Nantucket Sawbuck (25 page)

I took a breath. “I found a Camel Light cigarette butt at Fiona's house today. She bought you the pack. I found the same type of butt, smoked down to the same point, at the Lattimers' house in 'Sconset last week. They had some furniture stolen. So did Lomax. And I found another butt on the floor under Lomax's bed, the morning after he was murdered. Same brand, smoked down to the same point.”

“So what? Camel is the most popular brand in America. Go to Lucky's
and ask them how many packs they sell a week.”

“You're right. I smoked them myself.”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“We have the DNA workups on the first two cigarettes, Jesse. They match. And your butt is being processed right now. The state police are putting a rush on it, through the lab in Fall River. They'll have the results by tomorrow. But we both know what those results will show. It was you, Jesse. I know it. You know I'm right.”

“That's bullshit!”

“Cooperate with me. You don't have to go to jail for this. No one's accusing you of murder. But you have information we need. The people who did these robberies with you, were they selling drugs? Lomax was a user. He owed them money. They came to collect, things got out of control. You weren't there but you knew what was supposed to go down that night.”

“I can't go to jail, Chief. I can't do that.”

“There's a way out, Jesse. Just talk to me. Tell me about Ed Delavane.”

Jesse tensed in his chair as if he was thinking of making a run for it. But he didn't move. He spoke to the arm of his chair.

“I can't tell you anything about Ed Delavane. I don't even know the guy.”

“Jesse. Come on.”

“I've heard the name, okay? I'm sure I'd know the face. But this is Nantucket, Chief. You can go years before you put the name and the face together.”

“Small town life, right? It makes things difficult sometimes. Like meeting someone for a drink at the Chicken Box every Saturday for six months and trying to keep it secret.”

“Chief—”

“He orders shots and beers. Canadian Club and Bud Light. You pay for them.”

“Not always. Sometimes he…shit.”

“Don't worry about it, Jesse. Lots of people have seen you there. Haden Krakauer, Dietz. They're regulars. Copeland and Drake play pool every night. I saw you there myself a few weeks ago. You met your girlfriend there. She works for Fiona Donovan. If you want to keep things private, stay home.”

Jesse slumped in the chair. “Fucking fishbowl.”

“Jesse.”

“Friggin' fishbowl, okay?”

“Yeah. Except nobody really watches a fishbowl. Nobody cares. Fish are boring.”

“Christ.”

“So is Delavane dealing drugs, or just stealing furniture?”

“I'm not talking about Ed Delavane.”

“Or was it both? That would make sense. One-stop shopping.”

“Maybe it's time to get a lawyer in here.”

I sat forward. “Give me Delavane and you'll walk on this. I promise.”

“But I won't be a cop anymore.”

“Your dad's a plumber. Get your license and work with him.”

Jesse smiled grimly. “No thanks.”

“It doesn't matter. Do what you want. Finish college. Study Russian cultural history or marine biology. Put this behind you. Get away from Delavane and—”

“You don't just ‘get away' from Ed Delavane.”

“You do if he's in jail.”

“He has friends. And there's such a thing as parole.”

“Not for Murder One. Not in this state. Not for a three-time loser. Which he will be.”

“Yeah? Well, people escape. I heard someone busted out of Norfolk a couple of years ago.”

“They were caught in two days.”

Jesse snorted. “Ed Delavane wouldn't need two days.”

“Jesse, come on.”

“I mean it. You don't know this guy.”

“Okay, if he's that bad? All the more reason to put him away.”

“You put him away, then. Just leave me out of it.”

Jesse slouched down in his chair. I took a long breath and blew it out. “Here's what I'm getting from this conversation. You know Delavane. You worked with him. You sold drugs and ripped people off with him. You were pretty sure he was capable of murder, even before he killed Lomax. And now you're so scared of him you'd rather spend the rest of your life in jail than wind up on his hit list. But he isn't going to be hitting anyone when he's doing solitary in a maximum security cell. In fact if you don't help us arrest him, he may come looking for you to shut you up in advance. People like that don't like loose ends. Or witnesses.”

“Sounds good. You're very persuasive, Chief. Can I see a lawyer now?”

I sat forward. “Give me something, Jesse. Before the DNA report comes in. Give me a chance to help you. Show me you're on my side.”

Jesse looked down, away from my stare. He was studying the edge of the desk. “You want something? Talk to Rick Folger. He gave us the keys.”

***

I found Folger in the basement apartment he'd been renting since he left home. It had started raining, and most of the snow was gone, except for a few dirty piles in the back yard. But the wind was wet and stinging. I hunched into the collar of my coat, walked down a short flight of cement stairs and knocked on the door. Folger answered it with a book in his hand. He blinked at me, adjusting his eyes to the sharp glare of daylight.

“Chief? Am I in trouble?”

“I don't know. Can I come in?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“Do I need one? I don't want to search your house. I just want to talk to you. I could stay outside, but it's cold. The wind is really picking up out here.”

Folger shrugged. “Sorry. Come on in.”

I took one more step down into the gloom of the little apartment. The small living room held a corduroy couch and a yard sale armchair with a reading lamp in the angle between them. There was an expensive-looking sound system, but no television. I looked twice as my eyes adjusted. There was a cable wire poking out of the chipped baseboard; Folger chose to ignore it. I liked him for that.

The little room opened onto the kitchen. To the left, an open door led into the bedroom.

“You keep the place neat,” I said.

“It's like living on a boat,” Folger answered from the kitchen. “You want some coffee? I just made it.”

“Thanks.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Just milk.”

There was some noise from the little galley and then Folger emerged with two steaming white mugs. He handed me mine by the rim and we took a sip.

“Starbuck's,” Folger said. “I hate to admit it, but they make excellent coffee.”

“You hate to admit it?”

“You know—corporate giant, taking over the world, forcing little guys out of business. All that. I was raised to believe a company like that had to suck. Now I don't know what to think.”

We drank some more coffee. Music filtered down from upstairs, a Bach piano variation. It wasn't a recording.

“Who's playing?”

“Old Mrs. Tolliver. My landlady. She's actually pretty good.”

We listened for a few moments. The music resolved itself, stopped and then started again. I sat down and put my mug on the plank coffee table in front of the couch. Folger sat down on the chair.

“Listen, Rick. Let me tell you what I know and what I need from you. Okay? I know you used your father's keys for a string of break-ins going back at least two years. You and Jesse Coleman and Ed Delavane. There were a couple of high school kids involved. They sold drugs for you at NHS.”

Folger started to speak, but I held up my hand. “I've been thinking about how you could have gotten involved with all this. You were younger. Delavane was cool. You were bragging about the keys at the Chicken Box. You wanted to impress him, but he called you on it. Suddenly you were involved. He scared you and you didn't see any way out.”

“I got out, Chief. I told him it was over.”

“But he still had the Lomax keys. And now you're an accessory to murder.”

“I didn't kill anybody!”

Folger jumped up so fast he spilled his coffee and banged his shins into the edge of the table. “I didn't know he was going to do that! Lomax owed us a lot of money. I mean…a lot of money, man. You start smoking coke and it adds up fast. I thought they were just going to scare him—maybe steal some stuff, that's all. If I'd thought that—I mean, I knew he was crazy, but…if I'd known Ed was going to…Jesus, Chief. I'd have gone to the cops myself. I swear.”

“But you didn't.”

Sleet rattled against the window that looked out on the pavement. The temperature was dropping as the band of storm clouds moved across the island. It was still morning but it felt like late afternoon. Folger sat down heavily and picked up his coffee mug. He stared at it for a second and then put it down again.

“Oh, man, I am so fucked.”

“Maybe not. I can get you immunity. All you have to do is testify against Delavane.”

“What good would that do? He's got an alibi. He was in Boston, supposedly. No one else'l1 say shit. You think Jesse Coleman would testify against Ed Delavane? Guess again.”

“I talked to Jesse already. But every little bit helps. This would show where you stand. You feel remorse. You want to make things right. You're young, you've got no record. Judges care about that. And you can place Delavane at three other crime scenes at least. That's a multiple felony indictment that adds years to his sentence. That's valuable, Rick. You can bargain with that.”

“And I get what?”

“Five years probation. Maybe only three. If you don't screw up, you can start over. That sounds good to me.”

He shrugged. He seemed to crumple into the chair. “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

“I'm not sure what that means. Was that a positive statement? Will you do it?”

“Yeah, I'll do it. But I'm still fucked. I still have my dad to deal with. When this comes out, he's gonna kill me. I wish he would kill me and get it over with. That would be easier.”

“You'll work it out with him.”

“Yeah, right.”

Before I could conjure some answer to the bitter despair in the boy's voice, my cell started ringing again. I winced an unspoken apology and unfolded my little Nokia. Lonnie Fraker was on the line.

“You're not gonna believe this, Kennis. And you know why? Because it's goddamn unbelievable, that's why. This one goes in
The Guinness Book of World Records.
I
just don't know whether to submit it under suicidal or stupid. Maybe there's a joint listing, like for Kamikaze pilots who forgot to put gas in the tank.”

“Slow down, Lonnie. What happened?”

“Okay. We get a call from Milo Torrance over at Sun Island. Some guy with a big storage locker over there was six months behind on his rent. So they snap the lock and get ready to empty the place out. That's the policy, right? But this shed is stuffed floor to ceiling with antiques. It looks like a dealer's warehouse, but this guy ain't no antiques dealer, at least not the legal kind. Milo knows him. It's Ed Delavane, Chief.”

“Ed Delavane.”

“Milo called it in and we came over to check it out.”

“You're telling me Ed Delavane robs houses, keeps all the stolen property at Sun Island, and then
doesn't pay his rent?”

“He's high most of the time. He didn't pay his phone bill either. I called out there. It was disconnected a month ago. But listen—this is the best part. The stuff he stole from Lomax is right in front, just sitting there. That big desk and some other pieces. I checked with the insurance photographs. Anyway, there's credit card bills and checkbooks in the drawers. Lomax all the way.”

I fought to round up my thoughts. It was like getting a bunch of rowdy kids into a school bus. “This is nuts.”

“Hey, you gotta get a break sometime.”

“Yeah. But this fills our quota for the next ten years, Lonnie. Milo just called you and that was it.”

“Like winning the lottery.”

“But better. When people win the lottery the first thing they say is “I have this lousy job and I'm quitting.” I hear this and I'm thinking to myself, this is the best job in the world and I'm doing it forever.”

“Yeah. It's been a pretty good day. But it ain't over yet. I sent a cruiser out to his house. Nobody was home, but we had a warrant, so we searched the place. Guess what we found? Hiking boots with the exact vibram sole footprint we found at the crime scene. And Delavane is heavy enough to leave a deep track.”

“Great work, Lonnie.”

“Wait a second, it gets better. Krakauer talked to Jesse a few minutes ago, just after you left. Nice double-teaming, by the way. Were you the good cop or the bad cop?”

I smiled. “I'm always the good cop, Lonnie.”

“Yeah, right. Anyway, Jesse gave us the word—Delavane's doing some kind of drug deal out on Hinsdale Lane, out by the airport. We're setting up a perimeter right now.”

“I'll be there in five minutes. Keep everybody back. And no sirens.”

I closed the phone.

“Did you catch the guy?” Folger asked.

“No. He caught himself. We just have to bring him in. Thanks for your help, Rick. I'll be in touch.”

I reached down and shook his hand, then I was out the door and gone.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Ed Delavane Conducts Business

At that moment, Ed Delavane was demonstrating the new drug trade business model he had learned from the late Preston Lomax. With his usual talent for elegant phrase making, Ed referred to it as “not paying for stuff.”

A drug connection might not like it, but what was he going to do? Call the cops? Delavane had cops on his payroll. A dealer could go back to his supplier, of course; that was why you had to make sure he was more afraid of you than he was of them. And Ed Delavane had a talent for making people afraid. He enjoyed it; torture had been his hobby since grade school. You could feel it the first moment you met him. It steamed off him like the pheromones that attracted women. Even Lomax had begged, and not at the end, either, when you were supposed to beg. No, with Ed Delavane you did it at the beginning, because you knew what the end was going to be. You could see it in his eyes.

This Joe Rafferty kid could see it there. He'd seen it before. Rafferty's nose had been broken a few times, and so had the jaw. With the scar tissue around his eyes and the burn slag on his neck, Rafferty looked pretty bad. Delavane grinned, the natural bare-fanged salutation of the happy predator. Rafferty was going to look a lot worse if he didn't go along with the program today.

They were standing in the raw squalor of the kid's apartment on Hinsdale Lane. It was all rusting metal cabinets and peeling veneer and missing baseboard; crooked shelves on metal racks screwed off-center into the cracked plaster. The place stank of ancient cigarettes. It was almost sweet. It was like breathing flypaper. The brown carpet was frayed at the edges; the speckled linoleum in the messy kitchen was buckled. It was the lair of the lifetime small-timer. This kid was going nowhere.

Delavane slipped the six plastic bags into his coat pockets and turned to go.

“Hold it, Cap.” Rafferty grabbed his shoulder. “That's a grand you owe me.”

“Not anymore. The new system is, you find the money somewhere else.”

“What the fuck—”

Delavane turned in a feral blur, grabbed Rafferty's wrist and knocked his left leg out from under him with a single swift kick. Delavane punched him hard in the chest as he fell. The kid hit the floor on his back. It sounded like someone dropped a bag of cement. The breath blasted out of him. Before he could move, Delavane's muddy boot was pressed to his throat.

“Rob a bank. Jack a Range Rover. I don't care what you do. Just make it right with your supplier somehow, because this is how things are going to be. From now on.”

“Fuck you—”

Delavane pressed down harder on Rafferty's throat to shut him up. But the kid managed to twist himself around and slam the side of Ed's knee with his elbow. The force of the blow rocked him. Ed staggered sideways into the kitchen counter as Rafferty scrambled to his feet. The Mister Coffee machine shattered. Ed grabbed the handle and swung the jagged glass carafe as the kid charged. Rafferty ducked and rammed into Ed with his head. It hurt. Dizzy with rage, Ed plunged both elbows down onto the kid's shoulders, once, twice; the third time, Rafferty stumbled back a step with his guard down. Ed launched himself off the counter and clocked him with a roundhouse right just above the ear. The blow had all his weight and momentum and the whiplash energy of his hips behind it. The kid spun around and dropped face-first onto the filthy rug. Ed could hear that nose breaking again. It gave him a snarling moment of animal satisfaction.

“Motherfucker,” he croaked. “Try that again and I. Will. Kill. You. Set aside a weekend for me, shitbag. Because that's how long it's gonna take.”

There was blood in Rafferty's mouth. But he still managed to choke out the words, “I want…my thousand bucks. You owe me—”

“Here's what I owe you.”

Delavane kicked him hard in the ribs, then again. The second time he got the shriek of pain he was looking for.

He was aiming the next kick at Rafferty's head when he heard the pounding on the front door.

“Open up! Police!”