Pelham Bay was a marina town on the other side of the harbor, a strip of boatyards and restaurants and houses on stilts, connected to the mainland by a bridge that had been repaired so many times nobody remembered what it originally looked like. Edward Foster's business was in a converted warehouse at the end of the pier, a sign out front that said PELHAM YACHT BROKERS in blue letters with a wave under it.
I went alone. Whit wanted to come. I told him no. Some conversations you have to have with your own hands.
Foster was in his fifties, with a tan that had gone leathery and a handshake that lasted a beat too long. He offered me a chair and coffee, and when I said no to both, he sat down behind his desk and smiled the way men smile when they're already deciding what you are.
"Mrs. Ashfo
