Levy looked at Jesse for a moment.

“No, often in these matters, flaws are the appeal.”

“How about in this case?”

“I don’t know,” Levy said.

“But if you weren’t agnostic about it, you could probably say that we love who we love whether we should or not, even though there are more suitable people to love.”

“Are we still talking about Mr. Weeks?” Levy said.

Jesse was silent for a moment. He could feel his heartbeat; he was aware of his own breathing. Then he smiled at Levy.

“No,” Jesse said. “We’re not.”

33

It was a little after noon. Jesse and Suit were having sandwiches and coffee at Daisy’s Restaurant. Daisy herself was being interviewed by a woman in front of a television camera.

“Still news?” Jesse said to the waitress.

“Now it’s follow-up,” the waitress said. “You know, how has the discovery of a body in your Dumpster affected your business and your life.”

“I thought Daisy hated the press,” Suit said.

“I guess she don’t,” the waitress said. “We got rhubarb pie for dessert. You want me to save you some.”

“Please,” Jesse said.

“The poor bastard,” Suit said.

“Weeks?”

“Yeah, he finally finds the girl of his dreams and she’s finally pregnant and somebody comes along and dumps them both.”

Jesse nodded.

“Might be a connection,” Jesse said.

“Maybe the wife?” Suit said. “Jealous?”

“Maybe,” Jesse said.

They ate for a moment in silence, watching Daisy talk to the reporter on camera.

“You know the one thing is bothering me?” Jesse said.

“Just one?” Suit said.

“One of many,” Jesse said. “They, together, had an appointment with Dr. Levy two weeks before they were killed. And they didn’t show up.”

“No cancellation?”

“No. Just never appeared. Levy’s office called them and no one answered.”

“Where’d they call?” Suit said.

“Hotel,” Jesse said.

“Here? In Boston?”

“Yeah, the Langham.”

“Except for the time,” Suit said, “you’d think that was because they were dead.”

“You would,” Jesse said.

“Except the ME says it was only a few days before we found them,” Suit said.

“Depending on the body’s environment,” Jesse said.

“You mean somebody maybe tried to fool us?”

“I don’t mean anything, Suit. I’m grabbing at every straw that floats past. I want to know how long they were at the Langham. I want to know when they were last seen.”

“Didn’t Lutz say he’d seen them last walking up Franklin Street,” Suit said.

“He said the doorman had seen them walking up Franklin Street,” Jesse said. “And, you know, he never exactly said when that was.”

“I could ask him,” Suit said.

“Let’s just keep track of him for now,” Jesse said, “while I give it all some thought.”

“We could have some pie,” Suit said, “while you were doing that.”

“I’ll need the energy,” Jesse said.

34

Jesse sat on the edge of Marcy Campbell’s desk while she ran through her files.

“It is a booming real-estate market,” Marcy said. “I have sold more houses already this year than I sold all of last.”

She picked up a sheet of paper, glanced at it, put it back in the folder.

“I keep track of everything bought and sold in the last twelve months,” she said.

“Sold by you?” Jesse said.

“Sold by anyone,” Marcy said. “I like to keep track.”

“How’s your love life?” Jesse said.

“Busy, but we could always share a moment,” Marcy said. “Where are you with Jenn?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re still serious about her,” Marcy said.

“I am, and another woman as well.”

“And you’re serious about her.”

“Yes.”

“Which are you more serious about?” Marcy said.

“I don’t know.”

She put the folder away and took out another.

“Drinking?” Marcy said.

“Not bad, I’m drinking less than I’d like to.”

“Don’t we all,” Marcy said. “Want me to lock the office and pull down the shade?”

Jesse smiled at her.

“Rain check?” he said.

“Of course,” Marcy said. “What are friends for?”

“I think I know,” Jesse said.

Marcy grinned.

“Seriousness not required,” she said and shook her head. “No Walton Weeks.”

“How about Carey Longley?”

While Marcy looked, Jesse walked to the front window of the small office and looked out at the narrow street that led to the harbor. The houses were close together. There were no yards. The front doors were separated from the street only by a narrow sidewalk. The street was too narrow to permit parking, and as Jesse stood there, no cars passed. Two hundred years ago it must have looked much the same.

“No Carey Longley,” Marcy said. “I do have a Carey Young.”

“Bingo,” Jesse said without turning around. “Maiden name.”

“They didn’t want anyone to know,” Marcy said.

“Trying to be private,” Jesse said.

“And dying very publicly,” Marcy said.

“Where’s the property?”

“Stiles Island,” Marcy said. “Outer side. Private beach, six rooms. Four-point-two million.”

“For six rooms?”

“That’s what it says.”

“You sell it?” Jesse said.

“No. Ed Reamer, at Keyes Realty.”

“Have an address for the house?” Jesse said.

“On the sheet,” Marcy said.

She stood and walked to the window and stood beside Jesse and handed him the sheet. Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Life’s pretty hard,” she said. “Isn’t it.”

“It is,” Jesse said.

“Want a hug?” Marcy said.

“I do,” he said.

35

It was a one-story stone house with a cedar-shingled roof. The living room occupied the entire front, all glass facing the ocean. There was a big fireplace on the right-hand end wall with a raised hearth. The kitchen was green granite and stainless steel. There were two bedrooms, each with a full bath, and a room with a smaller fireplace, which was probably going to be a den. The house was empty. The flagstone floors gleamed with a new finish. The walls were newly painted. There was no furniture, no rugs, no drapes, no china, no crystal, no toothpaste, no towels, nothing to suggest human life. Like seeing a person naked, Jesse thought.

He stood in the silent living room and stared out past the patio, and across the small silver beach, at the gray Atlantic Ocean. Here along the North Shore, the ocean was cold, Jesse knew, even in the summer. It took fortitude to swim in it. Jesse walked the length of the room. There was no place in the room where you couldn’t see the ocean.

They would have put the dining area here, Jesse thought. Near the kitchen. And in the winter, they would have had a big fire in the fireplace and had drinks from the built-in wet bar, and watched the spray splatter against the thermopane during a storm. This would have been Walton’s office. With the nice bay window looking at the ocean. This would have been the master bedroom, nice skylight. This one would have been the kid’s room. Jesse stood in the room feeling, suddenly, the thwarted reality of the ten-week fetus. He walked into the kitchen. A big range hood over a built-in barbecue. A pantry off the rear wall, with a walk-in refrigerator. The dream house. Every convenience. The dream must have seemed so close. Reach out and take hold of it. All of it. Wife and child. At long last, love. A walk-in refrigerator!

Jesse went in. The room was maybe eight by eight, with shelves along the three walls. There was nothing stored there. The shelves were empty. The compressor was shut off. The windowless room was warm. There was a thermostat on the wall. It was set to thirty-five. Jesse turned the switch on. Somewhere he could hear the compressor begin to run quietly. Soon he began to feel cold air. He walked around the empty space and saw nothing. He went back to the thermostat and shut it off and left the refrigeration room.