I drove down the side street that led to his place. A large, comfortable house of weathered shingles, white trim, and brick fireplaces, it was set on an acre or two of lawns, shrubs, and trees and overlooked Vineyard Haven harbor. In front of the house was a shiny new tan Buick two-door. Sylvia believed in buying American. Across the harbor, as crowded with power yachts and sailboats as other harbors on the east coast, I could see the dock where the Bluefin was lying. At the foot of Sylvia’s land there was a beach and a small dock. Tied to the dock were a motorboat and a small sailboat. It was a very nice view. That morning Quinn had had news. “Sylvia isn’t the only name,” he’d said, “but it’s one of the big ones. I asked a guy and he asked me where I’d gotten the name. I didn’t tell him, but I did tell everything to my editor and now I’m on the story. So I may see you in a few days. Any fish left?” “For you, an ocean full,” I said. “What about Brunner International?”
