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FORTY-ONE

IT’S SEVEN THIRTY BY the time I’m leaving Jimmy’s bar.

By then Wolk has sworn to us that he doesn’t know where Eric Jacobson might be, just that a girl he knows in the city is sure she saw Eric drinking at The Otheroom on Perry Street the week before.

Jimmy tells me not to worry, he’ll find the kid, and McKenzie, and maybe even Anthony Licata before he’s through.

“What about Amelia Earhart and Judge Crater?”

“I found out what happened to both of them a long time ago,” Jimmy says. “I just didn’t want to make the whole thing about me.”

I kiss him on the cheek and tell him I still love him madly.

“I know,” he says.

With light traffic on Route 114, it takes a half hour to get from Jimmy’s bar to my house. I take it even slower tonight. I’m feeling a little lightheaded, even though I never had my shot of whiskey. Tonight, it’s not because of my physical state, though I often start to fade at the end of the day.

No, tonight my head is spinning because so much information has just come into my brain I feel as if I should be on notice that I need to purchase more storage space.

Did Rob Jacobson know Eric was back? Could he not know? Rob suggested the crimes might all be connected, and now here comes Dave Wolk, who may have broken into the Parsonses’ house, saying he and Eric and Morelli once robbed houses together.

Could it be possible that Jacobson is just now learning that Joe Champi and this Licata guy were in business together?

I plan to ask my client about all of that.

Just not tonight.

Tonight is dinner with Ben and then sleep. A lot of sleep. He spent the last two nights at my house so I know he won’t mind me kicking him out—in a sweet way—after we eat. After that, the only male companionship I want is Rip the dog, even though his snoring is a lot worse than Ben’s. My own version of white noise.

With my brain spinning to process new information, I nearly miss my turn on Floyd Street. I realize I’m on my way toward Northwest Harbor, the long way home.

An hour later, I’m in such a rush to get into the house that I don’t pay any attention to the Mercedes up the street from Dr. Ben’s car.

When I’m inside, I see immediately that Dr. Ben and Rip are not alone.

But I’m not looking at them, frozen in place, a couple of feet inside the front door.

Not believing my own eyes.

Ben tries to break the ice, even though he would need a pickax at the moment, offering a feeble—and doomed—attempt at humor.

“I believe you two know each other,” he says.

“Hello, Jane,” the other man in the room says.

“Hello, Martin,” I say to my ex-husband. “Long time no see.”