the distinct sound of an aluminum beer can crunch beneath his tires.
“Better than glass.” Rosco sighed, stepping from the Jeep to survey the waterfront and commercial docks facing Water Street’s east side. Dark clouds ranged slowly across the bright October sky while a thin morning sun appeared above the harbor at irregular intervals, creating blinding reflections from any metal object it touched.
The west side of the street, however, emitted the dingy aura of a ghost town. Crushed plastic cups, pint-sized paper bags, and balled-up candy wrappers blew by like tumbleweed. Iron gates, heavy with layers of peeling paint, covered every window and door. The same held true for the Red Admiral. The shutters on its two ground-floor windows had been closed and padlocked; crisscrossed steel bars blocked the front entrance.
Rosco glanced up toward a second-floor window. It had been left open, and a faded green-and-white-striped curtain flapped in the breeze. From his previous visit, he knew that Vic Fogram lived above the bar. He wasn’t the type to leave a window unlocked accidentally. Rosco decided the Admiral’s owner was home.
He walked to the side alley, where he found a flight of rickety wooden steps leading to a second-story doorway. He realized there was no point in surprising Fogram—it was the type of thing that got people shot in this neighborhood; instead, Rosco trod heavily up the stairs, hoping the noise would announce his arrival.
As if on cue, Vic was waiting at the landing. Clad in a grungy brown, hooded terry-cloth robe, he looked like a deranged Franciscan monk. “Well, if it isn’t our friend from Baltimore,” he said with an ill-disguised sneer. “Back from Maine so soon? Let me guess; you couldn’t find a motel and you need a place to crash.”
Rosco reached for a business card. “I wasn’t completely up front with you the other night. My name’s Rosco Polycrates. I’m a private investigator.”
Vic glanced at the card. “And a local PI, at that.” He scratched the back of his head through the brown fabric. “I gotta hand it to you, pal, you’re good. Everyone in the joint bought the Baltimore line.” Vic pulled a pack of Marlboros from his robe, lit one, and tossed the match into the alley. His wary demeanor returned. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking into the Orion fire.”
Vic gave a hint of a smile and shook his head. “I would have bet a hundred bucks you were gonna tell me Charlie Yarnell’s wife hired you to find out who he’s shackin’ up with. Guess it’s Charlie’s lucky day and not mine.”
“Can I come in?” Rosco asked. “Fifteen minutes is all I need.”
Vic considered the request. He didn’t speak, just inhaled long and deep. “I don’t have anything to say about the Orion—other than to tell you to hit the road.” Then he lazily flicked his half-smoked cigarette toward the ground and began to step inside.
“That’s advice you might want to reconsider, Fogram,” Rosco said.
“I didn’t kill those babes.”
“Who said they were dead?”
“You ever try swimming for ninety-some hours in Buzzards Bay in October?” The retort didn’t mask Vic’s sudden nervousness.
Rosco recognized how easily the tavern’s owner had been rattled and decided to press his advantage. “There’s another possibility, Fogram . . . Police scenario number two: the cops start looking for someone who might have staged the fire and kidnapped the women. In that case, your door is the first the feds knock on. I’m sure you can follow the logic there . . . Trust me, you’re up to your keister in this . . .”
“I don’t like being pushed”—Fogram glanced anxiously at Rosco’s card—“Polycrates.”
“Then I suggest you figure a way to keep yourself out of a federal lockup. Because those boys are notorious for their pushiness.”
Vic reached for another cigarette, but found the package empty. He crushed the wrapper and flung it down into the alley, then gritted his teeth and appeared to make a decision. “I’ve got a lady visitor. I’ll tell her I got company.” He slammed into his apartment, banging the door shut behind him.
Rosco waited on the wooden landing with his arms folded across his chest, then watched in envy as a pair of seagulls glided by, riding the light wind. It seemed a preferable way to spend the morning. Three minutes into Rosco’s bird-watching reverie, Vic yanked open the door. “Okay,” he growled. “I’ll give you fifteen—but that’s all.”
Rosco found the apartment’s interior a surprisingly pleasant, open space. Kitchen appliances lined one wall; everything seemed fairly new