Dead Man's Grip

telling him he had a missed call and voicemail. It was from Detective Investigator Lanigan.
    As soon as he got to his office, Grace called him back, mindful that it was the middle of the night in New York.
    Lanigan, as ever sounding like he had a mouth full of marbles, answered immediately, seeming wide awake.
    ‘Something strange going on here, Roy,’ he said. ‘Might be significant to you.’
    ‘What’s happened?’
    ‘Well, it’s not like I’m shedding any tears, you know. Fernanda Revere’s brother, Ricky Giordino – son of Sal Giordino, right?’
    ‘The Mafia capo who’s doing a bunch of life sentences?’
    ‘You got him. Well, I think I told you, Ricky’s the guy we reckon would have hired the guy who’s been causing all your problems, right?’
    ‘You did.’
    ‘Well, I thought you should know, Ricky Giordino was found dead in his apartment a couple of hours ago. Pretty gruesome. Sounds like some kind of a hit. You know – wise guys on wise guys kind of thing. Strapped to his bed with his dick cut off – looks like he bled to death from that. Had it jammed in his mouth and held in place with duct tape. Also looks like whoever did it cut his balls off and took them with him.’
    ‘Before or after he was dead?’ Grace asked.
    Lanigan laughed. ‘Well, with a guy like that, I’d want the best for him, know what I’m saying?’
    ‘Absolutely!’
    ‘So let’s hope it was before. Oh – and there’s one other thing – this is why I thought you might be interested. The perp left a video camera running at the scene.’

114
    Yossarian lay in his usual place, shaded from the midday sun, just inside the permanently open patio doors, dozing. Once a day he got interrupted by the woman who brought him food and changed the water in his bowl. He would eat the food, drink some of the water and then return to his dozing.
    He missed his associate. Missed the runs up in the hills and the days out on the boat, when he got to gulp down endless quantities of fresh fish.
    But today felt different.
    There was a vibe. He felt excited. Every few minutes, after he woke from his doze, he’d pad around the inside of his home, then go outside for a few moments into the hot sunlight, then back to the shade.
    He was just dozing off once more when he heard the sound of the front door opening.
    It was a different sound from the one the woman made. This was a sound he recognized. His tail began to wag. Then he jumped to his feet and ran to the door, barking excitedly.
    His associate was home.
    His associate stroked him and made some nice sounds.
    ‘Hey, good to see you, boy. How’ve you been?’
    His associate put his case down and opened it, then took out a small white plastic bag. He walked over to the empty food bowl on the floor, in the shade, near the patio door.
    ‘Bought you a treat!’ he said. ‘A special delicacy, all the way from New York. How about that?’
    Yossarian stared at his associate expectantly. Then he looked down at his bowl. Two small oval shapes dropped into it with a soft thud , thud . He wolfed them down, then stared at his associate again, wanting more.
    Tooth shook his head. He didn’t do quantity.
    He did quality.

115
    The office of the Yacht-Club Rheindelta was a small white wooden building on the edge of the vast Bodensee. They were taking a week’s vacation and she thought it would be fun if they did a dinghy-sailing course together. He had been really keen when she had mooted the idea.
    The fit-looking young German manager behind the counter was pleasant and helpful.
    ‘So, do you have any sailing experience?’
    She nodded. ‘Yes, my – my ex-husband was very keen. We used to sail a bit in England – off the south coast around Brighton. And we did a flotilla sailing holiday in small yachts in Greece once.’
    ‘Good.’ He smiled, and started to fill in a form on a clipboard. ‘So, first the young man. He is how old, please?’
    ‘He’ll be ten, next birthday.’
    ‘Which is when?’
    ‘March, next year.’
    The German manager smiled at the boy. ‘So you have your father’s sailing genes, perhaps?’
    ‘Oh, he has a lot of his father’s genes, don’t you?’ she said, looking at her son.
    He shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never met him.’
    The smile momentarily changed to a frown on the manager’s face, then he said, ‘OK. So if I may have the young man’s full name, please.’
    She wrote down Bruno Lohmann and handed him the form