The Stolen Coast E-Book

Dwyer Murphy

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Adrift in a sleepy coastal Massachusetts town, a man who ferries fugitives by day gets twisted up in a plot to pilfer diamonds in a heist novel that infuses Elmore Leonard and Casablanca. Jack might be a polished, Harvard-educated lawyer on paper, but everyone in the down-at-the-heels, if picturesque, village of Onset, Massachusetts, knows his real job: moving around people on the run from powerful enemies. Except for the occasional fumble, the family business—co-managed with his father, a retired spy—is smooth sailing, filling up Onset's holiday homes during the town's long, drowsy off-season. But when Elena, Jack's enigmatic former flame—and former client-fugitive—makes an unexpected return to town, wealthy fiancé in tow, her arrival upends Jack's routine existence. Elena, after all, doesn't go anywhere without a scheme in mind, and it isn't long before Jack finds himself enmeshed in her latest hustle: intercepting millions of dollars' worth of raw diamonds before they're shipped overseas. With sharp wit and stylish prose, CrimeReads editor in chief Dwyer Murphy serves up an irresistible page-turner as full of heart as it is of drama.

Leseprobe

Praise for The Stolen Coast

‘A perfect summer escape’ Maureen Corrigan, NPRFresh Air

‘A twisty, enthralling heist yarn… loaded with the threat of a double cross any time… smart and satisfying’ The New York Times, Editors’ Choice

‘Fabulous characters and dialogue so sharp, you’re going to be cutting your fingers whipping through the pages’ Brad Thor, The TODAY Show, Best Beach Read of 2023

‘Atmospheric and transportive, fans of classic hard-boiled noir will want to put The Stolen Coast on the top of their to-be-read list’ Parade

‘[A] stylish New England noirish thriller’ The Washington Post

‘Murphy seamlessly moves The Stolen Coast into a solid plot about con games, heists and disappearances… His breezy style keeps The Stolen Coast churning, adding levity when the plot turns dark while serving the labyrinth story’ Oline Cogdill, South Florida Sun-Sentinel

‘Dwyer Murphy’s The Stolen Coast reads like coming upon a favorite Robert Mitchum movie late at night and getting swept up in its aura of creeping danger and looming, romantic regret. With rich, complicated characters, a serpentine plot, and atmosphere to burn, this is neo-noir at its elegiac best’ Megan Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of The Turnout

‘I loved the dark, twisty world that Dwyer Murphy conjures in The Stolen Coast, which is as smart and stylish a crime novel as any fan of noir and basketball (or mussels and jewelry heists, for that matter) could ever want’ Jess Walter, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Beautiful Ruins

‘This is a terrific, atmospheric crime novel by a writer with a deep love and appreciation of the form’ Ace Atkins, New York Times bestselling author of Robert B. Parker’s Bye Bye Baby and The Heathens

‘Set in the grimy seaside milieu of Massachusetts’ south coast, The Stolen Coast is a riveting heist thriller, witty and lyrical and tough’ Peter Swanson, New York Times bestselling author of Eight Perfect Murders

‘The Stolen Coast is a wonderful heist novel, unique and compelling, set in a town full of shifty operators and fugitives. Murphy’s rich, fluid prose infuses every page with salty sea air and a rueful sort of romance. I loved my sojourn in Onset, Massachusetts’ Steph Cha, author of Your House Will Pay

‘Murphy’s spare, polished prose carries a touch of Elmore Leonard and a whisper of Ernest Hemingway, but in balancing those influences he locates a style all his own. Strong characters, sharp wit, breathless action, and real emotional depth make this exceptional neo-noir sing’ Publishers Weekly (starred review)

‘[The Stolen Coast] niftily evades crime-fiction formulas… A shrewd, offbeat original’ Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

‘[A] terrific heist novel. The author nails all aspects of the genre, from the intriguing characters to the complicated plan, the twists and turns and reversals, and a lean, mean writing style… Murphy obviously loves what he’s writing about, which means we love reading him. For fans of heist and caper stories, this one’s a must-read’ Booklist

‘Dwyer’s prose is direct and straightforward, but with an air of the fanciful. He is a watercolorist when it comes to genre and style – the allusions and frameworks are all visible, but he doesn’t lay them on thick… I can’t think of a better combination for Dwyer’s stylings than a heist novel set along the misty, craggy seaside’ LitHub, The 28 Novels You Need to Read This Summer

For Carolina and Eloisa

Part I

1

Tommy Carvalho was featherweight champion in the Police Athletic League when he was fifteen years old. That might not sound like much of a title to you or me, but for Tommy it was a point of pride. He married young, straight out of high school, and developed an addiction to Vicodin that he managed to kick, possibly by reminding himself that for a span of time in his golden youth there wasn’t another boy on the South Coast of Massachusetts who could knock him down. The marriage ended after a year. He still saw his ex-wife regularly and liked to cook her dinner once or twice a week, without asking questions about how she spent the rest of her time or affections. We had never been very close growing up, but Tommy was part of my Thursday evening pickup basketball game. Most of the year we played at the Y, but in summer we went to the beach. It was five a side, full court, and Tommy was an able if slightly undersized wing who liked to run. He had a carelessness about him on the court that I always admired. Whenever I pulled a rebound, I looked for him streaking down the sidelines.

In the time since he cleaned up, Tommy had taken over as the head of Parks and Recreation. He was the one who had suggestedlayingthenewblacktoponthepublicbeachcourts severalyearsbefore,andwheneverwewantedtoplaylate,he carriedamasterkeytoturnonthelights.Wewouldallthrow in a dollar or two afterward, toward the electricity bill. It seemedtomehehadsettledintoanice,tranquillife,allthings considered,anditsurprisedmethatsummerwhenhebrought up the possibility of escape. At first, I took it for a joke, but afterhekeptfindingwaysofsteeringtheconversationbackin that direction, I decided there was probably more to it.

‘Youshouldtakeavacation,’Isuggested.‘Gosomewhere warm. Have a cocktail.’

‘Idon’twantavacation,’hesaid.‘We’vegotbeachesright here.’

‘Then go somewhere cold. Fly to Iceland. It’s light out all night.’

‘I’mnotsomegoddamntourist,’he said.

That was the problem. When you got right down to it, Tommy had a lot of pride.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Tell me where you want to go.’

‘Somewhere they won’t find me.’

‘Who’s they?’

Thequestiononlymadehimupset.Inadditiontothepride, Tommyhadatemper.WeweresittingatatableoutsideAlphonse’s café, across the street from the playground. The court lightswerestillon,andtheycastastrange,sidelongglowover Tommy’s gaunt features.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Unless you’ve got a reason, there’s no point in dwelling on it. It’s not something you do for recreation. You’ve got to have a plan and a hell of a motivation.’

‘I’vegotone,’hesaid.‘Youwouldn’tunderstand,butI’ve got a motivation all right.’

‘Whatis it?’

Heleanedincloseandloweredhisvoice.Before,he’dbeen bellowing.

‘Ever wake up in the morning and you don’t recognize yourself?’

‘Sure. Everyone does.’

‘Maybe, I don’t know about everyone. I know what I see: a fucking stranger.’

‘You think you won’t see a stranger if you wake up in France?’

‘WhosaidanythingaboutFrance,for Chrissake?’

It was true, nobody had. I pulled another beer out of the bucket, and we talked for a while about the game. Talking aboutpickupwasneversimple.Ourweeklycrewhadtwelve, butweusuallybroughtoutthreeorfourirregulars.Thelosers would have to regroup and shoot for the right to play again, with an informal agreement that a man shouldn’t be left out morethanagameatatime.Theteamsthereforedisassembled and re-formed with new pieces and styles, and it was difficult to speak of a single game in any meaningful way, unless there had beenawinningstreak.Instead,youhadtotalkaboutfeeland flowandothervaguenotionsthatbrushedupagainstthe spiritual.ThatnightTommyandIhadplayedtogethertwice.We lost one and came back to win the other. It was early in the summer and the ball rolled off your fingers differently outside.

‘I just want to know how it could be done,’ Tommy said later.

Iwaslookingforawaiterto pay.

‘IthinkI’dfeelbetterifIknew,’hesaid.‘Likeamantra.’

‘I thought your stint was in Old Colony.’

‘It was. So what?’

‘Theydon’thavemantrasinOldColony.That’sastone-cold outfit.’

‘Thehelltheydon’t.Youwereneverthere,were you? That’s one place I’ve been.’

Hestuckhishandintotheicemeltatthebottomofthe bucket where the beer had been.

OldColonywastheprisonwhereheonceservedtwo months on a criminal responsibility evaluation.

Hismoodhaddarkenedoverthecourseofthenight.Itwas mean of me to tease him.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘if you really want to know, come by the office. We’ll talk.’

That perked him up and got his fist out of the water. ‘You mean that?’ he asked.

‘Sure, anytime. Come by tomorrow.’

‘I can’t tomorrow.’

‘Sunday, then.’

He shook hishead. ‘Sunday, I’m cookingfor Mila.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Tommy, come when you can. Whenever you’re motivated.’

Before I had a chance to pay the check a fight broke out on the street beside the café. Somebody had said something to one of the waiters. Alphonse always kept a lot of tough waiters on staff. Most ofthemwerehisnephews,andtheywouldcomefromaround New England for a few months to make money with their uncle. His place stayed busy right up until closing at midnight. The waiter who was involved in the fight was a big kid of eighteen or nineteenwhowasholdingontosomeofhisbabyfat.

Tommy jumped into the middle of it. He was giving up five inches to one of the boys and forty pounds to the other, but Tommy was quick and moved well, even on the ground, wherethe fight was mostly happening. I wondered briefly ifI had it wrong about him. Maybe he had wrestled or fought jujitsu. No, it was boxing. Featherweights. He had told me about it a few times.

Thefightlastedtenortwentysecondsthatseemedtostretch out much longer. Tommy got the boys separated, and one of themsaidsomethinginPortugueseandtheotherwipeddown hisjeans,whichweretornatthekneeandhadmudstreaksup to the belt.

When he got back to the table, I asked Tommy if he felt better.

‘Go to hell,’ he said. ‘They’re just kids, for Chrissake. What are they angry about?’

‘Whatwere you?’

‘Gotohell,’hesaidagain.‘Igotmy reasons.’

I put down an extra twenty on top of the bill for the kid who had been in the fight, the one who still had his baby fat, and walked home along the marina, counting the boats.

2

Onset is a small community in the southeastern corner of Massachusetts,nexttoCapeCod.Ifthecanalhad been builtafewmilestothewest,thetown’sfatemighthavebeen different.Thingsastheywere,itwasawaystation.OnCranberry Highway the water park drew a crowd in summer. Thereweregasstationsthatchargedlessthanyouwouldfind acrossthebridgeandmotelsthatwouldtakecashandletyou check in without showing an ID. The harbor was shaped like a teardrop, with the public beach running half a mile around it.Alongthewaterfrontwererestaurants,cafés,andafewbars that served one or two modest dishes, usually something simple the bartenders had prepared themselves. Near the village centerthereweremoremotels,andintheriverneighborhoods you could rent a two-room cottage by the month, week, or night.

Itwasarun-downplaceandfairlypicturesquefor those who had a romantic streak. Over the years Onset had gainedareputationasaplaceyoucouldgotoliveanonymouslyfora while, no matter who you were or what you had done. There were always towns like that in out-of-the-way places. The experienceinOnset,however,wassomewhatmoredeliberate. A lot of careful work went into it. Sometimes it seemed like just about everyone you saw there was on the run from something. In other moments, stasis hung over the town likea cloud of gas and you would see the same faces night after night, and it felt like low tide would go on forever and the wind would always die in the flats.

I was renting a small cottage on Shore Drive that year, across from the beach. It was only a five-minute drive from the house where I’d grown up, but it felt to me like progress. In the mornings I could go for a swim before breakfast, then walk to the office.

Work was busy during the summer, and it kept me often outdoors. My father, who had built the business and was largely responsible forthe town’s status as an organized haven, believedintheoldtradecraftandhadinfectedmewithacertain fetish for it too. I made daily rounds on foot, clearing out the dead drops and checking on proverbial curtains and fence posts for the signals that meant one of our clients was looking to talk.

Logisticsandtransportwashowthebusinesswasdescribed in our tax filings. The corporate charter was out of Delaware and belonged to a holding company in the Grand Caymans. I hadgonethereoncetolookatthepostofficeboxes.Thebank accountswereinPanamabywayofMiami.Allthesame, it wasaprofessionthatrequiredapersonaltouch.Thatwasone of the things I liked about it. Walking down High Street and aroundtheharborinthemornings,Ialwayshadpeopletosay hello to.

IwentbytheofficeafewtimesthatweektoseeifTommy hadcomebuttherewasnowordfromhim.Hedidn’tshowup atthepickuprunthatThursdayeither,andIwonderedvaguely ifhehadfinallydecidedtotakethatvacation.Weplayeduntil eight,andwhenitstartedgettingdarkafewoftheguysturned onthelightsoftheircarsbecauseTommywasn’ttheretoopen up the electricity box. That was when I decided to go.

Once you thought about leaving pickup you had to do it,or else in the next moments or the next game you would pull ahamstringorknocksomebodytotheblacktopandsplittheir skull. Or nothing would happen but you would know you were on borrowed time. It was all superstition, playground mythology, but everyone believed in it, so I left.

‘Find fucking Tommy,’ somebody called after me, and I said that I would.

Maybe they thought because I helped people disappear, I could find them too. Or else they were only annoyed about playing in the dark. Headlights never gave you enough.

I still had a few stopsto make that night and took them in order, moving through the neighborhoods in erratic circles and occasionally pulling into driveways where nobody lived. In all those years I had never been followed in Onset. It was theritualthatwasimportant,morethanthecaution. Therewas always a chance law enforcement might be around, but it was only a small chance. We had a long-standing arrangement with the local force. The nearest state trooper barracks was thirty miles away in Yarmouth. There was a federal task force in New Bedford. My cousin worked for it. Mostly they werefocusedonharassingfishermenandwhatwasleftofthe old dock unions. In exchange for a monthly stipend, Camila, my cousin, fed us tips. The tips were hardly ever relevant to anythingweweredoing,butIknewthatwasthepoint:evidence of absence.

It occurred to me now and again that I would never performthebasicfunctionsoftheworksowellasmyfatherhad. He had been properly trained, for starters. My apprenticeship was more haphazard. He always told me that the tradecraft was illusory,oreveninsignificant,likeallsacredthings.Thatwas the way he liked to conduct a lesson: in the murky ground between sophistry and aphorism. It was the kind of job you had to learn by experience, he maintained, and by talking to people. Always talking, then letting them have a turn, and in the silences and patterns, you were meant to learn something that was true. More than the particulars of the job, it was the atmosphere. The technology around surveillance and espionage changedallthetime.Therewouldonlyeverbemorecameras in the world. We leave traces of ourselves behind; nothing’s erased.Inmyfather’sday,apersoncouldwellandtrulyvanish. That would soon be over, if it wasn’t already.

Still, you tried following protocol. It was meant to help. Youcheckedmirrorsandlookedoutforwatchers.Youtightened the circles, then let the slack back into them.

I was alone; nobody following, nobody interested. The streets were dark and clear.

Driving into the village center, I made a note of vacant houses and their addresses. The town seemed so quiet on the outskirts, but as you got closer to the shore, you heard a hum off the water. It was a sheltered coast and there was hardly any surf, but the water was never completely quiet; it was always moving, and it sounded like a body heaving.

When I was young my father told me stories about the town’s past as a smuggler’s cove. They turned out to be untrue. The truthwasstranger,andIhadneveraskedhimwhetherheknew it and had decided not to tell me or if there was some other reason why he’d invented the pirates. The first Europeans to settleinOnsetwerewreckers.Therewasaclanoratribeora groupofthemlivinginaclusteroflean-tosaboutahundred yardsuponeoftheinletsoffBuzzardsBay.Theywouldliein waitforshipwrecksandsalvagewhattheycould.Theywould move buoys in the boating channels and distort the beams from theWickhamlighthouseinordertoconfusetheshipsandencouragethemintotherocks.Captainsweresometimesbribed or paid off. This carried on right until the turn of the century, when the governor cleared them out.

At one point, the town was used as a retreat for Boston Spiritualists. They believed the land had been sacred to the Wampanoag who fished there. Séances were held during the summer solstice and then again in September, when the breeze was good and it tended not to rain. A few of the Spiritualists built homes,sprawlingmanorssituatedwithamindtowardcommuningwiththedead,butmostlytheoldBoston families, even the very eccentric ones, set down seasonal roots on the other side of the tributaries: on Cape Cod.

Onset was for fishermen. Mainly Portuguese, Cape Verdean, and Azorean, though there were Pacific Islanders, too, and a good number of Sicilians. The Irish came from Boston and NewYorkafterWorldWarTwoandtriedtotakeoverthedocks and the police force but didn’t have much luck with it. Onset was a free port at heart. The bars and cafés were always well run, and you could get a good, cheap meal so long as you ate fish or clams.

A lot of drugs passed through as well. I didn’t move any myself. It was a matter of pragmatism, not principle. There was too much competition in drugs. Only a few people could get you across a border safely with a new name, professional credentials, and reliable residency status. Traffickers never interferedwithourwork.Onthecontrary,theymostlyapproached it with a deference that bordered on the absurd. They wanted to know that there was a way out for them too. Everybody wanted that.

For a long time, I subscribed to the wisdom that it was necessarywork,andtherewasaprofound,if fleeting,satisfaction tobefoundinitsinevitability.Thatwasthesortofthingyour mindgotontowhileyouweredrivingincircles.Lately,Ihad begun to wonder how much of the wisdom I had received naively. The truth is, I had hardly traveled anywhere myself.I had only crossed a lot of borders and driven into towns and cities,thenturnedback.Itwasaparochiallife,evenifitdidn’t always feel that way.

3

The tables outside Alphonse’s were crowded and I didn’t feel like seeing anyone, so I drove to Marianne’s. MariannewasapetiteMalaysianwomanwhohadriddenthehighs andlowsofthetikiloungebusinessforyearsandwouldcarry onservingdrinksinachoiceofhurricaneor coconutglass long after the rest of us were gone. The main room was quiet and cool, and there were two screens above the bar, one for kenoandonefortheRedSox,neitherwithanysound.Mariannewassittingatoneendofthe bar.

‘Fourinnings,’shesaid.‘Fourinningsandthey’realready using up the bullpen.’

Marianne had several Pedro Martínez jerseys hanging above thebarandjudgedthecurrentpitchingstaffagainstthatimpossible standard. It was a down year for the Red Sox. She used to walk around the village late at night, after games, looking forlorn.ThatsummershehadhiredaDJtoplay,starting at 10.30 p.m. Whether she had a permit to do it, and how she kept her neighbors on the bluffs from complaining, I didn’t know. The DJ was a Brazilian kid from Hyannis who played reggaetonfroma computer and would sometimes post flyers around town on telephone poles and in public bathrooms.

The Red Sox had no middle or long relief to speak of that year. The game was as good as lost. Marianne thought so too. To pass the time, she was telling a woman three stools down a story that hung together loosely but was related with a lot of verve. It had some interesting locales, starting in Marianne’s hometown, Klang, part of the old maritime Silk Road, and somehow ending up in Casablanca, in Morocco, another port town. What she was reallytalkingaboutwastheRedSox,thoughittookhersome time to come back around to the subject.

‘Casablanca built that team,’ she said, pointing at a pennant abovethebar,commemoratingtheWorldSerieswinin2004. ‘Bet you didn’t know that, did you?’

It was a story I had heard her telling before, only I hadn’t realized it until just then.

Casablanca, the movie, was written by Julius and Philip Epstein along with Howard Koch, who was later blacklisted. PhilipwasthegrandfatherofTheoEpstein,theRedSoxgeneral manager, whom Marianne held in very high regard, almostashighastheregardsheheldforPedroMartínez,though she didn’t keep any of his portraits around the bar. Pedro had a very inviting smile. It was the kind you wanted to see in a convivial setting.

The story kept on going and listening to it was a strange kindofbalm.Iwaswatchingthegame,too,whichcarried on with or without our attention. The Sox kept falling further back, thanks to their bullpen. You got the feeling it would never reach the ninth.

I was getting ready to leave when a group from the Cape camein.Thereweresixorsevenofthem,andyouknewthey were from the Cape, or on their way, from their clothes and their boat shoes and from the way they smiled very carefully onentering,liketheyweretryingtoprovetheircourage.One of them ordered drinks at the bar and called out to the others to find out what they wanted. They wanted light beers to a man, then a few more came in and the place was crowded. It happened quickly, the way a summer storm comes to shore.

That was when I saw Elena. The doorswung open and she was between two boys wearing sweaters despite the heat. I wasn’tsureshewaswiththem,butthenthekidatthebarkept callingoutaboutthedrinksandshetoldhimshewantedrum, darkruminacoconutshell.Helookedbashfulaboutordering it that way but soon found the resolve.

She was wearing espadrilles and jeans and glasses that I didn’t believe she needed, although they suited her fine, and she seemed to be in high spirits. Returning home following a longabsencecanhavethateffect,especiallyinsummerwhen theairisheavywithsaltandthereareCapeboysorderinglight beers and crowding around you.

Ipaidformydrinkandwentoutthesidedoortotheporch where the smokers were. Above the porch was a room with lacecurtainsandasoftlightbehindthem.Ihadnevernoticed it before and wondered if it was Marianne’s room or if she rented it out.

‘Youweren’tgoing toleavelike that,wereyou?’

Elena had come outside behind me. She was looking up at the bedroom light.

‘I always knew they’d get you for voyeurism,’ she said. ‘Did you see the story about that motel in Colorado? The owner drilled peepholes into guests’ walls. Kept it going for years – decades,maybe,nobodyknows – throughsheerforce ofyearning.Ireadit,thoughtofyou.Iwondered,What’sold Jack up to these days? Sweet Jack. Kind Jack.’

‘The merchant marines,’ I said. ‘Got my card punched to sail.’

‘No, not that.’

‘French foreign legion.’

She shook her head and hugged me and grazed a cheek against one of mine.

‘Just passing through?’

‘Alwayssoserious,’ shesaid. ‘ProfessionalJack.’

I thought about the last time I had seen her. It was in New York. Seven years earlier.

She was twenty-two then and heading off to law school under an assumed name.

‘Areyouparkednearby?’sheasked.‘Let’sgoforadrive, okay?’

‘Won’ttheymissyou inside?’

‘They’reniceboys.Don’tlookatthemthatway.’

‘What way?’

‘Youhaven’tjoinedthelegionyet.Justtakemeforagoddamn drive.’

Shedidn’twanttogoanywhereinparticular,soI drove outtoLongNeck,wheretherewerenostoplightsorintersections but just a road that wound around the cemeteries andthe cranberry bogs. At the end was a par three public course and araggedybeach,andyoucouldeasedownthegearsandmake a loop around them and head back into town.

‘It’s been too long,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I stayed away.’

‘Thatwasthearrangement.Everyoneneedsan arrangement.’

‘Isthatwhatit was?’

‘Asituationthatcalcified.It’sthesame thing.’

‘Strange,Ithoughtwewerelyinglow.Acting natural. Lettingtheworldblow over.’

Shehadonearmhangingoutside.Theotherwasgettingin the way as I shifted gears. She said something about New York, howshehadtogetout.Allthoseyearsgone,andthatwashow sheexplainedherself,likeitwasawhim,likeitwasoddofme to wonder.

She was working me. It didn’t matter. You were always getting worked. That’s life.

‘Howlongareyougoingtostay?’I asked.

‘Maybethesummer.Orafewweeks.Theplan’sstillcalcifying.’

‘IsMikejoining you?’

‘He’sinLondon.Asecretroyalist,Ithink.’

‘Were those his cousins at the bar?’

‘Whywouldthey be?’

‘He’s old Cape, isn’t he? Those families are always lousy with cousins.’

‘They’reyoung,that’sall.Noreasontohate them.’

‘Theyneverhavetogrowup.Isn’tthata reason?’

‘Let’s just drive once around the harbor. I want to hear what the gulls are up to.’

It sounded like she had a checklist of things she wanted to do,nowthatshewasbackintown:Abeachvisitatnight.The seagulls over the harbor. A drive with one of her exes.

‘Whowasthegirl?’sheasked.

‘What girl?’

‘The one you were driving around with before me. I cansmell her.’

‘JustacousinofMike’s.Oneofthegirl cousins.’

‘Youdon’tneedtohidethingsfromme.Itwasalongtime ago, wasn’t it?’

‘I’ve been spraying perfume on the seats all the while. Hoping you’d come back.’

‘Wouldn’tthatbenicethough?Youweren’tonetosuffer.’

‘That’s the second time I’ve been told that tonight.’

‘From the other woman?’

‘Pain and suffering. She wanted to talk about a case. A prospective client.’

‘God, what an interesting practice you must have. Nothing like New York.’

Igotthefeelingshewasgoingtotellmeaboutsomething: the city or maybe work. She worked at a law firm now, and thelastI’dchecked,shewasgoingtomakepartner.Elenahad always inspired a lot of confidence in old men.

Instead, we kept driving in silence. I had taken us back to Cranberry Highway.

‘Whydon’twecrossthebridge?’she said.

At that hour, the bridge had a lonesome feeling hanging over it. It was dark except for the spotlight on the Samaritan sign.Comingdown,youcouldjustmakeoutthetopiarythey had carved into the center of the rotary, welcoming you to Cape Cod. The air always felt different on that side of the canal. Probably it had to do with the bay winds.

I didn’t want to stay on the highway, so I turned back toward the canal.

‘Couldyoupulloverupthere?’shesaid.‘Onthe right. Justfora minute.’

Theroadtherehadanarrowshoulder.Icouldonlygettwo wheels onto the grass.

‘I’llberightback,’shesaid.‘Turnoffyourlights,please.’

Across the street, twenty yards down, was an old house that hadbeenconvertedintoalibraryannexandrecordsbuilding. I had been there once, while in school, to look at ships inside glassbottles.Ormaybeitwasthebottlesthemselvesthatwere supposedtobeinteresting.Itwasneverexplained.The building wasdark.Ithadbeen closedfor hours.

She got out, crossed the road, and walked on the grass, which was covered in pine needles. The moon was out. Its lightpiercedthroughthepinesandseemedtofollowhersteps. She approached the house slowly, without care, as though it were her own.

It was odd, watching her from that remove. It felt like a performance. A piece of theater. Like she knew that I was watching but was pretending not to in order to amplify something – the tension or the confusion. After working the lock for a minute, she let herself inside. Her movements seemed very deliberate, then for a stretch of time she was gone; disappeared.Likeshehadnevercomeback.Sevenyearsawayand counting.

Iturnedtheradioonandfoundsome music.

Fifteen, twenty minutes passed. No lights turned on. She must have been carrying one.

Whenshe came outside again, it was on the second floor. A widow’s walk. She stood up there, leaning against a rail, looking calm, like a woman who had just awoken from a dream and was glad to find herself at home, with hours to sleep before morning.

Mybreathquickened,watchingher.Bothofmyhandswere on the wheel.

She came down by a trellis pinned to the building’s side, covered in ivy that had spilled onto the shingling, looking natural about it. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t carrying anything.

ShegotinsidetheJeepandIturnedontotheroad,forgetting about the headlights for a moment until we reached a bend. The woods there, near the canal, were filled with deer. Neither of us was speaking. She wanted me to ask her, and I wasn’t going to do it.

‘It’s incredible what they keep out in the open,’ she said. ‘Allthoserecords,blueprints,surveymaps,assessments.You only have to know where to look and what you want.’

‘And the business hours. It’s good to know whether they have alarms too.’

‘Analarmatalittlerecordsofficelikethat?Whatfor?’

The question hung between us for a moment.

‘I’mplanningsomething,’shesaid.‘It’sstillearly,butit’s comingtogether.’Inhertone,therewasanoteofsuggestion. An enticement, or an invitation. ‘This is the best moment,’ she said. ‘Pure anticipation. Possibility.’

‘I don’t need to hear about it, Elena.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Shelookedoutthewindow.Inthedarkness,theheadlights caught the flash of eyes.

‘I broke things off with Mike,’ she said. ‘Last week. A month ago, actually.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He took it so well. It was after a party we gave. Itoldhimitwasoverandhesaidwhydon’twedothedishes, in that case? He was drunk. I wasn’t but for his sake I pretended to be. He washed and I dried and then put the dishes away. I broke one of them. Let it slip through my fingers and that seemed to satisfy him, like we’d really had it out. He swept it up into a little tray. Told me it was all right, he understoodeverything.Christ,sixyearswasalongtimeforitto go on that way, don’t you think?’

‘Idon’tknow.I’veneverbeen engaged.’

‘Any longer, we might have gone through with it. People do all kinds of things.’

Itsoundedlikeshewasgoingtotellmeafewofthem,then thought better of it.

We crossed under the Sagamore Bridge and kept going. Finally,shesaidwehadbettergetback,wedidn’twanttohit traffic or get into any trouble with those deer. It was after midnight. There were no cars on the road. No boats in the canal, not even a barge.

The first lights we saw coming back into town were from a batting cage outside a go-kart track. The rest of the park was closedbutthelightsoverthecageswereon,andtherewasone old man inside hitting balls. He was batting lefty and had a clean swing.

‘That’llbeyouoneday,’shesaid.‘Doyoustillplaybasketball?’

‘Oncea week.’

‘That’sgood.I’mgladyoudo.I’llbetit’sacomfort,having something like that.’

‘It’s exercise.’

‘That’simportant too.’

I was thinking about something else. A memory. The cottages we used to go inside in the off-season. Never taking anything but staying for a few hours or for a night and letting another life settle overus.Iwonderedwhethershewasthinkingaboutitaswell.

Myphonebuzzed.Itwasamessageforapickupandhold.

‘I have to go,’ I told her.

She had looked away from the screen. She was discreet, in the end.

‘Just pull over to the side,’ she said. ‘I’ll hitchhike. What a lousy liar you are.’

‘It’swork.Ihavetogoto Stamford.’

‘Connecticut? Christ, at this hour. I take back what I said about your practice. Keep it.’

‘Whyareyouhere,Elena?Canyoutellmethat?It’sa simple question.’

‘I want to have some fun this summer. Do you remember what fun we had, Jack?’

Ididn’tsay anything.

‘I’m lying,’ she said. ‘I’ve been hired to abduct you. You’re wanted in Geneva.’

‘NotGeneva. Zurich.’

‘Zurich,mymistake.Theoligarchswanttodiscussamatter with you. Very sensitive.’

‘I can’tgo.Idon’twanttomissthe festival.’

‘Thefestival,that’sright.Iforgotaboutit.That’swhyI’m back. I came for the festival. Forget what I said about Switzerland.Iwasonlytestingyou.Forgetaboutit.’Shesmiledand keptlookingaway.‘Let’sjustdriveback.You’lldropmeoff, won’t you?’

IleftheroutsideMarianne’s.Thereggaetonwasstillgoing. Herescortswereontheporch,smokingandtalking.Itwasthe start of summer, another season.

All the way to Stamford I kept playing back pieces of our conversation and remembering them slightly differently. It was like a recording that had been corrupted.

4

TheStamfordclientwasapriority – a flashcase,itwas called.Iwasgladforthemoney,butitmeantalotof precautions I might not have had to take otherwise – moving people out of cottages, then going dark for a number of days and cleaning out secondary drops. There was a protocol to follow: a checklist dedicated to flash cases. The client was twenty-three years old. I picked him up in the taxi queue outside the Stamford Amtrak station. We were back in Onset by seven. He sleptmostofthe drive.

There was an unsettled feeling in town that week and I knew that it would cause problems. Summer is never an easy season, no matter how much you want to enjoy it.

On Friday I got a complaint out of Pine Beach: a domestic situation to look in on. Pine Beach was a river neighborhood ofabouttwohundredcottagesthatwereoriginallydeveloped forfactoryworkersfromBrockton,buttheworkershad never come.Thehouseswerepackedincheekbyjowl,withchain-linkfencesbetweenthem.Therewasonlyonewayinandout of the neighborhood unless you traveled by water.

The call had come to me from one of the neighbors, a man I went to high school with. He must have known in an obscure manner nobody quite wished to discuss that I was responsible for the house. There had been loud arguments the previous three nights, he said, which had woken up and frightened his children. In the morning they were at it again, the two men who were living in the house. Both were clients of long standing, people my father brought in before I was working. One went by the name Udder. A name he’d chosen for himself,Ididn’tknowwhy.Hehadrunamotorcycleclubout of Charleston, South Carolina. The club was getting ready to retire him over missing cargo and cash when he jumped overboard and washed up in Onset. The other man’s name was Hector. An old organizer during the Chicano Movement in Oakland.Hewaswritingabook.Hehadbeenwritingabook foraslongasIhadbeenworkinghisaccount,andwhenIgot to the cottage, I saw he was at it still. There were manuscript pages everywhere. The two of them were sitting in armchairs in the middle of those stacks, facing each other across the room. In Onset, they were lovers. In their previous lives they had been practicing Catholics, of a sort. They had been togetherforyearsnow.ThefirstweekendeveryDecember,they heldaChristmasparty.Myfathermovedthemintothehouse when things were quiet one winter. They had been living in thatplaceforalongtime,happilyitseemedtome,Udderdoinglightmechanicworkandlivingoffthemoneyhe stole from his club, and Hector working on his book. You would see them out at the movies on Cranberry Highway once in a while, at the little art house theater with wooden seats.

Their fight, if that’s what it was, had been going on for days. They admitted it readily enough and apologized about thenoise.Uddersaidtheywouldsendtheneighborabottleof something,nohardfeelings.Hesoundedprettysincereabout it: making amends, being sorry. It was the heat, Hector said, buthisheartwasn’tinit,andUdderspokeoverhimbeforehe could finish the thought and said it was ‘that goddamn waiter.’

‘Thisisgonnakillus,’he said.

They were sitting in those armchairs, neither man moving, both of them gripping the fat wooden arms and sweating into the upholstery. There weren’t any fans in the room becauseofthepagesofHector’sbook.Hetoldmeaboutitonce: a coming-of-age novel.

‘He’sofftonight,’Hectorsaid.‘Nowork,enjoyinghimself somewhere.’

‘Good,’ Udder said. ‘He should enjoy himself. He’s young, isn’t he?’

There was a waiter they were both hung up on. It took me a while to get the story straight. A kid named Thomas. Twenty-two,withaleanbuildandblondhair.Hewaswaitingtablesat Picanha, a