City of Ports

by Jeff Deck

  “Do I know . . .?” I give him a frustrated look. “No, Agent Jeong, I do not. And I suggest your people cordon off the whole area around this thing until you do figure out how to close it.”

  Jeong nods. “Right. I’ll make some calls in just a minute. For now, let’s get out of here.”

  Jeong and I exit the warehouse and hurry through Prescott Park. I’m still confused as to why my attacker would need my clothes. It’s not like they were designer. He or she could have just taken my wallet if they wanted my money and/or ID.

  We’re lucky enough not to run into any cops or media on our way to Jeong’s car. I can just picture the reactions from my old colleagues, seeing me like this. We drive over to Pleasant Street, and that’s when I realize the thief made off with my apartment keys as well.

  “Okay, give me a minute or two,” I say. I spring out of the car, still wearing Jeong’s coat, and apply pressure to the foyer door. I’m in luck: someone has once again forgotten to close the door all the way. Not me—I always check—but probably someone who works for the small nonprofit occupying the floor below my apartment. It’s the first time I’m glad for the shoddy security here. I pound up the dark stairs to the landing outside my apartment door.

  No such luck with this door. Divya Allard’s home is her castle. I hesitate only briefly before grabbing a hammer that my landlord carelessly left on the landing, and I go to town on the glass window in the old door. It’s oddly satisfying to smash the thing, even though I know this will be coming out of my deposit. Then again, given the trail of inanimate objects that I’ve ruthlessly murdered since you died—a cell phone, three coffee mugs, two plates, various mirrors, even a printer on one memorable occasion—I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

  Once I’ve pounded through the chickenwire underneath the glass, too, I reach through and open my own door. I wriggle into new underwear, pants, and a long-sleeved shirt, and grab my backup pair of shoes. Then I return to Jeong, closing the foyer door firmly behind me on the way. I’ll deal with how to re-enter the building later.

  “You made quite the racket,” he says. “Ever consider leaving a spare set of keys under one of those fake rocks?”

  “Sure, that wouldn’t look suspicious in an indoor hallway.”

  “So now what?” he says. “I’ve got Agents Barnes and McGuinness maintaining a perimeter around the hole. They’re reliable, but they’ll be looking to us for initiative.”

  “I think closing it should be the priority,” I say. It hits me that Wallace and Neria might have shown up at the burning hole for that very purpose. They certainly hadn’t seemed eager to go into the hole, so what else might they have been doing there? The hapless two no longer seem like viable murder suspects to me, if they were willing to confront such a nightmare with no apparent personal gain. “We need to find Graham’s friends/lovers. They may be the only ones who know how to do the job.”

  Then I remember the sketchpad that I grabbed from the other side of the portal. If it had been Graham’s—if Graham had been the one to open that hole—then maybe Graham had known how to close it too. He might have even written how to do so in that sketchpad. Pity it had disappeared with my jacket. Damn.

  Oh, and that fucking DVD! God, my jacket would be quite the treasure to whoever snagged it.

  “Hold on,” Jeong says. The man peers into the window of a nearby bar with a big TV. The TV is playing a news report instead of the latest ballgame—and two familiar faces are on the screen. Along with the words TSOUKALAS’S FRIENDS BEING QUESTIONED.

  “Shit,” I say. “The PD’s got ’em.”

  The agent gives me a sardonic smile. “Your pals. Your move.”

  8

  What would you have thought about gateways to other universes or dimensions?

  Would you have been freaked out—or would you have seen it as an opportunity? An opening to an array of infinite possibilities?

  Given your New Age field trip to Sedona, I’m thinking the latter. Your mind was permanently hinged open. My mind, on the other hand, narrow in its focus and cautious about new information, strains to deny what I saw. I’m finding that the less I think about that other world, the better. Because I could disappear down a vortex of madness if I really dwell on the implications.

  No, it’s better to focus on practical matters. Like the job. And I’m going to make sure nobody ever crosses through that hole ever again. From either direction.

  The Portsmouth Police Department and City Hall crouch together in a hilltop complex overlooking South Mill Pond and the downtown skyline. Though the buildings themselves are ugly and outdated, the grassy hill is a pretty spot, especially at this time of year with the pondside cherry blossom trees still showing some color.

  I’ve been strenuously avoiding the municipal complex ever since the Horrible Time of last year. I hoped I’d never have to go there again, in fact. Even if that meant never renewing my car registration.

  Which is why I’m really dragging my feet, and not resenting Agent Jeong’s tagalong presence at all, as we pull into the lot on that hilltop and approach the station. This is going to be the worst.

  I keep flashing back to the media crowding me in that same parking lot. Especially Kuhn of the Portsmouth Porthole, merciless as he sinks his fangs into the story of a lifetime.

  “Officer Allard, how long were you lovers with the deceased and did your supervisors know about it?”

  “Officer Allard, have your rage issues ever affected your job before now?”

  “Officer Allard, tell me more about this department-wide conspiracy!”

  I shudder. Jeong raises a concerned eyebrow. “Are you all right? You’ve been through a lot tonight, Divya. I’m sure if we come back in the morning—”

  “—then Wallace and Neria will no longer be here,” I finished for him. “These are leads. We chase them while they’re hot. Don’t worry about me, Agent Jeong. Now that I have pants back on, I’m aces.”

  We walk into the small wedge of lobby surrounded by bulletproof glass. Portsmouth may be the City of the Open Door, but to get any further into the PD, visitors need to be buzzed in by the station officer. And she’s looking at me with extreme skepticism. Hello, Officer Haring. Sorry I called you that name that one time.

  I see a wall of blue in the larger lobby beyond the glass. Chief Akerman himself, a wiry, fit man with a perpetually grim expression on his face, is leaning against the tall case of old police memorabilia. Never been one for the pleasures of this world, our Henry. He’s therefore a perfect fit for the job, I suppose, though I always suspected he’d be happier as the chief in a city with a higher body count. Well, Portsmouth’s opioid surge might just make up for it.

  Akerman’s expression just gets grimmer when he sees the two of us. Piotrowski, Daniels, and the other officers close ranks around him. I’m getting plenty of dirty looks. Though the Horrible Time is blurry now around the edges, I can still remember the personalized insults I threw at each one of them. Deserved or not.

  “FBI,” Jeong says to Officer Haring and flashes his badge. “Let us through.”

  She presses the button to unlock the door. But Akerman blocks us as soon as we walk in.

  “No civilians past this area,” he says, though he can’t manage to meet my eyes; he’s looking at Agent Jeong instead. Could be he’s remembering when I jabbed my finger into his chest over and over, naming him a “hypocritical shit-smearing cover artist” and a “hat-fucking, scum-sucking bullshit artist” (which is a lot of ground for the same person to cover, I know).

  Yeah, I was pretty awful. I swear, Kathryn has helped me so much since then—though just seeing Akerman again, I trigger again. Just a little. I automatically picture myself smashing open that memorabilia case and beating Akerman about the face and neck with an antique billy club.

  I briefly close my eyes to recenter.

  “Special circumstances,” says Jeong formally, though with a smile. He flashes his FBI badge at my old boss. “Special Agent Ethan Jeo
ng. I am working closely with Officer Allard here on a matter urgent to the state. We have a pressing need to speak to Wallace Riggs and Neria Francoeur.”

  “Officer Allard?!” Akerman says, in a rare flash of temper. “Listen to me, asshole. Skip Bradley told me how you pulled rank on him tonight at the Tsoukalas house and superseded Allard’s arrest. I expect a written explanation and full justification from your SSA about that. And now you think you can just walk in here and boss around this entire fucking department? I’ll need to speak to the God-damned director of the FBI before I let you in, do you hear me?!”

  Jeong gives him an apologetic shrug and shake of the head. “I know. It sucks. We totally respect your local authority here. But I’m acting to prevent an imminent threat, and I have full power under the Constitution to do so.”

  “Threat? What threat?” Akerman looks both concerned and pissed off to be out of the loop.

  “We have reason to believe that the deceased, Graham Tsoukalas, belonged to a terrorist group,” Ethan Jeong says. Terrorist. In the hands of law enforcement, that’s a magic word, isn’t it? “And that his friends Riggs and Francoeur may be implicated in that group as well.”

  Akerman’s lips twist into a grimace. But, interestingly, he doesn’t seem as shocked as the other officers around him. For comparison, while Akerman stews and stays planted where he is, Piotrowski’s mouth hangs open and his body posture has changed into a hunch. Daniels’s hands are balled into fists, as if he’ll go kung fu on any terrorist who’d dare set foot inside his little seaside town. The other guys look surprised, fearful, and amped up as well.

  I know for many of my former colleagues, it’s their secret and most cherished dream: to take down at least one T-word before they retire. Even one without brown skin will do.

  “I’m glad you brought up my boss, SSA Marsters, by the way,” Jeong says. “I am acting with her authority, but you’re welcome to give her a call. You’ve dealt with Agent Marsters before, haven’t you?”

  Now this seems to give Akerman pause. I silently thank Marsters for whatever she did to twist his balls in the past.

  “All right,” says the chief. “They’re in interview rooms 1 and 2. Tell Officer Fragonard and Detective Ulrich you have my blessing to proceed. But God damn you both, if there’s even a whiff of lies about this, I’ll sue the entire FBI and throw you both in jail. And I’ll see that Allard, at least, never comes back out.”

  As he opens one of the secure doors for us, he mumbles the words “crazy bitch” under his breath, taking a page from Bradley’s phrasebook.

  I’ll admit. Sometimes your constant rebellion against authority struck me as a kind of self-caricature. Sometimes I wanted to shake you by the shoulders and say: Really? Are you ready to defend yourself against the guy who’d slit your throat to pay for his next fentanyl?

  But you never disrespected or disparaged me as a police officer. Certainly I never heard you say a word in my presence about how cops are “pigs” or smelling bacon. You recognized that, for me, upholding the law was my calling, and that I did a damn good job of it, too. That’s probably why I think of you as I walk through the long institutional corridors of the police station, the corridors I thought I’d never walk again. For every moment I worked here, I always had your support.

  I do wonder what you would think of me now. Bending and twisting the rules in my own search for the truth. Would you be proud of me for acting just a little more like you? Or would you condemn me for betraying my own principles?

  Guess I’ll never know.

  The station used to be a hospital, and the place still has the same antiseptic charm. We pass the animal control office and the roll call room, and we enter the cubicle cluster where the detectives work. Officer Milly Fragonard and Detective Ben Ulrich are standing outside interview room 1, as promised. Room 2 is farther down the wall. Milly looks dismayed when she sees me; Ulrich just gives me an intrigued smile, as if he’s expecting the buildup to a good joke.

  “Well, the other Injun returns,” he says. “And this time she’s got a new friend. Whom do I have the pleasure?”

  I watch Jeong size up the other man. The agent does not look impressed. “Agent Jeong, FBI. We have Chief Akerman’s authority to interrogate your detainees immediately. Sound good to you?”

  “Mmm,” says Ulrich. He doesn’t move. “I just softened each of them up. They need just a few more minutes to stew and then they’ll lay themselves out on a plate. I’d prefer to be the one to finish this, if you don’t mind. I’m the one who first spoke to the reporting officer. I was the first detective on the scene. I’m not about to hand this over to the FBI, you feel me?”

  “Stand the fuck aside,” I say. I thought I was keeping my irritation and anger in check. But fuck is a trigger in itself, and it inspires me to go on: “Or we’ll bring the federal government down on your pimply ass. You feel me?”

  Ulrich gives me a nasty smile. “Won’t be feeling you anytime soon, dyke bitch. Unless you’re planning on switching teams?” He eyes Jeong. “Maybe you switched already?”

  All the humor and warmth has gone out of Jeong’s face. It’s been replaced by an expression that is, frankly, scary.

  Ulrich moves aside. He grabs Milly’s arm and yanks her away from room 1 as well. “Come on, Milly,” he says, “we don’t want to mess with Team Psycho. Do we? Boss’s orders.”

  Milly shakes him off. “You really shouldn’t be here, Allard.”

  I sigh and open the door to the room, with Agent Jeong close behind. That wasn’t so bad, I guess. I expected to be called a bitch more than twice by this point.

  It’s a simple white room, just a plain desk and a couple of chairs, along with two not-so-hidden cameras to record interviews (and stream them to the TV in the lunchroom). Neria Francoeur sits at the desk in a defeated hunch, her hands over her face. When she sees us, she says, “Oh fuck.”

  “Sorry we have to keep meeting like this,” I say, and grab the chair opposite her. Jeong remains standing. We’re closed in here with Neria, but with cameras recording everything, we’ll want to watch what we say.

  I’ve got a lot better light in which to see her this time. Graham’s old girlfriend—or old sex partner, at least—has a red, tear-streaked face, but her prettiness still shines through. Those wide, dark eyes, that perfect olive-toned skin. She’s dressed in hippie-type clothes, a flowing white shirt and tight flowered leggings. Pale blonde hair tied into two knots. Not the typical murderer look, but I’ve seen all kinds.

  “You told me you weren’t working with the police,” Neria says.

  And there, already, I’m nervous about the cameras. Now it’s on record that Neria and I have already met. “I’m not,” I say. “But I used to be a cop, so they’re happy to let me in to say hi to people. You know, bring in a birthday cake, or interrogate suspects in the murder of a college student. It’s a special relationship.”

  Jeong eyes me. I wonder if he regrets this working relationship at all, or resents Marsters for putting him in this position in the first place. It’s a tough row to hoe, being a spook.

  It occurs to me to wonder why the Portsmouth PD picked up Neria and Wallace in the first place. I thought they knew little to nothing about Graham Tsoukalas and who his friends were. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Tsoukalas wouldn’t have spilled the beans about the illicit DVD. Though she might have mentioned Wallace and Neria at least as people to contact, if Skip Bradley had pressed her for information.

  But how did they nab these two when they were on the run? How did they know where to find them?

  The other body, I realize. Or, rather, the primary body: Graham’s. Had the police found it in the dumpster behind the Tenacious Trainers gym? They must have. And they’ve probably figured out who the body on Peirce Island is by now, too.

  If they haven’t found Graham’s body, though—I don’t want to tip them off by mentioning it here. I wish I could ask Jeong if he reported the body in the dumpster to the cops.

  “Does t
he Portsmouth PD know,” I say carefully, “about … your other secret?”

  Neria’s eyes widen. She must be realizing, simultaneously, both what I’m referring to and my willingness to keep it secret from the police. Because she then chooses her words just as carefully: “No. But you do, huh. Do you know who, uh, that is?”

  “I do,” I say. “But then I have to ask you, who got dumped on the island?”

  Now Neria looks disappointed. Maybe we aren’t on the same wavelength after all. “Detective, that’s . . . Graham. I told you. It’s the other one who isn’t.”

  Agent Jeong spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. Maybe he hasn’t even seen Graham’s body; maybe Marsters sent another agent to check it out. But why would she keep Jeong in the dark, in that case? “Can we stop talking in code?”

  I’m not following Neria either—but I’m still following her more than poor Jeong. I pat his shoulder. “Just trust me right now.”

  Then I tell Neria, “I don’t understand. Graham is the one I found. They can’t both be Graham.”

  “They’re not,” she whispers, her mouth tightening in distress. “Get me and Wallace out of here . . . and I’ll help you understand. We’ll both help you.”

  Now Agent Jeong shifts in his seat. “I’m afraid that can’t be part of the deal. Divya, I’m not willing to wait—what are you two talking about?”

  “Forget it,” I say. “We’ll come back to it. There’s something more urgent we need to know, Neria. About the hole.”

  At first she looks blank. She doesn’t think of it as a hole, does she? Then finally Neria says, “Oh. The gate. The burning gate.” She shoots a nervous look at the cameras, but then goes on to say: “You should have left us alone. We were going to close it, Detective.”

  Just as I thought. “Tell me how.” Though it makes me feel extremely silly to ask, I go on with: “Do you need some kind of . . . spell or something to close it? Jeong, get something to write with so we can jot it down.”

  Jeong, to his credit, does pull out a pad and paper. He’s as unfazed by my mention of wizardry as Akerman was by the mention of a terrorist cell right here in Portsmouth. With the notable exception of my insane crusade against my own department last year, I’m not normally the paranoid type. You know that. But tonight, paranoia feels entirely justified.