Midas

homework in the few minutes it had taken him to arrive at her office. “I’m sure this has occurred to you, and I know it might seem a bit indelicate to bring it up so soon after Jimmy’s death, but we need another chief of police.”

It actually hadn’t occurred to Justin. Things had been moving too quickly. And everything at the station was proceeding smoothly. But he nodded, as if he’d done nothing but think about such a need.

“Well, I’d like you to take the job,” Leona Krill said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m appointing you the new chief of police. On a temporary basis. I’m hoping you’ll agree on six months. That seems fair. And at that point, we can review the situation and, I hope, mutually agree on whether you should continue or not. It makes perfect sense. You have the background, the experience, people seem to respect you-in a strange sort of way. There’ll be a nice pay raise, of course.”

Justin realized he was standing there, probably looking dumbfounded. It shouldn’t have been such a shock, it was the logical move for her to make. If he accepted, it made her life easy. No outside search, no unknown quantity. But every voice inside him was screeching for him not to do it. He didn’t want the responsibility. Or the pay raise. He didn’t want the bureaucratic dealings. Didn’t want people working for him. He didn’t want the extra ties to the community. Didn’t want to attend the social events or the town meetings or see any public-spirited liaison who would want to talk to him about whatever public-spirited people talked about. He didn’t want anything about this job. Nothing at all.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

She thanked him profusely, told him how glad she was, thanked him again. She set up a meeting with him for two days hence, on Friday, so they could discuss various details. She even kissed him on the cheek before he left.

Walking back down Main Street toward his car, Justin wondered what the hell he’d just done.

He thought, My life. My choices.

Shaking his head, he got in the car, drove home, called Marjorie Leggett, told her he was working on keeping his promise. Then he made a second call, this one to Billy DiPezio, the Providence, Rhode Island, police chief. Billy was the reason Justin had become a cop. And he’d been Justin’s boss for several years. Billy was also the most crooked honest man Justin had ever met. Or maybe he was the most honest crook. Billy was a cop who walked a fine line between right and wrong, sometimes crossing over, not always knowing when he did. And rarely caring.

“I’m calling to get your permission for something,” Justin said when he got Billy on the phone. Billy was, as usual, not at the station or at home with his wife. He was in a bar somewhere, probably sharing a booth with someone he shouldn’t be sharing it with.

“Well, that’s a first,” Billy said.

“I’m trying to do a favor for a friend and I need to do a little research.”

“There’s a new thing,” Billy said. “It’s called the Internet. It’s amazing, I’m told. You can look stuff up, just like it’s a real library. In fact, they probably have a whole library building in that weird little beach town you live in. The Billy Joel Library or something, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that kind of research. I need the human kind.”

“And you’re calling me, Jay? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be too flattered. I want to talk to Chuck Billings.”

Justin could sense Billy’s demeanor-jaunty, unconcerned-shift slightly. Nothing major, Billy was too good an actor to be obvious. But his tone changed a bit, and there was a split second more thought before he began to banter.

“Local cop decides to get involved in terrorist bombing, Jay?”

“I’m not getting involved,” Justin said. And he quickly told Billy the truth about Jimmy and Marjorie Leggett. “If Chuck’s still your bomb guy, all I want is to pick his brain a bit. I just want to understand what really happened so I can tell Margie. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Of course he’s still my bomb guy. Probably the best bomb squad captain in the country.”

“So can I talk to him?”

“It’ll be easier than you think,” Billy told him. “The Feds called him in as a consultant, to take a look at the restaurant.”

“Harper’s?”

“I told you he’s good.”

“Is he here already?”

“Right in your neighborhood,” Billy said. “Staying at some motel, Chuck said not the classiest place in town. Something about fish. . the Fish Bowl. . the Fish Net. .?”

“The Fisherman?”

“Sounds right. He got in this morning.”

“Thanks, Billy.”

“Buy him a good dinner, that’s all I ask. You can afford it and he can’t, not on what I pay him.”

“Done.”

“You coming up anytime soon?”

“I’ll be up,” Justin said.

“You can also take me out to dinner.”

“Billy, you haven’t paid for a meal in twenty years. What the hell do you need me for?”

“I’m hanging up on you now. Make sure you send my regards to your very rich parents.”

“I’ll quote you exactly.”

Justin hung up, immediately dialed the Fisherman Motel. Billings wasn’t in his room so Justin left a message on voice mail. He took a deep breath, looked around his house, happy to be alone and isolated from the world for at least one more night, then he rolled a big fat illegal joint, got as stoned as he’d been in several months, and fell asleep listening to R.E.M. blaring from his speakers.

It seemed as good a way as any to spend his first night as police chief.

5

Justin Westwood had experienced many disturbing dreams in his thirty-eight years. Particularly since Alicia and Lili had died. Dreams that floated through his consciousness. Dreams that were filled with violence and inflicted waves of guilt and regret. Dreams that made him twist and turn and hurt and wake up drenched in sweat and dread. But very few of his dreams were as disturbing as what he was watching on television at eight o’clock the next morning, soon after he’d awakened and made himself four cups of very strong drip coffee.

He was halfway through his second cup, black, when he turned on one of the morning shows on TV and was greeted with images of the aftermath of the explosion at Harper’s. It was all very frantic and ragged. Some tourist had been making a video document of his trip to the Hamptons and had been half a block away when the bomb went off. He had the actual explosion on camera. It was from a skewed angle, but there it was and it was terrifying. Even on this nervously shot amateur tape, the force and devastation were apparent. The tourist had kept taping but it hadn’t taken long before he was no longer allowed in the thick of things. Then the news coverage took over. This footage was at least as disturbing. Viewers were able to see things they never wanted to see. The blood, the mutilation, the bodies. The tape ran for a good ten minutes, with occasional voice-over narration and explanations given by the show’s host. When it ended, the attorney general of the United States, Jeffrey Stuller, was on camera, appearing from Washington, D.C., speaking to the normally perky-but now extremely somber-host.

“While there will continue to be a more detailed investigation, we have concluded the initial stage of our investigation into the devastating bombing of Harper’s Restaurant in East Hampton, New York,” Stuller was saying. “And I’m not going to mince words. All indications are that this was a terrorist suicide bombing. It is the kind of incident that has, tragically, become far too common in Israel and Iraq and other locations around the world. And now it has reached American shores. This is something we have dreaded for quite some time, ever since the events of September eleventh, but I want to assure the American public that it is not something that has been unexpected.