“I talked to Norma,” he says. “She says you did good today, laying bricks on how the whole thing is a setup.”
“I’m hoping like hell that I did,” I say. “Because it’s pretty much all I got.”
I lean back and stare up at the ceiling.
“Who hates Rob Jacobson enough to kill three people as a way of setting him up, or maybe even six?” I ask.
“I’ve seen a lot of elaborate frames in my life,” he says. “But this one would win the blue ribbon.”
“Should we start our list of suspects with friends, or family?”
“Wait, I got one. How about Sonny Blum, the great and powerful Oz?”
“Rob says that Sonny still wants him alive,” I say.
“Does that mean alive and a free man, or locked up for the rest of his miserable life?”
“Maybe,” I add, “this whole case is just about Sonny getting tired of waiting for Hank Carson to pay what he owed, and having him popped?”
“And popping his whole family at the same time?”
“But then why set up Rob, and why wait this long to plant the gun?” I ask him.
I put my head back again and close my eyes.
“Goddamn them all,” I say softly. “And goddamn this case.”
Jimmy asks if I need him to walk Rip one last time. I tell him thanks, but I’ll do it, I could use the air.
“You sure you’re not too tired?” he asks.
“Stop treating me like an invalid.”
He grins. “I only do it because Uncle Jimmywuvsyou, too,” he says.
FIFTY-EIGHT
I GRAB RIP’S HARNESS and leash and stick my Glock into the side pocket of the adorable new Faherty vest I bought at their store in Amagansett. Rip and I walk toward Abraham’s Path, cutting through the Sportime tennis club. Brigid and I used to play tennis on these courts, before she got sick, and before I got sick.
We stretch out the walk, eventually making our way over to Town Lane, then back up to Abraham’s Path and past the train tracks alongside which, on a gentle, good night like this, I once was involved in a shoot-out with Joe Champi.
Rip and I have moved farther away from the ocean by now. So the night has grown more quiet, which is perhaps why I’m then certain I hear footsteps behind me.
As does Rip, who lets out a low growl.
I shorten his leash as I turn, taking the Glock out of my pocket in the same motion.
No one there.
At least no one I can see.
Only some of the club’s lights are on at night. I can’t remember when they close down the place for the winter months, but on this October night I am pretty sure it is soon. I search the area behind us one last time, the courts and the gravel paths between them and the small clubhouse area, and still see nothing.
Hear nothing.
But Rip and I walk more quickly now, back across the club’s large front parking lot, back toward Abraham’s Path, more lights here and also across the street, where there’s a softball field and a court where kids play volleyball in the summer.
When we’re out on the sidewalk, I come to a stop, sure I hear the faint crunch of gravel from somewhere behind us.
