|Not Clay Webster, |
but his stunt double
Yo, Clay. Sup?
Sup yourself. When are you going to finish telling my story?
I thought so. You can stop procrastinating anytime you want, right? Hey, I'm kidding.
Tell me about the case you're working on, the murder in Concord.
That's an odd way to put it, since murders are state police business. My official cases are run-of-the-mill--missing persons, cheating spouses, that sort of thing.
But the murder is a puzzler. Who'd kill a woman and leave a business card, especially mine? That's an obvious setup, but it drags me into a case that should have nothing to do with me. An upper middle-class Chinese immigrant who's a recent Harvard grad and a talented violinist--she calls me--why me? Then minutes later, she dies.
Lowell, Massachusetts is your bailiwick. What's it like?
It's a gritty old mill burg with lots of character. And characters. Two rivers run through it, feeding a network of canals that once floated barges bringing cotton bales in and cloth bolts out.
You bought a winning lottery ticket, so why aren't you rich?
For her birthday I bought my girlfriend Hope a dozen roses, and a lottery ticket as an afterthought. The forty million is hers, but she knows how to show gratitude.
Former high school athlete, former cop, former husband. Six feet tall, 190 pounds--a slimmer version of you, by the way. Fifty-five years old. Not averse to good books, good music, and good women, though Hope has the last one covered. Just one true-blue male friend. Mostly tell the truth. Prefer laughing to crying, but have done both in my life.
To keep the cyberflame burning, I am tagging Lynne Hinkey and Holly Michael, two talented and recently published authors.