"No."

"We'll ask around," Jesse said.

FOUR.

"This is not encouraging," Macklin said as he slowed the Mercedes. The traffic was at a dead stop ahead on LaSalle Street.

"We want to take that right."

"There's a cop directing traffic," Faye said.

"He's not letting anyone down there."

"Fire," Macklin said.

"See the fire chief car sticking out into the road? That's what's causing the whole thing." He shook his head.

"Firemen and cops," he said.

"Park any friggin' place they feel like it. Don't give a goddamn how bad they screw up the traffic."

Macklin had spent time in the tanning salon at Faye's complex so he had a prosperous tan. He was wearing a gray Palm Beach suit and a blue oxford shirt with a button-down collar. He had on a yellow silk tie and a yellow pocket silk. The 9-mm pistol was in the I glove compartment.

"How hard would it have been," he said, "for the asshole to have [pulled up onto the grass?"

Faye smiled. She had on a subdued tan suit, with a long jacket I and short skirt, and her hair was up and gathered in a French twist I at the back. The car inched forward.

"It's a house fire," Faye said.

"I can see the trucks down the side I street."

"And they can't fight it without fucking up the traffic all the | way back to Lynn?" Macklin said.

"I think it's out," Faye said.

"It's like the law don't apply to them, you know? Like there's | one law for us and no law at all for them," Macklin said.

Faye turned and looked at him. She smiled widely.

"There's a law for us?" she said.

"Jimmy, you're a crook. You don't pay any attention to the law at all."

Macklin inched past the cop directing traffic and squeezed past the fire captain's car and picked up speed. His shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

"Oh yeah," he said.

They turned right past the movie theater and drove along Ocean Avenue to Preston Road past Geary Street, which was still closed off, to the causeway and out onto Paradise Neck. The neck was thick with trees and big lawns, the big old shingle houses back from the narrow road and barely visible. They went past the yacht club, a rambling white building that faced the harbor, and around lighthouse point and pulled onto the elegant little bridge that arched the narrow stretch of angry surf to Stiles Island. On the island end was a guard shack. Macklin stopped and lowered his window. A tallish, gray-haired man in glasses came out wearing a blue blazer and carrying a clipboard. A blue plastic name tag on his blazer said STILES ISLAND SECURITY and under that his name, J. T. McGonigle.

"Hi," Macklin said, "we have an appointment with Mrs. Campbell."

"Your name, sir?"

"I know this sounds corny," Macklin said, "but it's Smith."

The guard consulted his clipboard.

"Mr. and Mrs.?"

"Yep."

"Right over there, sir. Please park in the designated space."

"Thank you."

As they drove through the gate, the guard copied down the license plate number. Past the guard shack, to the right, was a small building done in weathered shingles with colonial blue shutters. A discreet sign beside the door said STILES ISLAND REALTY in gold letters on a dark blue background. A Lexus sedan was parked next to the building, and two spaces beside it were marked VISITORS.

"Stiles Island is too classy to have customers," Macklin said.

"What are our first names?" Faye said.

"I'll be Harry," Macklin said.

"You got a favorite?"

"How about one of those really jerky names that WASP women have, like Muffy or Choo Choo?"

"Jesus " Macklin said, "I can't go around calling you fucking Muffy."

"Rocky?" Faye said.

"Rocky?" Macklin said.

Faye nodded. Macklin nodded and put out his clenched fist.

Faye tapped it lightly with hers.

"Way to go, Rocky," he said.

They got out of the car.

"Where we from?" Faye said.

"I'll think of someplace," Macklin said.

"You know how I hate to plan stuff."

The real estate office was furnished with colonial furniture and nautical prints. Mrs. Campbell was a tall woman with platinum hair, a lot of makeup, and a good figure. She was a little long in the tooth, Macklin thought, but she'd probably be a pretty good lay.

"I'm Harry Smith," Macklin said.

"My wife, Rocky."

"Where you folks from?" Mrs. Campbell said.

She was wearing a blue pantsuit and a white man-tailored shirt, open at the throat.

"Concord," Macklin said.

"And you're interested in property on Stiles Island?"

"Yes, ma'am," Macklin said.

"Well, we have a couple of homes for sale, and of course, we can arrange for you to build if you wish."

"What do you think, hon?" Macklin said.

"I think the first thing we should do is tour the island," Faye said.

"We're not just purchasing a piece of property, you know. We are buying into a community."

"Good point," Mrs. Campbell said.

"Why don't I drive you around and acquaint you with the place, and we can talk as we go.

Will you be financing this purchase yourself?"

"It'll be cash," Macklin said.

"And are you more interested in building or buying something already built?"

"We're open on that," Faye said.

"Aren't we, Harry?"

"Sure are, Rocky."

Mrs. Campbell went around her desk to get her purse. Macklin noticed that the pantsuit fit snugly over her butt. And there was something in the way she walked. Fucks like a weasel, Macklin thought. He didn't know exactly how he knew that. Maybe the way she stood or the way she walked or the sense of how conscious she was of her body. Maybe it was magic. But he was rarely wrong about such things. He filed the information.

FIVE.

The two men who owned the home on Geary Street sat together in Jesse's office.

One was a tall slim man with a shaved head and a dark tan. He wore gold rimmed aviator sunglasses. His companion was stockier, with a blond crew cut and a clipped moustache. Both men were older than Jesse. Forty-two, forty-three, Jesse speculated. The taller man's name was Alex Canton.

"We were in Provincetown for a few days when it happened," Canton said.

"One of the neighbors called us. We came right back."

"The fire was set," Jesse said.

"We assumed it was from the graffiti, and the way the floor burned. But the state Fire Marshal's Office makes it definite. A combustible liquid, probably gasoline, was poured over the rug in the living room and ignited."

"We know who did it," Canton said.

"Howard and I are both sure of it."

Jesse glanced at the notes on his yellow legal pad. Howard's last name was Brown.

"Who?" Jesse said.

"Alex, we can't really prove it," Brown said.

"We know it was them," Canton said.

"Who?" Jesse said.

"The fucking Hopkins kids," Canton said.

"Full names?"

"Earl," Canton said, "I think is the older one. And Robbie."

"Ages?"

"Oh, maybe fifteen and fourteen, in there. Neither one of them drives a car yet."

"Had trouble with them before?" Jesse said.