Dr. Philip Gertz, the Blaines’ family doctor, had gray hair, a thin face, and a judicious manner underscored by thoughtful blue eyes. In ten years, he had changed surprisingly little. But his office in the new Martha’s Vineyard Hospital was a considerable upgrade. Waving Adam inside, he said, “I saw you at Ben’s funeral. But I didn’t have a chance to give you my condolences.”
The remark came wrapped in a dubious tone. Evenly, Adam said, “That’s all right, Doctor. When someone dies, you have the funeral, and once it’s over the man is still dead. All that’s left is how he treated the living.”
Gertz regarded Adam closely. “And you’ve been all right?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” The doctor paused, glancing at his watch. “You said you wanted to ask me something.”
“About my father. We just learned that when he died, he had a very serious brain tumor.”
Gertz sat back, his face slack, then slowly shook his head. “Sweet Jesus Christ.”
“You didn’t know?”
The doctor shook his head. At length, he said, “Late last year he came to me complaining of headaches that disturbed his concentration. I referred him to a neurosurgeon in Boston.”
“And?”
“Ben called me later to say he was fine, and that the headaches were gone.”
“Did he ever see the neurosurgeon?”
Gertz’s brow furrowed. “If he had, I’d have expected a report-a reputable specialist, which this man is, would have performed tests. So maybe not.”
For a moment, Adam tried to enter his father’s mind. “Still, I’d like this doctor’s name.”
Gertz wrote it on a sheet of paper. Shaking hands, he said, “Tell me what you learn. When it comes to Ben, I guess nothing would surprise me.”
A redbrick Georgian structure, the Dukes County Courthouse was located next to the site of his father’s funeral. Since Adam had last been on the island, the county sheriff had installed a magnetometer at the entrance and a conveyor belt on which Adam placed his keys and wallet. Passing through security, he noticed cameras pointed at him from the ceiling, attached to the wires of a new alarm system. The shadow of 9/11 had reached the island.
George Hanley’s office was on the second floor, a cubbyhole jammed with file cabinets and a wooden desk covered with papers. The room was further dwarfed by the local DA himself, a burly man at least six feet four, with thick white hair, a mustache to match, and shrewd green eyes. As Hanley stood to shake hands, he gave Adam a warm Irishman’s smile that did not obscure his keen look of appraisal. On top of his desk, Adam noticed, was an accordion folder marked BENJAMIN BLAINE.
“Mind if we talk outside?” Hanley asked. “The older I get, the more I resent sitting here on a day like this. How many more of these do I get? I’ve started to wonder.”
The remark, though casual, carried a pensive undertone. Adam’s father and Hanley had been friends, at least of a kind, and he supposed that, for Hanley as for others, Ben’s death had left a psychic hole. “Sure,” Adam said. “I’d rather feel the sun on my face and watch the passing parade. I’ve been away for a while.”
“Which was duly noted,” Hanley said good-humoredly. “This island is a small place, you’ll remember.”
With that, Hanley led Adam down the stairs. As they left, Adam noticed a sheriff’s deputy in a room near the entrance, watching a TV monitor that showed a sequence of doors and hallways in the courthouse. As with the camera and alarm system, he filed this away.
The two men found a wooden bench between the courthouse and the Old Whaling Church. Hanley raised his face to the light, breathing in the clean fresh air. Then he cast a jaundiced eye on the tourists who jammed the redbrick sidewalks along Main Street, bobbing in and out of clothing stores, a bookshop, an ice cream dispensary. In his rumbling voice, he said, “God, I hate to see them. Then I hate to see them go. They bring the money that keeps this island afloat.”
Adam nodded. “So,” Hanley ventured, “I guess you’ve got some questions about Ben’s death.”
“A few.”
Hanley turned to him. In the same mild tone, he said, “Frankly, Adam, I didn’t know your father was of any particular concern to you.”
“He wasn’t,” Adam answered in a clipped voice. “But the rest of my family is, starting with my mother. This has left her badly shaken. It isn’t often that one loses a husband and an inheritance in the space of a few days. Nor did it help that the state police treated her like a suspect in his death.”
Hanley shrugged, his expression neutral. “The state police aren’t from here. Someone on the island dies under funny circumstances, they take a boat over from Barnstable-the crime lab to inspect the scene, the medical examiner to take the corpse to Boston, and someone like Sergeant Mallory to work with me and the town police. Mallory doesn’t know your mother, brother, or uncle. What he does know is that this is a high-profile death with several possible explanations. Which can be summarized as ‘jumped, fell, or pushed.’”
Though Adam knew this, the blunt coda carried a disturbing message-this was a homicide investigation, and Hanley and the police had reason to pursue it. “Do you have a favorite?” he asked.
Hanley’s smile was less amused than deflective. “If I did, I couldn’t tell you. And if I can’t, Sean Mallory certainly won’t. Don’t even bother with him.”
“But it’s fair to say you’ve reached no conclusions?”
“That’s fair to say,” Hanley replied in a tone that conveyed vast reserves of patience. “If we had, we’d have closed the case or indicted someone. At some point one or the other will happen.”
“Based on what?”
Hanley drew a breath. “I’m only talking to you as a courtesy, and only to the extent I can. What I will tell you is that you can expect to hear from Sergeant Mallory. For understandable reasons, he’s taken an interest in your family. But then it’s an interesting family, isn’t it?”
For a moment, Adam watched some prototypical tourists-dad, mom, squabbling sister and brother-passing in newly acquired Martha’s Vineyard T-shirts. “All families are interesting,” he said. “It’s just that some are less public. The medical examiner’s report must be of some help.”
The corner of Hanley’s mouth twitched. “Not to you.”
“Not even for my mother’s sake?”
“I admire your mother,” Hanley said firmly. “But we can’t give it up while the investigation is on.”
So the report was completed, Adam divined, and in Hanley’s possession. “Then it’s fair to say that the report doesn’t preclude a homicide.”
Hanley leaned forward, elbows on knees, weighing his answer. At length, he said, “In itself, a fall off that cliff doesn’t tell you much. You get a severe trauma to the head, bleeding around the brain, a fractured skull, and scrapes on the face and body. None of that says why Ben fell.”
“Did he land close to the cliff, or out a ways?”
Hanley laughed briefly. “Kudos for the question. But I’m not telling you anything your uncle Jack couldn’t. Ben landed close to the cliffside.”
“Meaning that no one hurled him into space.”
Hanley’s smile lingered, as though he were following Adam’s thoughts. “Ben was a big man, Adam. The Incredible Hulk is not among the suspects.”
“In other words,” Adam persisted, “the location of the body is also consistent with accident or suicide.”
“I suppose.”
“Then I suppose you also know he was drunk.”
“So your mother tells us. But the toxicology report isn’t in yet.”
“Still, he could have fallen. And now you’ve learned that he had brain cancer, which suggests the possibility of suicide.”
Hanley’s smile became bleak, his lips clamped tight. “The man I knew for fifty years would not have deprived the world of his presence. But you could posit that-unlike wars, famine, pestilence, and plague-brain cancer disheartened him a bit.”
“And therefore, accident or suicide are real possibilities. I’m left to wonder why you think this could have been a murder.”
“Yup,” Hanley agreed laconically. “You’re left to wonder. Not that I’m saying it was.”
Adam watched his eyes. “But you think it was, don’t you?”
Hanley fixed him with an unblinking gaze. “You know that promontory intimately. Do you believe Ben had one too many and just stumbled off the cliff? Or decided to end his life even a day before God did it for him?”
No, Adam thought. “I’ve no idea, George. As you point out, I hadn’t seen him for ten years.”
A new expression, probing and tough, entered Hanley’s eyes. “Can I ask why?”
Adam had expected this. “Objection, George-irrelevant. When he went off the cliff, I was in Afghanistan. I sure as hell didn’t push him.”
“But there came a time when you might have wanted to, didn’t there?”
Adam stared at him. “Everyone wants to know why I left, like it must be shrouded in mystery. I suggest that you consider the man you knew.”
Suddenly, Hanley’s expression held the merciless bleakness of a recording angel. “You know what I’m asking. Was there something about Ben, even ten years back, that might provoke someone to consider killing him?”
The way he treated all of us, Adam thought. In an even voice, he said, “Which cuckolded husband or boyfriend are we talking about? Beyond that, I haven’t got a clue.”
Hanley’s tone and expression were unimpressed. “Even when you were in high school, Adam, they said you were the smartest guy around. You’re here for your own reasons. I suspect it’s the will, and the feelings it might engender among members of your family.”
Adam shook his head. “You can’t feel anything about a will that you don’t know exists. That leaves Carla Pacelli, who had everything to gain and, as I understand it, no alibi at all.”
Quiet, Hanley watched the passing parade of Vineyarders and tourists. At length, he said, “We’re not going to play this game, young Mr. Blaine. You could say the same about your mother and Teddy, who got written out of the will-after all, no murderer with a motive would confess to having one. Or Jack, who everyone knows disliked Ben intensely. And if you’re looking for people who gained from Ben’s death, you could throw in Jenny Leigh.” He turned to Adam. “I’m not saying who I think it is, if anyone. I’m merely following your logic to its insubstantial conclusion.”
“So Pacelli has no alibi.”
Hanley’s eyes glinted. “You can think that if you like. So tell me why your father left you a hundred thousand and made you his executor.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Adam said in a throwaway tone. “He wanted to compete with me from beyond the grave.”
Hanley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and then he laughed aloud. “You plan to break the will, don’t you.”
“It’s crossed my mind. Maybe it crossed his. He always liked games.”
Hanley’s smile faded. “Hard to believe he’s dead,” he mused. “I still remember him in high school. I wanted to be quarterback in the worst way. But there was Ben, always Ben. He wouldn’t let me beat him out.”
“He couldn’t, George. That would have killed him for sure.”
Hanley appraised him. After a moment, he said, “I think I’ve said all I care to, and you’ve ferreted out what you can. Any time you want to say what else is on your mind, feel free.”
“I will,” Adam said easily. “At the moment, all that’s on my mind is using the restroom.”
Briskly, Hanley shook his hand. “First floor, if you don’t mind passing through security to take a piss. Too many nuts with guns, I guess.”
Turning, he shuffled up the steps, his shoulders slumped, unhappy to retreat inside.
Once more Adam gave up his keys and wallet to pass through the magnetometer, then spent an obligatory minute in the men’s room parsing his troubled thoughts. As he left, he glanced into the room containing the TV monitor and committed the name and make of the security system to memory.
On the courthouse steps, Adam saw a sturdy figure in the uniform of a police officer. His instant impression was of a body bound to thicken, already straining the blue shirt, its torso almost as broad as the man’s thick shoulders. Then he saw the man’s features-blue eyes, caramel-colored hair, a round, amiable face that hinted at perpetual puzzlement, as though something were about to surprise him. Smiling with his own surprise, Adam experienced in miniature what a high school reunion must feel like.
“Bobby?”
Bobby Towle stopped abruptly, gazing at Adam until an answering grin spread across the broad planes of his face. “Adam Blaine,” he said, and gave Adam an awkward hug. “My God, how long has it been?”
“A while,” Adam replied. “I think the last time was at a beach party. But you may not remember.”
Bobby’s grin was rueful. “I was with Barbara, right?”
“The beautiful Barbara,” Adam amended. “What happened with that?”
The smile diminished. “We’re still together. Married, in fact.”
“Can’t blame you a bit. It’s Barbara I wonder about.”
Bobby shifted his weight. “What about you?”
“Single. I’ve become a world traveler, which gets in the way.”
“Not a lawyer?”
“No.”
Bobby appraised him. “At least you look the same,” he said, patting his stomach. “No fat on you. Maybe a little older, and a little meaner.”
Beneath his guilelessness, Adam remembered, Bobby had an instinctive gift for grasping essential truths. “Not you, Bobby. Not even in uniform. You’re a cop, looks like.”
“Chilmark Police.” Bobby grimaced a little. “Sorry about your dad.”
“Thanks.” Adam paused for an appropriate moment, then rested a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Why don’t we meet for a drink somewhere. Or don’t you do that anymore?”
A faint look of hurt surfaced in Bobby’s eyes. “Not as much, nowadays. But, sure, I’ll tip a couple of beers to keep you company.”
“Great. The Kelley House still open?”
“Definitely.”
“Check with Barbara, then, and give me a call.”
Bobby hunched his shoulders. “Tomorrow night’s fine. Say eight o’clock?”
Something was wrong at home, Adam felt sure. “You’re on, Bobby. We can replay the last touchdown in the Nantucket game. You really crushed that guy.”
Driving home, Adam wondered about Bobby Towle, and felt a twinge of conscience for his intentions. Sometimes that still happened, even in Afghanistan.