he's been saying about you. I've been pumping him full of coffee since six this morning. He hasn't called Dr. McCarthy, but if you're unsuccessful, he won't hesitate."
She took them inside and gave them coffee and homemade doughnuts. She urged them to make themselves at home, then went upstairs to get Cas. Slater worked on the doughnuts while Cohen roamed through the house, inspecting paintings, trophies, bric-a-brac—trying to get a clue to the tastes of his subject-to-be. He moved from one thing to another like he was touring a museum. Hammond followed, aware more of the overall impression—smallish rooms with old-fashioned furniture. The living-room sofa sagged with age and had a musty smell he remembered from childhood, sort of a doggy odor. The retriever probably slept here on occasion. The den and living room were filled with deep-sea mementos: a swordfish mounted on a wood plaque in the den and a small shark mounted in the living room.
"He takes a certain pride in defeating dangerous game," Cohen analyzed. "Probably has the killer instinct himself."
Hammond wanted to laugh. Yablonski a killer?
"Look at this," said Cohen, bending down to inspect a collection of fishing trophies shoved haphazardly into a bookcase at floor level in the den. "Obviously, he doesn't care much for medals and awards. A real sport-fisherman would have these up here—" He indicated the mantelpiece.
Slater appeared in the den, downing his second or third doughnut. "Okay, Sherlocks," he said, "I'm going to get my gimmicks from the car." He went out the front door.
"There are only two things in his life," Cohen continued. "Deep-sea fishing and running his excursion boat. Look at this den. There's only one chart on the wall: Cape Cod to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Mr. Yablonski lives in a very small world. I'm willing to bet Mrs. Yablonski manages the business as well as the household. And all her husband knows is fish."
Hammond smiled. "What if this is her den?"
"Then I'll go back to college."
Cohen gave Hammond a smug look and returned to the kitchen to wait for the Yablonskis. Hammond remained in the den for a moment. Through the window, he watched Slater trudge back to the house carrying his recording equipment and a black medical bag.
Hammond sat down at Yablonski's desk and admired it. It was the kind he'd always wanted for himself, with cubbyholes and little drawers and the varnished rolltop. The façade was beautiful: hand-carved antique cedar with triangular notches at the joins. He couldn't help himself; his fingers automatically explored the cubbyholes. He thumbed bits of paper and postcards Yablonski had tucked away. Then his eye caught the open book in the corner, a personal phone directory, open to the letter M.
McCarthy, L. And after it, a WATS number: 800-676- 0999.
Hammond picked up a pad from the desk and wrote the number down. He wondered anxiously if Yablonski had called the doctor after all.And what if McCarthy decided to respond with a house call? Hammond, fully intendedaconfrontation, but he didn't want to make Yablonski the battlefield.
"Commander?" He heard Mrs. Yablonski calling and hurriedly shut the directory, put the paper in his pocket, and went to join the others in the kitchen.
She was introducing her husband. Hammond was shocked at the way Cas looked. What an incredible change! Dressed in an old bathrobe and pajamas, he looked deathly ill. There was a line of perspiration on his upper lip; his hair was askew; his eyes seemed sunken into their sockets and frightened; his face was pale and haggard.
Yablonski gazed balefully at the three men. He had caught Slater with another doughnut half-eaten. Cohen was coldly assessing him just as he had the man's home.
Yablonski's eyes narrowed as he stared at Cohen. "You're not a doctor," he said suspiciously, and took a step backwards.
Slater had the presence of mind to display the black bag. Yablonski eyed them all warily once more, then relaxed and sank
She took them inside and gave them coffee and homemade doughnuts. She urged them to make themselves at home, then went upstairs to get Cas. Slater worked on the doughnuts while Cohen roamed through the house, inspecting paintings, trophies, bric-a-brac—trying to get a clue to the tastes of his subject-to-be. He moved from one thing to another like he was touring a museum. Hammond followed, aware more of the overall impression—smallish rooms with old-fashioned furniture. The living-room sofa sagged with age and had a musty smell he remembered from childhood, sort of a doggy odor. The retriever probably slept here on occasion. The den and living room were filled with deep-sea mementos: a swordfish mounted on a wood plaque in the den and a small shark mounted in the living room.
"He takes a certain pride in defeating dangerous game," Cohen analyzed. "Probably has the killer instinct himself."
Hammond wanted to laugh. Yablonski a killer?
"Look at this," said Cohen, bending down to inspect a collection of fishing trophies shoved haphazardly into a bookcase at floor level in the den. "Obviously, he doesn't care much for medals and awards. A real sport-fisherman would have these up here—" He indicated the mantelpiece.
Slater appeared in the den, downing his second or third doughnut. "Okay, Sherlocks," he said, "I'm going to get my gimmicks from the car." He went out the front door.
"There are only two things in his life," Cohen continued. "Deep-sea fishing and running his excursion boat. Look at this den. There's only one chart on the wall: Cape Cod to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. Mr. Yablonski lives in a very small world. I'm willing to bet Mrs. Yablonski manages the business as well as the household. And all her husband knows is fish."
Hammond smiled. "What if this is her den?"
"Then I'll go back to college."
Cohen gave Hammond a smug look and returned to the kitchen to wait for the Yablonskis. Hammond remained in the den for a moment. Through the window, he watched Slater trudge back to the house carrying his recording equipment and a black medical bag.
Hammond sat down at Yablonski's desk and admired it. It was the kind he'd always wanted for himself, with cubbyholes and little drawers and the varnished rolltop. The façade was beautiful: hand-carved antique cedar with triangular notches at the joins. He couldn't help himself; his fingers automatically explored the cubbyholes. He thumbed bits of paper and postcards Yablonski had tucked away. Then his eye caught the open book in the corner, a personal phone directory, open to the letter M.
McCarthy, L. And after it, a WATS number: 800-676- 0999.
Hammond picked up a pad from the desk and wrote the number down. He wondered anxiously if Yablonski had called the doctor after all.And what if McCarthy decided to respond with a house call? Hammond, fully intendedaconfrontation, but he didn't want to make Yablonski the battlefield.
"Commander?" He heard Mrs. Yablonski calling and hurriedly shut the directory, put the paper in his pocket, and went to join the others in the kitchen.
She was introducing her husband. Hammond was shocked at the way Cas looked. What an incredible change! Dressed in an old bathrobe and pajamas, he looked deathly ill. There was a line of perspiration on his upper lip; his hair was askew; his eyes seemed sunken into their sockets and frightened; his face was pale and haggard.
Yablonski gazed balefully at the three men. He had caught Slater with another doughnut half-eaten. Cohen was coldly assessing him just as he had the man's home.
Yablonski's eyes narrowed as he stared at Cohen. "You're not a doctor," he said suspiciously, and took a step backwards.
Slater had the presence of mind to display the black bag. Yablonski eyed them all warily once more, then relaxed and sank
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