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trees beyond it. He put his hands in his back pockets and rocked silently on the mound, his back toward home plate, staring out at the trees behind center field.
    “Ever play ball, Spenser?”
    “Some.”
    “I was a pitcher. All-State at Winthrop High School. Had a tryout with the Phillies. Coulda signed but the war was on.
    When I got out of the army, I was married, had two kids already. Had to get a steady job. Went with the state cops instead.”
    I didn’t say anything. Healy continued to look at center field, his head tipped back a little to see out under the brim of his hat.
    “Almost thirty years.”
    I didn’t answer. He wasn’t really talking to me, anyway.
    “Got any kids, Spenser?”
    “Nope.”
    “I got five. The little one is fifteen now; only one left at home. Plays for St. John’s. He’s a pitcher.”
    Healy stopped talking. The wind moved the pine branches in the woods. The trees had a strong smell in the September heat. Some starlings hopped about the infield near second base, pecking at the grass. Behind us the police radio squawked.
    “Sonova goddamned bitch!” he said.
    I nodded. “Me too,” I said.

Chapter 8
    State and local cops swarmed over the hearse like ants on a marshmallow and learned nothing. It had been stolen six months before from two brothers in Revere who had bought it at a sheriff’s sale and were going to fix it up as a camper.
    There were no fingerprints which meant anything to anyone. There was no opium stashed in the spare tire well, no hardcore pore taped to the chassis, no automatic weapons being smuggled to the counterculture. There wer no laundry marks in the shirt and pants. The newspapers used to stuff the dummy were recent issues of The Boston Globe obtainable at any newsstand. The plywood and the hardware from which the coffin had been made were standard and could have come from any lumberyard in the country. There were no lube stickers or antifreeze tags anywhere on the vehicle to tell us anything. In short, the hearse was as blank and meaningless as a Styrofoam coffee cup.
    Marge Bartlett was under sedation again. Roger Bartlett was mad, scared, and mournful. It was the mad that showed. As I left he was yelling at Healy and at Trask. He’d already yelled at me.
    “Goddamn it! What’s going on? You people have found nothing. What’s going on? Where’s my son? I did what you said, and I get the bullshit with the funny coffin. You people have found nothing…” The door closed behind me. I didn’t blame him for yelling. I looked at my watch—four fifteen. Time to go home.
    When I got home the Amstel beer was still there in the refrigerator, a gift from a girl who knew the way to my heart. I popped the cap off a bottle and drank half of it.
    Jesus, the Dutch knew how to live. I remembered a cafe in a hotel in Amsterdam where Amstel was the house beer. I finished the beer, opened another, drank some while I got undressed, put it on the sink while I took a shower, finished it while I toweled off.
    I went to the kitchen in my shorts, opened a third bottle, picked up the phone, and called information. I got Susan Silverman’s number and called her Her voice sounded very educated on the phone. She said, “Hello.” I said, “Help.”
    She said, “I beg your pardon?” I said, “I am in desperate need of guidance. Do you make house calls?”
    She said, “Who is this?” I said, “How quickly they forget. Spenser. You remember…
    proud carriage, clear blue eyes that never waver, intrepid chin, white raincoat that makes me look taller?”
    And she said, “Oh, that Spenser.”
    “I know it’s late,” I said, “but I’m about to cook a pork tenderloin en croute and wondered if you would be willing to eat some of it while we talk more about Kevin Bartlett.”
    She was silent. “I’m a hell of a cook,” I said. “Not much of a detective, have some trouble locating my own Adam’s apple, don’t have much success with kidnapping victims, but I’m a