“How about Vinnie’s book?” asked Ray. “Have you read it?”

“Yes. Not a bad read—needs some editing and proofing. It’s quite remarkable, actually, given his age, and this is the first time he’s ever done anything like it.”

“And the contents?”

“He says it’s all true, but I think other than the landscape, it’s all fantasy. He’d have you believe that he was Al Capone’s driver. Old as Vinnie is, he isn’t old enough. He was still in nappies when most of this went down. But it’s a great story about Big Al being under pressure from the FBI—Elliot Ness and his mates—and how Al works to insure his retirement by burying bags of gold coins along the shore and out on the islands. Everything always happened on moonless nights under great secrecy. He just followed directions, never really knew where he was—the maps were kept by the bosses. According to his story, at the end of the day no one who knew about the treasure was left. Capone’s brain was destroyed by syphilis and his lieutenants were killed in gangland wars or died in prison.”

Ray handed a credit card to Phillip.

“I hope Vinnie’s story has a happy ending,” said Phillip as he processed the sale.

“I do too,” said Ray, picking up his book.

“Would you like that copy of Vinnie’s book, my compliments?”

“Sure,” said Ray. “I’ll read it tonight.”

6

Ray had uncorked a bottle of Beaujolais and was scanning the opening chapter of Fox’s book when someone knocked loudly at the front door. Before he could get up, Hannah Jeffers, a local cardiologist he’d met during a case the last winter, pushed her way into the kitchen.

“How is it that you just arrive like that?” asked Ray, putting down the book.

“Does it bother you?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

Hannah tore off her coat and flung it toward the sofa. “There’s no one else I can do this to,” she said, getting a glass from the cupboard and helping herself to a Diet Coke from the fridge. “I don’t know a lot of people up here. And I can’t drop in on the other men I know because they’re all married or living with someone. Anyway, I like your company. We do interesting things. Most importantly, you don’t put any demands on me.” She said this without looking at him. “I need a buddy, and that seems to be okay with you. And …” She paused.

“What?” Ray pursued.

“I know I can always get a decent meal here. I hate to cook, and I don’t like most restaurant food.”

Ray laughed. “The menu isn’t too inspired tonight. Most of it will be out of the freezer.”

“Do you have enough for….”

“No problem.”

What can I do?” she asked.

“Wash and spin the salad. Grate the Parmesan. I’ll do the main course.”

“Which is?”

“Ricotta cheese gnocchi in browned butter. I hope you’re not dieting.”

“The nice thing about being super hyper is I burn it off.” Hannah began to work on a head of romaine. “By the way, weren’t you involved with someone when we first met? I remember a very pretty woman who visited you in the hospital.”

“Yes.” In fact, Ray had been thinking about Sarah earlier in the day.

“What happened to her?”

“Her job up here was going away; she had a terrific offer with a large law firm in Chicago.”

“Are you two still talking?”

“Occasional e-mails.”

“There’s a wistful tone to your voice.”

“The timing wasn’t right.”

Hannah put down her knife and cocked her head until he looked at her. “C’mon, Ray.”

“All right. She is a very pleasant person. I enjoyed spending time with her. Unfortunately, during our brief relationship, I was injured twice. I think she found that quite frightening, perhaps more than she could deal with—even though over the course of my whole career, I’ve only been injured once before. And, then, I was working all the time. That goes with running a small police agency with minimal staffing. And probably it’s a personality thing on my part.”

Ray turned back to the stove. “Early on I thought she’d come back for weekends, or I’d go down there—I’d like a bit of an inducement to get to the Lyric Opera more often. It never seemed to happen. And then she quickly fell into a relationship, someone in her apartment building. We were in different places.”

“Yes?”

“I seem to be working all the time,” Ray said, facing her. “I guess I’m a workaholic. At the end, she was questioning whether I had the capacity to make time for her. Not just time time, but the emotional time.”

“What do you think?”

Ray waved his spoon in the air. “I don’t know. I haven’t been in a serious relationship for years. I’m used to being alone. When I’m not working, I’m kayaking, skiing, reading. I fill every moment. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to make time for someone else.” He shrugged.

“I’m sort of the same way,” Hannah said, picking up her knife and beginning to slice the lettuce leaves from their stem. “When I’m not working, I’m being my hyperactive self. I once told you that I came up here to reconnect with a guy I had a relationship with in medical school. I had a silly idea about finding some kind of normalcy, part of my therapy to get beyond the war experience. I must have missed the fact years ago that he was sort of wacko. That’s the problem with hormonal relationships.” She laughed. “Sometimes you miss the really important stuff about a person, at least for awhile.”

Ray nodded as he worked on browning butter without burning it, his focus on the contents of a stainless steel pan. Hannah, too, settled into wordless concentration of washing, drying, mixing, arranging.

“How’s the world of crime?” she asked after they settled at the table and began their meal.

“Nothing too awful seems to be happening right now, fortunately. It’s funny, but when I started up here there would be long stretches where things would be routine, especially during the fall and winter. But in the last year, it’s been one thing after another.” He considered. “I do have one case that’s concerning me.”

“What’s that?”

“An elderly man has gone missing.”

“From a nursing home?” Hannah asked.

“No, he lives independently. Most of these cases with old people don’t have a happy ending.”

“I can imagine—heart failure, stroke, hypothermia. Our bodies fall apart, our brains turn to mush. We become increasingly vulnerable. And if you wander away somewhere and don’t get immediate medical attention ….” She paused. “Maybe that’s not so bad, to die quietly. How many times have I watched, sometimes participated in, an attempt to resuscitate an elderly person. Our best efforts to keep someone going can be violent. She looked directly at Ray, holding his eyes in her gaze. “I’ve often thought it would be so much more humane to let them die quietly.” Hannah smiled. “But you usually have the hysterical family there wanting you to do everything for Grandpa.”

They fell into silence for several moments. “I spent time with his daughter this afternoon,” Ray said. “She told me that her father’s a real character. He’s recently written and published a book on his years as a driver for Al Capone. He says he helped Capone bury his treasure up here.”

“For real?”

Ray left the table, retrieved the book off a nearby counter, and passed it to her before settling back into his chair.

“As you can see, the book is for real, and the author would have his readers believe that it’s all fact, not fiction. According to his daughter, however, Fox has a rich fantasy life.”

“How about the Capone connection?”

Ray chuckled, “Another urban legend that has been around for decades. I used to hear about Capone as a kid from the old-timers. It’s one of those stories you can tell and continue to embellish because no one can disprove anything you’re saying. Big Al supposedly had two or three hideouts up here. For example, there’s a house in Frankfort that reportedly has a tunnel that runs toward the beach. Story is that Al’s boys would come up in speedboats on moonless nights and drop off loads of hooch. But speedboats all the way from Chicago in the ’20s? And why would you bother to dig a tunnel where there are hundreds of miles of deserted beaches and dozens of remote road ends. The storytellers were mixing legends and yarns. Along the Detroit River, smugglers were running booze into this country with speedboats, an easy trip across a narrow band of water. And, yes, there were lots of tunnels and boathouses along the river. Most of the booze that got up here probably came in trucks or cars from Detroit.”