Boy in the Water

The two women made Jessica lie back down on the couch. Hawthorne could barely make out their voices. Alice again covered her with a blanket as Kate stroked her hair.

Hawthorne looked up at the windows above him. They were empty but he still had the sense that something was there.

Then, gradually, a shape materialized in a third-floor window—the dark coat, white hair, and thin white beard outlining the jaw. Ambrose Stark again stared down at him. But this time it was different. A great malicious smirk distorted the lower half of his face. The lips were bright red. Hawthorne dug his fingernails into his palms. He stared back at the specter above him, forcing himself not to turn away. He told himself it was a portrait that someone was holding up at the window. But that grin—surely that wasn’t on any portrait. Stark’s eyes were bright with malevolent humor.

“What are you staring at?” Kate was coming back out to the terrace.

Hawthorne looked up toward the third floor. The image of Ambrose Stark was gone. He tried to calm his breathing. “Nothing,” he said.

“You look awful.” Kate joined him, then looked up at the empty windows.

“It’s nothing. How’s Jessica?”

“She’s better. Alice will take her over to the infirmary. What did you see up there?”

“Nothing. Just shadows.”

“How spooky those gargoyles look in the moonlight.”

“Yes,” said Hawthorne.

Alice joined them on the terrace with Jessica, who had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“When you walked over here,” Hawthorne asked Alice, “did you see anyone?”

“I don’t think so. Well, I think I saw the night watchman.”

“Think?” said Hawthorne.

“I didn’t see his face and he wasn’t nearby.”

Then, strangely, came the liquid notes of a clarinet. They all stood unmoving, struck by the oddness of hearing the single instrument.

“Do you hear that?” asked Hawthorne, almost fearing that they didn’t.

“Of course,” said Kate. “How pretty it is.”

It was a jazz tune of almost unbearable sweetness. The music seemed to be coming from someplace above them.

Jessica raised her head. “I could dance to this,” she said. “Really, let me try.”

Alice gripped the girl’s arm to keep her from throwing off the blanket. “What is it?” she asked. “I know I’ve heard that song before.”

Hawthorne was afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep his voice steady. “Someone is playing ‘Satin Doll,’” he said.

Seven

Detective Leo Fly

Beyond that, they were talking about floaters and bodies that washed up on shore, because Porter had a body that had been tagged a simple drowning till Fly

“Sure you don’t want a Bud?” asked Porter, blowing a cloud of smoke up into the umbrella.

“Too early for me. I’d hafta take a nap later. I’ll come back after I talk to a couple of people.”

“You want lunch?” Porter was wearing a heavy overcoat and a red hunting cap with the flaps pulled down over his ears, which made him look like an old hound.

“The cigar’s enough.”

“You ever smoke any Cubans?” Porter’s voice had grown wistful.

“Sometimes. I mean, if they get confiscated.”

“Never see any Cubans up here. Had one in Mexico once. Least they said it was a Cuban.” Porter poked at the ash on his cigar with a fingernail. “You know, I never felt good about Ritchie turning up in the bay. The guy didn’t fish, didn’t swim. I must of asked myself a thousand times what he was doing there.”

“Now you know.”

“Fuckin’ ice pick—only an autopsy would pick it up after that time in the water. I figure the tide carried him a ways. Shit, he could of been dumped off a dock right here in town. My kid brother was in high school with him. Even went to his funeral.”

“What kind of guy was he?”

“Ritchie? Shortcuts, he was a great believer in shortcuts. It never works.”

“Quick money,” said Fly

“Ritchie wasn’t greedy. He was just trying to get by. But he was sloppy, drank too much, made a lot of mistakes. He kept trying to figure the angle, like the right number, the right piece of information would solve his problems. I figure somebody got tired of dealing with him and decided to clear the decks. A guy like Ritchie, who drinks like he did, you can’t trust his mouth.”

“Why didn’t you do an autopsy back in June?”

Porter looked off across his wet backyard as if unhappy with the question. “No marks. No sign of foul play. He could have been drunk and taken a tumble. And maybe we had a full plate at the time, I don’t recall.”

Fly

Fly

“I’ll go talk to the girlfriend,” said Fly

“Not too many people to share it with anymore. The wife won’t even let me smoke in the car. I mean regular cigarettes. Filters, even. Makes me feel like a crook.”

Fly

The woman’s name was Letta Smothers and she worked afternoons at Shaw’s supermarket as a cashier. She was single with two kids, neither of whom were Ritchie’s. Irving had drawn him a map to where she lived, but still Fly