sweet dream. She shined and swayed gently in the even swells. The Donzi waited faithfully at the stern. She fired up on the first turn of the key and snuffled like a fine steed ready to spring from the starting gate. The day was magnificent, bright sun dancing on the wavelets . . . not really the thing for searching for bodies. The Donzi was fast, but smooth and effortless. We didn't try to talk over the purr of the inboard. Besides, I think he was just plain scared at what we might find. I didn't like it either.

The police boat was making tight circles when we spotted them just north of Outer Brewster. Billy waved and the dogs barked. Todd pulled into a barely visible cut and we eased into a small basin with a smudge of beach. They followed. He parked the Donzi just outside the rocks and dropped the Danforth into the shallow water. He threw another steel fisherman anchor off the stern and secured it to a cleat. We waded ashore and waited. The giant shepherds barked and bounded into the spray ahead of the uniforms. What the hell? No one was going home dry.

Billy frowned. He'd removed his Florsheims, the argyle socks, and rolled his pants legs as close to his knees as he could get them. Still, the salt rivulets had splashed up his leg and soaked the cuffs of his pants. Billy slipped on a pair of Reeboks. Todd took us to a steep winding path that led to the summit. We began the climb. Two uniforms held the dogs at bay while they nimbly raced over the rocks. Billy stuffed an old t-shirt up at their eager noses. Soon the dogs took the lead and we followed.

There was little land area on the plateau. Rocks, sandy soil, and the occasional purple wildflower happy to be alive, bowing to the strong breeze. A few birds, but seemingly unaware, or at least unconcerned, about our invasion. Todd wanted to smile, or to cry. I wasn't sure which.

The dogs paused at the top of the plateau. They bayed and whined for a moment. Then their noses went to the ground. It didn't take long. They tugged at their leashes and howled like banshees on a cloudless night. The ground was freshly turned, a somber combination of black and gray, with spider legs of orange in it.

"Hold it," Billy instructed, "we need to get a team out here before we touch anything."

He pulled his cell phone, hit a button, and mumbled some quick directions to an anonymous voice on the end of the line. He looked at me stoically. "Get him the hell out of here," his eyes said. Somehow Todd understood. We slowly negotiated the rough, rocky path and were back on the Donzi in fifteen minutes.

"I knew," he whispered.

The bodies were in a shallow grave near the center of the island. The scorching sun and the salt spray had already begun to take their toll on them, and the birds had given the desiccated flesh a good going over. But it was them. Billy called me later that day. The ME confirmed the identities. Dental, DNA, the whole routine. Now we just needed to know when and how they got there. The autopsies showed small caliber wounds at the base of each skull. Neat and quick. Two .22 slugs fired delicately into each one. Too much time had passed to determine who had died first. The Boston PD forensics team went back through the house at Hull with a fine toothed comb. It didn't help that we had been there. They also went over the yacht. Same song, different verse, but nothing. No signs of blood, no unexplained prints, no latents, nothing to indicate time, motive, opportunity or any other damned thing.

Zero.

So we had the bodies, but we sure didn't have anything else. There were a couple of things that bothered me. First, the beach on the island and the path were apparently unknown to most of the casual mariners who navigated these waters. Yet Todd knew exactly where to take us. Also . . . there were three bodies. Who had the knowledge and strength to cart them up to that summit? The path was steep and uncertain. Was there an accomplice? Maybe a helicopter? And if Todd was involved, why had he led us to the bodies? He was smart enough to know that no matter how careful he, or others, had been, there was the strong possibility of incriminating evidence. I didn't want to think it, but at least now there were bodies to confirm the deaths. Any inheritance would be much smoother, not to mention quicker. It was baffling, but there was too much of this case that defied any reasonable explanations.

I knew Billy . . . knew how thorough he was, but if he couldn't come up with something, we had to. We were back at my basement digs by now. I felt like I had crawled into a cave. It was dark, and it didn't seem so cozy now. The discovery of the bodies seemed to cloy at me and make me feel tainted. I kept brushing imaginary things off my arms and face, but they kept creeping back.

Eleisha barely looked up when I closed the door. She had been working on the Shipley thing for a couple of days. The sites contained multiple firewalls, some sites even carefully encrypted. She muttered to herself and cursed the Dell in broad ugly terms, certainly not befitting a lady, but I had to admit that Eleisha didn't always fall neatly into that category. Anyway, I decided not to mention it. I poured a plastic cup of jug red and fell onto the sofa.

Chapter 8

It was early evening. The days were getting shorter and the sun was threatening an early abdication. It had clouded up some. The purple had merged with the orange glow. Maybe a little rain, later. Everyone was hoping. It had been a hot, humid, mostly still summer in Boston and the greenery was bowed in resignation, or maybe prayer, fervently waiting for some relief.

Elesiha was out. One of her regulars had called and the expectant lady always paid cash. We could use it. Everyone and everything was moving way too slowly. I decided on a walk before pizza. Sometimes the rush of the tourists and the kids playing in the fountains frees up my mind. I ambled down towards Long Wharf. I thought about a Bloody Mary at Tia's. They make a damned good one, rich and spicy. But the place was starting to fill up and I was really out of patience. I walked along the waterfront towards the Renaissance. Sure enough, the kids were bounding in and out of the exploding cascades. The laughter and sheer joy in a thing that some might see as mundane made me grin. I watched for a few minutes, then headed back to my basement. I did feel better, but I could sense the frustration building as I got closer to my own personal hideout. Still there was pizza.

I had added a little asiago to the pie, then extra mozzarella, Italian seasoning, and a few pepperonis that were getting a bit rubbery. I preheated my oven. When the bell went off, I slid my delight into the steamy cavern and set the timer. It was DiGiorno, the extra-large. There was a feast to be had. I barely heard the rap on the door.

I opened it wide and there was Lute Ferrara. I hadn't seen him in years. We had grown up across the street in Roxbury, calling each other affectionate names like "dumb Polack", "worthless Wop", and occasionally fighting with the Irish Southies that didn't like either one of us. My dad was a baker. Lute's ran a joint in Little Italy, DOM'S RESTAURANT AND BAR just off the corner of Commercial and Hanover, maybe the place I developed my passion for pizza, but mostly a front. The old man was a bookie. Definitely connected with some characters with interesting nicknames like Slicer, Crush, and Shure-Shot. I used to see them disappear behind a dingy curtain at the back of the joint and come out after a few minutes when Lute and I were bussing tables for a dollar an hour.

Lute and I played stickball together, bounced through the puddles when some smartass unlocked the fire hydrants, and generally did the things boys do. It was actually pretty damned swell. I graduated from high school and went off to Alfred, a small university in western New York, in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. Lute did small jobs for the Italians. A little B and E, ocassionally some pimping, drug stuff, and anything else that made him a dishonest buck. It was rumored that he had graduated into mob enforcement, or maybe I should just be polite and say intimidation. I hoped he hadn't killed somebody, but it was anyone's guess. He smiled and stepped in. I offered him a beer while the pizza baked. It was smelling mighty damned good.

"No, tanks, Spook. I can't stay long. I guess I oughta tell ya I'm here on business."

He didn't sit down. "I want you to know this ain't nothing personal. I mean us being friends as kids and all that shit."

"So what's up, Lute?"

He reached onto his pocket and I heard a distinctive click. It wasn't new to me. Any kid raised on the streets of a major city had heard it a hundred times. The blade was long and shiny. The bone handle fit perfectly in his palm. The cold steel picked up the lamp light and reflected it on the ceiling. I gotta hand it to him. Lute looked scary, but also kind of like he was sorry it had to be this way. Still, his eyes were colorless and dead. I figured before too long, I would be, too.

He shook his head one more time as if to say "no offense", but it's a hard message to convey when someone is trying to kill you. I got a sense that this might be my final stop. Or at least the last one before the morgue, a manila tag hanging from my big toe.

He swung the blade in a tight arc before me. I backed off until I was stopped by the table. I tried to look terrified, but the old habits weren't gone. I mouthed a silent thanks to the Marines. I planted my left foot behind me, turned my head in mock fear, and disguised a crouch. I thought about a little whimper, but that might be too much stagecraft. I wanted him to think I was going quick and quiet. He took a swipe at me, then lunged, planting on his right foot. I stepped into his thrust and grabbed his wrist with my right hand. I pulled him to me and spun him to his left. The blade caught the folds of my shirt, slicing at my belly. Then I stuffed my free arm underneath his right and caught him at the elbow. I locked my palm over my forearm. I bent his knife hand until I heard the elbow crack. The switchblade clattered to the floor. He curled up like a fetal child and moaned. I could feel my own warm blood oozing down into my pants.

"You shouldn't oughta done that, Spook. They'll get ya, and they won't be quick and easy like I was gonna do. You're a dead man."

"Sorry Lute, you should have turned this one down."

I grabbed an old towel and stuffed it in my shirt. I dialed 911, then hit the speed dial for Billy. The cops were there before the bell on the oven timer sounded. It looked like I'd pissed in my pants, but the stain was pure crimson. Billy got there just behind the uniforms. They'd already cuffed my old buddy. He writhed on the floor, tears flooding his eyes.

"Lute," Billy said cheerfully, "good to see you."

Then he kicked my childhood companion in the elbow. Lute howled, "They'll get ya . . . ya bastard. They'll get ya."

Billy said, "Worthless Wop," under his breath and sat on the couch. The blues cuffed their whining prize and escorted him to the exit. I was glad to hear that door shut.

"So," Billy said, "how about a slice of pizza and a cold beer?"

I checked my belly. The blood had already begun to clot. I went to the fridge, then retrieved a pie cutter from the drawer. I pulled my baby from the oven and cut us both a healthy portion of Italian comfort.

Billy took a big slug of the Ice House and dove into the thick cheese. A pepperoni hung slightly over his lip as he spoke, slurring the words and smiling at the same time.

"You're getting mighty popular, Spook."

"Cut the Spook shit or no more pizza."

"Right, Elmo. So why you? I know you and Lute go way back. It must have been tough for him to accept this kind of duty."

"Well why let friendship get in the way of a good payoff? He said he was sorry . . . just 'business' was the way he put it."

"Well, business or no, you must be getting close to something. It's gotta involve those greasy shits or the assassin's name would have been Murphy. I don't think our boy will roll. He knows if he does, he won't make a week in jail, even though I'm sure he'll make bail unless we can get the judge to revoke it. Not likely to happen. What else are you working on?"

"Nothing. So I guess that narrows it down to my unfortunate relationship with the aficionados at Boston Homicide."

Billy didn't appreciate my feeble stab at humor.

"Duly noted, smartass. But you got something. You just don't know what it is yet. Theories? Hunches? How about your lady with the healthy accoutrements? I know you. You got her working on something. What is it?"

"I still have some questions, but I can't shake the feeling that Todd's okay. He can hardy talk about it without breaking up. He's going to come into a ton of money. That, in itself, speaks to motive, but he was devoted to his family, adored the little sister. I just can't make him as the killer, or someone who would hire a thug to do that kind of dirty work. He was too comfortable with things as they were. I do have Eleisha working on the fiancée. Shasta's the only joker in the deck. So far, my beautiful hacker hasn't been able to penetrate the firewalls that protect the Shipleys from our unwanted invasion of their privacy. Short of that, I'm sitting with my thumb up my ass."

"Your mother would be very disappointed at your choice of metaphors."

Billy took another slug of beer and pointed toward the stove. I took his plate and replaced the slice he'd just devoured. For good measure, I added another frosty beverage.

"Okay," he said, "my desk is piled with shit. The gangbangers have been quite energetic, and I got a few domestics that I gotta deal with quick. Granted, this one is high-profile, but we're short-handed, as always, and I'm just one humble detective trying to protect and serve. If you get anything . . . and I mean anything, call me."

He stuffed the massive remnants of the pizza in his mouth and washed it down with two noisy gulps of beer. Then he dabbed daintily at his mouth with a paper towel and left.

On the way out he said, "Get your belly stitched up. You're making a damned mess. It almost ruined my appetite."

"Your heartfelt concern is a great comfort to me, asshole."

I nodded a final sarcastic thanks and went into the bathroom to see if I needed another towel.

Chapter 9

Eleisha got home and freaked.

"You didn't even have the good sense to go to the hospital? You may have lost more blood than you think. Suppose you have an infection? Did you have to use the towels with the monograms? What are you thinking, Mo?"

"Hey, that's why they sell hydrogen peroxide and band aids at Walgreens. The damned thing has clotted. I ate all my pizza . . . at least what was left after Billy scrounged his portion. I drank a couple of glasses of red, and I'm good to go."

"Okay, Captain America. Have it your way . . . "

She grabbed a mineral water and down disgustedly at the kitchen table.

"So how did the reading go?" I asked.

"Very nicely. Ms. Locksley came through with tea and crumpets and three crisp hundred dollar bills to fend off our landlord. And guess what else I got?"

"An autograph from Donald Trump?"

She scowled, opened her mouth wide, and pretended to stick a finger down her throat.

"Let's try again . . . info . . . on the Shipleys. The firewalls began to disintegrate after the right combination of deft stabs at the keys. I'm still stymied by the encryptions, but I have enough to make your bloodshot eyes sparkle."

"Dazzle me, O Mistress of the Dark."

"Hey, that was Elvira. Anyway, we'll get to the mistress part later," she said slyly, "but I hope your body is in as good a shape as you claim, Sir Lancelot. For now, back to the Shipleys. Fine Foods is not so fine at the moment. A combination of the recession and the public's passion for organic has put a serious dent in sales. They've actually lost money in seven of the last eight quarters. They're sixty days behind on the twelve grand payments on the home in Cohasset. Their three million dollar brownstone here in Boston is near foreclosure. Lease payments on all three cars are in arrears and they can't stop spending. The market sure hasn't helped. To put it simply, everything is going to shit. You'd never know it by the photos in the society page. He, the aging, but still handsome, king of commerce and she, the lovely doyenne, suitably adorned in thousands of bucks of fashion and jewelry. Shasta is definitely her mother's daughter, the same long blond hair. I'll bet mom has spent a tidy sum with the plastic surgeon. Hell, except for a few years, they could be twin sisters."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow, indeed . . . Oh, and there's one small detail I neglected to mention. The old man's a gambler. Craps, five card stud, blackjack, roulette . . . you name it. I can't verify this, but rumor has it that he's inclined to fly to Vegas or Monte Carlo and leave without fifty to a hundred grand that he had when he arrived. His wife goes with him, dripping in diamonds and designer gowns, and pours money into the slots like water out of a boot. Dom Perignon, Cristal . . . no Gallo or Mondavi for these folks. Expensive habits, especially under the circumstances."

"How about horses?"

"I was getting to that, O Prescient One. They also have a permanent box at Churchill Downs. Never miss the Derby, and are frequent visitors to Pimlico and Belmont Park, not to mention Saratoga."

"Bingo," I said, "the casinos, the horses, the bookies. Chances are the old man owed someone some money. So who was it, and if he was behind, how much? That might be the connection."

"And what connection is that?"

"Shasta is engaged to the young lord of the manor. The family conveniently goes to their last rewards. The heartbroken son inherits. They marry, and she, or someone else, uses the loot to bail out her mom and dad. Then everyone lives happily after."

"My God, that's cold . . . even for a Spook."

"It is, but it makes sense. Lute is hired for his dubious talents. He was always a good knife man, but maybe he's added .22's to his repertoire. Who took them out to the island? Who knows? But the logic is there, the motive . . . the trip out to that barren rock creates the opportunity. So a delivery boy leaves the bodies in a godforsaken place where no one is likely to look."

"Okay smart guy, call Billy."

I did. He listened, didn't interrupt. For a moment I thought the phone had gone dead.

"Okay, most interesting, but not a shred of evidence. I need more than hearsay and a flood of maybes. None of Eleisha's hacker shit is admissible in court. No judge will touch it. I was right about Lute. His lips are sealed like he's been chugging Crazy Glue. We still got him caged, but I'm betting he'll be out by noon tomorrow."

"Billy, I need to talk to him before you cut him loose and he disappears to some nice little harbor town in South America. And it needs to be alone."

"You gotta be kidding me. The sonovabitch tried to kill you. What are you gonna do, ask him out for a beer?"

"It was only business. He said so. You can make it happen. He owes me. Let me try."

"Okay, Sherlock. Choose your own poison."

I was down at the lockup by four. We sat across a metal table from each other. He looked a little sheepish.

"I don't know why you're here, Spook. You wired? They got the room bugged? My lawyer said 'don't do it', but I guess I'm getting sentimental in my old age. I remember the time that bastard Liam and his Southie boys jumped me. They might have killed me if you hadn't busted in. If memory serves me, we put a couple of them in the hospital. Served 'em right. I don't forget."

"And you were going to knife me, Lute. Should I forget that?"

"I told you I was sorry, but I got a reputation to maintain. What was I gonna do?"

"Okay, the hell with it? It's over. Just you and me now, Lute. No wires or any other shit. The Bridgetons are dead. Mom, dad, and a fourteen year old girl. I need some answers. For old times' sake, I thought you might give them to me."

"I didn't do the Bridgetons. I may be a low-life, but I ain't doing no fourteen year old girl, less she got it coming to her. Besides, I don't like guns. You know that. Still, I know who does. I ain't naming no names, but the old man owed certain people a lot of money. I guess some of those investments didn't exactly pay like he promised. Word on the street was 500 K. You know how it works, Spook. You don't pay, they may decide to . . . how you say . . . make an example. Makes the suckers a little more timely coming up with the vig."

"So who put you on me?"

"I told you I ain't naming no names, but she was a knockout. I'll be outta here before you can make coffee in the morning. I told you too much already. Consider it a favor. Dumb of me to forget how good you was. I shudda kept my feet planted, but I'm glad you're still quick and still tough. It's good. I figure you'll need it."

He pointed to the navy blue sling that held his arm.

"At least I'm getting some dynamite painkillers."

He grinned with a hint of serpentine delight.

"Eh . . . so my rep suffers a little. If I'd done it, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night . . . you an old bud and all that shit."

"That's very comforting," I said and pushed away from the table.

Lute was right. He was out the next morning and it wasn't until that night that they found his body in the harbor. He had two thousand bucks stuffed in his shoe. I have to admit it. I felt kind of bad . . .maybe even somewhat responsible, but it didn't last long. Maybe it was like my ol' buddy said . . . all just business. God, I hoped not. Still, there was one phrase from our conversation that stuck in my mind, "She was a knockout."

So was Shasta.
Chapter 10

The funeral wasn't well attended. Me, and a few others I vaguely recognized. Two of the soldiers from the Family were there to show their respect. Father Silvestri was at the graveside. He said all the right things and provided his usual Godly presence. Short and sweet. Lute was a child of the savior, not perfect, but no man is. He would meet his maker and the Man would decide his eternal fate. The priest prayed for mercy and forgiveness. I guess it was supposed to be sad, but maybe I knew Lute too well. After each of the mourners had thrown a handful of dirt over the casket, the small crowd began to disperse. One graybeard lingered. I hadn't seen him in years --- didn't even know he was still alive --- but I recognized him instantly.

"Mr. Ferrara, you probably don't remember me."

He raised a grizzled hand like a stop sign at a school crossing.

"You gotta be kidding me, Elmo. I remember like it was yesterday. You and Lute on the front step tossin' quarters, ogling the girls, trying to stay out of detention at the old high school. It's good to see ya."

He threw a paw around my neck and held me to him.

"Thanks for being here. Lute would have been proud. He was a good boy, ya know. Always respectful to his Ma, God rest her soul. He made Mass near every Sunday, and always served the Family. No questions asked. This shudda never happened. He was no snitch. They shudda known that."

I nodded while a tear crept down his pock-marked cheek. He buried his face in a stained handkerchief, blew his bulbous nose like a Harley exhaust, and looked up at me.

"My Momma used to quote the Bible to us . . . the kids, too. 'Live by the sword, die by the sword.' That's what she used to say. I guess that's kinda what he did. I don't guess I helped too much. Shudda watched you kids a little closer, maybe found a different line of employment. You know . . . set a good example. Anyway, it is what it is. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

He turned back toward the black limo. I put my hand on his arm.

"Maybe you can help. I'd like to know more."

"Ah, Elmo. I ain't no dummy. I know you're in bed with the cops. I remember Billy, too. Smart-assed Irish punk. I saw him standing up on the hill, watching like a hungry wolf. I know you and him is tight. Even old men hear things. What's done is done. We all know our time's coming. Lute's time just came a little early. Maybe he'll rest in peace. Who the hell knows? But take it from an old soldier, son. Don't bite off more than you can chew. My Momma said that, too. Maybe you oughta take that good lookin' witch and go on a long vacation. I don't want to come back here until it's me they're plantin'."

The message was clear. I released his arm and he hobbled back to the car.

I figured I had . . . bit off more than I could chew. They tried to kill me. I still didn't know why, but I knew the next time they'd be a little more careful and a little more efficient. And there would be a next time. So where do we go from here? I had to talk to Eleisha.

I caught a cab and went back to the apartment. She was sitting on the sofa watching Oprah. She picked up the remote and dialed down the volume. I went to the kitchen and poured a tumbler of what masqueraded as Cabernet.

"So how'd it go?"

"It was a funeral. They're always a kindof sad, and there's always a healthy amount of bullshit. This one was definitely both. Nice service, all the appointed mourners. Father Silvestri did his best comforting tone and message. I did see Dom Ferrara, Lute's dad. He had some interesting observations and some advice we ought to consider."

I told her about the old man's warning.

"So the Spook wants to run? Yeah . . . right. That's a serious pile of crap. Everyone thinks you're quiet, a little weird, but mostly harmless. You're talking to a lady who knows different."

"Yeah, but what about you? He mentioned you specifically, called you that good lookin' witch. I can't let anything happen to you."

"That's touching . . . and I will certainly thank Dom for the compliment when I see him . . . which I hope is never."

"I just don't want you in any danger."

"Yeah, well if I was worried about that, I'd be dating a lawyer. Wait . . . maybe I ought to think about that one, too."

"Very funny, my dark darling, but the threat is real. We could both be in harm's way. I got a few bucks stashed in the safe deposit box. I hear Bimini is nice this time of year."

"You must think I'm some sort of fool. I know you won't back down on this thing. You've got the bone in your teeth, and you'll keep clenching until the marrow is dripping out of your mouth. So save it for the suckers. What do we do next?"

Gutsy lady. We both knew the answer. At this point, all roads led to Shasta. More info, even a meeting, if we could pull it off. My good looking witch thought she could. I didn't ask any questions. I took a slug of the red and went off to pre-heat the oven. Shasta disappeared into the back. I could just hear her voice on the phone.

Chapter 11

She came back glowing.

"I pulled the female thing on her. Shasta was tight-lipped at first. I thought I might need hearing aids after she slammed the phone in my ear, but she didn't. Chalk it up to my soothing, caring, entreating tone. It slowed her down a bit. She began to listen. I told her Billy had her #1 on suspect list, even though I, of course, was sure she was as pure as new fallen snow. I let it slip, rather casually, that he knew about her family's financial difficulties. I asked her to meet with us."

"And she said . . . "

"At first it was no. Then I told her I knew what an asshole you could be, but you were only searching for the truth, and I thought she could convince you that she had no part of it. I guess that sparked the actress in her. She could play the sweet, beautiful, innocent, young girl whose only concern was the welfare of her devastated fiancée. Who knows --- maybe an Academy Award . . . or least an Emmy. I think she's got you pegged as an incurable romantic. Not too far off on that one."

"So . . . "

"Eleven-thirty tomorrow morning at Shacky's Deli. We'll get there early, take that little table in the back. It's private and quiet. I'll take the lead until she loosens up. You keep your mouth shut and try to look sympathetic, if you can pull it off. Then I'll hand it to you."

"You, my dear, are a damned genius, or maybe just real good at sneaky."

"Maybe both," she said and manufactured a phony leer. Then she stuck her tongue out at me.

I decided not to call Billy unless we had something. Eleisha went back to the computer. I watched the silky black tresses shift from one side to another as she groaned, ahhed, and cussed the ever changing screens. I often wondered if she got some kind of orgasm off that damned machine. Now, she stomped her bare foot on the floor. It sounded like a bomb going off. She twisted her shoulders violently, sighed and her fingers began again in a whir. The clicking had about driven me off the deep end, when a spate of triumph exploded from her lips.

She turned and looked at me like she was holding the last slice of pizza.

"Guess what, Mr. Dombroski? No, don't. Let me break it to you gently. Shasta's mother, she of the diamonds and designer dresses, was a Ferrara."

"So she had a Ferrari? Who gives a shit?"

"Listen, asshole. F E R R A R A. She was a Ferrara. That was her mom's maiden name. I'm still not sure, but Lute was at least a distant cousin, if not an uncle. You know the Italians. They're all related in some way. Cousins, aunts, uncles, friends of uncles. They need Fenway Park for a family reunion. We know the Ferraras are part of the Family. Old man's a bookie, son is an enforcer. Who knows? Maybe Momma recruited hookers."

"Nice work, Miss. It certainly gives us one more card to play."

"Speaking of playing games, how's your belly, big boy? You can lie still. I'll do most of the work and I'll try not hurt you, at least not much."

She nodded toward the bedroom and took my hand. Her black eyes flashed like a Cadillac on the showroom floor. She tipped the silky eyelashes just for me and we vanished from the living room into the darkness of what became her mystical cave. Corny? Damned right, but it was damned good.

It was a quiet morning. I sat with the Boston Globe and a cup of strong coffee. No drive-bys, just a few armed robberies, both parties in congress still hated each other, and a lot of people thought the president was a schmuck. What ever happened to real news?

We showered together, making absolutely sure that every single part was scrubbed nice and clean. I changed the bandage on my stomach. It was already closing up neatly. Then we dressed and headed down to Shacky's. Eleisha was right. We got there early and settled into the back booth. More coffee and some of that homemade Danish they're famous for. I wanted a hot dog, but they didn't serve them for breakfast. My bun was peach, while the lady opted for apple. We both slathered the rolls in butter. I waited patiently while the golden dribbles slid over the dough and pooled on the plate.

Shasta was prompt. She looked just a few bucks short of a million, but her blue eyes were watery and lifeless. Blond silky locks hung over her ears, a touch of blush, and heavy lip gloss on her full pink lips. The top was conservative, no cleavage, but the light fabric bulged and pulsed with a vibrancy-- even an urgency -- that screamed youth and sexuality. Eleisha had her own great stuff. I'd confirmed that last night, but I detected just a hint of jealousy in m'lady's posture and her expression. Shasta sat. She hung her head slightly and eyed me through half-closed lids. Eleisha sat up and assumed her least threatening pose. She even smiled a little.

"Thanks, Shasta. I'm glad you're here. You can help. Not only to take yourself off the list, but maybe direct us so we can nail the bastards that did the Bridgetons."

Eleisha reach over and patted her hand . . . a nice girl thing. Shasta nodded and clenched her teeth. Then the tension seemed to ease a bit and resignation began to take over.

"I can't believe the cops think I could do something like that. Todd and I have been together for over two years. I knew those people. They were kind to me. Cherie and I were first-class pals. Email, Facebook, Twitter. She'd tell me things, talk to me before she talked to her own mother. I loved the kid. She was like a little sister I never had. When I heard they were missing, I was freaked. Todd went nuts, wouldn't even talk for days. He cried. That's not like him. I know you don't really know him. He maintains the front, tries to be macho, even works at it, but he's a big teddy bear. It's one of the things I love about him. His family was his anchor, even more than me. Now this."

I kept my mouth shut. Eleisha clicked her teeth, gave a sympathetic and reassuring nod. Then waited a minute, oozed concern, and went on.

"Mo has talked to Detective Frye. I guess we know at least a little of what you're going through. It must be endless torture, especially with a wedding just a few months off. But the police have a job to do. That is finding a multiple murderer. They're looking at a couple of things. One is your family's financial situation."

She hesitated, measuring a proper response. Then she sucked in a breath and seemed to cave in.

"Okay, you know. . . Dad is a terrific businessman. He built Shipley Fine Foods from one truck into a multi-million dollar enterprise. But he's also a gambler. I suppose there's a streak of that in all successful business people. I'm not sure what happened. He used to be pretty good at it. He'd come back from Vegas, always had a little gift for me, diamond earrings or a gold necklace. 'Throw of the dice', he used to joke. Mom would be all giddy. Maybe a new fur, a bracelet from Tiffany's, some Halston or just a Gucci pocketbook. She'd prance around like Giselle and model for us. We'd all laugh. It was harmless fun. Then I guess his luck changed. The gifts got smaller. He'd frown and lock himself in his office for days. I don't get it, but it happened. And then the business. I was never privy to all that stuff. I still had my VISA GOLD and my Mercedes. Anyway, I was on campus most of the time."

"I understand your mother's maiden name is Ferrara."

"Okay. I get where you're going with this. Yeah, I knew Lute. Not well, but I knew him. Mom always said that part of the family was into things we didn't want to get involved with. I didn't know what she meant, and I didn't really care. We just didn't see them much. I know they found him in the harbor. I'm sorry. He was always nice to me when I saw him, but we didn't attend the funeral. It just wasn't part of who we are as a family. I think Mom sent some flowers or something."

I finally spoke.

"Shasta, I appreciate you being honest with us. Everything you say makes sense, but is there anything I can tell Billy that will clear you, get you off his list? At least point him in some other direction."

She shook her hair off her face and bit her tongue while she licked her lips. She stared at the table for a moment, then looked directly at Eleisha.

"If there was, I'd tell you. There's not. I was with Todd most of that weekend, but not every minute. That's the best I can do. Don't call me again. Sorry, I have a one o'clock. Dr. Shirley is very tough on people who miss class, at least unless they're dead."

She got up abruptly and headed for the door. Eleisha and I sat. I waved to the server for a refill on the coffee and considered another Danish. It wasn't a Hebrew National, but it was pretty damned good.

"So what did you think?" Eleisha asked.

"We don't know much more than we knew before we met with her, but I bet they have a dynamite drama program at Wellesley. I kept waiting for some kind of vibes, but it didn't happen. What about you?"

"You're probably right about the drama program, but I don't think she did it. I mean I don't think she did it or arranged for it to happen. She wouldn't make my list of favorite people. She's still a bitch, but I just don't see the cold, nor the cool . . . the deviousness that it would take to snuff out an entire family. I also gotta tell you, I bought the little sister thing. I think she and Cherie were close. What about you?"

"I don't know. Something's missing. I want to go back to Hull. One more night in the house."

Eleisha shook her head and sucked a deep breath. Her shoulders slumped. She drilled me with those dark eyes.

"Okay. Boston Blackie. You make the call."

I did.

Chapter 12

Billy arranged it, but he wasn't real happy. I told him about our interview with Shasta, how it created more questions than answers. I don't think he was impressed.

"Listen Spook, I'm expecting some sort of breakthrough with this shit. The press finds out I let a damned psychic, or maybe that's psycho, in the house where a triple murder may have occurred, I am the proverbial toast. Not to mention your ass, which will burn right alongside mine.

"Oh, Billy . . . I love it when you talk dirty. Just get me in the damned house."

"Cut the crap, asshole. And take Eleisha. You and I both know she's the real brains in your outfit. Make it tonight, and keep your damned mouth shut about all this shit."

I was trying to think of something clever to say when he hung up. I told the dark lady about my conversation with the fuzz, and told her to pack an overnight bag. She cut me a look that would have melted a glacier. Then she shrugged and went into the bedroom. My popularity quotient seemed to be at an all-time low, but what the hell. Hazards of the trade. Maybe in my next life I'd be one of Johnny Depp's dogs.

We caught the two o'clock ferry and were inside the house by three. It didn't look much different. If anything, a bit more doughty. I wondered why the Bridgetons, a family that was definitely loaded, wouldn't take the time to fix things up, make it a little more luxurious, if not simply presentable. But as a blond designer I once cavorted with used to say, "There's no accounting for taste . . . or the lack thereof."

We opened all of the windows and let the southeast breeze cool things off, then went onto the porch to absorb some of the magnificence. I looked out toward the Brewster Islands, an ugly memory slithering into my consciousness. A healthy slug of red poison didn't help much. I looked at Elesiha. The sun shimmered in her black silky mane. She slipped out of her sandals and the olive skin on her legs gleamed like fine polished furniture. Her eyes seemed even darker than usual. I knew she was feeling the same thing. The Bridgetons were dead. I had a sense that we were running out of time. This might be our last chance to connect with them. It needed to work. The salt air christened us with its own benign spirit, but it wasn't enough.

We ordered in from Lobster Express. Fish tacos for her and a pizza topped with shrimp for me. We ate without speaking. We had decided to take the same bedrooms as before. Maybe Joshua James would return with some spiritual insight. It was probably too much to hope for . . . perhaps even a bit foolish. But I am that fool and I don't apologize for it. After a couple of more tumblers of the red, we turned in.

I'm not sure I slept. My mind buzzed like a merry-go-round on steroids. Colors, forms, shapes that I couldn't identify. I was almost nauseous when she appeared.

At first I thought it was a small child, but she began to take on a fleeting maturity. I knew. It had to be her, the young girl, barely a teenager. She wore a loose fitting top and denim jeans. Her hair flowed over her back. Her face was indistinct, the features blurred, but I sensed the innocence. Still, the budding sexuality buried in her was close to erupting. She reached toward me and I took her hand. It was cold, but I felt the fingertips clutch mine tightly. I looked to the bed and there was my sleeping form, motionless except for a slight rise and fall in the chest. It was me. My body was in the bed, but somehow I was also there with her. I shook my head, trying to feel the soles of my feet on the uneven floor, to achieve wakefulness, but I seemed to float and drift. I was trapped in a pale shroud --- hers, decidedly --- but I didn't want it to be mine.

Her pale lips tried to make words, but there was no sound. She stepped back away from the bed tugging at my hand to join her. Then she pointed to a mirror on the old bureau that was pushed into the corner. The glass seemed to take on a hideous glow. It shook for a moment and a figure began to take shape. It was a woman. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face, but there was no face, just a pink mass of swirling flesh. The girl pointed at her and a garbled sound echoed in the room.

"You told me you loved me. Now this. Shame."

There may have been more, but that was all I could make out. The silver image in the glass rippled, then faded, and vanished to nothingness. Now my hand was empty, cold and numb. I looked to the girl, but she was gone. I was back in the bed, maybe asleep, maybe not. I sat up. Suddenly Eleisha appeared in the doorway.

"You were moaning. Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure, but go back to sleep. The morning will be here soon. We'll talk."

The wind riffled the curtains with a light scratching sound.

Eleisha looked at me like I was more than slightly crazy, but it wasn't the first time. She padded back down the hall and I lay back on the pillow, trying to reconstruct what may or may not have happened. The rest of the night remained, cold and gray. After hours that crept by like eons, the sunrise burst over the horizon.

That morning I wondered how much of the red wine I had actually drunk. My head was pounding like a jackhammer and my eyes burned and throbbed. Eleisha was dark radiance . . . nothing new or unusual. I told her about the vision, the girl . . . the image in the mirror.

"Blond hair," she said, "just like Shasta."

I nodded.

"But you told me you didn't think she could do it," she said.

"Yeah, well maybe I was wrong. I've made a connection. We need to follow up. Billy will howl . . . it's not exactly evidence, but now we have some direction."

I didn't like Shasta much, but I still didn't want to believe she was a murderer. She was young, smart, and beautiful. I've always been a sucker for that combination, but sometimes you have to put your prejudices aside. The bad guys can be pretty, too. Sometimes it's an integral part of the deception. And besides, money does very ugly things to people who think they have to have it, not to mention, deserve it. Shasta hit on both accounts.

Chapter 13

The apartment was empty when we got back. The smell was stale, but there was a hint of something in the air . . . not a food odor, more like cheap cologne. I knew it wasn't Eleisha. She wouldn't wear anything short of Channel. I couldn't see anything amiss. It was all the same as when we had left. I shook it off and credited it to my overactive imagination. Elesiha unpacked the overnight bag while I rummaged through the fridge. She had left a little salad fixings. She'd be okay, but I'll be damned if all of my pizza hadn't gone AWOL, or at least MIA. Maybe this would all end when I died of malnutrition.

I said a few choice words under my breath. All Eleisha heard was, "I'm going down to the Deli. I'm out of pizza." She let out a disgusted sigh and mumbled, "Watch yourself."

Down the steps and a turn to the right. My head down, I was debating self-rising crust. It's usually a little heavy for me, but my Dad always said, "Variety is the spice of life." He was a wise man. I jingled a handful of change in my pocket and patted my wallet. Sometimes a big decision like this is hard to make. Suddenly the sound of my hated nickname.

"Hey Spook, talk to ya for a sec?"

I turned.

I really wasn't in the mood for chitchat, but the small pistol in the speaker's hand convinced me otherwise. He wasn't that tall, but he was pretty big in his own way. I'd learned a long time ago, it was these guys you'd better watch out for. He looked like a squat boulder, grinning through yellow teeth and motioning me towards an alley on my right. His hair was slicked back black on his head . . . axel grease, I figured. The scent from the apartment. His buddy was redwood sized, with hands like Hulk Hogan. These guys were often a bit slow. I was damned sure hoping. He wore a garish green shirt with tropical designs. It must have been made by Omar, the tent maker. Maybe a Wal-Mart clearance special. He wasn't smiling at all.

"You, my dear Spook, have pissed a lot of people off. It's a bad thing to do when you got friends like me and Murray." He pointed to the giant. The giant grunted like a bull ox.

"We're going to have to mess you up . . . and after we do you gotta convince me and Murray that you and that she-devil are gonna dedicate yourselves to a new project. Stay away from Beacon Hill and concentrate on those suckers you like to fleece. Otherwise, I guess we'll just have to kill ya."

I was afraid that was their first choice. I was out numbered, out gunned, and out muscled. I needed some time.

"Listen guys, I can feel my memory fading as we speak. You tell your people they don't have to do anything drastic. No need to worry about the Spook. Breathing is actually one of my favorite hobbies."

"I like your attitude, smart guy, but we still got to earn our keep. We'll try to keep ya out of the ER and you can tell your bitch to find some dirty palms to read."

The Hulk lumbered toward me, his fist clenched like a block of granite.

Suddenly a howl pierced my eardrums. The dark force came like a whirlwind. She locked herself on the Hulk's back and drove her nails into his cheeks. The blood appeared instantly. He yowled and clawed at his face as she went for the eyes. The boulder glanced to his left. I charged and buried my head in his belly. It was softer than it looked. A shot went off, but it was high and wide. He hit the ground with a thud and I stomped on his knee. The sound was like an axe splitting wood, solid and sickening. He dropped the gun and grabbed for the bad leg. I kicked him in the face and went for the Hulk. Eleisha was still riding his bull back like a rodeo cowboy. He was screaming as I put a deft chop into his Adam's Apple. He began to gasp for breath and hit the dirty concrete like a sack of wet cement. The two of them writhed on the ground like a couple of hogs about to be slaughtered.

"You okay?" I asked Eleisha.

She raised her hands and the blood ran from beneath her nails. She nodded.

I bent down over the boulder.

"You want to tell me who set this up?"

He clutched his knee and groaned. I raised my foot and gave it another stomp.

"Okay," he screamed, "it was a phone call . . . a woman, sexy voice, mentioned a couple of names. She didn't say who she was, but she mentioned Lute. Wanted us to finish his job. She left half the money in a garbage bag near Long Wharf. We get the rest when the job is done."

"Yeah . . . well the job is done. Give me your phone, asshole. I'll call 911. You can tell them you tripped on the steps."

Eleisha and I hurried back to apartment. She ran into the bathroom and began to scrub her hands. I checked all of the locks and pulled my old Taurus .38 from the shoebox in the closet and spun the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. I took boulder's phone out of my pocket and laid it on the kitchen table next to the .38. I looked around the apartment again, pulled the shades, and checked for any unlocked windows. Maybe we were safe. I didn't know.

What I did know was there was no pizza. I found a couple of Hebrew Nationals just begging to be browned in the pan. I melted a pat of butter and waited for it to sizzle. Eleisha fixed a salad. She looked a little shaken, but I was probably the only one who could tell. The lady was tough.

"I owe you for that one," I said.

"Yeah . . . you do, but something wasn't right. I knew it when we got back from Hull. It was the smell. I don't wear that drugstore shit. I'm just glad I got off my butt to check on you. You do give me a pain in the ass sometimes, but I'm not ready for your funeral . . . at least not yet."

She tried to laugh, but it came out more like a gurgle.

"We're closer than we think. Even the mob doesn't like to leave extra bodies laying around unless it's absolutely necessary. It's just too damned messy."

"So why don't you call Billy?"

"Good question, but no good answer. We don't have anything. It could go down as a simple mugging. Neither of us hurt. But I guess I ought to let him know. I did take the thug's cell phone. Maybe something there. I could pick either one of them out of a lineup, but maybe we sent the right message."

"Yeah . . . dream on, sucker. That's a message that could get us killed."

"Well, there is that."

Chapter 14

I didn't have to call Billy. He called me late that night.

"Okay, Spook, funny thing happened in your neighborhood this evening. Woman called, said she thought she heard a gunshot. The uniforms found two guys in an alley near your place. One of them had a dislocated knee. The other looked like he'd been attacked by an enraged mountain lion. Their stories didn't quite match up. Said they'd been robbed, then assaulted by a man and a dark-haired woman. Stole the short one's cell phone. Odd that the descriptions they gave happened to match a couple of people I may know. One of the boys had a neat little pistol, the ID numbers scratched off. Forensics is checking it out, but I'm thinking about your old pal Lute and how they found the .22 slugs in the back of his head. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Off the record . . . actually, I might."

I told Billy the whole story. He listened. No questions for a while.

"So you can identify them both?" he asked me.

"Yes."

He went on. The Hulk, was one Murray Santini, a rap sheet longer than the Bible. A known associate of several prominent mob figures in the Boston area. The boulder was Carmine Estera, an enforcer for hire. Neither of them had ever been convicted of any felony, but they had both made frequent appearances in our Massachusetts jails and were often dishonored guests in our court system. The lack of convictions certainly speaks to the value of clever lawyers.

"You got the phone?" he asked.

"You know I wouldn't lie to you, Billy."

"This doesn't go on record, but I take that as a 'yes'. You know I got to have a warrant to get into that phone. Probable cause and all that shit. I don't have one. Maybe you could ask your sweetie to do a little poking around."

I spit out a quick "yeah'.

So okay, Bruce Lee, do your thing, stay in touch, and let me know if you turn up anything."

I told him I would and handed Boulder's cell to Eleisha.

"All right, my dark savior and esteemed hacker, try your magic on this one."

She moved over to the sofa and placed her laptop beside her. Then I began to hear lots of beeps and buzzes as her fingertips danced over the keys. I was still hungry. It's goes against every thread of my rather dubious character, but I began to consider a delivery from Domino's. Eleisha said she'd even eat a slice or two if it was strictly vegetarian. I gave in and called the number. I fulfilled her request, but my half was the meat lover's special. My lady was still doing her thing when the doorbell rang. I slipped the delivery man a five and inhaled. I hate to admit it, but the damned pie smelled delicious. We ate and she talked between bites.

"I got a little info. Nothing incriminating, but there was at least one interesting number on the speed dial. I was able to cross reference it on the computer. Guess who? The home number of Mr. Dominique Ferrara, aging Italian patriarch, bar-keep, bookie, and 'made man', not to mention the father of our dearly departed Lute. And last, but not least, in the 'recent calls' file . . . Jackpot. The cell number of Miss Shasta Shipley."

"Holy shit. The circle begins to close, but Billy can't make an arrest based on any of it. And by the way, we could still get killed."

"I know you're just trying to cheer me up," she said with just a hint of sarcasm. "We obviously need something else. Maybe Billy will squeeze something out of the Bobsey Twins."

"Not likely, but there's always hope."

She cut her black eyes at me slyly and arched one eyebrow. Then she nodded toward the bedroom.

"So let's make our own hope tonight. You clean up the kitchen and I'll slip into . . . or maybe out of . . . something a little more comfortable."

She didn't have to ask twice.
Chapter 15

"I think I got it."

His voice was exploding with excitement. Billy always got that way when there might be a breakthrough. I figured we were at least one step ahead, but he was the cop. I let him talk.

"I think it was the girl. The Shipley daughter. It all leads to her. She romances a guy who is heir to millions. They become engaged. When he loses his family unexpectedly, she is there to provide comfort and maybe even some fleshy distractions. When probate is completed, she pays off some debts that might keep her father out of Boot Hill. Everyone lives happily ever after."

Eleisha and I had already been there, but Billy was thrilled that he had pieced it together all by himself. That was definitely a plus. The question was whether he had anything that would warrant an arrest, much less stand up in court.

"We pressed our tough guys . . . found an old outstanding warrant on Carmine. We were able to scare the bastard . . . promised him lots of time upstate if he couldn't find it in his heart to deliver just a few bits of pertinent information. Plus, we told him the .22 was a good match with the slugs pulled out of Ferrara. He was impressed. Loosened his lips considerably, but he still talked around some stuff. Probably knows that if he ends up in jail labeled as a snitch, we'll shortly be pulling a shank out of his kidney. "

"So what are you gonna do?" I asked.

"I'd like to arrest somebody, or at least arrange a little chat," was his terse reply.

We knew more than we did the day before, but I couldn't see that it helped much. I needed one more good sniff to lock me into the scent of the killers. I decided to try Dom Ferrara one more time. I was sure he knew more than he was telling. He probably wouldn't give me any damned thing, but what was one more shot in the dark? I decided to take Eleisha with me. Maybe she could distract the old man enough to get his mouth moving.

It was early afternoon when we entered the bar. The lunch crowd had cleared and it wasn't quite time for the regular drinkers. Around two o'clock many bar owners and restaurant managers are placing orders for food or beer for the next day. More an art than a science, but one I'll bet the old man had down to a tee. I asked the huge sallow skinned brute behind the polished mahogany for Mr. Ferrara.

"He ain't here," he growled.

"Right, but tell whoever ain't here it's Mo."

The monster disappeared behind the dingy curtain into the back. He came out clinching his fists, flipped a belligerent thumb at us, and stepped behind the bar. I could feel him drooling over Eleisha's ass as we pulled the curtain back.

The old man got up from behind the wooden desk and took Eleisha's hand. He placed his lips to it in a light, courteous kiss, then shook my hand, the strength and power still there despite the shock of gray hair that bounded off his temples.

There was a huge blackboard on the wall next to the desk. It had been erased, but I figured later it would contain the names of teams, horses, and the latest from the odds makers. He probably also had a pile of little black books stuffed in his desk drawers. But no worry. There were plenty of people in high places who would see to it that this place was never raided.

"I didn't expect to see you again, Elmo. But you bring this beautiful lady with you, you're welcome any time at DOM'S."

Eleisha lit up the room with her smile and fired a courtly nod at the Italian patriarch. I wasn't sure whether he returned it with a grin or a leer, but she had his attention.

"So I know this ain't no social visit and you ain't here to eat Dom's pizza. What do you want, Elmo?"

"I'll get right to the point, Mr. Ferrara. Do you know a Carmine Estera or maybe a Murray Santini?"

"I know lots of people. Maybe they been here for a drink or a plate of pasta. And our garlic rolls . . . dey's famous all over the neighborhood. You know me, Elmo. I try to be nice to everybody as long as they're nice to me. Most of them are. If not, they don't come back. We see to it."

The tone of his voice was heavily laced with an impending violence. There was nothing subtle about it. A type of twisted pride resided in his words. The threat hung in the air and promised to drop like the blade of guillotine any time he said the word. I felt Eleisha shudder slightly and lean a little closer to me.

"Suppose I did know these mugs you was talking about. So what?"

"I think they might have been the guys who did Lute."

He put his hand on the desk and pushed away. Then he turned in the leather chair and stared out of a small, dusty, window.

"I told you, Elmo. Lute was a good boy. His mamma still cries every night, recites her rosary. We go to Mass. We light candles, pray for his soul, leave a buck or two for the priest. Probably don't do no damned good, but he was my boy . . . always my boy. Blood is blood, don't make no matter. We miss him, but sometimes you just gotta leave things be."

I knew too much about Dom Ferrara to feel sorry for him, and Lute had tried to kill me. I couldn't forget that, but the agony was etched in his face and for just a moment, it was reflected in mine.

"Well, we're looking," I said, "Billy's looking. Nobody's given up. I just thought there might be something you missed, something that maybe came to you later. Anything might help."

"My boy is gone. Nothing helps. I don't know no Carmine Estera or that other guy you mentioned. Maybe you oughta just leave. I'm an old man, but it don't mean I ain't got stuff to do. One last thing . . . probably nothing. Couple of yuppies was in here last week. Not from the neighborhood. Didn't recognize them at first. Then it hit me. Melanie's daughter, distant relations. She's a real knockout. Said they was sorry about Lute, but I never seen them at the funeral. Like I said, probably nothing, but now it's time for you to go. You run into Billy, tell him I said to go fuck himself . . . or maybe somebody else."

We had been dismissed. The dark goon mysteriously appeared from behind the curtain. His fists were still clenched. It was time to leave.

We walked back to the apartment. I didn't get it at first, but as the tapes in my mind began to replay, I realized that the old man had tried to tell me something. Why mention Shasta and Todd? The description, "a real knockout." stuck and prodded the edges of my consciousness. We already knew she was a suspect . . . maybe even a damned good one. So why not a guilty one? I ran it all by Eleisha. She was skeptical. I think she was still clutching to a hope that Shasta wasn't involved. It might have been a girl thing, but I listened to her. It didn't help. We had her number on Boulder's cell. We had motive and maybe opportunity. Maybe we had Shasta. It was just a matter of time and we needed one more break.

I called Billy to deliver Dom's message.

"Yeah, well fuck the stinkin' wop, too," was Billy's retort.

I told him about the questions and the vibes I had gotten from the old man. Missed his kid, thought the mob had acted hastily, maybe even tried to point us in a direction without betraying his Family benefactors. Omerta, the Code of Silence, and all that shit.

"Okay, I'm going to pay a little visit to the Shipleys. No arrests, just a few polite questions. You can go along, if you like . . . be my consultant. Might be helpful, even make it seem a little less official."

I wasn't crazy about the idea, but what else does a guy do with his time when he's bored and frustrated?

Chapter 16

It was a Saturday. Billy made a couple of calls, then guessed correctly that they were in Cohasset at the seaside home. They wouldn't expect us. We drove through the traffic down the peninsula and found the address. The house looked more like a small hotel. Gleaming white columns punctuated a porch that encircled the entire structure. The brown cedar shakes were traditional New England, and set the place off with pomp and dignity against the blue backdrop of Boston Harbor. I was sure there was a dock and proper boathouse hiding behind it all.

Bingo. Shasta's Mercedes was parked in the driveway.

A young Latina answered the front door. She was dressed in a black fabric, lacy collar, white belt at the waist and even the little cap the proper maid wears on the crest of her head. She identified herself as Bettina. Her English was impeccable.

When Billy flashed his badge and asked for the lady of the house, the Latina pushed the door almost shut in our faces. I could hear her communicating our request to Melanie Shipley. Then the door creaked just a bit and widened to accept us. Melanie looked like a Neiman Marcus model. Mature, but stunning. Her blond hair was coiffed to the max, hanging gracefully over her shoulders and running halfway down her back. She wore a crisp pink blouse, loose at the waist, but offering a generous view of her considerable cleavage. The slacks were raw silk, an off-white, and tailored to show off a figure that was probably sculpted by a personal trainer. Nails, pedicure, jewelry that looked like pure De Beer's. Even this early in the day, she wore beige stilettoes. If there was anything about her that wasn't perfect, I didn't know what it was. Billy formally introduced us, and smiling radiantly, she offered a gracious hand to each.

"Gentlemen," she said, "let's go into the living room. It will certainly be more comfortable than standing in this drafty hall."

She waved her hand and the dark haired girl disappeared into the back of the house.

"Ms. Shipley, we certainly don't wish to bother you. Is Mr. Shipley at home?"

"No, he is out at the moment," she said curtly.

Billy went on, "Now your daughter . . . "

Just then Shasta came into the room. She was definitely her mother's girl, the hair, the smile, even the tone in her voice. She was casually dressed and blossoming. I remembered Todd's description of her the first time they met at Hull's Kitchen. "Knocked me out right from the get go." I took one more look at her and understood all too well. Shasta sat down next to her mother. Indeed, they could have almost been twins.

Bettina returned with in a sterling silver tray sporting a coffee urn, a small pitcher of cream and a serving bowl with neat little sugar cubes. There were several varieties of cookies spread on a crystal plate. I recognize Chessmen from Pepperidge Farm. I love those damned things, but I cautioned myself to mind my manners. I was reaching as delicately as possible when Shasta started the conversation. At least I guess that's what we were calling it. Melanie thanked the attentive servant and told her to take the rest of the day off.

"Look, let's leave my mother out of this. I'm the one you want to talk to. She doesn't know anything. I'll sit here for a few minutes and try to be helpful, but I'm meeting Todd and some people at the beach. So make it quick."

"I understand you and Todd had dinner at DOM'S down in Little Italy last week."

Melanie looked at her and shook her head. "What did I tell you, Shasta? We do not associate with those people."

Shasta glanced away from her mother and sighed. "Sorry Mom, but I am twenty-three years old and it was dinner, Mom. Just dinner."

"We also recovered a cell phone from Mr. Carmine Estera. You had called him just before an attempted assault on Mr. Dombroski and his friend Eleisha Mountcastle."

Shasta looked confused.

"What? I don't know any Esteras and I surely didn't call him on my cell. Your people made a serious mistake."

I guess she'd learned that haughty thing from her mother, but she damned sure pulled it off without any trouble.

I watched her carefully. I can usually spot a lie before it breaks the liar's lips. It didn't fit. Neither her posture, nor her voice, suggested she was telling anything other than the truth.

"Shut up, Shasta," he mother barked, "don't say another word until we get our attorney."

"Mom, we don't need him. I didn't do anything wrong."

The iron lady spoke again, "Gentlemen, I must ask you to leave. If you come back, make sure you have a warrant. My daughter and I do not wish to continue with this intrusion."

Billy sat up straight. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket pulling out a folded document and a laminated card with the Miranda Rights printed in bold letters.

"In fact, I do. . . have a warrant. Shasta Shipley, you are under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy to murder the Bridgeton family. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything can and will say will be used against you . . ."

That was as far as he got. Ms. Shipley took a small box from the end table. She opened it and her hand held a hammerless chrome Ruger .22. She pointed it first at Billy, then included me in her sweep.

"Mom, what the hell is going on? I told you I didn't do anything."

"I know, Sweetheart, but someone else did."

I heard footsteps behind me. It was Oscar. He was pressing the barrel of a Glock .40 to the back of Billy's head.

"I'm sorry, Honey. It had to be done. It's for you . . . for all of us. We're the Shipleys, not some white trailer trash that doesn't have two dimes to rub together. Go upstairs. Your mother and I will take care of this."

"Daddy, you didn't . . ."

"Just shut up and do what I tell you. Pull their car around to the back. We'll talk later."

Shasta got off the sofa. She stuck her palm out and Billy handed her the keys. Her head dropped to her chest and the tears formed dark stains on her top. She dragged, but she obeyed.

"Detective," Oscar said quietly, "use two fingers and remove your sidearm from its holster. Place it delicately on the table in front of you."

Billy did as instructed. Melanie picked it up gingerly and stuffed it between the cushions on the couch. She put the small pistol in her pocket and stood.

"I am sorry, Gentlemen, but Oscar is quite right. We are not trailer trash, nor will we ever be."

I wasn't too sure about that, but I was in no position to argue the point.

Chapter 17

They marched us out the sliding glass doors toward the boat house. Oscar kept the Glock trained on us while Melanie shed her heels and stepped into a brightly waxed blue hull Back Cove 34. I'd guess probably 250 K . . . and that was "used". At least we were going out in class. She fired up the Cunnins diesel. It spit a bit of gray smoke, then purred like a large well-fed feline.

"Mr. Dombroski, I am aware that you have some experience operating power craft. I'd like you to drive, but remember that I have my pistol pointed at the chest of your associate. I seriously doubt he would survive a .40 round at the range. Melanie, please keep your pop gun trained on our chauffer. Don't hesitate to use it, if necessary."

I followed Oscar's instructions and headed out past the narrows toward the open sea. He gave me a compass course. We stayed at about 20 knots. I didn't know where he was headed or how much time we had, but the seconds were ticking away. If we got out far enough, the only creatures that would recover our bodies were the fish and the crabs. Eleisha knew where we'd gone, but that wasn't much comfort as the hull skirted over the small chop and the miles ticked away. I had a fond hope that somebody would write a kind obituary.

I looked back to see the Boston skyline growing smaller. Then I spotted a big Sport Fisher heading into the harbor. He had to be making 30 knots and his wake was white and foamy. I eased the helm over towards the blue rocket. It was a long shot, but it could easily be our last one. I needed to get closer to have even a slight chance. Oscar still had the business end of the Glock much too close to Billy's chest. Melanie was squeezing the small .22. She was obviously frightened. I just wished she wasn't squeezing too tightly. Even in the flat water, she seemed a little queasy. A touch of sea sickness wouldn't hurt our cause.

We closed on the Sport Fish and the wake bubbled and rolled. I turned the helm again slightly, then spun the Back Cove head up into the mountain of churning water. The hull slapped and bounded into the short trough. The boat jerked and so did Melanie.

I have a strict policy against kicking women, but in this case I decided to make an exception. My foot hit her squarely in the belly. She grunted, gasped and disappeared over the side into the froth. I cut back the throttle. Then I heard an explosion behind me, but the Glock had gone high. I quickly eyed a gaping hole in the Bimini. The lead hadn't missed my head by nearly enough. Billy buried a left fist in Oscar's gut, then hit him with an artful right cross. As the gunman collapsed on the deck, the detective came down with a left to the temple of the shooter's head. Oscar lay on the fiberglass, bleeding like a tuna that had just been landed. Billy picked up the .40 and pointed at the prostrate form until he was sure the man was unconscious. Then he grabbed his cuffs and pulled Oscar's hands behind his back. The loud click was definitely reassuring.

"Okay," Billy huffed, "I know you don't want to, but we gotta go back for the lady."

I mumbled "shit" and hesitated for a moment. I hate it when Billy is right. I flipped the Back Cove around and Billy threw a life-ring. She grasped it like a hungry dog. We dropped the boarding ladder and she scrambled aboard, whimpering like an abandoned puppy.

We were back to the dock in forty minutes. Billy's car was parked behind the house, but Shasta was nowhere to be found. Billy did the Miranda thing again to the unhappy couple and we loaded our catch into the back of the police car. Oscar was still groggy and Melanie shivered, her teeth chattering every once in a while. I really didn't mind.

Billy and his troops picked up Shasta at Todd's. She had told him the parts of the story that she could get away with. They didn't arrest her, but she was willing to go to the station for questioning. She didn't even request an attorney. That told us something.

I wasn't present when Billy interviewed the girl, but apparently she cried a lot. No . . . she did not know about any plot to do away with the Bridgetons. Yes, she left her cell phone on the kitchen table in Cohasset on occasions. Yes, she knew her parents were in financial trouble. Yes, she loved Todd's parents, and particularly Cherie. No, there were no ulterior motives in her proposed marriage to Todd. Yes, she loved him and was prepared to make a life, have his children, and be a loving wife and mother. When Billy told me the tale, I thought again about the drama program at Wellesley. But there was nothing that didn't make at least a little sense.

According to Billy, it was all exactly as the script should have read. Two young lovers deep into the throes of passion and promising eternal devotion. It would probably play well with the right jury, if it came to that. But did he believe her? Mostly. They let her go on her own recognizance with a warning not to leave town, and to remain available if they needed to talk to her again.

Chapter 18

It was a different story with the Shipleys. I did get invited to that interview, albeit I had to sequester myself behind the two-way mirror in the interrogation room. Melanie was first. She had also denied her right to counsel, agreed to be taped. Very foolish unless you like life behind bars, but like I said before, there's no accounting for taste. Still, I had a feeling when the steel door slammed, she wouldn't like it at all. No Nieman Marcus or Cristal . . . and plenty of trailer trash of all colors and nationalities.

"Let's make this quick and quite clear," she said. "My daughter had nothing to do with any of the planning or actions taken by Oscar and me. Yes, it was initially his idea . . . but I went along. We were in trouble. Oscar is a gambler. You know that. He was also a loser . . . a big loser. We were accustomed to what you might call a certain lifestyle. The money came. The money went. Nothing unusual. When the recession hit, things got a bit more complicated. But we didn't know how to curtail what we so richly enjoyed. I could not inform Shasta that tuition was becoming a problem. What do we do? Tell her to drive a KIA. We tried to keep it all hidden from her. It was working until the truck blew up."

"What truck was that, Ms. Shipley?"

"It was a delivery. Boston to New York. The driver was a relative, one of Oscar's cousins from upstate. He was incinerated in the blast. It was a difficult process to even identify him. A week later we got a telegram. "Time for a payoff. Next?" That's all it said, but those words were very clear. I don't know how much he owed them, but it was a lot. There was never anything mean about Oscar. He's a kind and patient man. He adored Shasta and I was her mother. But he started drinking more, even got abusive with the two of us. It was never like him. We had to do something."

"And that was what?"

"Oscar came to me late one night. He was obviously drunk, but still quite lucid. He said he had a plan."

"Can you describe it for us?"

"I'm telling you again. Shasta never knew anything about any of this. Leave her alone."

"I can't make any promises, Ms. Shipley, but I can assure you that Shasta need not be any part of this investigation unless it is absolutely necessary. The more you can tell us, the more her safety is assured. We certainly do not wish to involve any innocent parties or besmirch their characters in any way."

Billy was definitely in his 'good cop' mode. I hadn't heard him talk like that in a long, long time.

She ran her fingers through her blond hair, wiped a tear with a much used tissue, and went on.

"The engagement to Todd was the turning point. It brought it all together. We had established a very tight relationship with the boy. He was the heir to millions. There was no possibility he would deny family assistance when they were in need. We were about to become that family. He adored Shasta and we were certain that he would not desert her under any circumstances."

"I'm getting the picture, but I need to know how the Ferarras fit into the scenario."

"You must think me rather slow, Lieutenant. You had that figured out long ago. Lute was my aunt's son. His reputation was well-known on the street, as well as within the family. Money. It was all about money. Dom was Oscar's bookie. We were never close and Dom is connected, but you know that. Oscar often told his younger associates, 'Never play outside your own back yard.' We didn't. We knew whom we could trust, who could expedite delicate matters, who could deliver us from those who wished us harm. It was dirty . . . really quite beneath us . . . but at least it was part of our back yard . . . but not Shasta's. We never exposed her to those kinds of family secrets."

It was good stuff, but Billy and I both knew that under most circumstances a spouse cannot be compelled to testify against her husband in court. That was a problem.

The underbelly was violent and disgusting, but Melanie's devotion to her daughter and her determination to protect her struck me as endearing. She was a crumbling Madonna holding her only child as close as she could.

Oscar was another matter. He immediately requested an attorney, stated only that his wife was delusional, but reiterated their mutual insistence that Shasta was no part of any of this. That was all we could get on record until the man showed up.

He did . . . quickly. Counselor Stuart J. Mellancroft, nattily attired in a gray pinstripe, carrying the obligatory black alligator briefcase, and an attitude as condescending and officious as they come. He introduced himself, offering a handshake that felt like clutching a dead mackerel. After that, we seemed to be headed exactly nowhere.

Every time Billy asked Oscar a question, the man looked at his attorney. Mr. Mellancroft would give a slight shake of his head and Oscar's lips were sealed. Billy was out of patience, but he looked toward the mirror and nodded. Then he took one more shot.

"Mr. Shipley, I fully understand your desire not further incriminate yourself. However, your wife has told us the entire story. We know about your gambling debts, the problems with Shipley Fine Foods . . .

"Little of which will be admissible in a courtroom, but, Detective, I am sure you know that." The tone of the attorney's voice was smug to the point of smarmy. Billy didn't miss a beat.

. . . and the involvement of your daughter."

Shipley came out of the chair like a cheap Fourth of July rocket.

"Wait just a damned minute, Shasta had nothing to do with any of this. I've told you that. Leave her alone."

"I'd like to believe you, Oscar, but there is the matter of her phone, the calls to other suspects. I seriously doubt a first degree charge. Conspiracy to commit murder is more likely, or maybe a simple charge as an accomplice. Maybe a plea. She probably wouldn't do much time."

Billy was reaching, but he had lit Oscar's fuse. He loved his daughter and seeing her indicted would be a lot worse than anything we could do to him. Mellancroft grabbed Oscar's arm and tried to sit him down, but Oscar shook him off and glared. He stood, the seething rage focused on Billy. I was glad there was a blue uniform at guard in the room.

"So suppose I talk. Melanie gets off lightly, and Shasta disappears from the picture completely. You get Oscar Shipley. You've got your murderer. The case is off the books and Boston Homicide solves another big one. The papers love it. Rah, rah for the boys in blue. How about it?"

Billy gave a slight nod.

"Okay, call your damned DA. Tell him I'm willing to bargain."

Mellancroft shook his head, looking like a deflated Santa Claus in the middle of a patch of dead grass. Billy waved to the uniform and stepped outside to make the call. The assistant DA was there in ten minutes.

Epilogue

They put off the wedding. Oscar pleaded to conspiracy and fingered Lute as the hit man. Unfortunately Lute wasn't around to defend himself, but it was plausible, and it made things a little easier. Melanie didn't do a day. She was evaluated by a herd of sympathetic shrinks and judged incompetent to stand trial. Since the prosecution didn't need her, she was given probation with some reasonable conditions attached to it.

Just as the DA had promised, Shasta disappeared. Both figuratively and literally. I don't even think Todd knew where she was. There were rumors. The best one had her enrolled in Business School at one of the quiet, but well-respected, universities out west.

I was guessing a sentence of twenty-five to life for Mr. Shipley. He probably wouldn't get out before he was dead, and I kind of wondered if he might prefer the latter.

My belly healed up nicely. Due to some technicality, neither Eleisha, nor I, was eligible to collect the reward. I did, however, receive a cashier's check in the mail not too long after the trial. $25,000. I gave Eleisha half. I can't even say I was disappointed. That kind of money buys a lot of pizza and jug red.

Who knows? I may even splurge on some Stouffers' Lasagna and a bottle of real cab.
