Eighty-Three

EIGHTY-THREE

JIMMY SAYS HE'LL CALL only if he finds out anything interesting at McKenzie's house. Nothing unusual about Jimmy Cunniff refusing to treat a cell phone like a pacifier.

After a couple of hours of radio silence, I check his location on my phone, since he's reluctantly given me permission to track him when necessary.

But he's obviously disabled that setting.

I try to get some work in before dinner, knowing he'll call when he does know something, if he does. I spend some time on a Zoom with the two law school students, both women—Estie and Zoe—whom I've hired for research and trial prep.

I continue to hydrate, like a good girl.

Around six I grab my phone and Rip and take a long walk on the beach.

No calls from Jimmy.

No texts.

I check his location again.

Jimmy still has his phone turned off. Or maybe the battery drained and he didn't have a charger with him. I call the bar and tell Kenny Stanton, Jimmy's top bartender, to call me as soon as Jimmy shows up. Or if he hears from him.

For dinner I make myself a fully loaded baked potato, butter and sour cream and crispy bacon chopped up into it, thinking how proud Sam Wylie would be. I even think about texting her a picture of it.

Still no Jimmy when I've finished and cleaned up.

I'm in the living room, watching the Mets game, when I hear my phone.

Not Jimmy.

Danny Esposito, our new friend from the State Police.

He skips the preliminaries.

"Have you heard from Cunniff?"

I tell him that I was supposed to have heard from him by now, that I'd last seen him this morning.

"He called me a few hours ago. Said he had to make it fast, there was something maybe going on with his phone. And to come to his bar. I'm here now."

"He say why he was calling?"

"He said he might need my help on something, but he didn't say what."

I have walked back into the kitchen by now, am staring out the window at my feeder.

No birds.

"But he still hasn't shown up," Danny Esposito says.