Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) by Steve Ulfelder Page B

crack.”
    â€œMattapan by moonlight, looking for a white boy who’s looking for a rock. That ought to make for a nice evening.”
    I gave a twenty-second description of Gus. “Luther,” I said, “I owe you.”
    â€œYou made it off paper,” he said. “You don’t owe anybody anything.” Click.
    Parole officer’s view of the world. You’re on paper or you’re off.
    I headed for Worcester.
    â€œI need help.” The last thing he said to me. Junkie leverage, like when the dog gives up the fight and shows his belly.
    And the hell of it is, it’s true. He does need help, and he knows it. But he’s also showing his belly to play you, to con you. Truth and bullshit both.
    I pounded the steering wheel. Shook my head, felt stupid.
    *   *   *
    Felt stupider at daybreak, having burned half a tank of gas, dodged two stickups, and found not a whiff of Gus.
    Luther hadn’t made out any better. We’d called back and forth every hour on the hour. At five, I’d told him to go home. He’d said why bother, he was headed for a diner.
    Both Swales, father and son, must curse the day I clown-shoed into their lives. I brought them nothing but hard work and misery.
    I gassed up, tried to think.
    Downtown Framingham, such as it is: ruled out. Cocaine safari to Worcester or Boston: hard to say definitively, but rule that out too.
    Home? Sherborn?
    Could be. Family was family.
    But Rinn Biletnikov had told me Gus and his father weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye. No, it’d been more powerful than that. Gus was on terrible terms with his father, she’d said . Peter is the last person Gus would have confided in.
    I’d overlaid that on my own situation with Roy, had found it easy to believe.
    Which is why you didn’t check Sherborn first, I admitted. Which you should have done out of common sense. It’s home and it’s close.
    It was time to visit Peter Biletnikov.
    I felt bad over what I’d put Luther through.
    I would feel worse soon.
    Because about the time I flipped down my sun visor at an off-brand Worcester gas station and aimed my truck at Sherborn, somebody blew a hole in Gus Biletnikov.

 
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Haley, the nanny, answered the door. She wore running gear—had an iPod clipped to her upper arm and everything—but held a baby on her hip in that way that looks so natural for women. In her other hand she held a plastic baby bottle and wadded-up earbuds. How she’d managed to open the door I couldn’t figure.
    It took her half a beat to remember me. Then she said, “Oh,” and looked at her runner’s watch.
    â€œEarly, I know,” I said. “But I figured this for an early house. Looks like I was right.”
    â€œYou were,” Haley said, nodding me in and kicking shut the door. “Usually I can squeeze in five K on the treadmill before she wakes up. But you were a restless, hungry girl this morning, wasn’t you, sweetie? Wasn’t you? Is she not the bee’s knees?”
    â€œI guess.” Never have gotten the hang of baby talk. It makes me grind my teeth. “Uh, how old? Is she, I mean.”
    â€œJust over six months. And perfect. Seventy-fifth percentile for length, weight, and head size.”
    I guessed that was good.
    We stood in the warm front hall. Slate floor opening onto a massive, cathedral-ceilinged kitchen and great room.
    Haley nuzzled noses with the baby. Who seemed okay with it. Maybe she was cute. I’m the wrong guy to ask.
    â€œWell,” I finally said. “Is Peter here? Awake?”
    â€œPeter,” she said. “Interesting.”
    I looked a question at her.
    â€œBecause Rinn can’t stop talking about you and your compadre, Randall.”
    I said nothing.
    â€œYou fascinate her. She finds you very genuine, very real .”
    â€œWhat the hell do you have against me?”
    â€œWhy, nothing. Sir. Mr.