Read Online North of Boston by Elisabeth Elo - Free Book Online Page B

playing in the background. I’d recognize those brooding, passionate chords anywhere. He’s obviously ensconced in his book-lined office on the third floor of the town house. I have no idea what he does up there, other than drink brandy, smoke cigars, listen to classical music, and play chess with his computer.
    â€œHow can you not know? There must have been an investigation,” he says.
    I tell him that the Coast Guard is looking into it.
    â€œWhat do you mean,
looking into it
? This was a violent crime.”
    â€œPlease, Milosa. It’s the middle of the night.”
    â€œYou believe those people? The Coast Guard?”
    â€œOf course. Their job is figuring out stuff like this. It’s what they do.”
    He whoops at my stupidity. Distrust of public officials is ingrained in the Russian psyche. “You’re too trusting. Always, too trusting. You Americans are soft.”
    â€œNo, we Americans just happen to live in a functioning society, where people are basically sane and rational.” I get some satisfaction out of making him feel boorish, since he so often makes me feel naive.
    â€œHa! You know nothing of the world.”
    I swing my legs out from under the covers, rise to a seated position. “A little late for this kind of thing, don’t you think?”
    â€œYou said it was a big boat, a freighter. How can it take so long to find a boat that size?”
    â€œSize has nothing to do with it. There are procedures they have to follow that may be time-consuming, but in the end I’m sure they’ll they get it done.” Now I’m beginning to doubt it myself. It’s been nine days, and no word from the Coast Guard. But I’m not about to let Milosa disturb my sleep with his dark, theatrical views.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” He plows right into this question as if the premise—that I’m supposed to do something—were already clearly established.
    â€œWhat can I do?”
    â€œYou ask me what you can do?” One of his most irritating habits is the way he repeats the stupid question you just asked in a voice that makes it sound ten times stupider.
    â€œWhat I’m saying, Milosa, is this: it’s not my job.”
    A pause. He’s letting me hear the fading notes of my passivity. “Remember
The Maltese Falcon
?”
    Oh, another thing Milosa does in his third-floor study: he watches detective movies. Not thrillers, with their busty, panting women and trashy special effects. Detective movies, where the protagonist has to think.
    â€œIt’s two a.m. What are you getting at?” I say.
    â€œSam Spade said, ‘When a man’s partner is killed, he’s supposed to do something about it.’”
    I groan. “Please, Milosa. Go to bed. Put down the brandy and go to bed.” I hang up and turn out the light. Flop on the pillow, twist and turn, come to rest with a sigh, eyes wide open. The headlights of a passing car flicker across the ceiling. I wait for the next sweep of headlights. There it is. I start counting the number of cars that pass by on the street below. When I get to ten, I swear and fling back the covers. I shuffle to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, stand barefoot in the spill of yellow light.
Sam Spade,
I think as I reach for the orange juice.
Jesus fucking Christ.

Chapter 6

    A t nine in the morning, I call the Coast Guard from my office at Inessa Mark. I’m put through to Captain Anthony Cavalieri, chief of staff of the U.S. Coast Guard First District. He apologizes for not having gotten in touch with me before this. The initial accident report, dated September 7, has been reviewed. There are some complications, some concerns. He’d like me to come down to the station to make a more detailed statement. He bumps me back to his secretary, who tells me that he has an opening in his schedule at three o’clock.
    My stomach knots.
Complications, concerns.
Every day