warning. The only man in the outer office was standing behind a waist-high counter, his right hand holding a telephone to his ear, his left hand beckoning me as he nodded in my direction. He was about forty, no more than five-seven but burly, his forearms under a short-sleeved, powder blue uniform shirt—the kind you see an men used to driving nails or shooting pucks. A big semiautomatic filled a strapped holster on a Sam Browne belt. His pants were dark blue with a cavalry stripe down the sides, the shoes a Corfam black with no apparent lifts in them, which I found admirable. The hair on the blocky head was chocolate-colored, crew-cut with a moat of baldness around the patch of hair at the top of his forehead. Beyond the moat, the hair rode over tiny ears, the sideburns in front of them almost hiding them.
Into the phone, he said, “Well, what do you have that’ll get it out?... You can’t smell it? I can smell it, and I’ve got to be riding around—... Well, try that, then, and give me a call back.... Soon’s you can... Right, thanks.“
Hanging up, he blew out a breath. “Had a couple of teenagers drinking beers out behind the high school Saturday night. Nothing so wrong with that, rather see them on beer than dope, I guess, but one of them got upset enough as I was driving him home that he urped up in the back of my cruiser. Stinks to high heaven, and the boys at the car wash don’t know what all to do about it.“
“Disinfectant’s the only thing I remember working, but it’s going to smell, too.“
He looked at me. “Be the lesser of two evils, anyway. You with a department now?“
“Never was. Back in the service we had mostly jeeps, and you could take down the canvas, air them out some.“
“MP?“
“Yes.“
“Overseas?“
“Among other places.“
He considered that, stuck out his hand. “Kyle Pettengill.“
“John Cuddy.“
After we shook, Pettengill said, “What can I do you for?“
Folksy of him. “I’m a private investigator in Boston . I have what might be a case I’d like to talk with somebody about.“
“Well, I’m somebody. Will I do?“
“Don’t see anyone else.“
“And you won’t. Girl’s out sick, some kind of Asian flu already this year. I’m kind of the day shift. Come on in my office.“
I walked around the counter and followed Pettengill to another pebbled-glass door that had K. PETTENGILL, CHIEF lettered across the middle.
He pointed to his title on it. “I’m a little shy on Indians.“
“Sometimes easier that way.“
“It is. Most folks wouldn’t believe that, but it is.“
Pettengill’s office had a lower ceiling than the outer area. The floor was carpeted but didn’t look vacuumed, with dog hairs I could see and grit I could feel as I walked on it, even in dress shoes. On top of his desk were a small sun-bleached American flag and a brighter New Hampshire state flag, both with mag netic bases. Between the flags was a blotter, some paperwork and pencils, and an opened bottle of Dr. Pepper, the sixteen- ounce size. There were two guest chairs in front of the desk, both old wood, just the backs padded in brown leather.
Pettengill said, “Before you get comfortable, you might show me some ID.“
I took out my holder and handed it to him. He went to the chair behind his desk and sat down, copying the information from my license onto a pad of yellow-lined foolscap. Then he pushed the holder back across the desk to me. I put it away and chose one of the chairs.
Pettengill set his pencil down so it wouldn’t roll. “Okay, what do you have?“
“I helped a young woman named Melinda and a boy named Eddie with a flat on 93 down near Boston last Thursday afternoon. A redheaded guy in a blue pickup pulled over, too. He seemed interested but then moved on. I think the woman’s body was found in the Fort Point Channel that night.“
“You think?“
“Face and teeth were smashed in.“
Pettengill nodded. “Fingers?“
“Intact.“
“Go
Into the phone, he said, “Well, what do you have that’ll get it out?... You can’t smell it? I can smell it, and I’ve got to be riding around—... Well, try that, then, and give me a call back.... Soon’s you can... Right, thanks.“
Hanging up, he blew out a breath. “Had a couple of teenagers drinking beers out behind the high school Saturday night. Nothing so wrong with that, rather see them on beer than dope, I guess, but one of them got upset enough as I was driving him home that he urped up in the back of my cruiser. Stinks to high heaven, and the boys at the car wash don’t know what all to do about it.“
“Disinfectant’s the only thing I remember working, but it’s going to smell, too.“
He looked at me. “Be the lesser of two evils, anyway. You with a department now?“
“Never was. Back in the service we had mostly jeeps, and you could take down the canvas, air them out some.“
“MP?“
“Yes.“
“Overseas?“
“Among other places.“
He considered that, stuck out his hand. “Kyle Pettengill.“
“John Cuddy.“
After we shook, Pettengill said, “What can I do you for?“
Folksy of him. “I’m a private investigator in Boston . I have what might be a case I’d like to talk with somebody about.“
“Well, I’m somebody. Will I do?“
“Don’t see anyone else.“
“And you won’t. Girl’s out sick, some kind of Asian flu already this year. I’m kind of the day shift. Come on in my office.“
I walked around the counter and followed Pettengill to another pebbled-glass door that had K. PETTENGILL, CHIEF lettered across the middle.
He pointed to his title on it. “I’m a little shy on Indians.“
“Sometimes easier that way.“
“It is. Most folks wouldn’t believe that, but it is.“
Pettengill’s office had a lower ceiling than the outer area. The floor was carpeted but didn’t look vacuumed, with dog hairs I could see and grit I could feel as I walked on it, even in dress shoes. On top of his desk were a small sun-bleached American flag and a brighter New Hampshire state flag, both with mag netic bases. Between the flags was a blotter, some paperwork and pencils, and an opened bottle of Dr. Pepper, the sixteen- ounce size. There were two guest chairs in front of the desk, both old wood, just the backs padded in brown leather.
Pettengill said, “Before you get comfortable, you might show me some ID.“
I took out my holder and handed it to him. He went to the chair behind his desk and sat down, copying the information from my license onto a pad of yellow-lined foolscap. Then he pushed the holder back across the desk to me. I put it away and chose one of the chairs.
Pettengill set his pencil down so it wouldn’t roll. “Okay, what do you have?“
“I helped a young woman named Melinda and a boy named Eddie with a flat on 93 down near Boston last Thursday afternoon. A redheaded guy in a blue pickup pulled over, too. He seemed interested but then moved on. I think the woman’s body was found in the Fort Point Channel that night.“
“You think?“
“Face and teeth were smashed in.“
Pettengill nodded. “Fingers?“
“Intact.“
“Go
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