All I'm trying to do is help, and I'm getting home-towned by the local old boys. Maybe getting their coffee between cases. I pictured doing PI work for her and her idiot boss. So I told her, "It's me or your job," to which she replied, "Maybe you should change your job" and she meant it-her firm needed a private investigator and she wanted me to take the job. I mean, Jeez, lady, I know somebody has to do it, and the money is terrific, but I was feeling matrimonially challenged. The last straw was when she took the case of a high-level drug guy who, aside from his American problems, was wanted in Colombia for icing a judge. I mean, I'm trying to put scumbags in the slammer, and the woman I'm sleeping with is trying to keep them in business. He may have liked more than her style, but aside from that, our marriage became a conflict of interest. She switched sides and took a high-paying job with a big-name defense attorney who liked her style in court. Robin, by the way, was a Manhattan assistant district attorney once, which is how I met her. Murphy asked, "Where is she?" 'Detective Penrose? She's home with morning sickness." Over the causeway and onto Main Road, heading back toward the hamlet of Cutchogue. I couldn't see anything sinister about the place, no paintings of burning churches on the walls, no black candles, no needlepoint pentagrams or black cats, and the kitchen had no bubbling witch's cauldron. It wasn't actually a museum in the sense of exhibits it was just a decorated period house. I didn't see or hear anyone in the house, so I wandered about from room to room. The place was all antiques, of course, mostly junk if you want my opinion, but probably worth a bunch of buckos. The foyer was big, and to the left was a large sitting room, to the right was the dining room. The house, as I said, was large, circa about 1850s, typical of the home of a rich merchant or sea captain. Remember, don't talk to anyone except Chief Maxwell, me, and Detective Penrose. Then she is officially ex, and I lose the opportunity to be an adulterer or a bigamist. Tobin lied.Īside from these little career conflicts, we were actually in love once. She's waiting for you.Īnyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked "Whitestone Florist." She said, "I reached Emma at her florist shop, and she's on her way to the Peconic Historical Society house." Tobin discussed, but I think that's the last official conversation you should have with him. Understand? I don't know exactly what you and Mr. Okay? I got a call from Fredric Tobin's attorneys, and they're not happy people. You're no longer working for the township. Maybe I didn't make myself clear about your status. The first was Max, who said, "John, this is Chief Maxwell. I tried my answering machine again, and there were two new calls. Maybe it was another brown-bearded man in a white Porsche. Yet, he didn't seem to recall his June visit. Fredric Tobin had been at the Gordons' on at least one occasion.
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