“Screw you, Puller.”
“Speaking of, your little maneuver on the bed last night? If that was your way of getting me to trust you, it seriously failed.”
She sighed. “Okay, I guess I deserved that. And I’m sorry.” She sat up straighter. “So, Vincent DiRenzo?”
Puller’s shoulders relaxed with the change in direction of the conversation. “Had a solid career in CID. Nothing spectacular, but no big screwups either. He returned my call this morning and agreed to meet with us.”
“You said he lives on a lake?”
“Smith Mountain Lake. I’ve been there before when I was working a case. Beautiful place. Mountains rise up right out of the water. It’s a hydroelectric lake,” he tacked on. “About forty miles long with more shoreline than the state of Rhode Island. Calling it a lake doesn’t seem to do it justice.”
She nodded. “Sounds great.”
“We should also talk to the local police back in Williamsburg who handled the serial murders.”
“I’ve already made calls. Waiting to hear back. And the FBI was involved too.”
He nodded. “I was hoping you could make a call about that. You have more pull in that circle than I do.”
“You expect me to make a lot of calls,” she said sharply.
“Isn’t that why you’re here? To help?”
She looked out the window again and didn’t answer him.
* * *
Vincent DiRenzo was a widower who lived in a three-bedroom gray shingle-sided cottage set on a small cove with mountain views in the distance. The yard was full of flowerbeds and neatly maintained.
They rang the doorbell several times and received no answer. Knox peered into the garage.
“There’s a car in there.”
Puller looked around. “Let’s try the dock. It’s a nice day, he might be down there.”
“Nice place to retire,” commented Knox as they walked to the dock.
“You ever expect to retire?”
“Neither one of us can do what we do forever.”
“Some days it seems like it’s the only thing I can do.”
“Then you have my sympathy.”
Though it was a freshwater lake, Puller could smell the brine in the air. A flotilla of ducks was making its way across the water as a boat pulling a slalom skier turned to avoid them. The ducks paddled quickly out of harm’s way.
Puller and Knox went around a curve in the path and the dock came into view. It had two boat slips, a small enclosed kitchen and gazebo, and a storage shed, all on pilings with a pressure-treated wooden deck as the floor.
They spotted DiRenzo standing next to a boat up on a lift. Puller called out and DiRenzo turned and motioned them over.
The former CID agent was short and muscular. Introductions were made and he shook their hands with a firm grip. He was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt that read Army Strong. His hair was close-cropped and mostly gray. A matching mustache spread over his top lip.
He had the engine compartment open on a trim yellow-and-white Chaparral twenty-five-footer that was up on the lift.
“Nice boat,” commented Puller.
“Handles the wake well and it’s got a lot of pep when I need it.”
“Sailor can’t ask for more than that,” replied Puller.
“You mind if I keep working while we talk?” asked DiRenzo.
“Not at all. Can I help you with anything?”
“You can hand me some tools when I ask you.”
“Sure thing.”
DiRenzo climbed into the boat and started taking off some bolts from the engine using a socket wrench.
“Well, what you say is true,” conceded DiRenzo. “But I remember back then that it was not deemed to be connected.”
“Do you know who made that determination?” asked Puller.
“Well, it wasn’t me. It came from higher up.”
“In CID or somewhere else?”
“Just higher up. It filtered down to us grunts. Not sure of the origin. You know the Army. You follow orders.”