The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb: A Berger and Mitry Mystery (Berger and Mitry Mysteries) by David Handler Page B

When he…” Bob trailed off, swallowing. “When he didn’t come back by late afternoon I called the Coast Guard. They found the Monster smashed up on the rocks by the Saybrook Point lighthouse. No sign of Lance.”
    “Did she have running lights?”
    “No, she didn’t. But that never stopped Lance. Not when the moon was bright. This was a man who could land a fighter jet on the deck of an aircraft carrier.” He gazed out the window at the river for a moment, lost in his memories. “We never knew what happened—whether he lost his balance and fell overboard or what. The only thing I can tell you for certain is that I’ve never, ever forgiven myself. If I’d gone with him he’d still be alive today.”
    “You don’t know that, dear,” Delia said soothingly.
    “The Connecticut River was still swollen from the spring rains,” he went on. “The Coast Guard figured its current must have washed him out to sea. They combed the North Shore of Long Island and Fishers Island for days, but there was no sign of Lance. And that was that, aside from the nasty whispering, of course.”
    “What kind of nasty whispering, Bob?”
    “Awful stuff. Reprehensible, really. Some folks around Dorset actually believed he’d staged his own disappearance so he could get out of fulfilling his military service. That he was, in fact, sipping tall drinks on an island in the Bahamas with some gorgeous, leggy babe. Garbage. It was slanderous garbage. I said so at the time to anyone who mentioned it. Offered to punch a few noses, too. My brother considered it an honor to serve his country. Besides, he loved that damned boat. He could never, ever have wrecked her on purpose.” Bob let out a slow sigh. “Seven years later he was declared legally dead, and a tombstone bearing his name was placed in our family plot in Duck River Cemetery. That’s the whole sad story. Or at least I thought it was until you rang our doorbell. Now I don’t know a damned thing. Des, what in the name of hell would my brother’s body be doing underneath Dorset Street?”
    Des paused to put on her kid gloves. “With all due respect,” she said carefully, “I get the impression that there’s some sort of a legend surrounding Lance’s death. And not the one you just mentioned.”
    ‘They’re called legends for a reason,” Delia informed her icily. “Because they’re baloney.”
    “Baloney,” Bob echoed angrily.
    “Again, with all due respect, if you folks can shed any new light on this situation it would be greatly appreciated. If, say, something happened that you failed to mention to the authorities at the time—for whatever reason. We sure could use the help now.”
    Bob and Delia Paffin both stared at her in stunned disbelief. Outside, a squadron of geese flew low over the house, honking loudly. After that it fell silent in the study.
    “Let’s speak plainly here, Des,” Bob said, struggling to maintain his composure. “I know that you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye on certain matters. And maybe some of that has been my fault. I’m kind of set in my ways. The voters in town might even go so far as to say I’m an old fool. Fifty-one percent of them would anyhow. But I want you to promise me something. Will you do that for me?”
    “If I can, Bob.”
    “I want you to find out what in the hell really happened to my brother.”
    Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “Count on it.”

 
    C HAPTER 4
    “O KAY, I GIVE UP—HOW did you know that it was a who buried under Dorset Street?”
    “Simple,” Mitch said into his cell phone, gasping slightly. He was groping around up in his cramped attic crawl space above the kitchen for Maisie’s portfolio. Shortly before she died Mitch’s wife had designed an incredible bluestone patio for a garden on West Twelfth Street. “Because of the way Helen was behaving last night. If it had been a what —like, say, a chest full of gold doubloons—she’d have been