The Hancock Boys

SUNDAY MORNING- BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

So these two police detectives show up at the John Hancock house on Louisburg Square in the Beacon Hill section of Boston. They want to talk to Mr. Hancock.

Nicky, the teenage nanny from Yorkshire, answers the front door. She sneers at the two detectives after they identify themselves. "I'm afraid Mr. Hancock's working, and when he's working I'm not permitted to disturb him."

The cops exchange expressions of annoyance. One of them says, "It won't take long, miss. Why don't you just tell Mr. Hancock the police are here?"

Nicky has her orders: no interruptions. She's been with the Hancocks eight months now and she learned that one on her first day.

"It would be better," she tells them, "if you came back this afternoon. Or maybe if you called first and made an appointment."

"Sorry, honey," says the other detective, "but we ain't comin' back dis afternoon, and we definitely ain't makin' no phone calls or no appointments. We got urgent police business here. Now you run along and tell Hancock we wanna see him before I haul you in for hamperin' an investigation."

Nineteen-year-old Nicky glares at the detective. "I'll see if he's available." Then she slams the door in their faces.

The detectives look at each other and shake their heads.

"Brassy little bitch, huh?"

"Yeah, real bitchy. But from here on out, Joey, I want you to let me do the talking. Don't take no offense, but you sound like a freaking low-life hoodlum. Telling her we ain't coming back and we ain't making no phone calls or no appointments. Jesus. We want to get ahead, we got to do better than that."

"Hey, Moe, listen, I felt like I had ta get tough wit' her. Didn't you go for my hamperin'-the-investigation bit?"

"Yeah, Joey, I went for it. You're my ace in the hole. So when Hancock gets here you just stand there and look like a cop."

Nicky retreats to the kitchen where she activates the intercom for the third floor.

John Hancock, lost in some fictional maelstrom, practically jumps out of his leather desk chair when the intercom buzzes. He has been a long way off, buried in the depraved psyche of his twisted protagonist.

The intercom hangs on the wall beside the door. He pushes the button. "This better be good, Nick. Fire in the hole. Floods on the Charles. Barbarians at the gate."

"It's the police, sir."

"Police? That's worse than barbarians. What do they want?"

"They want to talk to you, sir."

"Probably they want money. For their widows-and-orphans fund. It's a subtle, and I suppose legal, kind of shakedown."

"Shakedown, sir?"

"Never mind, Nick. Tell them I'll be down in a few minutes."

John Hancock crosses his office to the large front window and draws back the sheer cotton curtain. No sign of a patrol car out on the Square. They must have come in an unmarked. Maybe that dark blue Chevy Caprice parked over on Pinckney.

Hancock returns to his desk. He glances at his morning's output: four and a half hastily scribbled pages on a yellow legal pad. Unlike his brother, who prefers to work directly on the keyboard, Hancock has always written his first drafts in longhand. He enjoys the frenzied spontaneity of the pen slashing and dashing across the page. But he knows there will be no more slashing and dashing this morning. His concentration has been zapped.

On his way downstairs Hancock stops off at the master bedroom, a cozy suite on the second floor furnished in antique cherry. A quick glance in the mirror and he decides boxer shorts and T-shirt might not make the right impression. He pulls on fresh chinos and a cotton sweater.

Hancock stands a hair under six feet. His brother stands six feet exactly. Next year they will both turn forty, but in a pinch they could probably do thirty-five, maybe even thirty-three. They weigh one seventy and one seventy-one respectively, lean and solid.

A man who likes to keep grooming time to a minimum, Hancock wears his light brown hair closely cropped. Wash, towel dry, and go. Out of necessity, brother Will wears his hair precisely the same way.

Hancock heads downstairs. He pulls open his front door. The two Boston police detectives look slightly miffed. Probably a result of being made to wait. Hancock smiles and invites them inside.

They stand in the foyer, an expansive and affluent space occupied by a crystal chandelier and several original oil paintings, including a small Monet of a boy fishing from a bridge. The detectives do not notice. They are not art connoisseurs.

Joey and Moe flash their badges. Hancock takes a quick and disinterested look. No reason for him to think these guys aren't who they say they are.

"This is Detective Connor," says Moe. "I'm Detective Raymond."

Hancock shakes hands all around. He loves to shake. "What can I do for a couple of Boston's finest on this lovely spring morning?"

Moe makes a small production out of studying his note pad. "You are Mr. John Hancock. Is that correct, sir?"

"Yes, it is."

Moe flips through the pages of his pad. "Mr. Hancock," he says, "we're here this morning on a missing person report."

"Missing person report? Who's missing?" John's eyes narrow. He grows instantly alarmed. "Not the boys? The boys aren't missing."

"Boys, sir?"

"My sons? They're not missing, are they? I walked them down to the Church of the Advent just an hour or so ago for Sunday school. Should have stayed myself for service, but, well, I had work to do."

"This is not about your sons, sir."

"Well, that's a relief. Then who are we talking about?"

Moe checks his pad again. "Do you have a brother, sir? A Mr. William Larson Hancock?"

Hancock regroups. Then, "Well, yes . . . but he . . ." John takes a deep breath. "Excuse me, detective, but who, exactly, is missing?"

"We have a report your brother Will is missing."

Hancock studies the two officers. "You're kidding me. I mean, this is some kind of joke. Right? Lee Fisher sent you?"

"This is not a joke, sir. And I'm afraid I don't know any Lee Fisher."

"Leland Fisher. He's my publisher. A pretty fair practical joker. Sometimes--"

"This is not a practical joke, sir."

Hancock sees that now. He takes a second to square up his thoughts, then asks, "Can you tell me who filed the report?"

Joey, despite Moe's earlier warning, takes a step forward and demands, "Let's not play games, Mr. Hancock. You got any knowledge concerning your brother's whereabouts or not?"

Hancock rubs his forehead. He does not wish to sound impatient. "I have plenty of knowledge," he tells Detective Connor. And then, again, to Detective Raymond, "I would like to know who filed the report."

Moe goes back to his note pad. "I believe your wife did, sir."

"My wife?"

"Is your wife Clara Dare Hancock?"

"Yes."

"Is Mrs. Hancock home, sir? Perhaps we could talk to her, also."

"She's in London." Hancock can feel his brain beginning to churn. He does his best to keep calm. "On business. She left yesterday."

"I see."

"I have no idea," says Hancock, "why my wife would have filed a missing person report on my brother. Do you know when she filed the report?"

Moe returns to his pad. There's not really anything on the pad, at least nothing about this Hancock business. Just some directions to the house on Louisburg Square, and a short list of stuff his bossy girlfriend ordered him to pick up at the grocery on his way home: Bologna, for chrissakes, and Cheese Nips. If she serves bologna sandwiches again for dinner, he'll kill her.

"The report's dated Friday, sir. It could have been filed then or maybe the day before. I didn't take the call, so I have no way of knowing. Our job is to come out and follow up. See what we can find out."

Hancock, his normally smooth and trouble-free face suddenly lined with confusion and a fair amount of anxiety, nods. "I understand."

"So," asks Joey, tired of his bit part, "you gonna help us out with this or what? If you know where your brother's at we can clear this up quick."