Whiskey Beach(32)

“We went down that avenue,” Neal reminded him.

“So we go down it again, slower, taking a detour if it looks promising. The cops can keep the case open, can keep scraping away at me. It doesn’t matter, Neal. I didn’t kill her, and they’ve exhausted every angle trying to prove I did. It’s not about making that stop, not anymore. It’s about knowing, and being able to put it away.”

“Okay. I’ll make some calls.”

“Thanks. And while we’re on PI’s—Kirby Duncan.”

“I already made calls there.” He rose, went to his desk and brought back a file. “Your copy. Basically? He runs his own bare-bones firm. He does have a reputation for slipping around the edges, but he hasn’t been formally cited. He was a cop for eight years, BPD, and still has plenty of contacts there.”

As Neal spoke, Eli opened the file, read the report.

“I figured Lindsay’s family hired him, but he seems too low-key, too basic for them.” Frowning over the details, he searched for another angle, other possibilities. “I’d think they’d go for the flash, the fancier firm, higher tech and profile.”

“I agree, but people can make decisions like this based on a lot of factors. They might’ve gotten a recommendation from a friend, an associate, another family member.”

“Well, if they didn’t hire him, I can’t think who would.”

“Their attorney neither confirms nor denies,” Neal told him. “At this point, she’s under no obligation to disclose the information. Duncan was a cop. It’s possible he and Wolfe know each other, and Wolfe decided to make an investment. He’s not going to tell me, if that’s the case.”

“Doesn’t seem like his method either, but . . . There’s nothing we can do about Duncan asking questions around Whiskey Beach, whoever his client is. No law against it.”

“Just as you’re under no obligation to speak with him. That doesn’t mean our own investigator can’t ask questions about him, gather information about him. And it doesn’t mean we can’t let it leak that we’ve hired someone to do just that.”

“Yeah,” Eli agreed. “It’s time to stir the pot.”

“The Piedmonts are, at this point, just making noise, trying to gin up doubt about your innocence, keep their daughter’s case in the media storm, which has ebbed, and in the public eye. The side benefit of that is making your life as uncomfortable as possible. So this latest push with a PI might’ve come from them.”

“They’re screwing with me.”

“Bluntly, yeah.”

“Let them. It can’t be any worse than it was when this was a twenty-four/seven circus. I got through that, I’ll get through this.” He believed that now. He wouldn’t simply exist through it, but get through it. “I’m not going to just stand there while they take shots at me, not this time. They lost their daughter, and I’m sorry, but trying to fuck me over isn’t going to work.”

“Then when their lawyer floats the idea of a settlement, which I expect she will at some point, that’s a firm no.”

“That’s a firm fuck you.”

“You are better.”

“I spent most of the last year in a fog—shock, guilt, fear. Every time the wind changed, blew in a little clear, all I could see in it was another trap. I’m not out of the fog yet, and Jesus, I’m afraid it may roll back in and choke me, but right now, today, I’m willing to risk one of those traps to get the hell out and breathe fresh air again.”

“Okay.” Neal balanced a silver Montblanc pen over his legal pad. “Let’s talk strategy.”



When he finally left Neal’s office, Eli walked across to the Commons. He asked himself how he felt being back in Boston, even for a day. He couldn’t quite find the answer. Everything here remained familiar, and there was comfort in that. There was hope and appreciation for the first green spears pushing up out of winter ground toward spring sun.

People braved the wind—not too much bluster in it today—to eat their lunch on benches, to take a walk as he did or just to cut through on their way to somewhere else.

He’d loved living there, he remembered that. That sense of familiarity again, the sense of place and purpose. He could walk from there if he wanted a good, strong hike, to the offices where he’d once entertained and strategized with clients as Neal had done with him.

He knew where to get his favorite coffee, where to grab a quick lunch or to have a long, lingering one. He had his favorite bars, his tailor, the jeweler where he’d most often bought Lindsay’s gifts.