fund worth couple hundred thousand. I’m telling you, we’ve got

nada.”

“Somebody killed him and they had a

reason,” Jesse said. “Talk

to people where he worked?”

“No. I was going to ask you. Should I call, or go in to

Boston.”

“Go in,” Jesse said.

“It’s harder to brush you off.”

“You did a

lot of this in LA,” Perkins said. “You got any ideas.”

“When in doubt,” Jesse said,

“cherchez la ex-wife.”

“Wow,”

Perkins said, “it’s great working with a pro.”

10

She was taking the photographs of Kenneth Eisley down from the big oak-framed corkboard in the office.

“Leave that head shot,” he said.

“Memories?” she said.

“Trophy,” he said.

She smiled, and handed him the pile of discarded pictures.

“Shred these,” she said. “While

I put up the new

pictures.”

He began to feed the discarded photographs through the shredder.

“What is our new friend’s name?”

she said.

“Barbara Carey,” he said.

“Forty-two years old, married, no

children. Her husband’s name is Kevin. She’s a loan officer at the

in-town branch of Pequot. He’s a lawyer in Danvers.”

“They happy?”

“What’s happy?” he said.

“They go out every Saturday night,

usually with friends. They go to brunch a lot of Sundays. The second picture up, they’re coming out of the Four Seasons.

They

don’t fight in public. They both drink, but neither one seems to be

a drunk.”

“They own a dog?” she said.

“No sign,” he said. “I think

they’re too busy being successful

young professionals to get tied down by a dog.”

“That’s good,” she said.

“I still feel worried about Kenny’s

dog.”

She glanced at the remaining photograph of Kenneth Eisley.

“Somebody will find the dog and adopt him,” he

said.

“I hope so,” she said. “Dogs are

nice.”

He fed the last photograph into the shredder.

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