LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (24 page)

Felix said, “That's the problem with being a leader. You stand apart. You become conspicuous. You become an easy target.”

“Sure,” I said. “So if you're a union fellow who's not too tightly wrapped, and you think one guy is standing between you and good jobs for you and your brother and sister union members … quite a temptation.”

“I'm sure the state police have looked into that, Lewis.”

“There's always more that can be done.”

“What do you want me to do? Hmm? Tick off my employers by asking such … insensitive questions?”

“No,” I said. “I'll ask the insensitive questions. All I want you to do is to get me a meeting with Joe Manzi. The sooner, the better.”

“For what purpose? To ask him his opinion of local prevailing-wage laws?”

“Not hardly,” I said. “I want to poke, prod, ask questions about him and his followers. See if I can shake things up.”

“Shake things up so…”

“I think you know my techniques, Felix,” I said.

He frowned slightly. “Yeah. I do. You want to stir things up so that the shooter makes his presence known.”

On my back the bandage itched. “Either he or his friend has already made their presence known. What I want now is a name and an address.”

“Hence you're carrying a weapon.”

“Hence, yes,” I said.

“Risky work.”

“But necessary,” I said.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

He cocked his head. “Look, did that tear gas out there screw up your head? You're asking me to set you up so you can, quote, stir things up, unquote. So I want to know why … why is this important for you? Simple question. Don't you think?”

In the warm and comfortable confines of Blythe's Breakfast Nook, it seemed odd, and I knew it, but I cleared my throat and said, “Paula. Paula Quinn.”

That got his attention. “The reporter from the
Chronicle
? The one I saw you with at the rally in Falconer a few days back? That Paula Quinn?”

“Yes.”

“Thought you were still out and about with Annie Wynn.”

“I am.”

“Sounds complicated.”

I said, “She was on the stage with Bronson Toles when he got shot. She's … been different ever since then. Traumatized. Shaky. She feels like the shooter is out there and may come after her, take care of business. She feels like a target … and I don't like her feeling that way.”

“So you want to make it right?”

“I do.”

Felix grinned. “Hell of a hobby you got there, Lewis.”

“One of several.”

A young waitress in a short black skirt and a tight white blouse came over, dropped off the check, and offered a wide grin for Felix, nothing for me, and then walked out. Felix eyed her for a moment and then backed out of his chair.

“Give me a couple of minutes,” he said. “I'll see what I can do.”

He walked out of the dining room, cell phone in hand, and I looked at the check and put my American Express card down on the slip. I watched the waves rolling in, and the waitress came by, picked up the bill and my credit card. In a couple of minutes, Felix came back, joined by the waitress, who put the check down in front of me.

Felix said, “To my surprise, it's set. Five o'clock this afternoon, at Uncle Paul's Diner in Salisbury. All right with you?”

“Perfect,” I said. “How did it work out?”

A slight shrug. “He's pleased with my service so far. So I guess I caught him in a good mood. Oh, and one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“I didn't tell him your real reason for seeing him. So do what you have to do.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

I signed the check and found a little surprise: Slipped in between the paper and the credit card receipt was a business card for the restaurant, and on the back was scrawled the name of our waitress—Amanda—and a Tyler phone number. I slid the business card across to Felix and said innocently, “I believe this is for you.”

He picked up the card, smiled. “I believe you're right.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Now it's your turn to be dense,” I said. “You know what I mean.”

The smile remained on his face as he made the card disappear. “Must be my rugged good looks.”

“What am I,” I asked, “the proverbial chopped liver?”

Felix got up from the table. “No, not rugged enough.”

“So says you,” I said, getting up as well.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I spent a while later that day running errands, picking up my mail at the Tyler post office, and doing some grocery shopping, and once again my day was interrupted by the chiming of my cell phone. Surprised who was at the other end, I agreed to a quick meeting near my house, in the parking lot of the Lafayette House.

When I got to the parking lot, it was about half full, and there was a slim man with eyeglasses standing in front of a dark blue Saab sedan. I pulled into an empty spot and said, “Mr. Shelton.”

Ron Shelton, spokesman for the Falconer nuclear power plant, seemed to blush. He had on dress shoes, gray slacks, and a thin tan down windbreaker. “Hey, Lewis. You can leave the Mr. Shelton aside.”

“Oh,” I said. “Does that mean all is forgiven with your evil corporate masters?”

“No, it doesn't,” he said. “Although they're not really evil. Just misguided.” It seemed like he was trying to make a joke, but he wasn't smiling.

“Good for them,” I said. “Why the offense over what I reported?”

“Ugh,” Ron said. “Please don't remind me. I almost got suspended over that little comment of yours.”

“Hate to disagree, Ron, but the little comment wasn't mine. It was yours. I merely reported it.”

“Yeah, all right, I'll give you that one. Thing is, I really didn't think you'd report it.”

“You thought wrong,” I said. “It was a newsworthy comment.”

“Too newsworthy,” Ron said. “My boss didn't mind that much, but his boss, and her boss, raised holy hell, and since you were at the plant site the day before that F-bomb was printed and attributed to a utility official, and I was the only person to meet with you—my boss stepped in for me, said you were left alone in the visitors' center for a while, could have talked to almost anyone.”

“Nice history lesson,” I said, “but why this meet? Could have told me this over the phone.”

Ron rubbed one hand over the thin brown hair on the top of his head. “I could have … a few years ago, but now…”

The whole sense of him changed, seemed more cautious. “What's up?”

“Hunh?”

“What do you mean, a few years ago?” I recalled something I had read back then and said, “The utility takeover. Four years ago.”

Ron nodded. “That's right. When we were locally owned, we had ties to the towns and the state capitals. Even the top guys and gals came from around here. When that Florida consortium took over, everything changed. Including the live-and-let-live attitude. There's a real cutthroat attitude among some of the higher-ups about keeping track of and destroying one's enemies—and that's why I'm here.”

“Because?”

“Because you raised a stink and some folks are interested in you, and from second- and third-hand accounts, I've learned that they find you interesting because … you used to work for the Department of Defense, didn't you?”

“Some years ago,” I said.

“That's what got their interest. That you were at the Pentagon, and that they couldn't learn any more than that. So consider this my apology for getting you banned from the plant site. Some folks with lots of money and sharp elbows are looking at you.”

“Your odd apology accepted,” I said. “So that's why you're here, face-to-face, instead of talking over a phone. You don't want somebody's boss's boss listening in to what's going on.”

“Hate to admit it, but you're right,” he said.

“Not often I get told that,” I said.

He smiled. “You sound like my sister, Clara. Always sharp, always joking.”

“Your sister the singer?”

“That's right.”

“Last time we talked, you said your sister was an up-and-coming singer, playing local clubs and halls. She still singing?”

Ron frowned. “Sort of. She's married now, kids, and she's the cantor at the temple in Porter. She could have made it, but … well, let's just say some of the people you meet in the local clubs would make sharks look like guppies. The bastards. You know, I always thought the proudest moment of my life would be to buy a CD of her music, to see her on one of those national television talent shows—but it never happened.” He glanced at his watch. “Sorry. Gotta get back to the plant. We've got another demo coming up soon.”

“After yesterday's battles, I didn't think the protesters would be up for another round.”

“They're not,” Ron said. “It's the Nuclear Freedom Front's turn. They promise to do what their rivals didn't do. Enter the plant site and shut us down.”

“They sound confident.”

“Yeah, they sound deranged, but that didn't come from me.” He glanced at his watch again. “Anything else?”

A number of anything elses were jostling for attention, but one came right to mind. “How many people have you got working at Falconer?”

“Between full-time staff and contractors, about eight hundred.”

“Out of those eight hundred, how many are avid hunters? Who use high-powered rifles?”

“Not funny,” he said, his face set as he walked back to his Saab.

“Wasn't meant to be,” I said.

“Whatever,” Ron said, opening the car door. “I'll give you this, though. I do know that detectives from the state police have been talking to security, going through personnel records—looking for suspects. That's it.”

“Good enough,” I said. “Thanks.”

*   *   *

At home I put the groceries away, checked the mail, and looked over the copy of today's Tyler
Chronicle
. There was a big story with photographs of the previous day's demonstration, but since I had been there, I didn't care to reread what I'd felt, tasted, and smelled. Instead, I looked down at the bottom of the page and saw the story I had been looking for. It had been co-written by Paula and the stringer, a woman named Melanie Reisinger.

I glanced through the story. Falconer police and state police were investigating the discovery of a murder victim found in one of the stream tributaries in the southern part of the salt marsh, near where I had spent that long night flailing around.

I sighed. The victim was one John Todd Thomas, twenty-two, a graduate student in foreign relations from Colby College. His father was retired from government service, one way of hiding his work with the Central Intelligence Agency. His mother was a high school teacher in Arlington, Virginia.

John Todd Thomas. The young man who had escorted me to see Curt Chesak, and who had been gunned down by my adversary, whoever the hell he was.

Cause of death was a gunshot wound.

I folded up the paper, left it open to that page, and put it on the counter in the kitchen, where it would mock me every time I walked by.

*   *   *

A few hours later, I parked next to Uncle Paul's Diner in Salisbury, Massachusetts, the community right across the border from Falconer. The diner was painted dark blue, with its name inscribed in yellow Gothic letters. Salisbury is about the same size as Falconer, but without the tax burdens of its immediate neighbor to the north or the tax benefits of having a multi-billion-dollar power plant in the backyard.

I got out of my Ford and went into the diner. On the glass doors were various stickers and such, including one for the local Kiwanis Club, which met here every Thursday at noon. I was was struck by the reassuring and comforting smells of cooked food and grease.

On either side of me were booths, and in front of me was a long wooden counter with round stools; beyond that was the kitchen area. Off to the left, at the back of the diner, was Felix Tinios, sitting by himself, and he nodded at me as I went closer. Two booths beyond Felix was Joe Manzi, also sitting by himself, and in the booth behind Joe were two heavyset men wearing the nylon jackets of the New England Trade Union Council. One of the two men I recognized as being the unsuccessful gatekeeper from the other day at the fishing cooperative, the one who had tried to keep Paula and me from going inside.

Joe stood up, extending a hand, which I shook. Despite the reputation he had for being a champion of the working class who had it pretty easy, his hand was strong and rough. His face was bright red, his dark hair slicked back, and he was solidly built, with wide shoulders that seemed to take up most of the booth.

“Cole? Lewis Cole?” he asked, his voice a bit raspy.

“Yes,” I said, “and thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

He looked past me for a second, in the direction of Felix. “Well, you come with a good recommendation. I've trusted Mr. Tinios with a lot these past few weeks, and if he says you're okay, then you're okay.”

I pulled out my reporter's notebook and said, “That's nice to hear, but whatever happens, don't blame Felix.”

The smile was still on his face, but there was a suspicious look about his eyes. “You think this isn't going to go right?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Just want to be prepared.”

“Hah,” Joe said. “Just like the Boy Scouts.”

“Sure. Like the Boy Scouts.”

So I started off slow and polite, asking him all the basic questions about his upbringing, his work in the trade unions, and how he got to be head of the New England Trade Union Council. He answered them with the practiced ease of someone who was used to being questioned and had ready-made answers for everything.