Nantucket Grand by Steven Axelrod Page A

I’m on the sidelines here. Trying to help. And she has nothing to do with—” He cut himself off.
    â€œWith what?”
    â€œWith anything. With anything bad. She’s a victim, not a—what do you call it? What’s the word? A perpetrator. She couldn’t steal a penny candy from a dime store.”
    â€œMaybe I could help her.”
    â€œThe police? Are you kidding? The police don’t help people. They make trouble. They think everyone’s a criminal because that’s all they see. Sorry, but it’s true. I dated a girl when I was in college, her father was on the Highway Patrol. He acted like I-95 was a fucking Mad Max movie. No, no, no. The last thing she wants is to get tangled up with the police. I mention the police and she’s gone.”
    â€œDon’t mention the police. Just let me talk to her.”
    â€œIs there some law? Do I have to do this?”
    â€œNo. Not right now. But eventually, under oath, you’d be required to—”
    â€œUnder oath? Wait—what? There’s going to be a trial?”
    â€œI certainly hope so. That’s usually what happens, after we arrest someone.”
    â€œRight, sure. Yeah, of course. A trial. But I mean—how do you know it wasn’t just an accident? It wouldn’t have to be from the fireplace—a chimney fire, like we said before. It could have been anything—a cigarette, kids smoking a joint. That place was a tinderbox.”
    â€œThe State Police investigators recovered traces of a propellant. Someone started the fire with jet fuel. Do you know anyone with access to a jet?”
    He stared at me. “A jet?”
    â€œThat’s what the report says. The fire was started with jet fuel.”
    â€œThe jet set. Right. I don’t have that kind of money and neither does anyone I know. I hate those assholes anyway. I heard one of them say he has a separate plane for his dog.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t have to be an owner, Mr. Thayer. A pilot, someone on the ground crew, maintenance people, fuel delivery guys, airport security…”
    He sniffed. “I don’t exactly hang out with those people, either. I guess that makes me middle-class. At least in this world. Where ten thousand dollars is a ‘Nantucket grand.’”
    â€œDo you think you might have pissed any of them off?”
    â€œJet maintenance mechanics?”
    I blew out a breath. “Working people. Tradesmen. House cleaners, gardeners. The support system that keeps this island running.”
    â€œAnd required this island to build a police station roughly the size of Buckingham Palace.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œWe let the riffraff in and we have to protect ourselves from them—that’s the attitude. That’s the dirty little secret. Think about it. When I was growing up, we had five police officers on this island, which worked for everyone because we also had no crime . But we also weren’t the premier gateway destination for illegal immigrants. Don’t get me wrong, Chief. I like change. I like a more diverse population. I like hearing Portugese and Lithuanian and Spanish and whatever else in the grocery store. Jamaican patois, Belarusian. This place was turning into an inbred nightmare. I voted against the police station at Town Meeting, but facts are facts. Even well-off people feel poor living here, cheek by jowl with billionaires. Get a crowd of actual poor people angry enough, rouse them up—you’ve got a rabble. People lose their heads when that shit goes down. Their actual heads. Ask Marie Antoinette. You thought ‘Let them eat cake’ was bad? Try ‘Let them eat Cumberland Farms donuts.’ That’s really adding insult to injury.”
    â€œSo the fire was an act of revolution?”
    â€œA misplaced one. If it was.”
    â€œSo, no enemies, no grudges, no stalkers? No bad debts, no ongoing litigation? No squatters? No