"Probably made the knot before he slipped it over that pipe," I said. "Made it right in front of his chest, looking at it, then slipped it over."

"Still. You're getting set to kill yourself, you're balancing on milk crates. You've got to make a nice tight knot, a slipknot or a square knot, can't tell from here. Then you've got to reach back over your head, tippy-toe on the crates, find the pipe, slip it over, snug it. Hard to do, uh?"

"Sure."

McCord wrote in his notebook again. Without looking up he said, "Did you kill this man, sir?"

"No."

"Know him?"

"His name was Tander Phigg."

"Your name?"

"Conway Sax."

"Did you kill him, sir?"

"No."

"Did you touch anything in here?"

"No."

"Touch anything?" Swept a long arm. "Go through his wallet, maybe?"

"No."

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

McCord pointed at the door. As we stepped from the shack he asked for my ID. I pa.s.sed him my license. "I'm on parole in Ma.s.s.," I said.

"What for?"

"Manslaughter."

"You don't say."

McCord didn't seem to rush, but in a half second he had my left wrist behind my back and was working his cuffs off his belt.

I said, "My mistake. Should've told you first thing you pulled up."

"My mistake," he said. "I should've done this right away." As he spoke, McCord bent me over the Charger's deck lid, kicked my feet out wide, started to feel around my pockets. He said, "So you're on parole down there but messing around with dead bodies up here. Not good, uh?" He was businesslike, almost gentle. A man his size probably had to be: He could hurt you without trying.

"My PO knows I'm outside the state," I said. "I'm trying to get a job up here. He says as long as I live in Ma.s.s., I'm okay."

I could tell McCord was looking through my wallet. He said, "Shrewsbury to Rourke? Long commute, friend." He tugged at the handcuffs, let me straighten. Told me to stay still, took my license, sat in the Charger, worked his radio and laptop awhile.

I hoped they couldn't get in touch right away with Luther Swale, my parole officer. He and Randall and I worked together a while back to help some people out. Luther and I have an arrangement where I get a longer leash than most parolees as long as I stay clean and invisible. If he got cold-called by a New Hampshire Statie, our deal would expire on the spot. For the most part, Luther's a by-the-book grinder. He reluctantly gave me the long leash out of grat.i.tude-his son had a hard time adjusting to post-Iraq life, and I guess I gave him a way to feel useful.

I was lucky. After ten minutes McCord unfolded from the Charger, unhooked me, pointed at my stuff on the deck lid. "Okay," he said. "I'll move my car so you can clear out."

"Just like that?"

"ISB won't be here for three hours. They'll call you when they need you." He saw the question on my face. "Investigative Services Bureau."

"Detectives, in other words."

The left corner of his mouth moved an eighth of an inch. It might have been a smile. "People do like fancy t.i.tles, uh?" He folded into his car as I walked toward the van.

I thought of something, stopped, turned. "How do you like the Charger?"

"I prefer the Crown Vic. Almost as fast, rides better, more headroom."

"How about the other guys?"

"Most of 'em like the Charger because it's bada.s.s."

"You, you don't need a car to make you feel bada.s.s."

McCord gave me the eighth-inch smile again and lit the Charger's Hemi. "Have a nice day."

Southbound, I called Luther Swale's office number. Got voice mail, left a message. I called Randall. "Where the h.e.l.l are you?" he said.

"Headed for Framingham. You?"

"I'm standing beside the new deck. You were supposed to oil this fancy ipe yesterday. I came by to see how it looked. Nada. Decided to do it myself. I just finished the second coat. It looks great."

"Thanks," I said. "Got something important you can help me with. I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

"Bring lunch." Click.

I looked at my watch. Jesus, it was past noon already. I'd been at Phigg's shack a long time. I hit the gas.

The oil on the deck did look great. It was dry to the touch, but we didn't want to scuff it up before it cured, so Randall and I sat at a card table in the kitchen and ate meatball subs.

The kitchen had been our first project. We'd blown out a wall to make the whole first floor seem bigger, stripped three layers of linoleum, redone the hardwood, painted the cabinets, and finished it all off with granite countertops the color of jade.

I split a meatball, gave half to each cat, filled Randall in. I started with the night Phigg b.u.t.tonholed me at a Barnburner meeting and told me he needed help.

Randall was a good listener. Hungry, too. He worked through his sub, chips, and Snapple, nodded once in a while, kept quiet until I finished. Then he said, "Don't think too long, just give me your gut feeling. Did Tander Phigg kill himself?"

I ate a salt-and-vinegar chip. "No."

"Are you saying that because the state cop pointed out the awkwardness of the necktie?"

"Partly," I said, and ate another chip while I asked myself why it felt wrong. "Phigg was all front." I explained the not-really-timber-frame house. Randall looked a question at me.

"Point is, he worked hard to fake it," I said. "Hung on to his cell phone when he was broke, kept a suitcase full of preppy clothes even when he was picking up cans in ditches. Faked it pretty good for a long time. A lot of Barnburners were whispering he was low on dough, but n.o.body had any idea how bad it'd gotten."

"So?"

"It doesn't fit with the way I found him," I said. "That miserable little shack, you should've seen it. Two milk crates and a sleeping bag. A three-hundred-dollar car full of saltines and Price Chopper coupons."

Randall helped himself to a couple of chips. "And you think if Phigg decided to kill himself, he wouldn't draw attention to his situation."

"He would've done the opposite," I said. "Would've ditched the car, saved pennies until he could check into a nice hotel, something like that." I shoved him the rest of my chips, balled up the sub wrappers, rose, threw them away.

"Pretty thin gruel," Randall said.

"There's more." I told him about following Phigg, watching his meeting with the woman in the silver Jetta.

"Well," he said, "that ought to give the cops something to chase down." Long pause. "You told them, right?"

Longer pause.

"Conway," Randall said. "For crying out loud. Why would you hold back on something like that?"

I said nothing.

"So you could nose around, that's why," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What now?"

"I need to call some Barnburners, get the telephone chain going for the memorial."

"What about me?"

I leaned on the countertop. "You going to help me out with this?"

Long pause.

"It's either that or start another expensive project around here," he finally said. "Either way, your money burns while I have fun."

I leaned over, pulled Phigg's address book from my boot, tossed it on the card table. "Have some fun with that."

Randall set my laptop on the card table and began working his way through the address book. I didn't know why he needed the PC-it'd be easier just to thumb through. But I'd learned that when you gave him a task, he was going to by G.o.d do it his way. If you tried to point him in a direction, he muled up.

I stepped to the front porch. My first call was to Mary Giarusso, the Barnburners' nerve center. She lives a couple blocks north of me, feeds my cats when I'm gone. She's a gossip hound-folks call her Switchboard Mary behind her back. Her head just about hit her kitchen ceiling when I broke the news. I asked if she could call a few Barnburners to spread the word and set up a memorial. Could she? I asked if she would do a little digging, see if Phigg ever talked about his family. Would she? I told her not to sprain her finger dialing. She didn't hear, had clicked off already.

I squinted at the sky. Storm clouds. I hoped the rain wouldn't hurt the deck's fresh oil.

Inside, Randall had set up a spreadsheet on my laptop and was entering info. I stood behind him, saw the address book open to the Bs.

"You AA types are a pain in the a.s.s," Randall said. "It's mostly first names and last initials. Ed A., Ginny B."

"You start with the Ps? Family?"

He said nothing, but clicked on the spreadsheet's P tab. The only name was Trey. Next to the name was a weird phone number, must be outside the U.S., and a Gmail address.

I said, "Trey was under the Ps?"

"Yup. A son, I'm guessing."

"Why?"

Randall pointed at the e-mail address: He said, "Tander Phigg the Third? Born in 'seventy-two, maybe? Known as 'Trey'?"

"That's either a good guess or a pile of horses.h.i.t."

"That narrows it down," he said. "Also, your pal Phigg isn't-wasn't-a big Internet guy. This is the only e-mail address I saw when I skimmed the book."

"So?"

"So this Trey was pretty special to Tander."

"Before you enter any more names and numbers, you want to Google him?"

Randall's shoulders tightened. "I'll enter everything first," he said. "Then I'll Google."

His task, his way.

I said, "I'm headed back to Rourke. Want to talk to the guy at Motorenwerk."

"The garage where you got cold-c.o.c.ked? Are you nuts?"

For starters, I was supposed to be the cold-c.o.c.ker, not the cold-c.o.c.kee. Pride. But I couldn't tell Randall that. He's Mister Pragmatic. "I need to figure this deal out," I said. "What's going on with Phigg's car, whether he's ent.i.tled to money back, all that."

"Then let me come along," he said, and waved at the address book. "We can do this later."

"I'll go alone."

Long look. "Is that smart?"

"I'll bring my tire iron."

"Somewhat smarter."