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