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  Sheridan nodded. “He said Charlie had reached out to him, that he had wanted to finally have a relationship with his son. I sat there on the phone while he sobbed. But you know what?”

  Stevie shook her head. “What?”

  “He never even came to Charlie’s funeral.”

  “I know,” Stevie said. “Jack and I noticed…of course.”

  “He claimed he didn’t want to upset me—he said he was afraid that if he showed up, I would feel worse.”

  “As if you could have.”

  “Those were crocodile tears he was crying,” Sheridan said. “His crying was about Randy, about feeling sorry for himself. Not about Charlie. And here’s Gavin, who didn’t even know Charlie, wanting to find out what happened to him.”

  Stevie stood up, walked over to Sheridan, put her arm around her.

  “Then don’t you think,” Stevie asked, “you should invite him for dinner?”

  Sheridan didn’t reply.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Stevie said. “Just tell me which day.”

  “I don’t know…” Sheridan said, still obviously in so much doubt.

  It was a summer of turmoil for the women on the Point. Stevie’s own stomach was in knots over Jack, and she could see Sheridan grappling with not knowing how to be with Gavin. Stevie suddenly knew she had to help her friend; Sheridan was gripped by the past and old hurt, and it was time for her to let go. There was nothing like a Hubbard’s Point summer dinner to help that happen.

  “I do know,” Stevie said. “Tomorrow.”

  “No,” Sheridan said. “I can’t—”

  “We can,” Stevie said. “You, me, and your sisters. We’re having a dinner party. Jack and I will be there. We’ll bring a pie.”

  “Stevie, I don’t know…”

  “But I do,” Stevie said.

  She took a deep breath, gave Sheridan a hug. The truth was, Stevie had lied; she didn’t know either. Love was a mystery neither friend had been able to solve. Sheridan and Gavin had crashed nearly twenty years ago. Yet here they were, trying to connect with each other.

  The least Stevie could do was help Sheridan to be brave.

  And hope that maybe some of it could rub off on her.

  CHAPTER 9

  VINCENT HAD OFFERED GAVIN ONE OF HIS CARS TO take into the city, but Gavin was more of a train guy. He didn’t believe in being stuck in traffic—it was against his nature. So early that morning, he took the Shore Line East from Old Saybrook to New Haven, then switched to Metro North into Grand Central.

  The ride was nice and relaxing. It took him through the marshes of the Connecticut shoreline, all green and muddy and filled with herons and egrets and hunting ospreys. It meandered through the cities of New Haven, Bridgeport, Norwalk, and Stamford.

  He stared at old factory buildings and bustling marinas. He brought coffee, a doughnut, and the Hartford Courant, and he watched all the guys in suits getting on at the suburban stops and felt glad he lived the life he did.

  He’d caught an early train because he wanted to get back home in plenty of time for dinner. Last night he’d somehow missed a call from Sheridan—maybe he’d been on another call. She left him a voice mail, almost reluctantly inviting him for dinner tonight. He’d planned to get together with Joe and his wife, but he canceled immediately and called Sheridan back—again and again.

  She didn’t pick up—even though she’d just called. He pictured her sitting by the phone, knowing it was him, not really wanting to talk. For some reason, she’d decided to invite him over, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her voice had sounded so tentative in the message. He’d wanted to get her live on the phone, so he could hear what she was feeling, connect with her in a real way and convince her this was good and right, while at the same time trying to reassure her it was no big deal.

  But she didn’t answer, so he just left her a message saying he’d be there. He tried to put all that into his voice—all the rightness and goodness and no-big-dealness of it all. The whole thing made him feel a little off-balance—but it was just so much better than being asked to leave her alone.

  After arriving in New York, he took the 6 train downtown from Grand Central, got off at Astor Place, and started limping east. At this time of morning, St. Mark’s Place was still asleep. A couple of restaurants were serving breakfast; he picked up another coffee to drink as he walked.

  His foot was killing him already. The only thing he could get over the bandage was a stupid-looking brown sandal. So it not only hurt like hell, it also made him look ridiculous right here in hipster central.

  He passed Tompkins Square Park, saw people walking their dogs and moms walking with their kids, and wondered what was happening to New York. When he was young, this had been a haven for junkies and the homeless. He remembered the squatters with a sort of misty fondness.

  Sheridan had gone through a phase of trying to fit into the Northeast’s music scene. Her heart belonged to Nashville, but she hadn’t made the move yet. Her band at the time had played at the Pyramid Club, as well as a place called 8BC. Located on one of the most decrepit and dangerous blocks in the city, the building had looked like something out of a war zone, and he’d always been amazed that it hadn’t been condemned.

  Now it was gone, and the East Village was condoland. Just like everywhere else, Gavin thought. Real estate developers deserved the tenth circle of hell as far as he was concerned. He headed south on Avenue B, past still-closed cute shops and restaurants. At least the neighborhood hadn’t started waking up early—that would be the final indignity.

  He walked down East Third Street, saw that the Hell’s Angels clubhouse was still there. That both annoyed him and gave him a bleak sense of continuity: kick out the poor people, but let the bikers stay.

  He retraced his steps, turned the corner, found Club 192. It was shuttered, as he’d expected. Posters of coming and past attractions were plastered to the steel grate and the brick wall, as well as to the plywood covering a neighboring construction site. Gavin stared at the tattered posters until he found Cumberland.

  The photo showed a young woman holding a bass guitar, standing on a bridge over a muddy river. Gavin stared, recognizing the Nashville skyline behind her. Cumberland—the Cumberland River ran through the city. Obviously that explained the name, and the connection to Charlie’s background gave Gavin a jolt of recognition, made his blood kick up a little. The woman’s hair was short and dark; she had bright fire in her eyes, and Gavin found himself making comparisons to Nell. Had Charlie been drawn to the band because of this young woman?

  His gut told him no, but maybe he was wrong. There was something poetic about her, the way she was staring into the water, lost in contemplation. Her pose, or that spark in her eyes, reminded him, a little, of Sheridan—at least when she’d been younger. After staring at her picture for a few more minutes, he eventually read the rest of the poster.

  He saw that a second band, the Box Turtles, had opened for Cumberland. He jotted down a few details, then turned to leave. He walked along, wanting to get a feel for where Charlie had come, walk the route he’d taken just before his murder.

  Taking out his cell phone, he called Joe.

  “Hey, man,” he said. “Do me a favor?”

  “Sheridan gives you a better offer so you cancel for dinner with me and Amy, but I’m supposed to be at your beck and call?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Come pick me up. My foot’s fucking killing me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Avenue B and Houston.”

  “You’re getting close to where you want to be. Hold tight, and I’ll come get you.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” Gavin said. “One last thing—can you pull anything the investigating officers found on Cumberland? And the band that opened for them? The Box Turtles?”

  “What kind of band is called ‘the Box Turtles’?”

  “Never mind that. Just, can you bring me what your guys have on the b
ands Charlie heard?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Joe said.

  “Thanks.” Gavin’s foot was throbbing, and heat was starting to rise from the sidewalk.

  “Be there soon, Gav.”

  Traffic poured off the FDR Drive, heading west onto Houston Street. Gavin breathed in the fumes, spotted an old milk crate between a bodega and a boarded-up bowling alley. “And I’ll be right here waiting for you,” he said.

  Gavin sat down. He drank the rest of his coffee, sat back and watched the traffic pass by, coughed at the street sweeper churning up dust. A steady stream of people were coming up from the subway stop; some walked from apartments farther east. Must be nice to walk to work along the East River, he thought. If it involved seeing water, he’d be happy.

  He found himself thinking about that picture of the young woman in front of the muddy river. He didn’t try to weave her into the story, or even much wonder whether she had played any role in Charlie’s life or death. He just let her drift in and out of his thoughts, her dark hair and bright eyes, and figured he’d find out what she meant to it all soon enough.

  A few minutes later, Joe pulled up in an unmarked black sedan. Gavin climbed in, and they grinned at each other. Joe had lines around his eyes and mouth, but his expression looked the same as ever.

  “Damn, good to see you,” Joe said. “Even if you are a pain in my ass.”

  “Right back at you,” Gavin said. Staring across the car seat, it seemed impossible to think of how much time they’d spent together under the sea, and how much time they regularly let pass before getting together.

  “Well,” Joe said. “Let’s get to it.”

  “Sorry about tonight,” Gavin said as Joe started driving. The car had been pointing west on Houston, but he did a U-turn right in the middle of the block and headed east toward the river.

  “I know. So am I. But we’ll do it again soon. That’s for sure. That’s an ugly sandal you’re wearing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What happened to your foot?”

  “Stepped on broken glass. The bottom half of a jar, shards sticking straight up. Cut right through my shoe.”

  “Ouch,” Joe said. “Where were you, walking through broken glass?”

  “Sheridan’s yard,” Gavin said.

  “No comment,” Joe said, driving down Houston, then taking the ramp under the FDR Drive. He rumbled down a connector toward the baseball fields, the East River flowing just beyond them. Again, Gavin’s attention was caught by the river, and he thought of that woman in the poster. He shook the thought away, brought himself back to the present and reality.

  Even in broad daylight, there was a deserted feel to the place. Gavin’s heart beat faster now because he knew they were getting closer to where Charlie had died. He thought of Sheridan, and his blood started to pound.

  He looked around as Joe slowed down, turning onto an access road. There was a sanitation truck moving slowly ahead of them. Gavin stared at the ball fields, green and shaded. The East River ran fast along this stretch—he looked across the fields at a red tug pushing a barge of concrete against the wild current. Waves thrashed out of the river, white against the low-riding hull. Joe parked behind a wire backstop, and the two men got out.

  Heat rose from the pavement, summer in the city. Joe led Gavin straight to the bleachers. He stood still, catching Gavin’s eye. Then he pointed at a spot on the ground.

  “There,” Joe said.

  Gavin limped over. The field was covered with well-trodden grass, but in front of the bleachers, it was all red dirt. He knelt down, put his hand flat on the ground. He knew from the police report that Charlie died here. His body had lain in this spot all through the night, until the sun came up.

  All alone, he had died in a city brand new to him. The punch had killed him almost instantly, so he hadn’t bled much. Even so, traces of Charlie’s blood had soaked into this earth. Joe stood back saying nothing, and Gavin kept his hand pressed down. He thought of Sheridan, thought of her at home with the shades pulled, thought of Charlie dying right here. He stared at the ground, as if he could still see the footprints that had tramped around his body. Who had hit him, hard enough to kill him?

  “The lady who found him…” Gavin said finally.

  “A dog walker,” Joe said. “Everyone in the city has dogs now.”

  “Did she see anything suspicious?”

  “Nope. The city is so safe now. The murder rate’s down even from last year; crimes like this don’t happen anymore.”

  “This one did,” Gavin said, his voice low.

  “I know,” Joe said.

  Gavin stared down at the red clay. The sun was coming up over the trees, making the dirt brighter. He thought of all the days that had passed that Charlie hadn’t seen. He thought of him lying here that night, and he just wondered: how long did it take, how soon before he died did he know he wasn’t going to make it? Had his assailant run right away, had he stuck around to make sure Charlie was dead?

  Why had it happened?

  Young guys think they’re going to live forever, Gavin thought. He and Joe had, for sure. But he remembered being stabbed, how he’d seen his own blood pumping onto the floor, felt blackness rising from within; and he’d had that moment he’d heard about, seeing his life pass before his eyes. Had Charlie experienced that? Had he felt afraid?

  “Why did he come here?” Gavin asked.

  “We don’t know,” Joe said. “There are two obvious possibilities.”

  “Drugs,” Gavin said.

  “Yeah, but we didn’t find any in his system. And the other—a girl. Kids come down here to have sex at night.”

  “That wouldn’t be it,” Gavin said. His mind flashed on the Cumberland bass player, but then he thought of Nell. “He had a girlfriend.”

  “Come on, he was seventeen. Who knows who he might have met at the club? He had some drinks, maybe he forgot about his girl…”

  “Say that did happen—did your guys talk to people at the club?”

  “Of course. No one remembers seeing him.”

  “Well, another girl—that wouldn’t be it anyway,” Gavin said again. Then, after a few minutes, “So what else could it be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted some fresh air. Had too much to drink at the club, and decided to come down to the river.”

  “And bumped into the wrong person,” Gavin said.

  “Like I said,” Joe said. “It’s just this: twenty years ago, that kind of crime wasn’t rare, especially around here. But now…”

  “The city’s safe. You don’t expect it.”

  “Right. Murders like this, we look at who knew the victim. The inner circle. Problem was…”

  “Charlie was new in town,” Gavin said, and Joe nodded. “He didn’t have an inner circle here.”

  Gavin gazed out at the river, again seeing the brown Cumberland flowing under that bridge on the poster. Charlie had gone to school in Nashville for a while. Who was the girl? Had her path crossed his at some point? But if he’d known her, why wouldn’t he have mentioned it to Nell? Unless Joe’s theory was right, and this was about a girl after all.

  After a few more minutes, Gavin was ready to go. He and Joe walked back to the car. Gavin had known there wouldn’t be any clues to find here; he’d just wanted to visit the spot for Sheridan. And because it gave him a feeling about Charlie…The young man had been after something that mattered to him. And no matter what Joe thought, Gavin had met Nell—and he had a strong sense about Charlie’s connection to her.

  They drove back up Houston Street. They passed Katz’s Deli, and even though it was early, on another day, Gavin would have offered to take Joe to lunch. He didn’t, though, and Joe just drove past.

  Gavin stared at his old submariner friend and knew he hadn’t wanted to be alone when he faced the place where Charlie had died. He opened his mouth to thank him, but couldn’t speak. The truth of the boy’s death, and the brutal terrible way he’d died, filled the whol
e car.

  Joe asked him where he wanted to go. Gavin had thought he might stick around until Club 192 opened, but that might not be until well into the night, and he had to be back for Sheridan’s dinner. Instead, he had Joe drop him off at Grand Central.

  They said they’d see each other soon, that maybe Joe and Amy would drive out to Hubbard’s Point for a day on the Squire Toby. Or maybe Gavin would return to the city, take Joe to lunch at Katz’s. They said goodbye, and Gavin had started into the station when he heard his name being called. Turning, he saw Joe holding up a sheet of paper, so he went back, leaned into the open window.

  “What?”

  “I almost forgot. Here’s the printout of those band lists—from both Cumberland and the Box Turtles.”

  “Thanks,” Gavin said.

  “No prob,” Joe said.

  It wasn’t until Gavin was settled on the train, with a coffee in hand—on the water side, so he could watch the rivers and marshes and inlets of Long Island Sound—that he studied the lists.

  Joe had printed them out from the Internet. From the looks of it, they came from the bands’ websites. He read them both, focusing on Cumberland’s:

  Cumberland…direct from Nashville, featuring songs by Lisa Marie Langton.

  Langton: bass, vocals.

  Crispin: guitar, vocals.

  Lance: keyboard.

  Arden: percussion.

  Gavin stared at the paper. Nothing looked familiar, but he was glad to have a name to put to the face of the girl on the poster. Lisa Marie Langton.

  Folding up the paper, he stuck it in his pocket. He drank his coffee, staring out the scratched train window at the green marshlands and winding creeks leading to the blue Sound, on his way back to Hubbard’s Point and Sheridan. He pictured her, and Nell, and then he brought to mind another girl’s face, her dark hair and bright eyes, and knew that if she’d played a part in Charlie’s death, he’d get her.

  CHAPTER 10

  GAVIN GOT OFF THE TRAIN AT THE SAYBROOK STATION, took a cab across the Connecticut River to Hubbard’s Point. As the car drove along, he felt he was heading home after a tough day, and the feeling was surprisingly deep. The salt air smelled so familiar, and the landscape had changed little over the years; the creeks and tidal marshes and beach pines and oaks were all the same. Paradise Ice Cream was still there, and the fish market, and the small boatyard on Black Hall River, and the pizza place, and the summer chapel. He felt melancholy mingled with happiness.