particular case, you have only to ask. No opprobrium attached.”
I break the resultant silence-and the tension-by cracking wise. “Opprobrium?” I say. “Is that a fancy perfume?”
Boss lady ignores me. “Are we all in agreement? We do our best to locate and recover the missing child. If in agreement, please say so. Jack?”
“Yes, agreed.”
“Dane?”
“Against my better judgment, yes.”
“Teddy?”
“Way yes.”
“Mr. Bean?”
“Honored to be included. Yes.”
Saving me for last. “Alice?”
“Where you go, I go. Hell, yes.”
“Good. Settled. And now for the dessert course.”
In communal silence we savor Beasley’s homemade vanilla ice cream with ginger sauce. Hot and cold, sweet and tangy, all in one bite. Imagine the best ice cream you ever had as a child, on an occasion when taste was exalted and joy was pure. Say your tenth birthday.
This is way, way better.
Chapter Sixteen
Three steps from the dining room, with the pleasant buzz of ginger still humming in his mouth, Jack Delancey reaches for the cell phone vibrating in his right trouser pocket. An incoming call from Glenn Tolliver, of the Massachusetts State Police. Funny, he was just thinking that the perfect finish to the meal might be a leisurely stroll along Comm Ave while puffing on a short La Gloria. Maybe if Piggy is in town, the better option would be Cigar Masters, with a nice port or cognac.
Jack flips open the phone, effectively wrecking his plans.
“One question,” Tolliver says brusquely, sirens in the background. “Did you happen to drop by Jonny Bing’s boat today? Or his ship or yacht or whatever it is?”
“I did.”
“Good answer. Get down here.”
“The marina? What happened?”
“That’s what you’re going to explain. Pronto, if not sooner.”
“Twenty minutes.”
Some idiot tipped over a box truck on the Southeast Expressway, scattering a few tons of watermelons, so it’s more like forty minutes before Jack eases his boaty Lincoln Town Car into the Quincy Bay Marina visitor’s parking lot. Hard to find a space, what with all the fire trucks and patrol cars. The last flush of late June twilight lingers, so all the flashing lights make for a festive sunset. If he didn’t know better he’d think a traveling carnival had set up along the waterfront, complete with glittering arcs of spray from the fireboats out in the harbor.
The object of all this attention is the
“Hey,” says Jack, trying to sound casual. Captain Tolliver in full regalia is an imposing sight. “What’s with the bag?”
“Never mind my uniform. I want to know everything you know.”
“That’ll take a lifetime.”
“Can the wiseass.”
“Fine. No problem. Is Bing alive or dead?”
“I’m asking the questions. Over there,” he says, jutting his massive chin at a white canvas crime scene tent that’s been staked into the asphalt a few feet from the dock system.
Jack follows him to the tent and sits, as indicated, in one of several folding chairs situated near a portable table equipped with a couple of big coffee urns. Tolliver grabs himself a cup, doesn’t bother offering. Not that Jack, spoiled by the good stuff, has any interest in gray, parboiled caffeine.
Tolliver takes a seat, heaves a sigh. “What a mess,” he says. “I was speaking at a graduation ceremony. Supposed to.”
“Your daughter.”
“My daughter, yeah. Made it through eighth grade. With honors, actually. My ex was there, of course. And I get the call ten minutes before I’m due at the microphone, prepared to drone on about how the future has yet to be made, and how they’ll be making it. Her generation.”
“I thought she was in, like, first grade.”
“She was, seven years ago. Time flies, Jack. They say life is like a roll of toilet paper-the closer you get to the end, the faster it rolls.”
“That’s a lovely image, Glenn. What happened to Bing?”
The big trooper’s smile is thin enough to have been cut with a scalpel. “You first. Your visit with Jonny Bing. Word for word, or as close as you can get.”
“No problem,” says Jack, and begins his recitation.
Fifteen minutes later, Tolliver heaves another sigh. “That’s it?”
“My best recollection.”
“Ace interrogator like you, there’s still no clear indication as to who might have killed Professor Keener, or why? Assuming, for the sake of argument, it wasn’t your pal Shane.”
“It wasn’t, and no. Bing seems genuinely puzzled. Convincing on the subject of how the sudden death of his partner might wreck the company and ruin his investment. If he’s lying, he’s damn good at it. Which he might be, for all I know.”
Tolliver studies the back of his meaty hand. “Maybe.”
“My gut says the only thing he was holding back concerns Keener’s missing kid.”
“Holding back what?”
Jack shrugs. “Claimed he never heard of Keener having a child, in or out of wedlock. But he knows something. I’m going to have another go at him.”
“No,” Tolliver says. “You’re not.”
“I’m not?”
“Not unless you can commune with the dead.”
The news doesn’t exactly shock Jack, given the general mood, not to mention the overwhelming response from law enforcement. “Well, that sucks,” he says, lightly drumming his well-manicured fingers on the tabletop. “How’d it go down?”
“You know I can’t share details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Walk me through it, maybe something will pop. Something he said that I couldn’t recall at first. I’ll share.”
Tolliver favors him with a sour look. “You neglected to tell me something, in your exhaustive recollection of the interview?”
“I’m just saying.”
The big man considers. “Walk with me,” he says.
