Inherit the Dead

Perry’s hand a perfunctory shake.
    “Pardon?”
    “It’s not GAH-wayne.”
    “Sorry,” Perry said “You’re not from around here.”
    “Neither are you.”
    “No. The city. Though I spent a few years in Detroit after college. Does that count?”
    “Not bad hockey there.”
    Perry heard HAW-key. “You’re from Mass, right?”
    “Hingham.”
    “BPD?”
    “Statie.”
    “That how you knew Henry?”
    “Henry?”
    “Watson. NYPD.”
    Perry was hoping Gawain would sit, but he stood there, Fife-like, with his hands still on his hips and his hat still on his head. His cheeks sagged a little on a thin face decorated with a salt-and-pepper goatee.
    “We worked on a case once.”
    “Ugly?”
    Perry had read about it in old Boston Globe clips. The New York cops were hounding a drug dealer who’d survived the Mexico wars and left a bloody mess in Harlem before skating up to Boston on his way to Canada. When the Boston cops rousted him from a crack house in Dorchester, he’d shot an old lady while stealing her car. The cops ran him down on the interstate. The Mexican took a fatal bullet to the head, then four more that disintegrated the left side of his face. After the Mexican embassy got involved, the shooter—a state cop—was relegated to desk duty and soon found work elsewhere. Elsewhere being East Hampton.
    “Depends on your perspective,” Gawain said.
    “I suppose.”
    “You were a cop, weren’t you, Pete?”
    “Perry. Yep.”
    “Henry said.” Gawain removed his hat, revealing a feathery widow’s peak. He set the hat on the table. “Sometimes you’re just doingwhat they told you to do, and next thing you know, they forgot they told you to do it. You know?”
    “Sure do.”
    “You interested in some breakfast?”
    “That sounds very good.”
    “Got some chowder here.”
    “For breakfast?”
    Gawain managed a smile. “You’d eat this chowder for your last meal. We get it from Jeanne’s down the street. She’s from Yarmouth. Back in a minute.”

    Butter shimmered golden on the surface of the scallop chowder. Such good things come in foam cups, Perry thought. He wanted another bag of oyster crackers, but he and Detective Gawain were into Angel Loki now, and he didn’t want to interrupt.
    He’d told Gawain about his assignment, about Julia Drusilla, about the family millions, about his trip to Montauk, about Angel’s cloying so-called friend Lilith, about Angel supposedly taking off with her alleged boyfriend, one Randy Hyde of East Hampton. Perry had slid the snapshot of Angel across the table to Gawain, who’d given the photo a long look before sliding it back.
    “Pretty,” Gawain said.
    “Lots of pretties around here, though, eh?”
    “That’s correct. Has she been officially declared missing?”
    “Not yet.”
    “And she dumped Hyde?”
    Perry nodded. “We think so.”
    “It wouldn’t bother us if he was dumped for good.”
    “He’s a problem?”
    “A tick.”
    Gawain recited as he dug the last sweet bits of scallop out of his cup. “Hyde, Randall Carter. Date of birth: seven/fifteen/eighty-three. Six feet two, one hundred ninety-five pounds. Eyes blue, hair blond. Drunk and disorderly. Assault and battery. Driving on the beach. Bike too loud. Car too loud. Telling cops to eat shit. You know.”
    “But the ladies love him.”
    Gawain pushed his cup aside and dabbed at his mouth with a restaurant napkin. “You seem surprised,” he said.
    “No. But you really think a girl from her side of the tracks would go for a grease monkey?”
    “Why wouldn’t a guy with big muscles and a big bike and a big attitude make some smart rich kid think she could change him for the better? Isn’t that the way of the world? Besides, you ever watch those reality shows? Greasers are all the rage now.”
    “I don’t watch TV.”
    “And, oh, rumor has it—though I have not personally confirmed this—that Mr. Hyde has quite a torque wrench between his legs.”
    “Ah.”
    “Not that that or money or good looks are of any importance to women.” He stared into the table for a moment, then looked up at Perry, as if appealing to him. “They really just want men of good character, right?”
    “Right.” Perry glanced at Gawain’s ring finger. It was bare. “Did Randy Hyde by chance ever go around with some of the, shall we say, older ladies who summer out here?” Perry pretty much knew the answer but hoped to get it confirmed.
    “Let me put it this way,” Gawain said. “We