School Days by Robert B. Parker Page B

out of thirty-seven shots. . . .”I said. “In a real shootout, not on the range, with a handgun . . .”
    DiBella nodded.
    â€œI been shooting most of my life,” he said. “I’d take that.”
    â€œThere anyplace around here people shoot?”
    â€œLocal cops use our range in Talbot,” DiBella said.
    â€œPublic welcome?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAny place where a private citizen could shoot?”
    â€œPretty good deer and pheasant around here in season,” DiBella said. “I think there’s a couple of hunting clubs got private range licenses.”
    â€œNames?”
    â€œI can get them,” DiBella said. “We haven’t been chasing this as hard as you are.”
    â€œOf course not,” I said. “You got one guy red-handed, and the other guy confessed. You got a slam dunk, why not take it?”
    â€œIt’s not like they didn’t do it,” DiBella said. “We’ll send them to jail.”
    â€œIf they go,” I said, “maybe somebody else needs to go with them.”
    â€œI got no problem with that,” DiBella said.
    â€œSo where did they get the guns, and how did they learn to use them?”
    â€œI thought you were supposed to clear this kid,” DiBella said.
    â€œI take what the defense gives me,” I said. “I go where I can go, see what I find.”

17
    F ROM THE WINDOW of Hollis Grant’s unimpressive office in an industrial park he’d built, you could see straight across the parking lot and observe the westbound lane of the Mass Pike. Hollis himself was only a little better-looking than his office. He was a strong-looking, overweight guy with not much hair and a lot of red face. He was wearing khaki pants and work boots and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The office was small and full of architectural drawings and spec books. There was a drawing table along one wall. The walls were done in plywood paneling. Hollis himself sat not at a desk but at an old table littered withpapers, a calculator, two phones, a computer, and a big, clear-plastic T square.
    â€œI’m looking into that shooting your grandson was involved in,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œMake sure everything is as it seems to be.”
    â€œSo what do you want with me,” he said.
    â€œDo you know Jared Clark?” I said.
    â€œKid that was with Wendell? No, I never met him.”
    â€œYou close with your grandson?”
    â€œHard to be close with Wendell. There was no father in his life. I tried to provide him some of that. . . .” He shook his head. “But my daughter didn’t want me to teach him any of the things I knew.”
    â€œLike what?” I said.
    â€œSports, business, tools, stuff that men might know.”
    â€œWhat did she want for him?”
    He shook his head slowly.
    â€œShe wanted him to be her prepubescent toy forever.”
    â€œDifficult to achieve,” I said.
    â€œI tried to tell her he was going to grow up and would need to become a man. She said it didn’t mean he had to be a man like me.”
    â€œWhat did she mean by that?” I said.
    â€œYou met her?” he said.
    â€œI have.”
    â€œMiss Crunchy Granola. She was born in 1963 and grew up to be a hippie.”
    â€œTiming is everything,” I said. “What’s her problem with you?”
    He shook his head again.
    â€œI’m, oh, hell, I don’t know. I’m too rough for her. I like contact sports. I was in the Navy. I sometimes vote Republican.”
    â€œGood God!” I said.
    â€œI know,” he said. “I know.”
    â€œYou must have had some success,” I said. “He played football.”
    â€œYes, God, she hated that.”
    â€œYou teach him?”
    â€œNo, not really. The only thing I did, I got a box at Foxboro. I took him once to see the Pats play the Jets. She had a