One Hundred Four

ONE HUNDRED FOUR

I STOP BY THE Bell & Anchor first, since the menu scribbled with "Boom" and left in my car came from the restaurant.

If it wasn't Eddie McKenzie or Eric Jacobson or both of them, I'm going to lose a bet with myself.

Jake the host tells me that neither McKenzie nor Eric have been back since the night I was there with Dr. Sam Wylie. I show Jake a picture of Nick Morelli and ask if he's ever seen Morelli with either McKenzie or Eric Jacobson.

He takes a long look at Morelli's face, hands it back.

"With Eric a few times, most definitely."

"Recently?"

"Not sure the last time I saw them together," he says. "But he's been here."

"Call me the next time you see him, too."

He asks how Jimmy is doing. I say, cranky as hell. Jake grins and says it's been Jimmy's natural state for as long as he's known him.

"Same," I say.

My options from here are limited, and I know that. I have no earthly idea where Morelli is living these days. No idea where Eric Jacobson might be living. I could drive over to the house in Montauk where Jimmy followed Dave Wolk that night. But Jimmy drove past there a few days ago and said the place looked deserted.

I do know, however, where Edmund McKenzie lives.

All I've got.

So I drive to Southampton now. Jimmy has told me the house number on Gin Lane. When I arrive, I see no Tesla parked in the driveway.

But the lights are on inside. A lot of them. I park on the street, so as not to make any noise pulling up the gravel driveway. As I walk up on the grass behind the house, I can hear music, loud, but probably not loud enough to bother Edmund McKenzie's rich neighbors.

I stay close to the side of the house as I make my way around it, finally stopping when I reach the corner.

And there on the back patio are Eric Jacobson and Nick Morelli.

Side by side in lounge chairs. A pitcher of what looks like margaritas on the table between them. Highball glasses in their hands. Jacobson says something. Morelli laughs, reaches over with his free hand and slaps Eric Jacobson five.

They're facing the far end of the property, acting as if they own the place.

Maybe they used to hang like this when they were jacking these kinds of houses for fun and profit.

Not worrying about getting caught once they disarmed the alarms, which Eric Jacobson tells me is a piece of cake for him.

I don't recognize the song or the band, but that's happening to me more and more.

Now Morelli says something and Eric Jacobson is the one laughing his head off.

I'm very quiet coming from behind them as I make my way across the patio. Neither one of them notices me until I rack the slide of the Glock 27 for effect, the harsh sound making both of them jump.

When Nick Morelli turns, it's the barrel of my gun against the side of his face.

"I forgot to mention something the other night," I tell him.