CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Hank Tully, age twenty. A college student majoring in computer software design. As, I might add, was our dead store clerk.”
The last name was ringing bells deep down in my memory for some reason. The name sounded familiar. And then another name came flashing up like a garish neon sign in the storefront window of a cheap bar.
“Tully. Is this kid any relation to Henry Tully?”
“Ah, the king of detectives is back!” Frank nodding, reaching for a bottle of beer. “Hank is Henry’s son. His oldest.”
“Who is Henry Tully?” Gramps asked, reaching for a cracker on the plastic serving platter sitting in front of us on the coffee table.
“Fifteen years ago, Henry Tully was a small-time racketeer who got set up, taking the fall for a more powerful hood. A month later, while Henry i
