Murder at the Foul Line by Otto Penzler Page A

he growing older and older and—truth be told—happier and happier. He had
     been at this cottage once, years ago, during one of those “Fresh Air” experiences for city kids, back when he was twelve.
     He had made a vow then, during those special two weeks, that if he could, he would buy this place when he got older. Which
     he did. It was now a good life, one he never thought would end.
    Boom
. Another three-pointer. He grabbed the ball and as he was moving around for another shot, there was the sound of a car engine
     coming up his driveway. He waited, conscious of how heavily he was breathing, how his knees and wrists were complaining, and
     how damn old he was getting.
    There. Visible past the saplings and brush. A dark blue car,coming up. He put the ball in the crook of his arm, hardly even thinking about it, as the car came into view.
    A police cruiser.
    He took a breath. Waited.

    The cruiser came to a polite halt near his own vehicle, a silver Lexus SUV. It was the local police and he tried not to smile
     as the young officer stepped out, looking so polished and serious in his uniform. A guy like that, back in his old Philly
     neighborhood, would have lasted maybe ten minutes with his corner gang before being dumped back at the local station house,
     stripped naked except for his socks. The officer came up to him and nodded and said, “Mr. Jackson?”
    “The same,” he said, wondering if this young pup even shaved more than three times a week.
    “I’m Tom Colter, the police chief,” he said, actually holding out his hand, which Glen shook, all the while thinking, M’man,
     if you were in Philly like this, they’d even take your socks before dumping you back at your station house.
    “Sure, I’ve seen you around town,” Glen said. “What can I do for you?”
    The young chief looked embarrassed, like he was apologizing for interrupting his practice or some damn thing. “I’m investigating
     a missing person case.”
    Glen moved the ball back into his hands, dribbled it a few times on the asphalt. “Really? Anybody I know?”
    “Oh, I sure do think so,” he said. “Marcus Harrison. A teammate of yours, am I right?”
    Glen said, “Yeah, a former teammate. He was up here a couple of days ago, stopping by. Shit. You say he’s missing?”
    Colter said, “Yes. And you’re saying he was here?”
    “Uh-huh,” he said, bouncing the ball back up and down. “Stayed for a day and a night. Last time I saw him, yesterday morning,
     I drove him back into town, at the Greyhound stop, by Frye’s General Store. You mean he never got back down to Queens?”
    “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Colter said. “You see, his wife was expecting him back yesterday evening, and he
     never showed up. And Greyhound is claiming that he never got on the bus when it stopped in town. So it looks like you might
     be the last one to see him.”
    “Wow,” he said, bouncing the ball up and down some more and then suddenly stopping. “C’mon inside, I’ll get you something
     to drink. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
    “Gee, thanks,” the chief said, and Glen moved quick, turning his head so the kid couldn’t see him smile.

    Glen didn’t bother offering anything alcoholic to the chief, so he poured them both glasses of lemonade and went into the
     dining room, which had great views from the windows that overlooked the lake. Nearby was the dock and moored to the dock was
     his light blue powerboat, with a gray canvas tarpaulin covering it. The fishermen were gone and there was now just a solitary
     sailboat, out on the south end of the lake, catching one last sail before wintering in some boathouse somewhere, and Colter
     said, “View must be nice once the leaves start changing.”
    Glen sat down at the round oak dining room table, letting his long legs stretch out. “Sure, but we don’t come up that much
     during the fall. Summer’s our playtime, and when we get back to Boston,