from the rig.
“No problem,” said Orion. “My foreman, Mike, is operating the rig. I checked the installation maps and charts. We’re well clear of its location.”
“Wouldn’t trust those maps.”
“I never do. That’s why we’re drilling fifty feet from where the line’s supposed to be, and three feet below it.”
“That ought to clear it all right. The maps aren’t that far off.” Dan’l turned his back on the rain and wiped a hand across his face. “At least, not usually.”
* * *
When the rain began, Victoria was at the police station. She hung her raincoat on a hook next to Casey’s yellow foul-weather jacket.
“Orion is using the drilling machine for the first time today,” Victoria said, sitting in her usual chair.
“If it weren’t so wet today, I’d watch,” said Casey.
“There’ll be other times, I’m sure.” Victoria leaned forward. “Any news on the Vulpone investigation? It’s been almost two weeks.”
“I haven’t heard anything. My best guess is the state guys called in the FBI, since it may be a mob killing.”
“I’m sure they’re wrong,” Victoria said. “The murder is more likely to be related to Orion’s cable project. He’s dealing with money and power-hungry people, and either one is cause for murder.”
Casey shrugged. “Money and power fits the mob.” She got up from her desk. “We need to check out another of Mrs. Sommerville’s complaints.” Casey took down Victoria’s raincoat and her own oilskin. “This time it’s about loud music at the Old Ag Hall.”
“What loud music?”
“The contra dance group.”
“Fiddle and harmonica? Heavens! She’s just lonely.”
“We’ll talk to her then. After that we can make our rounds and I’ll get you home in time for lunch.”
Casey shrugged into her own musty smelling jacket. WEST TISBURY POLICE was stamped on the back in large black letters. Victoria put on her own coat, picked up her lilac-wood stick, and followed Casey to the door.
“I’ve never known such a rainy July,” said Casey, peering out at the water pouring off the roof.
“It’s good for the garden,” said Victoria.
“How about your bees?”
“It’s not good for them, according to Sean, the beekeeper. They have to contend with mildew.”
“Don’t we all,” said Casey, examining a spotty patch on the sleeve of her jacket.
* * *
In his apartment in Union City, Finney Solomon stood up and stretched. He’d been working the phones for the past couple of days with zero success. The venture capital firms he’d contacted wanted a signed contract from Orion before they’d even talk to him, and they wanted to know more about Finney’s credentials than he cared to tell them. Orion must sign that contract.
He had to get some air. It was raining on Martha’s Vineyard. They could use rain here in Jersey. His stuffy apartment was over a photographer’s studio and consisted of two rooms with only one window. The window opened onto an air shaft shared by a burlesque theater’s fire door. The air shaft began, or ended, in a roof a few feet below the windows. On warm days like today the roof sent up a scent of hot tar, stale cigarette smoke, and urine.
He closed the window to shut out the stench, gathered up the Wall Street Journal he’d picked up at the Mansion House, and descended the flight of wooden stairs that led to the sidewalk. Heat rose from the concrete, distorting its rough surface. He turned left, avoiding eye contact with a group of teenage boys in tank tops and baggy pants hanging out in front of the theater, and headed to the overlook, five blocks away. It was only three o’clock, but early Friday commuting traffic streamed past with the dissonant music of tires, brakes, horns, stereos, warbling fan belts, screeching metal …
He waited at a corner for the light to change. When it did, he started across. A horn blared and he leaped out of the way. An angry voice shouted, “Watch where
“No problem,” said Orion. “My foreman, Mike, is operating the rig. I checked the installation maps and charts. We’re well clear of its location.”
“Wouldn’t trust those maps.”
“I never do. That’s why we’re drilling fifty feet from where the line’s supposed to be, and three feet below it.”
“That ought to clear it all right. The maps aren’t that far off.” Dan’l turned his back on the rain and wiped a hand across his face. “At least, not usually.”
* * *
When the rain began, Victoria was at the police station. She hung her raincoat on a hook next to Casey’s yellow foul-weather jacket.
“Orion is using the drilling machine for the first time today,” Victoria said, sitting in her usual chair.
“If it weren’t so wet today, I’d watch,” said Casey.
“There’ll be other times, I’m sure.” Victoria leaned forward. “Any news on the Vulpone investigation? It’s been almost two weeks.”
“I haven’t heard anything. My best guess is the state guys called in the FBI, since it may be a mob killing.”
“I’m sure they’re wrong,” Victoria said. “The murder is more likely to be related to Orion’s cable project. He’s dealing with money and power-hungry people, and either one is cause for murder.”
Casey shrugged. “Money and power fits the mob.” She got up from her desk. “We need to check out another of Mrs. Sommerville’s complaints.” Casey took down Victoria’s raincoat and her own oilskin. “This time it’s about loud music at the Old Ag Hall.”
“What loud music?”
“The contra dance group.”
“Fiddle and harmonica? Heavens! She’s just lonely.”
“We’ll talk to her then. After that we can make our rounds and I’ll get you home in time for lunch.”
Casey shrugged into her own musty smelling jacket. WEST TISBURY POLICE was stamped on the back in large black letters. Victoria put on her own coat, picked up her lilac-wood stick, and followed Casey to the door.
“I’ve never known such a rainy July,” said Casey, peering out at the water pouring off the roof.
“It’s good for the garden,” said Victoria.
“How about your bees?”
“It’s not good for them, according to Sean, the beekeeper. They have to contend with mildew.”
“Don’t we all,” said Casey, examining a spotty patch on the sleeve of her jacket.
* * *
In his apartment in Union City, Finney Solomon stood up and stretched. He’d been working the phones for the past couple of days with zero success. The venture capital firms he’d contacted wanted a signed contract from Orion before they’d even talk to him, and they wanted to know more about Finney’s credentials than he cared to tell them. Orion must sign that contract.
He had to get some air. It was raining on Martha’s Vineyard. They could use rain here in Jersey. His stuffy apartment was over a photographer’s studio and consisted of two rooms with only one window. The window opened onto an air shaft shared by a burlesque theater’s fire door. The air shaft began, or ended, in a roof a few feet below the windows. On warm days like today the roof sent up a scent of hot tar, stale cigarette smoke, and urine.
He closed the window to shut out the stench, gathered up the Wall Street Journal he’d picked up at the Mansion House, and descended the flight of wooden stairs that led to the sidewalk. Heat rose from the concrete, distorting its rough surface. He turned left, avoiding eye contact with a group of teenage boys in tank tops and baggy pants hanging out in front of the theater, and headed to the overlook, five blocks away. It was only three o’clock, but early Friday commuting traffic streamed past with the dissonant music of tires, brakes, horns, stereos, warbling fan belts, screeching metal …
He waited at a corner for the light to change. When it did, he started across. A horn blared and he leaped out of the way. An angry voice shouted, “Watch where
Similar Books
