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brick, dingy and dowdy on blocks leavened by churches, taverns, and the occasional VFW or Moose hall. The displays of retail stores were sparse, as though there were inadequate inventory for both shelves and windows. Their patrons were flabby women in gaudy, mismatched blouses and pants. Outside, skinny men waited in bowling jackets and baseball caps, the crowns reaching too high above the forehead. Three kids with a bag of popcorn threw some at the window of a branch bank, the poor guy sitting inside frowning and wagging his head.
    The Beacon sign appeared just to the harborside of downtown, but I drove past to the waterfront itself. Dilapidated wooden warehouses lay lengthwise on deteriorating pile and stone wharves. The wharves serviced oily, smoky fishing boats. Many of the boats approached fifty feet in length, painted whatever colors the marine hardware store suffered in overstock and bearing female names like Marie and Tina II.
    I stopped the car for a minute. Some of the fishermen, in port for the first time in probably a week, were hanging the nets to dry or hosing down the decks. Others stripped off the layers of oilskin slicker and sweater needed for warmth on the big water even on a summer’s day. Working or changing, they yelled and laughed back and forth in Portuguese. I felt disoriented, marooned in another country.
    I turned the key in the ignition and headed back toward the Beacon.
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œI said I want to see someone about Jane Rust. My name’s John Cuddy, and I’m a private investigator from Boston.” I showed the woman at the horseshoe reception desk my identification.
    She looked at it and shook her head hard enough to nearly dislodge her pilot’s headphone and mouthpiece. “I don’t know who here could help you.”
    There were three chairs and a table in a sitting area off to the left. “How about I wait till something occurs to you?”
    I sat in one of the chairs and picked up a copy of the previous day’s Beacon from the table. It was a long form paper like the Boston Globe or the New York Times. Skimming it, I got the impression of a first section focused on the city, followed by others labeled National, Regional, and Sports. It seemed to have more coverage and articles than I would have thought a local daily could produce.
    A new voice said, “What do you want?”
    I lowered the paper. A thickset man of forty-five stared down at me. His jowls sagged like the plots on network TV. He wore the pants of a cheap green suit, and a white shirt with a flyaway collar. A K Mart tie was pulled down from his neck, and the sleeves on his shirt were rolled up unevenly.
    â€œMy name’s John Cuddy. I’m a private investigator and I want to talk about Jane Rust with someone in authority. Are you it?
    â€œThe cops are the authority around here. You want me to call them?”
    â€œEventually. But you might want me to tell you things before you find out I told them things. Your choice.”
    His jaw realigned twice before he said, “My name’s Arbuckle. I’m managing editor. Come back to my office.”
    Arbuckle led me through a winding corridor that had computer cables inelegantly braided overhead. We moved into a room measuring a hundred feet wide and twice as long. Pillars rose from the linoleum floor to the high ceiling. The ubiquitous computer cables dropped from ragged holes to most of the fifty or so desks in the area, each with a terminal and screen. An unabridged dictionary lay open on a pedestal stand under a large mural map of Nasharbor’s part of the county. There were maybe thirty men and women talking on phones or clacking keyboards, a. life-sized Bavarian clock gone mad. From one corner, a police scanner squawked like an electronic parrot. Altogether, it was just about quiet enough to hear a bomb drop.
    â€œThe city room,” said Arbuckle, as he led me into an interior office whose only window