shaken and drained. “Thanks, Harry.”
He caught hold of her hand, in an oddly gentle gesture, given the setting. “Lyn,” he said to her earnestly, and in contrast to the placating words he’d just uttered. “Please be careful. You’re all your family’s got now. Think of the living.”
She squeezed his hand back and then let it drop. “I am,” she said, and headed toward the back door.
CHAPTER TEN
J oe paused at the bottom of the stairs, adjusting to the darkness. He knew where the light switch was—the municipal building’s basement was as well known to him as his own, housing as it did the police department’s cells, booking room, old case files, lockers, and sundry other areas. But it was cool down here, resonant only with the dull mechanical rumblings of most nineteenth-century hulks, and he wanted to savor the soothing silence. He was reaching the limit of how many hours he could stay awake and still be effective, and was therefore finding every cold drink, trip to the men’s room, or moment of respite like this to be an oasis amid the exhaustion.
But for the time being, they couldn’t be overly indulged. He hit the lights and walked down the ancient, gloomy corridor to a door with a combination lock. This he typed in quickly from long memory, waited for the audible click, and pushed the door open.
Ron Klesczewski turned from the table he was overseeing, deep in thought, and greeted his old boss.
“Hey, Joe. You look like you could use some sleep.”
Joe half smiled. “I might grab a little just to kill off all the comments.”
Ron laughed. “Oh, oh. Sorry.”
Joe flapped his hand dismissively. “No—you look like death warmed over, you should expect it. I can’t fake it like I used to. After this, I’ll lie down for a while.”
He gestured toward the table—actually one of three that had been shoved together to carry all the items seized from Castine’s apartment. “You find anything?”
“We’re getting a feel for his habits,” Ron told him. “His garbage hadn’t been tossed yet, so we got a mother lode there. That job,” he admitted with a laugh, “I assigned to somebody else.”
He crossed over to a neat display of soiled and wrinkled receipts. “We got these to add to the ones you found,” he explained. “And I have people talking to merchants all over town, flashing his picture and asking if he’s been seen with a kid—or anyone of interest, for that matter. Maybe we’ll get lucky. It’s a small town, especially the circles he traveled, and nobody likes what he was doing.”
“Plus, he’s dead,” Joe added.
“Never hurts,” Ron agreed. “Nobody’s gonna come knocking at night.”
“What about the computer?” Joe asked.
“Sheila’s got that,” Ron said simply. Sheila Murphy, one of his detectives, had recently gone to school to get certified in high-tech forensic autopsies, as Joe thought of them. “Don’t know what she’s found yet.”
Joe was staring off into space, seemingly miles away.
“You okay?” Ron asked him quietly.
Joe shifted his gaze. “Yeah. Sorry. Daydreaming a little.”
“Troubles?”
“Could be,” Joe conceded. Ron was an old friend, they didn’t work on the same squad anymore, and certainly Ron had bared his soul to Joe a time or two in the past.
“Lyn really took it to heart when I discovered her father’s boat in Maine.”
“I heard about that,” Ron said. “She’s not blaming you, is she?”
“Not rationally,” Joe agreed, “but it’s not rational territory. The family disintegrated when the old man disappeared. It was an old-fashioned patriarchy.”
“I don’t get it, though,” Ron argued. “Why’s finding the boat a big deal? I mean, not to be indelicate, but he and the son are still dead, right?”
“It implies they didn’t die in a storm,” Joe explained. “And in that culture, where smuggling is like a historical prerogative, the next reasonable explanation ain’t too
He caught hold of her hand, in an oddly gentle gesture, given the setting. “Lyn,” he said to her earnestly, and in contrast to the placating words he’d just uttered. “Please be careful. You’re all your family’s got now. Think of the living.”
She squeezed his hand back and then let it drop. “I am,” she said, and headed toward the back door.
CHAPTER TEN
J oe paused at the bottom of the stairs, adjusting to the darkness. He knew where the light switch was—the municipal building’s basement was as well known to him as his own, housing as it did the police department’s cells, booking room, old case files, lockers, and sundry other areas. But it was cool down here, resonant only with the dull mechanical rumblings of most nineteenth-century hulks, and he wanted to savor the soothing silence. He was reaching the limit of how many hours he could stay awake and still be effective, and was therefore finding every cold drink, trip to the men’s room, or moment of respite like this to be an oasis amid the exhaustion.
But for the time being, they couldn’t be overly indulged. He hit the lights and walked down the ancient, gloomy corridor to a door with a combination lock. This he typed in quickly from long memory, waited for the audible click, and pushed the door open.
Ron Klesczewski turned from the table he was overseeing, deep in thought, and greeted his old boss.
“Hey, Joe. You look like you could use some sleep.”
Joe half smiled. “I might grab a little just to kill off all the comments.”
Ron laughed. “Oh, oh. Sorry.”
Joe flapped his hand dismissively. “No—you look like death warmed over, you should expect it. I can’t fake it like I used to. After this, I’ll lie down for a while.”
He gestured toward the table—actually one of three that had been shoved together to carry all the items seized from Castine’s apartment. “You find anything?”
“We’re getting a feel for his habits,” Ron told him. “His garbage hadn’t been tossed yet, so we got a mother lode there. That job,” he admitted with a laugh, “I assigned to somebody else.”
He crossed over to a neat display of soiled and wrinkled receipts. “We got these to add to the ones you found,” he explained. “And I have people talking to merchants all over town, flashing his picture and asking if he’s been seen with a kid—or anyone of interest, for that matter. Maybe we’ll get lucky. It’s a small town, especially the circles he traveled, and nobody likes what he was doing.”
“Plus, he’s dead,” Joe added.
“Never hurts,” Ron agreed. “Nobody’s gonna come knocking at night.”
“What about the computer?” Joe asked.
“Sheila’s got that,” Ron said simply. Sheila Murphy, one of his detectives, had recently gone to school to get certified in high-tech forensic autopsies, as Joe thought of them. “Don’t know what she’s found yet.”
Joe was staring off into space, seemingly miles away.
“You okay?” Ron asked him quietly.
Joe shifted his gaze. “Yeah. Sorry. Daydreaming a little.”
“Troubles?”
“Could be,” Joe conceded. Ron was an old friend, they didn’t work on the same squad anymore, and certainly Ron had bared his soul to Joe a time or two in the past.
“Lyn really took it to heart when I discovered her father’s boat in Maine.”
“I heard about that,” Ron said. “She’s not blaming you, is she?”
“Not rationally,” Joe agreed, “but it’s not rational territory. The family disintegrated when the old man disappeared. It was an old-fashioned patriarchy.”
“I don’t get it, though,” Ron argued. “Why’s finding the boat a big deal? I mean, not to be indelicate, but he and the son are still dead, right?”
“It implies they didn’t die in a storm,” Joe explained. “And in that culture, where smuggling is like a historical prerogative, the next reasonable explanation ain’t too
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