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As with real estate, what matters with bullet holes is location, location, location.
September is a truly golden month up and down the Atlantic coast, from the Outer Banks to Newfoundland. The days are mild, the nights pleasant for sleeping; it is summer without the heat and humidity, autumn without the cold rains. The summer birds haven’t left yet, and the first migratory birds from up north are taking a break on their way south.
Also, a Department of Agriculture guy, like most government bureaucrats, wouldn’t be caught dead working at night, so this guy was most probably CIA or FBI or Defense Intelligence or something like that.
Everyone looked pensive, which is good cover-up for clueless.
For the homicide dick, it does not matter who the victim is, it only matters who the killer is.
It’s hard to read the faces of people whose job it is to read other people’s faces.
The autumn here is tempered by the big bodies of water that hold their summer heat until November. Terrific for grapes. Good boating until about Thanksgiving. There was the occasional hurricane in August, September, or October, and the odd nor’easter in the winter. But basically the climate was benign, the coves and inlets numerous, the fogs and mists frequent: an ideal place for smugglers, pirates, rum runners, and more recently, drug runners.
I always thought that voluntary arms compliance inspections were sort of like a suspected murderer leading me on a guided tour of his house. No, Detective, there’s nothing in that closet of any interest. Now, let me show you my patio.
He smiled at his wit; appropriately it was a half smile.
Meanwhile, Ted Nash whipped out a flip phone and walked some distance away with his back to us and talked, or made believe he was talking, to the gods of National Security in the Great Capital of the Confused Empire.
On the other walls were crappy abstracts, real junk like you see in the best museums.
we never speak in terms of money or profit here.…” “Of course not,” I said. “You’re a government agency. It’s not your money, and you never have to show a profit.” Dr. Zollner smiled. “And the same in your business, sir.”
“I’m not skeptical,” I lied. Of course I was skeptical; I’m a New Yorker and a cop.
“It’s not mandatory. We’re going to shower out after this anyway. I personally don’t bother with gloves or masks. Too cumbersome. But you may feel better with them.”
“Challenged?” I asked. “Is that like infected?” “Yes, we say challenged.” “Then what happens? They become less than well, then go into an involuntary nonbreathing mode?”
By now, I think, we were all mentally and physically challenged, as Dr. Z might say. In other words, our minds were numb and our asses were dragging. Worse, though, our spirits were down, and if I had a soul, it would be troubled.
The decorating style was what I call classical old fart: dark, musty, overstuffed furniture, six hundred ugly knickknacks, incredibly tacky souvenirs, photos of grandchildren, and so on. The walls were chalky green, like an after-dinner mint, and the carpet was… well, who cares? Mrs. Murphy was dressed in a pink pants suit made of a synthetic material that would last three thousand years.
Neither one of us spoke for a few seconds. We stood watching the bay. Water, like fire, is mesmerizing.
It’s getting harder to tell the difference between art and vandalism.
I can tell when a man is mulling, and I never interrupt a muller.
When I was a kid, only people who shot at bad guys were heroes. Now everyone who gets a disease, or who’s held hostage, or who gets plugged is a hero.
I drove around—I hesitate to say aimlessly, but if you don’t know where you’re going or why, you’re either a government employee or you’re aimless.
When I get a confession, I want more than an admission of guilt—I want a lesson in the criminal mind. This is good for next time around, and there’s always a next time around.
The wonderful thing about America is that there are more antiques in circulation than were originally made.
“Do you think he’s a suspect?” “He makes me suspicious, so he’s a suspect.”
“Politicians are afraid of anything they don’t understand, and they don’t understand anything.
Women have a way of frosting you, and if you try to thaw them, they just turn the temperature lower. It’s a game that takes two to play, and the deck is already stacked, so I always choose not to play.
I think the CIA, the FBI, and the government in general should always try out their bullshit on bartenders, barbers, and taxi drivers before they try to sell it to the country. I mean, I usually bounce things off bartenders or my barber when I need a reality check, and it works.
“Diplomacy is the art of saying nice doggy, until you can find a rock.”
