SEVEN

      

       Damn. How could someone get so out of shape that sex hurt? He had to start exercising again. Get rid of this bagel around his waist. Angelina was worth it; his health was worth it.

How many times had he dreamed of their first time together? How many times had he planned his moves, imagined how great it would be? Forget about the bullishness of his moves—never had those plans or fantasies included agonizing leg cramps or shortness of breath so severe that twice he’d nearly passed out. Had she known?

Jarvis buttoned his shirt and finished tightening his belt—two holes bigger since last fall. Angelina’s attention focused on his hands, which made him hard all over again. God, if their relationship progressed from here, he’d be dead within a month. From the small couch along the wall, a cell phone rang. He groped in the jacket pocket, then checked the caller ID. “Jarvis here. What’s up, Wilson?”

“Thought you might want to take a gander at some new info. I left it on your desk.”

“Thanks.” He slapped the phone shut and tucked it back in the jacket pocket. “Gotta go to the station.”

“I thought you were suspended, Angie said.”

“Wilson keeps me in the loop.”

“Will he get in trouble?”

“He accidentally leaves stuff on my desk. It’s my responsibility to retrieve it.”

She slipped those long, slender feet into her sexy spiked heels, then tilted her head to look up at him. “Maybe you should let them handle the case.”

Jarvis gave a sharp laugh. “Yes, just like you are.”

“Yes, but I care about you and want this off your shoulders.”

“Well, I care about me too. And my career.”

Angelina bent forward to peer into the mirror over a battered dressing table. She fluffed her hair with both hands, used an index finger to wipe smudged mascara from an eyelid and then straightened up. Damn, she was beautiful. He squeezed his buttocks together and picked up her coat to drape over her shoulders. They both laughed seeing the wrinkled gown. He made a deliberate show of buttoning the coat over it.

He kissed her in the parking lot and waited till the Lexus disappeared up the road before climbing into his car and driving the half-mile to the station. His stomach growled, and he smiled. Sex always made him hungry. Suddenly guilt punched him with an almost solid force. What the hell had he done? A beautiful, elegant lady like Angelina, and he’d plowed her up against a wall and taken her like…like a bull in a field. He punched a fist into a cupped palm and yanked open the station door.

Behind the thick glass window, the dispatcher’s desk sat empty. He used his keys—nobody had thought to confiscate them—to open the security door and strode down the hallway hoping his arrival would go unnoticed. He unlocked his office and slipped inside. A small stack of manila folders sat on the desk.

Jarvis stepped around the desk and grunted seeing the floor carpeted in white. A dozen or more pages had missed the fax machine’s in-tray. He gathered them, not worrying about numerical order then slipped everything into a Walmart bag he found in his bottom drawer.

The dispatcher, back at her desk, threw him a sly wave as he passed.

Yellow-gray shades of dawn were poking between the pines lining the parking lot. Looked like it might be a nice day. A few more with blue-sky sunshine and the snow should be gone. The sound of a diesel engine had him looking street-ward. Headlights of the town sand truck turned in the parking lot. Jarvis waved to the driver.

At home, he dropped the folders on the kitchen table. All the folder tabs were blank, giving no indication where Wilson wanted him to start. While coffee brewed he changed into pajamas. Angelina’s scent wafted from his clothes and the guilt returned like a bad virus. One thing was sure; she would never want him to make love to her again. Make love! Shit, what he did wasn’t making love, it was a coarse, selfish act perpetrated by an overage, oversexed—

He slapped both palms on the counter. He’d really messed up this time.

Jarvis sloshed coffee; a lot of it missed the cup. He didn’t clean it up, just flung himself into the chair. The first folder: Wilson’s personal report. He’d spent yesterday in Manchester chasing down friends, relatives and cohorts of Lonnie Lawson. All he’d learned was that Lawson habitually traveled with three others: Ramon “Grunt” Ramirez, Bradley Short and a Victor “Halfway” Dench. All three had mile-long rap sheets. Wilson had made a huge asterisk next to Mr. Short has a small blue car.

Lawson still lived at home with a mother and two sisters. None seemed too broken up about his death. One sister had confided that her brother was nothing more than a leech, sponging off his hard-working family. No one had seen him since Wednesday. Near as Wilson could determine, they hadn’t stayed in any motel within a ten-mile radius. Whoever staged this job knew what they were doing.

The next folder held Bloom’s credit report. He had a good rating—over 700. Jarvis started to set the page aside then stopped. Weird…nothing at all before ’99. He got up and went into the living room, to the coffee table piled high with work related stuff. He drew a notebook from the bottom of the left pile and returned to the kitchen. Finding a fresh page, he made a notation about the date.

The next folder held bank statements from the last four years. Jarvis didn’t care about every single detail right now. He first checked the most recent three months. Nothing unusual. Regular bill payments: electric, phone, water, etc. Regular deposits, in varying amounts. Jarvis thumbed back two years and four months, to the deposit of three million dollars…ten months after the letter from Pedar Sondergaard suggesting a partnership. Ten months—just enough time to get together, discuss red flowers and dicker on a price to—what? To buy the rights to the plant? To fund laboratory work? He didn’t know yet, but would bet his pension that the three million came from Sondergaard. A sticky note inside the front cover of the folder said in Wilson’s handwriting: have petitioned for Sondergaard’s bank records.

The third folder held John Bloom’s phone company records for the past four years. Wilson had notated the origin of each number and highlighted the frequencies in different shades. Either John Bloom had no relatives—Jarvis made a note to ask Trynne—or he didn’t keep in touch with anyone because the only long distance calls were to nursery suppliers, laboratory supply companies, or iris related people. Several in the last two months were to a Mary Grayson, whom Jarvis recalled was President of the Iris Society. The calls were probably related to his upcoming speech in Philadelphia. Another note from Wilson: have petitioned for Sondergaard’s phone records.

Jarvis had to give Wilson credit; he was busting his ass on this case. Probably hankering for a promotion, which would mean Jarvis’ job. The thought made him laugh. Some job. No advancement, shitty pay, and endless hours. Of course, by the end of this case—some case, a stolen freaking flower—he might not have a job anyway. He might be in jail.

He tilted the chair back against the wall. Eyes closed, arms behind his head, legs crossed—his thinking position. An ideal case closed in forty-eight hours. After that, clues grew cold, physical evidence deteriorated. This case had counted down thirty-two hours and they hadn’t turned up any new suspects. Just the Danish guy and the florist. The most logical suspect, Sondergaard, they couldn’t find. The local suspect, well, Jarvis just couldn’t wrap his mind around Donna Marks for murder.

Jarvis maintained the thinking position. This time John Bloom, Pedar Sondergaard, or Donna Marks didn’t pop into his brain. It was Ms. Soon to have a finalized divorce Angelina Deacon. She’d be free of that cheating ex who kept trying to worm his way back into her life. The guy couldn’t let go. Well, fuck him, he cheated on her. How anyone could cheat on her was more of a mystery than this Bloom case.

He slammed the chair legs to the floor, bumping his abdomen on the table. A sheaf of paper-clipped witness statements lay on top of the pile. Bloom’s two employees, whose statements pretty much agreed in all respects; Bloom was a strange but nice guy who, to their knowledge, had no close friends or girlfriends. He rarely left the property; they did his shopping and banking without, it seemed, animosity for such requests. Otherwise they tended to customers. Neither had ever been inside the back two greenhouses, nor, in particular Bloom’s laboratory.

Bloom wasn’t registered at the video store. He didn’t get prescriptions. He’d never ordered flowers, or pizza. He had his mail delivered to the house.

Since the nursery opened, six of Bloom’s neighbors had filed complaints with police. Five were related to parking. From Memorial Day to mid-July, cars parked all up and down the road, sometimes on people’s lawns. The fourth complaint had come from a Frank Chute. He lived directly across the street and had, so far, been unavailable for questioning.

Except for Blake and Trynne McCoy, there were no family statements. Jarvis checked in the other folders. It wasn’t like Wilson to be lax. He dialed Wilson at home, knowing the man would be asleep but he answered on the second ring sounding wide awake. He checked the wall clock—4:58 a.m. People angling for other people’s jobs answered phones sounding wide awake. Then his little voice interrupted to say no, people with newborn babies were up this time of day.

“Jarvis here. I can’t find the statements from Bloom’s friends and family…Everybody’s got somebody, Sergeant. Schoolmates, ex girlfriends…”

“We can’t find anyone.”

He bounced the chair back and then forward. “Isn’t that interesting. Where did he go to school?”

“Community College, Salem, Oregon. There’s a curious fact—he attended with someone from right here in town. Mrs. McCoy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

Jarvis picked up a pen and stabbed the tip into the blotter. “He and Trynne McCoy grew up together. At one time during their teen years, they were unofficially engaged.”

“That right?”

“What about women?”

“You mean, besides the one in the blue hatchback?”

“Yeah, did you check Donna Marks’ registration?”

“The car is definitely registered to her. Whether it was the one seen in Bloom’s driveway…”

“It might be time to bring Ms. Marks in for questioning.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Three to five months a year, Sergeant, Bloom’s place has to be knee-deep in women. Didn’t he hit on a single one? More than ten years is a long frigging time to go without sex—” Damn, it had been that long for him! Jarvis launched himself from the chair and began pacing, his other thinking position.

“Jarvis, you all right?” From Wilson’s tone, it wasn’t the first time he’d said the words.

Jarvis realized he stood in the living room. He dropped in the red leather recliner—Liz’s chair. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“Care to share?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s up next?” Wilson asked.

A sound in the background. Jarvis attributed it to a bedspring creaking. “Gotta do that matinee. Afterward I’ll shoot over to Bloom’s place again. I want to talk to that neighbor, Chute. Then…I don’t know…I guess I’ll go back in the house and see if I can turn up anything from under one of those mountains of paper.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

As Jarvis hung up the phone, he got another scent of Angelina’s perfume. He sniffed his arm, the backs of his hands, unable to locate the source. Angelina Deacon, the only redeeming element in his life in a very long time. Unfortunately their relationship was a lesson in futility. Forget the way he’d slammed into her at the theater. Forget his jealous streak; that online counseling group had been a tremendous help. Forgetting all that, they were still polar opposites. She was beautiful. He was paunchy, and balding. She was always on the go. Damn, she jogged every day. Well, chimed his little voice, you go outdoors too—from the house to the car. Shit, he was no better than Bloom, holing up like a mole.

Profound understanding dropped Jarvis in his chair, slamming it off the wall. The reason she kept a distance between them these long months; till just now, he chalked her aloofness up to emotional strain over her broken marriage. It wasn’t that at all. She’d been waiting—for him to show some balls, to take initiative and make something of the relationship. He sat straighter and slapped his palms on the pile of folders. He’d show her the real Colby Jarvis; the one who got lost so long ago. The not a jealous bone in his body Jarvis. The fit and trim Jarvis. He’d take her on a trip. Out of town, where ex husbands, dead wives and police work couldn’t breathe on them. As soon as the case was over. Paris. Or London.

No, too overwhelming. Start smaller. Boston. There’s a great symphony. He hadn’t been to the symphony since a year before Liz died. Liz, whose flaming red hair matched her personality. They never sat home watching television. Sadness clutched his throat and for a moment he couldn’t pull in a breath. After she died, he’d hidden in this cave called Alton Bay, watching Celtics games.

Jarvis swallowed sadness big as a watermelon. He slapped his palms on the chair arms and stood up. The past was the past. Life went on.

Where the hell were those barbells?

* * * *

 

At home finally, champagne sleep pulling at her eyelids, Angie undressed and climbed in the shower. She leaned her forehead on the tiles and let sleep fairies play lullabies in her brain while the throbbing shower massage alleviated what tension Jarvis hadn’t already pounded from her body.

The memory of Jarvis in her dressing room…what a surprise that had been. She’d expected sex with him to be conventional and routine. None of her fantasies included the passion that rose up in that somber man. It put a whole new light on their relationship.

Glowing with after-sex memory and carrying a brimming snifter of brandy, she turned on the television, propped pillows and crawled between the cold sheets. Nothing on TV looked interesting and she shut it off. The apartment was quiet. Maybe she should check on Gloria. But no, Angie couldn’t face another night of girl talk.

She lay there watching the red digital numbers click past—the technological age’s version of counting sheep. Sleep wouldn’t come.

At four, she kicked off the blankets and went to the den where she booted up the computer and checked email. One from Mary Grayson said, Good evening Angie. It was nice speaking with you earlier. I’m very sad to hear about John Bloom. You mentioned Pedar Sondergaard and I didn’t really elaborate on his importance to the iris world. He’s a world-renowned iris geneticist. Ten years ago he produced a brilliant, fire engine red flower—the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But he was unable to get it to reproduce. Such a disappointment. He once told me he’s still got descendants from that plant.

Angie replied to the email then typed Pedar Sondergaard’s name in the Google search box.

How it must feel to have a dream fail so radically…with the whole world watching. Did that failure end Sondergaard’s research? Angie doubted it. People dedicated to something rarely gave up completely. Especially when someone like John Bloom wrote to you.

Sondergaard’s reply said that a partnership of some sort might be profitable for them both. Question: had John told of his success producing a red? Or merely hinted at his interest in producing one? If Sondergaard still had descendants of his red—maybe melding iris genes was the partnership. Then again, maybe the partnership entailed a dollar sign, a three, and six zeroes.

Several pages of Pedar Sondergaard hits appeared on the screen. First, Nielsen Nurseries. Sole owner: Pedar Niels Sondergaard. No mention of John Bloom. No mention of a partnership of any kind—not even with a wife. Many Google hits linked back to his site. Others led to articles he’d had published in predominant Iris publications or Danish newspapers, most regarding the futility of breeding for the red. A person could take that to mean he was trying for one.

Angie typed in John Bloom’s name but it produced too many unrelated results. How odd to have the name Bloom when you’re a horticulturist. She wrote another email to Mary asking if John Bloom was his real name. Then she shut down the computer. It was five a.m. Another sleepless night.

She dressed and went for her morning jog south on Route 28. Jogging presented time to relax, to let life’s pressures be neutralized by the scent of the air, the beauty of the scenery, the rhythmic slap of shoes. A time to void things like divorce, the tribulations of leaving a good paying job and starting a business with hardly any capital, and mounting pressure of a relationship with a cop.

Today, errant thoughts invaded that void. After ransacking John’s place and stealing his life’s work, why go to the trouble of killing him? Trynne and Blake spoke of him as a quiet, unassuming and private man. Nobody’s description called him abrasive, one to create trouble, a person someone would wreak revenge upon.

At the top of Bay Hill Road Angie turned and retraced her steps, her shoes slapping muck on her sweatpants.

What if John and Sondergaard spent the last three years negotiating—or arguing—about a partnership and John ended up turning him down? Sondergaard came a week early for his speaking engagement at the conference and used the time to convince John in person. From Judy’s description of their meeting, Sondergaard had been unsuccessful. Had he been so angry about this failure that he perpetrated the theft? Possible. Sondergaard’s own discovery of a red sort of cemented the idea of a motive. Still, why kill John afterward? And where did that three million dollars come from?

By the time her shoes slapped back to the condo, Angie was soaked from the knees down. She dropped her clothes in the laundry. Then she picked up last night’s gown and underthings from the floor. The dress, though not ruined, desperately needed dry cleaning. She buried her face in the soft material and inhaled the essence of Colby Jarvis. The aromas of aftershave and sex sent her juices flowing. Angie turned on the hot water and nearly leaped into the shower.

Afterward, sex drive not the least bit thwarted, she headed for the kitchen for something to eat. Movement in the second bedroom said Gloria was awake. In a totally uncustomary move, Angie grabbed up her keys and escaped to the diner where Judy had two coffees waiting on the counter.

“You’re late today.”

“Didn’t get home till dawn.”

“I hope that means the show was a success. Girl, you and Tyson outdid yourselves. It was suspenseful and funny and romantic. Jarvis was fantastic as a thief.”

“I hope the critics agree with you.”

“Let’s check, the papers just got here.” Judy undid the strap on the bundle and returned carrying two. They’d made the front page again—this time the headline said Local Theater Pulls off a Winner.

Angie’s fluttering heart smoothed to a more sedate rhythm though it still tripped with energy. She read: On Friday night, Prince & Pauper Theater’s first performance was marred by the death of their leading man, John Bloom. Night two went off without a hitch. Bloom’s understudy, played by Blake McCoy. All this critic can say is: fabulous. It makes one wonder why he wasn’t cast in the part in the first place. Checkmate: Love is funny, romantic, and thoroughly entertaining.

Angie paid for several papers and the coffees. “Tyson’s probably already seen this, but I’ll bring some for the cast.”

“How long is the play running?”

“Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday matinees all month. We switch to Ruckus in New York for next month.”

“I’m so happy for you two.” Judy used a marker to write on the lid of one coffee. “This one’s Tyson’s, cream and three sugars.”

Angie started to leave.

“By the way,” Judy called, “Jarvis came in this morning. He brought pictures of that guy I saw meeting with John Bloom.”

“So it was him.”

“For sure. Peter somebody.”

“Pedar—P.E.D.A.R.”

“Romantic. Hey, something else. Remember I said that Bloom guy had been in her before? I remembered who he came with—Blake and Trynne.”

Angie nodded. That agreed with what Trynne said—how he never invited them to his house. She’d never thought to ask how often the three of them ‘went out’. Or whether Blake and John ever did things together, guy things.

“Well, I’ve got to run. It’s going to be a zoo today. We’re doing two shows to make up for Friday night. Did Jarvis say where he was going?”

“He mentioned something about Manchester.”

What could be in Manchester? She hoped it didn’t keep him past matinee time. Perhaps she should prepare the understudy just in case.

Angie had no sooner buckled the seatbelt when her cell phone rang. “Hey Ange.” The familiar voice sent ripples of emotion—both good and bad—through her. A question burst onto her tongue but didn’t leave her mouth—what did her ex want?

“Hi Will.”

“I just wanted to congratulate you and Tyson on Checkmate: Love.”

He saw the show? With whom? “Thanks.”

“I really liked Blake. Better than Bloom.”

He saw both shows?

“You think so?”

“Yes, I thought Bloom was a little stiff.”

She didn’t reply. Opening mouth right now might mean inserting foot because she really wanted to know…who Will had gone to the show with. It was none of her business. That part of her life was over. His cheating broke them up.

“Probably just nerves,” he was saying. “I know how I’d feel in front of that crowd. Blake is a natural. Will you be using him in another production?”

What the hell kind of conversation was this?

“I don’t know.”

“Jarvis was great too.”

Okay, so that’s where it was leading; to her relationship with the cop. “Um, maybe. Will, I have to be getting to work now.”

“You punch a time clock these days?”

“No, but it’s freezing out here.”

“Where are you?”

“Thanks for calling, I’m glad you liked the show. We’re doing Ruckus in New York next month. Seeya.” She flipped the phone shut and threw it on the passenger seat.

The theater parking lot had been freshly sanded. It was March, when the snow melted during the day but at night refroze into sheets smooth enough for ice-skating. Tyson’s car sat just outside the front door. Sometimes she wondered if he slept here. If she had to live with his overbearing mother, she’d move in here too.

Gloria’s face popped into her head. During this visit she hadn’t been much less domineering than Tyson’s mother. Thank goodness for Jarvis’s father keeping her occupied. Still, Angie thought, if he’s dying, perhaps it’s not a good idea for Gloria to get too attached. The thoughts brought Gloria’s health to mind—they really did have to talk.

As she neared the door, she heard the hum of the vacuum. Tyson pushed it across the carpet near the ticket window. “Good morning,” she shouted.

He shut off the machine and began winding the cord. “Hi.”

“Are you still here, or back already?”

“Party broke up bout three. I went home for a couple hours shut-eye but I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I. Have you seen the reviews?”

A smile erupted onto his good-looking face. “Saw the Monitor. But I see you have the Telegraph.” He pushed the vacuum into the closet, shut the door and came back to take his coffee.

“How were the reviews in the Monitor?”

“Awesome.” They walked into the auditorium where Tyson set his cup on the arm of a chair. He rustled the pages looking for the review. Angie waited while he read. “Awesome,” he said again. “This is great!” He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. Angie followed him down the aisle and up the stage steps. “I think we should frame these and put them on the wall in the lobby,” he said over his shoulder.

“Good idea.”

In the common area out back, they tossed the newspapers on the long table.

“How come you and Jarvis don’t move in together?”

Tyson was twenty-five, half her age. He lived in a world of now, everything done in a hurry. Meet somebody, move in with them, get married.

She avoided his eyes. “I’m not ready for that. I—”

“You’re not over Will yet.”

“I’m not in love with him any more. I just—”

“Don’t want the responsibility.”

“It’s not that either. To be honest, I don’t think Jarvis is over losing his wife.”

“When did she die?”

“Ten years ago. I’ll get started cleaning the auditorium.”

“Good. Avoid the subject.”

“I’m not. Sometimes things are just out of your hands.”

“So, if you were convinced Jarvis was over his wife, you’d fall into a serious relationship with him?”

“I didn’t say that. Hey, let’s talk about your love life for a while.”

He plucked off the coffee lid and took a long drag of his coffee. Then he set the cup on the table. “My mother will be here soon.”

“Okay, so you change the subject too.”

He grinned, showing straight, perfect teeth. “I sent her out to have that script copied. We should probably look at it before the author comes in. The title is Ring of Muddy Water. It’s about a woman who gets a late night telephone call from an old friend. This friend asks if she’ll meet him out on the bridge. When she arrives, there’s no one there. The cops suddenly arrive and arrest her for murder. They all peer below to see the body wedged in some shrubs along shore. There’s a hate note in the pocket, supposedly from the woman.”

“Sounds intriguing. I love mysteries. Speaking of plays, want to get together Wednesday to work on ours?”

“Sure. You remember we’re going hiking tomorrow morning, right?”

“Right.” He shoved one of the mismatched hardback chairs under the table and used his thumbs to straighten it. “My mother will be here at noon. She’s bringing lunch too.”

Angie cleaned the auditorium then sat at the table in the common room to make a shopping list that included props for the next month’s show. Much of what they used had been borrowed from the casts’ homes. Angie smiled remembering the echo of voices in Trynne and Blake’s empty living room. Maybe that’s why Blake’s acting was so natural—he felt right at home.

A pounding came on the back door. Tyson ran to let his mother in. He took the huge basket of food from her and let the big metal door whoosh shut with a resounding thud. Agnes Smith Goodwell entered, bringing the aroma of hauteur and Donna Karan’s Cashmere Mist. She laid a pair of thick manila envelopes on the table, out of Angie’s reach. “Good day, Miss Deacon.”

“Hello Mrs. Goodwell. How are you today?”

“Fine.” She leaned down and waited for Tyson to kiss her cheek. The dutiful son. “What time will you be home?” she asked Tyson.

“Probably not until after midnight.” Tyson shoved one of the envelopes at Angie and opened the lunch basket. Agnes Goodwell took that as her cue to leave.

Tyson pulled out the recently-straightened chair and drew the basket closer. While he unpacked lunch, which included wine glasses and chinaware, Angie opened her copy of the manuscript. “Your mother still hates me.”

He laughed, twisting the cork from the bottle of wine. “She still thinks you’re after the family money.”

“Do you think she poisoned the food?” she asked.

“And take a chance of harming her precious son?” Tyson shrugged. “Can’t help it if she thinks I’m God’s gift to mankind.”

* * * *

 

Jarvis shut off his Jeep in the Jiffy Mart parking lot and stretched his legs as straight as he could. He’d had a devil of a time staying awake on the trip to Manchester from Alton Bay. Not that distance-wise it was very far. The pressures of the last few days had taken a toll on his stamina. Only one vehicle in this lot, looked like it had been here for several days. None of the shops along this stretch were open for business yet. His watch read 7:25.

He had no idea where to start looking for Sticks Lawson. His experience in the city of Manchester, with a population of over a hundred thousand, had been limited to trips to the shopping areas with Liz. That’s why he’d phoned the local cops and asked for a tour guide.

It wasn’t long before a black, fifteen-year-old Ford Fairlane rumbled up. A man of about twenty-five, with unkempt hair and wild beard climbed out. He wore jeans with both knees torn out, and a denim jacket with patches sewed all over it. Jarvis had time to identify Harley Davidson and Budweiser logos as the man raced around the front of the vehicle. He jumped in and shut the door. Jarvis was suddenly surrounded by the smell of cigarette smoke, so strong he had to fight the urge to open the window.

The newcomer stuck out a giant, hairy paw. “Detective Gordon Lewis. Call me Lew.”

“Colby Jarvis. I’m investigating the death of a man named Lonnie ‘Sticks’ Lawson.”

“I know. I also know you’re on suspension.”

The damned suspension. Because of it, this guy would refuse to help, wouldn’t want to chance getting his balls chewed out. Jarvis reached down to twist the key.

“I think the suspension policy is crap,” said Lew. “Guilty before proven innocent. Makes all kinds a sense, don’t it?”

Jarvis resisted breathing a sigh of relief. “Any idea where this Lawson creep hung out? Where he lived? I tried the place listed as his home address but—”

“Lemme guess, nobody there ever heard of him.”

“On the contrary, his mother and sister seemed almost glad to have him out of their hair. The sister called him a leech. ‘Twenty-seven years old and never held a real job,’ she said. Neither knew the people he hung out with. Except their street names: Grunt and Halfway.”

Lew nodded. “Grunt is Ramon Ramirez. The other is Victor Dench. There’s a fourth guy too: Brad Short. He’s not a bad kid. Comes from a stable home environment. So far, he hasn’t got a record.” Lew pointed to the left. “Drive that way.”

A myriad of twists and turns took them to a dark back alley. At its end, a long-abandoned warehouse with pocked bricks and broken windows. “This is their meeting place.” Lew pulled on the door handle so Jarvis did likewise.

But the effort was for naught. Oh, the guys had been here, no doubt about that. The big echoing space contained worn furniture and a corner full of cast-off beer cans and take-out containers. Jarvis had the impression the group had cleared out for good. They performed an examination of the place anyway. He slid his hands between cushions while Lew kicked aside the piles of containers. They found nothing that could even remotely tie this place to the Alton Bay case.