"Sorry," I say. "I'd forgotten about that."
"Why don't you join us?" Fiona says. "You don't mind do you, Michael?"
"Oh no, not at all," Frazer says. "Thought we'd hit the Whaler Inn. Great view."
"Thanks, but no," I say. I look at Fiona. "Just wondering if you had mentioned anything to Michael about him taking us out in his boat, see if we could get that GPS to show us anything worth looking at."
"She did," Michael answers for her. "But I can't. Not this afternoon, anyway. I have a couple of meetings I can't afford to miss. Perhaps tomorrow, eh?"
He seems anxious to go. Can't say that I blame him. A pretty girl in a yellow sundress, heading to lunch on a gorgeous afternoon. Ah, the possibilities.
"You heard anything from Worley?" I ask Fiona.
"Not a peep," she says. "What have you been up to?"
"Been an interesting morning. Had a little face time with Papi Ferreira."
It gets a reaction from both of them.
"Grabbing the bull by the horns, eh?" says Fiona.
"Not the part of the bull I was grabbing for, actually."
I give them a brief rundown of my conversation with Ferreira.
"You asked him straight on if he did it?" Fiona asks. "Now that took some spine."
"Don't tap-dance on the line of scrimmage," I say. It gets blank looks from both of them. "Football talk. Something a coach of mine used to say."
"So what did Ferreira tell you?" Fiona asks.
"He said he didn't do it."
"And you believe him?"
"Let's just say I'm leaning in that direction."
"Plenty of people have taken Papi Ferreira at his word and regretted it later," Frazer says.
"That's why I'm only leaning. I haven't fallen head over heels in love with the guy."
Frazer checks his watch.
"Reservations are for noon," he says. "We best be off."
"I'll check in with you later, Zack," Fiona says. "Where will you be?"
"Thought I'd drop by Teddy Schwartz's place."
She seems surprised. So does Frazer.
"What for?" asks Fiona.
"Don't know yet," I say.
71.
A police van and two cars occupy the driveway at Teddy Schwartz's house when I arrive. I park down the street and walk back to the house.
The front door is open and I can see a group of policemen sitting around the dining room table, eating food out of Styrofoam containers. Looks like a lunch break.
I step around to the back of the house. Miss Peg is moored at the dock, just as we left her the day before, except for the yellow crime-scene tape that runs between the mooring pilings.
There's tape along the walkway to the boathouse, too. I've never understood the whole crime-scene tape thing. Seems like if cops really wanted to keep people away from crime scenes, they'd figure out a way to electrify the tape. Or do something to make it a little more daunting. Like run razor-wire along the edges. Or lace it with anthrax. Otherwise it just looks like a bad job of gift wrapping.
I duck under the tape and step inside the boathouse. I look around. It's as if the place got hit by its own private tornado.
Stacks of lumber lay scattered like a game of giant pickup sticks. The diving equipment is strewn all about. Boxes have been ripped open, their contents in heaps.
I don't know what I'm looking for. I'm just looking.
I step over power tools-drills and saws. I edge around an acetylene torch and the tanks that go with it, banging a shin against a small anvil in the process.
I finally make my way to the workbench in the center of the room. The blue tarp that once covered it lies on the floor. Gone is the carpenter's box that once sat atop the workbench, along with the tools that were in it. Gone, too, are the small jars filled with pieces of jewelry and bric-a-brac.
The books that held down the tarp have been knocked to the floor. I kneel and sort through them. Glossy picture books from museums, catalogs from auction houses.
At the bottom of the pile, lie several sheets of paper. I pick them up, flip through them.
And suddenly I am looking at something I recognize: a sketch of the Reliquarium de Fratres Crucis.
72.
The paper I'm holding contains a copy of the same drawing that Janeen Hill showed Fiona and me the night before at her house, the one made by the goldsmith who designed the reliquary.
Some notes are scribbled in pencil, with lines drawn to different parts of the reliquary. I can make out some of them-".925 silver (French)," "I.G. copper 60%." Others are indecipherable.
I fold the paper, stick it in a pants pocket. I'm still nosing around the books, seeing if anything else jumps out to surprise me, when I hear a voice: "Can I help you?"
I stand, see a young police officer in the doorway of the boathouse. He takes a step my way, suspicious.
I say, "Is Inspector Worley around?"
I know good and well that he's not. But it never hurts to drop a name. And since that's the only cop name I know ...
"No, Worley's not here," says the cop.
"What time is it?"
The cop looks at his watch.
"Almost two thirty," he says.
"Dammit, where is he then? He was supposed to meet me here at two."
The cop sputters for words.
"I don't know, sir. I ..."
"Look, I don't have time for this. I've got things to do," I say, moving past him toward the door. "When Worley finally decides to show up tell him Zack Chasteen was here."
And in a full-blown, self-righteous huff, I head out the door.
Then the cop says, "Hey, wait a minute."
I stop. The cop already has his cell phone out and is punching buttons.
"I can get Worley for you right now," he says.
"No, that's all right, you don't have to."
"No problem, sir, I'm happy to." And then I hear him speaking into the phone: "Yes, Inspector, this is Officer Dodwell at the Schwartz house. There's a gentleman here, a Mr. Chasteen ..."
He listens, cut his eyes my way. He turns, so I can't hear what he's saying. He listens some more. Then he hands me the phone.
"Hello, Inspector," I say. "I hope you have a good excuse for standing me up."
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing in that boathouse, Chasteen?"
"Why, yes, Inspector, I suppose I could reschedule our appointment if you like."
A pause on Worley's end. When he speaks, he speaks low.
"Anything I need to know?"
"Maybe," I say. "When is good for you?"
"I've been trying to find you, Chasteen. I've arranged a few minutes for you with Sir Teddy this afternoon."
"Yes, I think that will work for me."
"It better. I've had to pull a few strings, go behind a few people's backs to make this happen. Situations like this, no one gets in to see a suspect except the attorney. And even then, perhaps only for a single visit. I don't want this to come back and bite me."
"So what time then?"
"Five o'clock," says Worley.
"Fine," I say, "I'll have my secretary call to confirm."
"Yeah, you do that," Worley says.
And the line goes dead.
73.
I've got time to kill and, as long as I'm in the neighborhood, I drive down Bedon's Alley and stop at Ned McHugh's house. There's a pickup truck in the driveway. It bears the logo of Deep Water Discoveries.
Polly is on the front porch with a broom, sweeping. She stops when she sees me get out of the car. She turns toward the door, says something. By the time I near the house, Bill Belleville is stepping onto the porch.
"Hey, man," Belleville says. "Good to see you again."
Polly smiles.
"I was just getting the place cleaned up," she says.
"Have you moved back in?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"No, I'm still too weirded-out by everything to do that. I'm just getting it fixed up again so I can get the deposit back from the landlord. He's got someone else who's ready to rent it."
"Where you going to live?"
"Well ..." She looks at Belleville.