The Kills

He was referring to another giant of the New York bar. 'Sure.'

'I had lunch with him today. The very same kind of conversation about a bright young lawyer came up. Marty's representing a guy who's in over his head-runs the corporate department at a white-shoe law firm. Kept telling his partners that to keep high-rolling clients happy, he was making contributions to their favorite charities. Big bucks.'

'Some kind of scam?'

'That's putting it mildly. He'd tell the managing partner he'd written a personal check for, say, fifty thousand dollars to some tug-at-your-heartstrings cause. Say it's children of some war-torn part of the world. Or a struggling dance company. Or an inner-city art museum. Had to be a personal check, so he'd get credit with the client for being a mensch. Who'd second-guess him for a good deed like that? Then, he asked the firm to reimburse him-and they did.'

'I think I see this one coming,' I said. 'He never wrote the check to any such charity.'

'How about that the charity never existed in the first place?' Justin said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Battaglia's going to make mincemeat out of this guy when he gets his hands on this case. Fifty thousand dollars of the firm's money in his own pocket every couple of months, on top of his draw of a few million a year. I don't understand these people, Alex.'

Both propellers were geared up now, and it was impossible to hear over the din. He settled in with his newspaper and I continued making lists of things to do.

The small aircraft lifted up from the runway. Within minutes, we had flown into the enormous billow of cloud cover that had settled over the New York area. I pulled my seat belt tighter around my waist as the plane bucked in the rough currents. I tried to concentrate on organizing my evening calls, but the severe weather made any work effort impossible.

I stuck my pen in my pocket and stared out the window at the inner lining of the storm cloud. There were only five passengers on the flight, and all looked as gloomy as the skies around us. I watched as the woman in front of Justin's seat fumbled for the airsickness bag, hoping that she would not need to use it in the close confines of the still cabin.

The pilot broke in with a short message. 'Sorry about the bumps in the road, ladies and gents. We've got that hurricane blowing in behind us, so we'll rock and roll like this all the way to the Vineyard. Be another thirty-five minutes till touchdown. Thanks for flying with us tonight.'

I closed my eyes and tried to think about something pleasant. My lover was in Washington, altogether too pleased with the freedom of our new arrangement, my precious home was about to be battered by sixty-mile-an- hour winds, and the tangle of investigations on my professional plate seemed hopeless. I opened my eyes and stared off into the wild gray yonder.

I was as relieved as the woman clutching the paper bag against her chest when the pilot descended out of the clouds and I could see the lights on the landing strip glistening in the evening mist. We taxied to a stop and I trotted from the bottom of the steps into the shelter of the airport terminal. I walked to the parking lot, where my caretaker had left my car earlier in the week when he'd gone off-island. Soon I was heading up-island on the slick roadway that curved through the pastures and meadows of Chilmark.

It was close to nine o'clock. I was looking for something to eat, but there weren't many choices. I drove in the direction of Dutcher Dock, but both the Galley and the Homeport were dark.

I made a U-turn in front of the old red-roofed coast guard station, now the Chilmark Police Headquarters, going to the far end of the main road toward the gas station. Larsen's Fish Market had closed hours ago, so my last hope was the Bite, a two-hundred-square-foot gray-shingled kitchen from which the Quinn sisters put forth the best chowder and fried clams on the face of the earth.

There were two pickup trucks parked in front-drivers eating in their cabs-and I squeezed my little red convertible in between them. I ducked under the roof of the small porch to get out of the rain, and Karen spotted me when I picked my head up.

'Alex? That you? Haven't got a clam or oyster left. Wiped out.'

'Just a cup of soup.' My stomach was still settling down. 'To go.'

Her dialect was more Boston Southie than islander. 'Better close your house up tight. Gonna be a wicked bad storm.'

'That's what I came up to do.'

She handed me a brown bag much larger than a pint container of soup. 'Take some with you for tomorrow. Extra chowder, some chicken wings, and my mother's brownies. You'll be glad you've got this goody bag if nobody opens up during the hurricane.'

I thanked her and got back into the car and headed for the hilltop high above the water that surrounded my lovely old farmhouse on all sides, grateful for the placement the Mayhew farmers had given their home almost two centuries earlier, as the waves picked up steam on the shores below. I had expanded and rebuilt the sturdy structure, but it still retained the charm and character that came from its original bones.

My heart beat more rapidly as I made the turn off State Road. I thought of my friend Isabella Lascar, who had died on the very same path just a few years ago.

I was distracted by the movement of a large dark body in the bushes ahead of my car, just out of range of the high beams. My foot slammed on the brakes and the buck leaped directly in front of me, then up and over the ancient stone wall that ringed my property.

Seconds later, the doe and two small deer followed him, trailing off through the woods on my neighbor's land.

I drove on to my house and parked the car. Usually, my caretaker came ahead and lighted the entrance and living area for me, cutting flowers in summer to place around the rooms and stocking the refrigerator with basics. This time, because he had already left the island, I was faced with a dark, cold shell that seemed strangely unwelcoming.

I unlocked the side door and walked quickly into the kitchen and small parlor beyond, flipping on every light switch. I rested the bag of food on the countertop, opened the cabinet to grab a glass, and filled it with ice. In the living room, I pressed the CD player button for random select. By the time I poured some Dewar's, Simon and Garfunkel reminded me that I was fakin' it, and as I was well aware, not really makin' it. I clicked the remote, content to wind up on the bridge over troubled water.

Mike Chapman's home number was on my speed dial. I settled onto the sofa with my drink and waited for him to answer.

'Hello.'

'Val? It's Alex. Is this a bad time?'

'No, no. It's fine. How've you been?'

'Good, thanks. Just came up to the country to prepare for the storm.' I didn't know whether to mention that Mike had told me she hadn't felt well lately. Before I could decide what to ask, he had taken the phone from her hand.

'Etymology, blondie. Whaddaya know about it?'

I was too disinterested to answer fast enough.

'Me? I thought it was bugs. I'm fat on bugs-figured I would have cleaned up on you tonight. Who knew it was about words? O.K., you know, the initials? Know what they stand for?'

'Count me out, Mike. Look-'

'From the Boston Morning Post, 1839. Some cellist from Ottawa won fourteen grand on this. An editor who couldn't spell right used it back then to mean 'oll korrect.' Get it? 'All correct' gets muffed into O.K. '

'Riveting. I called to tell you the latest snag in the case.'

'Can't you give it a rest, kid? Don't go snapping at me. I got my jammies on, about to have my nightcap-'

'Fine. Call me in the morning. The next dead body can be on your conscience.'

Mike's tone changed and he snapped into business mode. 'Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's up?'

'Funny stuff with Tiffany Gatts and her lawyer,' I said.

'How funny? Laugh out loud?'

'Not exactly. She's willing to squeal on Kevin, but says if she does, her life's in danger. Someone's going to kill her mama, too.'