Here we go. There’s one in Exeter, off Route One-oh-two. It’s a yuppie development. Huge lots. Let’s see. Four bedrooms. Thirty-six hundred square feet. Three-car garage, alarm system, woodsy, but a big yard. It’s a nice shingled colonial. The former tenant just got transferred to San Francisco, and most of their furniture’s still in there until he and his wife get settled.”
“Perfect. How much?”
“I’ll let it go for three grand a month, but you’ll have to pay a month’s security.”
“Fine.”
“This is unorthodox, Harvey.”
“I know. I’d like you to handle all the utilities and the phone bill. I’ll reimburse you in cash. Just makes things easier for me.”
“Okay, okay. When do you want to look at it?”
“Today.”
“That’s fast.”
“Can you show it to me if I’m at your office by eleven?”
“Harvey, I’ve got to tell you, this doesn’t sound like a motivational speaking job.”
He called Marshall Levy to let him know about the house and ask about the cars.
“Two Subarus’ll be at the park by this afternoon.”
“Excellent. How’s Moss doing?”
“The perfect houseguest. Made his own bed, too. Hospital corners.”
“Put him on for a minute.”
Cooley came to the phone.
“Did you sleep well?” Harvey asked.
“Okay.”
“Did you call Cherry Ann?”
“She can’t make it today. But she said I could come by her place late tomorrow morning.”
“That’ll have to do. Now, listen, can you hang at Marshall’s till two or three this afternoon? I think I’ve found a house for us. I want to check it out, and then I’ll pick you up, and we can go to your place and get your things.”
“I feel like I’m in the Federal Witness Protection Program.”
“You’re not, Moss. You’re in the Blissberg Protect-Your-Black-Ass Program.”
Harvey flipped through his Rolodex until he found Professor Roy Hinch of the University of Rhode Island’s Crime Lab in Kingston, where he trained a lot of the Rhode Island BCI forensic people.
“Remember me, Hinch?” Harvey asked.
“I remember hearing you were out of the detective game.”
“I still like to get my feet wet now and then. Can I bring you something later today?”
“My people are more backed up than a bus station toilet.”
“I just want you to eyeball something and give me a low-tech opinion. Nothing fancy.”
“When?”
“Let’s see,” Harvey said, trying to plan his day. If he saw the house by eleven-thirty and liked it, he’d need to make arrangements for heightened security. … “One this afternoon okay?”
“I’ll slip you in,” Hinch said without enthusiasm.
“Hinch, you still into dessert wines?”
“More than ever.”
“Good. I’ll make sure there’s something in it for you.”
The next call was trickier. Detective Linderman had retired soon after he investigated the death of Harvey’s Providence Jewels’ roommate Rudy Furth fifteen years ago. Harvey hadn’t talked to him in years, and wasn’t even sure he was still alive. Linderman answered his home phone on about the tenth ring.
“What took you so long?” Harvey said when Linderman uttered a rumpled hello. “Couldn’t find your walker?”
“Blissberg?”
Harvey had to smile. It was like Old Home Week. Felix, Marshall, Campy, Debbie Rubino, and now Linderman. “It is I.”
“Don’t laugh. My knees don’t work so good anymore.”
“Then why aren’t you in Scottsdale with the other retired cops?”
“I got a place in Florida, whaddya want? But it’s frickin’ July, Harvey. I like to spend the summer near my granddaughter. I hope you’re not calling me for money.”
“Something far more valuable. I was wondering whether you could run me a little interference with the Rhode Island AG’s office.”
“What makes you think I still got friends there?”
“Just give me a yes or no.”
“Not until you tell me more.”
“I’ve got a job in your state, and I need a pistol permit for my
“Perfect. How much?”
“I’ll let it go for three grand a month, but you’ll have to pay a month’s security.”
“Fine.”
“This is unorthodox, Harvey.”
“I know. I’d like you to handle all the utilities and the phone bill. I’ll reimburse you in cash. Just makes things easier for me.”
“Okay, okay. When do you want to look at it?”
“Today.”
“That’s fast.”
“Can you show it to me if I’m at your office by eleven?”
“Harvey, I’ve got to tell you, this doesn’t sound like a motivational speaking job.”
He called Marshall Levy to let him know about the house and ask about the cars.
“Two Subarus’ll be at the park by this afternoon.”
“Excellent. How’s Moss doing?”
“The perfect houseguest. Made his own bed, too. Hospital corners.”
“Put him on for a minute.”
Cooley came to the phone.
“Did you sleep well?” Harvey asked.
“Okay.”
“Did you call Cherry Ann?”
“She can’t make it today. But she said I could come by her place late tomorrow morning.”
“That’ll have to do. Now, listen, can you hang at Marshall’s till two or three this afternoon? I think I’ve found a house for us. I want to check it out, and then I’ll pick you up, and we can go to your place and get your things.”
“I feel like I’m in the Federal Witness Protection Program.”
“You’re not, Moss. You’re in the Blissberg Protect-Your-Black-Ass Program.”
Harvey flipped through his Rolodex until he found Professor Roy Hinch of the University of Rhode Island’s Crime Lab in Kingston, where he trained a lot of the Rhode Island BCI forensic people.
“Remember me, Hinch?” Harvey asked.
“I remember hearing you were out of the detective game.”
“I still like to get my feet wet now and then. Can I bring you something later today?”
“My people are more backed up than a bus station toilet.”
“I just want you to eyeball something and give me a low-tech opinion. Nothing fancy.”
“When?”
“Let’s see,” Harvey said, trying to plan his day. If he saw the house by eleven-thirty and liked it, he’d need to make arrangements for heightened security. … “One this afternoon okay?”
“I’ll slip you in,” Hinch said without enthusiasm.
“Hinch, you still into dessert wines?”
“More than ever.”
“Good. I’ll make sure there’s something in it for you.”
The next call was trickier. Detective Linderman had retired soon after he investigated the death of Harvey’s Providence Jewels’ roommate Rudy Furth fifteen years ago. Harvey hadn’t talked to him in years, and wasn’t even sure he was still alive. Linderman answered his home phone on about the tenth ring.
“What took you so long?” Harvey said when Linderman uttered a rumpled hello. “Couldn’t find your walker?”
“Blissberg?”
Harvey had to smile. It was like Old Home Week. Felix, Marshall, Campy, Debbie Rubino, and now Linderman. “It is I.”
“Don’t laugh. My knees don’t work so good anymore.”
“Then why aren’t you in Scottsdale with the other retired cops?”
“I got a place in Florida, whaddya want? But it’s frickin’ July, Harvey. I like to spend the summer near my granddaughter. I hope you’re not calling me for money.”
“Something far more valuable. I was wondering whether you could run me a little interference with the Rhode Island AG’s office.”
“What makes you think I still got friends there?”
“Just give me a yes or no.”
“Not until you tell me more.”
“I’ve got a job in your state, and I need a pistol permit for my
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