“You know what I do when the answers are absent?” Fred asked.


“I go fishing. I think it would do Gregson some good. Murder gets solved in the imagination, after all; and we might be able to catch some answers by not trying to.”

“I’ll join you guys when I get off my shift,” Murphy said.

When Gregson got back to the dock, he noticed his sunken sailboat on stilts by the shore. “I had it salvaged just for you,” Fred said.


“I’m your number one fan and it didn’t cost me a dime; my old man sponsored it. You can fish off your deck. I’ll join you in just a little bit.” Fred walked back to his boat and grabbed a couple coolers. “You wanna beer?”

“Sure,” Gregson said. “This is the life.” He dipped his hands into the harbor compost barrel and pulled out some warm worms; then he cast his line. The sun was beginning to set in the late afternoon.

Gregson and Fred stood there, plopping their bobbers in the water, admiring their rippling reflections.

Suddenly, Fred hooked a fish.

“Is that a shark?” Gregson asked.

“It’s big enough to be.”

“You have all the luck.”

“It comes from years of not trying,” Fred grinned.

“Whatever. Sounds like New Age philosophy to me, but if it helps you catch fish…”

“I’m just foolin. I use the right kind of bate. This is my special blend.”

Gregson peered inside. “Looks like a milkshake that went bad. Smells like it too.”

Then he got a text. “It’s from Dr. Graves. I’ve been moved to the top of the donor list. They want to do the heart transplant in five hours.”

“Looks like you caught some good luck, after all,” Fred smiled.

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