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still juke joints and bawdy houses on the waterfront, but if they were discreet, and if nobody made too much of a fuss, they were ignored. As far as who was on the take nowadays, Sam didn’t ask questions. He didn’t care what was going on with the other members of the force, what shameful secrets they kept, for Sam had his own. But keeping quiet and staying away from whatever money was being passed around also meant that when he was a shift sergeant, he always had the night and weekend shifts. The price, he knew, of doing what he thought was right.
    Hanson’s pale face was pockmarked, he wore brown horn-rimmed glasses, and his usual uniform was a three-piecepin-striped suit. Tonight the coat was on a rack, and his vest was tight across his chest and belly. His pant legs were darkened with rain splashes, but his shoes were dry and freshly shined. On the wall were framed certificates and a few photos: Hanson with a series of mayors over the years—including the most recent, Sam’s father-in-law—a couple of New Hampshire governors, a U.S. senator, and in a place of pride, the President himself, taken three years ago on a campaign swing through the state. And there was a photo of Hanson wearing the uniform of a colonel in the state’s National Guard, where he was one of the top officers in the state, working for the adjutant general. In addition to being the city’s lead cop, he had connections among the politicians in D.C. and in Concord, New Hampshire’s capital.
    Hanson sat in his leather chair, and Sam sat across from him in one of the two wooden captain’s chairs. Hanson said, “I heard about the dead man over at the tracks by the Shanty. What do you know?”
    “Not much,” Sam said. “A hobo from the encampment spotted him and flagged down Frank Reardon, and then I was brought in.”
    “Cause of death?”
    “Don’t know,” Sam replied. “The body’s been picked up for transport to Dr. Saunders’s office. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
    “Not run down by a train?”
    “No.”
    “Nothing else apparent, then. Gunshot wound, knife wound.”
    “No, nothing like that,” Sam said.
    Hanson leaned back in his chair, the wheels squeaking.His face was impassive, and the lack of expression made Sam shiver a little.
    Sam knew his promotion to inspector was due to political play among the police commission, his father-in-law, the mayor, and Hanson—other candidates were unacceptable, and Sam was a compromise—and he still wasn’t sure if Hanson was on his side. Hanson was loyal to his fellow officers to a point, but it was known that Hanson was loyal to Hanson, first, second, and always.
    “All right.” Hanson leaned forward, picking up a fountain pen. “Any ID?”
    “No papers, no wallet. Just a tattoo on his wrist, some numbers.” In his mind’s eye, Sam saw those numbers again: 9 1 1 2 8 3.
    “Luggage? Valise? Anything in the area that might have belonged to him?”
    Sam knew he was disappointing his boss but couldn’t help it. “No.”
    A tight nod. “All right. What next?”
    “Right now Frank Reardon and Leo Gray are conducting a canvass, and I expect their report later tonight. When we’re through here, I’ll type up my notes, give you a copy, send a telex to the state police. Tomorrow I’ll check in with the medical examiner.”
    Another nod. “Good. We’ll talk again tomorrow. And Sam? If it’s just an untimely death, if there’s nothing to indicate foul play, drop it.”
    Sam shifted in his seat. “But … it might take some time. Blood work from the ME, looking for witnesses, getting him identified—”
    Hanson’s lips pursed. “I meant what I said. Drop it. You’ve got enough on your plate with the car thefts, theamount of bad paper that’s been passing lately in town. Not to mention the store break-ins, for which your father-in-law continues to ride my ass. So if that dead guy is just a dead guy, you drop it. Understand?”
    “Yes. I got it.”
    “Good. Now here’s