LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (28 page)

I slumped back in my couch, the television on but the sound muted, as the Allies once again stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. Some other time, some other life, I would have been thrilled to get phone calls in one evening from three separate women, but not tonight. I started dialing and decided to go in order.

At Diane's, the phone was picked up on the third try and Kara Miles answered. “Oh, she's gone out to gas up the Volkswagen and pick up a few things,” Kara said. “She'll be back in about a half hour. You want me to have her call you?”

I looked at the nearest clock. “If all goes well, I plan to be asleep by then. It's been one of those days.”

Kara said, “Tell me about it.”

“How are you doing?”

She said, “Sore. Tired. Still trying to get the stink of tear gas and pepper gas out of my clothes—and, shit, water's boiling over on the stove. Gotta run, Lewis,” and she hung up before I had a chance to say anything more. I had wanted to ask her how she really was doing, how Diane was, and why she had been having that violent argument back at the salt marsh the previous day, when the demonstrations had collapsed. That would all have to wait. I had two more calls to make.

At Paula Quinn's, I went to voice mail after six rings and left a quick message, and then I was left with just one lovely to call: my Annie Wynn. I called her on her cell phone, and it rang and rang and rang and then was picked up in a burst of static.

“Hello? Annie?”

Another burst of static, and then Annie's voice came through. “Wynn here, who's this?”

Voices, music, static, and I made another effort, and she said, “Lewis! I'm right in the middle of something! Are you okay?”

I thought about the past couple of days and whatever was going on, and instead of belaboring the point, I lied and said, “Sure, everything's fine.”

Some voices grew louder. “Hey, can I call you back? Five minutes, promise!”

“Deal,” I said, and hung up.

*   *   *

In the kitchen I rustled up some scrambled eggs with Parmesan cheese sprinkled in, and after eating and cleaning up and yawning, I went upstairs. It was late and I was tired and the phone hadn't rung. I had read once that a week is an eternity in politics, so I guess five minutes was considered an hour or two in that world. Upstairs I thought about writing something for Denise Pichette-Volk of
Shoreline,
but that thought lasted through one big yawn.

In my bedroom, I felt oddly out of place, and I knew why: My 9 mm Beretta was in the hands of the state police, being expertly tested to see if it had anything to do with the murder of John Todd Thomas, but that didn't bother me. What bothered me was that I was partially disarmed. I used to own a Ruger stainless steel .357 Magnum revolver, but due to a series of unfortunate circumstances some months ago, it was still in the possession of the Secret Service, and they were reluctant to tell either me or my attorney—an old-time friend of Felix Tinios—when it was coming back.

So I now had three weapons in my possession: a Remington 12-gauge pump-action shotgun under the bed, an 8 mm FN assault rifle in my office closet, and a Browning .32 downstairs in a kitchen drawer. No, I'm not a fetishist when it comes to firearms; I like having a full toolbox, and now it was being depleted thanks to various government officials and my own actions.

I yawned and went under the bed and dragged out my shotgun, which was resting on a foam pad. It was within easy reach, and on the nightstand was my portable phone. I crawled into bed. Usually I read before going to sleep, but sleep was going to win tonight. I looked at the clock, then went to sleep and never looked at anything more.

*   *   *

During the night I woke up, desperately thirsty for some reason, and I moved slowly into the kitchen, got a glass of water, and tried to think of what I had been dreaming about. It was that odd mix of dreams that makes no sense when you're awake, but makes plenty of sense when you're in the middle of the it. There were flashing snapshots of crowds, of smoke billowing, a child crying … and I had that melancholy sense that if I thought really, really hard, I could get to the beginning of everything and have it make sense.

When I was done with my drink, I went to the bedroom, looked out the windows to the east, saw and heard the ocean. Go to the beginning. Haleigh had mentioned that, the night she spent here in my home. The state police detective had said the same thing. That was a thought. That was a very good thought.

I went back to bed.

*   *   *

The next day, another phone call to Annie Wynn went right to voice mail, and again I had a quick breakfast date with Felix Tinios, who was in a hurry and who invited me to come visit him at his house, which was in North Tyler, on Rosemount Avenue. While my home was odd corners and two stories of history and creaking boards and drafty windows, his was a ranch dwelling with clean floors, Scandinavian-type furniture, and no dust bunnies. Dust bunnies knew better than to try to enter Felix's domain.

This morning he had on jeans and a dark green short-sleeve polo shirt, and around his broad shoulders he also had his own leather shoulder holster, with a 10 mm Glock hanging snugly inside. He made us both crepes and bacon, and as he cooked and chatted and made the strong coffee he prefers, the Glock was still there, exposed, like the proverbial bass drum in the bathtub.

When we were pretty much done, I said, “So, is this a game of ‘show me yours, and I'll have to show you mine'?”

“Mmm?”

I said, “I think you've known me long enough to know that I'm not easily impressed or moved by the sight of a firearm. So you're going to have to do better.”

He smiled, but I wasn't comforted by his sharp look. “Maybe I'm just softening up the opposition.”

“Opposition? You've called me a number of things over the years, but this is the first time I've ever been called that. So what happened, your union paymaster didn't appreciate my meeting?”

“Apparently so,” Felix said.

“Thin-skinned guy, ain't he. I'm sure he's heard worse from other reporters, or union members, or attorney general types.”

“Whatever types he's encountered, he didn't like you, and didn't like your questions about Bronson Toles. So do me a favor, will you? Stop with the questions, stop with the digging around Joe Manzi and his union. They don't need the publicity, especially at this time.”

The coffee mug in my hand felt cool, and something was wrong in the kitchen, so that the fine hairs on the backs of my hands were tingling just a bit, as if an unexpected electrical charge had come close to me.

I said carefully, “Is this a threat, Felix?”

He stared at me and if it weren't for the history that we have together, I think the chances were more than even that I would have been leaving with a broken limb or two, at the least.

No answer from Felix. I said, “A threat?”

“Asking for a favor, that's all,” he said slowly. “I'm in the employ of people who are in a delicate position, and they don't need you poking around and raising questions—and as a sweetener, Lewis, I can tell you that I see no indication that anyone connected with that union had anything to do with Bronson Toles's murder.”

I waited just a little longer and tried a smile. “A favor?”

“That's right.”

“How about a trade?”

He picked up a white coffee mug. “I'm open to a trade. What do you have in mind?”

I slowly reached into my pants pocket, took out a slip of paper, opened it up, and slid it across the countertop, past the coffee cups and breakfast dishes. “If you could trace this number for me, I'd appreciate it.”

He picked up the paper, gave it a glance. “I thought you had … other resources available to do this for you.”

“I do, but she's a busy woman, with a lot on her plate. Tell you what, do this favor for me, and Joe Manzi and his union brothers and sisters won't hear a thing from me. Deal?”

I could sense Felix's shoulders easing some, and the worrisome flickering on the backs of my hands went away as well. “Deal,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

He left the kitchen and went to his living room, and I heard a murmur as he made a phone call. I took a deep, satisfying breath. That had been close. Felix and I had a very long, somewhat complicated relationship, and I had no desire to make it even more complicated.

He came back to the kitchen and passed me the slip of paper with new writing on it. “There you go. Have fun … and I have no idea what you're after. You looking to expand your talent base or something?”

I looked at the paper, saw a name, business, and Boston address. “Or something.”

“Good for you,” he said, and then he started picking up the dishes. “You know, I'll be one happy
paisan
when these protesters pack up and go somewhere else. Like a coal plant. Or seal-clubbing ship. Or a factory farm.”

“Getting tired of the attention?”

Felix looked at me. “Getting tired of it impacting things I do, places I go, people I know. You got it?”

“Got it,” I said, getting up and heading for the door.

“Lewis? You still up to something?”

“Always,” I said.

“Then take it from me,” he said, looking somber. “When you have thousands of people gathered together, full of anger, full of righteousness … then emotions and tempers rise up … and bad things happen—and even the good guys can get caught in the crosshairs.”

“I'll try hard not to do that,” I said.

Felix said, “Try harder, friend.”

*   *   *

Two hours later I was outside a stretch of brick buildings that marked a built-up section of South Boston, with scores of years of history of blood feuds, criminals, Marine heroes, and other odds and ends of the Irish saga. In the past few years, businesses and people with disposable income had moved in, adding more spice to an already interesting mix. Where I ended up was one of these new office buildings, and where I went was to the law offices of one David Foster, on the second floor. It seemed to be a one-man firm, with a secretary in the outer area, which also held three chairs and a coffee table covered with that day's
Boston Globe, Wall Street Journal,
and
New York Times,
as well as copies of the
Hollywood Reporter
and
Variety
.

I went in unarmed, but through necessity, not choice. It's relatively easy for a New Hampshire resident to get a permit to carry a concealed weapon; pay a fee, submit a notarized form with the names and addresses of three state residents who agree to vouch for your good nature. In Massachusetts, among other things, if you're a resident, you need to bow and scrape before your local police chief to get the necessary permission, and if you're out of state, you'd have a better chance of being elected to the city council in Cambridge on the Carnivore and Conservative ticket than of getting a carry permit.

The secretary was an attractive full-figured woman in her early thirties with light brown hair, wearing a black knit dress that was buttoned all the way up to the scooped top, and given the way she was sitting, one hoped that the buttons were fastened by industrial-strength thread. Gold jewelry was around her neck and wrists, and she bit her lower lip when I told her that I wanted to see her boss.

She flipped through a large calendar book, her fingernails shiny and maroon, and said, “Oh, I'm so sorry, but the earliest Mr. Foster can see you is … two weeks from next Tuesday.”

I nodded and passed over my business card identifying me as a writer from
Shoreline
magazine. “I'd like to see Mr. Foster now, and tell him I want to see him concerning the Stone Chapel in Tyler, New Hampshire.”

I'm not sure if it got her attention, but it did result in her getting up from behind her clear desk and going into another office. There was a moment, and she came back out and said, with a surprised look on her face, “Mr. Foster will see you now.”

“Thanks,” I said, giving her my best smile.

Inside Mr. Foster's office there was one wall covered with a bookcase that looked to have a complete set of the state laws for Massachusetts, and another wall with framed certificates and such. From behind a wide wooden desk, the man I had seen last week at the memorial service stood up, wearing black trousers, red suspenders, and a light blue shirt with a white collar and a red necktie. His thick blond hair was cut and styled expertly, and he had a thick gold ring on each pinkie finger. I shook an extended hand, and he said, “Mr. Cole, I only have a few minutes, so let's make this productive.”

“I agree,” I said. “Let's.”

We both sat down, and he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “A magazine writer. So ask your questions.”

“What can you tell me about your connection with Laura Glynn Toles and the Stone Chapel?”

“I'm sorry, that's privileged information.”

“Are you representing her and the facility?”

“I'm sorry, that's privileged information.”

“What kind of law are you an expert in?”

He said, “Are you hiring me?”

“No,” I said.

His smile grew larger. “Then that's privileged information as well, Mr. Cole.”

So this little dance went on for another ten minutes or so, with every question I asked him being tossed back at me with the same nonresponse response. Not once during our formalized conversation did I bother taking a note, and when I had run out of things to ask him, I said, “Mr. Foster, I appreciate your time. I'm afraid I've run out of questions.”

He stood up and so did I, and after another round of handshaking, he said, “Sorry it turned out to be a waste of time for you.”

I gathered my notebook and headed out the door. “Mr. Foster, it was anything but a waste of time.”