LCole 07 - Deadly Cove

by DuBois, Brendan

  “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.”

  I was pleased to see the surprised look on his face as I closed the door behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Outside in the cool air of South Boston, I knew I was about two blocks away from the Shoreline magazine offices. It would take about five minutes to go in there and pay a surprise visit to my new boss, maybe impress he
r with my thoughtfulness and thoroughness, and maybe build a few bridges between us, so she wouldn’t be so snappy with me and I wouldn’t feel like I was working for the female version of a crazed Colonel McCormick of the old Chicago Tribune days. Sure. I could do that.

  I got into my Ford, started her up, and headed north.

  * * *

  About a half hour into my trip, on a long stretch of Interstate 95 near Beverly, my cell phone rang, and I flipped it open and said, “Hello, this is Lewis.”

  “I know,” came the voice of my editor, Denise. “I wasn’t calling the damn White House, now, was I?”

  The proverbial They say you should pull over while making a cell phone call, to avoid distractions, which is what I did. I pulled over to the side of the four-lane highway and thought about distractions, like tossing the cell phone out the window and running it over. I also thought it was ironic that I had been in her neighborhood less than a half hour ago. Maybe she had sensed me nearby and decided to check in.

  I said, “Not sure if the White House would take your call. What’s up, Denise?”

  “You didn’t file yesterday,” she said.

  “I was kind of busy.”

  “Well, I was kind of being an editor who needs copy submitted, to send out. So hear me well. I need some more copy today—and make sure you add something about that college kid getting shot. Readers love that stuff.”

  “They do, do they?”

  “Christ, yes. Haven’t you ever heard that expression, if it bleeds, it leads?”

  “I thought that was just for newspapers or television.”

  “What’s the difference now, hunh? Get that copy to me, Lewis.”

  Then she hung up.

  I remained in park, on the side of a busy highway, still a bit distracted, and then I got going and resumed my trek north.

  * * *

  About an hour later I was in Durham, the home of the University of New Hampshire, several thousand students, a couple hundred professors and administrators, and one Haleigh Miller. Without knowing where she lived—whether on campus or off, or in which dormitory or housing development—but with the keen insight that comes from years of poking around and paying attention, I went to the Memorial Union Building, a squat, somewhat modern-looking place on the top of a hill, which housed most of the college’s student organizations, including UNH Students for Safe Energy. The office was on the bottom floor of the building, down a long, narrow corridor that held the offices for the radio station, the group responsible for bringing speakers and musicians to campus, the yearbook, the student-run video organization, and the student newspaper, which seemed to attract a number of eager types that Paula Quinn could probably out-report and out-write before having her first cup of coffee in the morning.

  The Safe Energy office was in a room about the size of my home office, and it was crowded with students, denim, wool sweaters, bumper stickers, pamphlets, and about a ton of attitude. There were about a half dozen young men and women in there, and I could see their mental antennas quiver as I passed through the door, and almost as one, they gave me a suspicious look as I stepped in. Could hardly blame them, for I was of a certain age and was dressed in a certain way.

  I gave the closest bearded male my best nonthreatening smile and said, “I’m looking for Haleigh Miller. Do you expect her around?”

  “Depends,” he said, rocking back and forth slowly in a swivel chair that looked like it was kept together by chants and duct tape. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m from Greenpeace,” I said, hating to lie but knowing this was all for some greater good. Or something like that. I went on. “I want to talk to her about a possible internship at our D.C. office.”

  Saying I was from Greenpeace was like going into a high school choir group and announcing I was from a Broadway talent agency. Immediately they all wanted to be my new best friend, and I smiled again and held up my hand and said, “Guys, I’m sorry, I really need to speak to Haleigh. Time is of the essence—and if I can’t talk to her soon, the internship will go to somebody else.”

  My new best friends came up with suggestions, possibilities, and after a few more minutes of corrupting our youth, I went back out to the campus.

  * * *

  According to the members of UNH Students for Safe Energy—who should have known better than to give me the information they did, for I could have been involved in about a half dozen separate criminal enterprises—Haleigh lived in a dormitory called Congreve Hall, set in the middle of the campus. I walked in without much difficulty; the signs at the entryway informed me the admissions desk was manned only during the early evening hours. There were a number of posters and stickers on her dormitory door, all involving either the antinuclear cause or some other movement, but no answer from behind it.

  So I went outside and sat on a stone wall and waited. Around me students went back and forth, laughing, talking, most of them carrying book bags or knapsacks, and I’m sure they thought they were the best, brightest, and most committed of any college generation, and in a way, they would be right. Except, of course, the fact that my college generation, and the one before that, and the one before that, all thought the same thing—probably all the way back to medieval times.

  So I waited, and I thought about my visit to Boston, and how the good attorney down there thought he hadn’t told me a thing, when, in fact, he had by his constant refusal to tell me anything. If Attorney Foster had told me he had no idea what I was talking about concerning him and the Stone Chapel, then so be it. Instead, even though his appointment calendar was supposedly full, he had seen me instantly when I mentioned the name of the Stone Chapel, and any additional question was met by “privileged information.” Over and over again.

  Which meant there was some serious connection between him and Laura Glynn Toles and the Stone Chapel.

  There. Walking down a cement sidewalk, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, looking down at her feet, a light red knapsack on her back. I got up and met her on the sidewalk, and she looked up, startled.

  “Oh, Lewis,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

  She looked over at her dorm. “I … I’m really behind in my classwork, since the demonstrations. I really don’t have that much time.”

  I gently grasped her upper arm. “Just a few, and then I’ll be on my way. Promise.”

  I knew I was treading in some potentially dangerous territory, and I was wary. If she pulled away or made a scene, I’d leave: Campus cops can be very unforgiving of males of any age harassing a student.

  Haleigh just shook her head and came back with me to the stone wall that I had been occupying for a while.

  “Before I start, I just want to know how you’re doing,” I said.

  She pulled back at her hair. “It’s … it’s strange. That’s all I can really say. When I was in Falconer, I was part of a community, you know? People who shared food with you, blankets, water … helped you if you got knocked down by the cops or got pepper-sprayed. There was just … a sense of unity, of being part of something bigger … and then it collapsed … and now I’m back here in Durham … and my classmates and people in my dorm, they don’t care. They don’t care at all. It’s all about who’s hooking up, who’s getting ready for midterms, who’s got a lead on a great internship this summer.” Her face looked pale as she glanced over at me. “So you feel like … is that it? Is that all there is? When we were leaving Falconer, some of the organizers tried to say it had been a success, that we had been building spirit, showing defiance … and I cried. Because we failed. Look at it realistically. We failed.”

  “What about the other group, the Nuclear Freedom Front? They’re trying again.”

  She shivered. “You saw what the cops did to peaceful protesters. Imagine what they’ll do to protesters who don’t rule out using violence.”

  “I see.”

  “Lewis … please, what are your damn questions. I don�
��t have that much time.”

  “It’s about the Stone Chapel, and Bronson Toles.”

  “Cripes,” she said. “Can’t you journalists stop playing with his corpse?”

  “Never said I was a journalist,” I said, “and I’m not playing with his corpse. I need to follow up on some information that somebody told me about Bronson.”

  She sighed. “Go on.”

  “Did Bronson … did he ever have … well, did he ever have an unhealthy interest in his employees?”

  Haleigh’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t dance around it. You’re asking me if he fooled around with the help.”

  “In so many words, yes.”

  “No.”

  “That was a pretty quick answer.”

  “Because it’s a pretty accurate answer,” she shot back. “I worked there weekends, nights and into the early morning. I never saw anything or heard anything about him fooling around. It never happened.”

  “So if somebody told me that the reason he only hired females is because he wanted to be around them, and have the occasional relationship, then that somebody would be wrong?”

  “No,” she said calmly. “That someone would be lying. You want to know why he only hired women?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Because he believed the deck was stacked against women, right from the beginning, that men had an advantage when it came to jobs and to learning, and he was going to do what he could to level the playing field. That’s all. He did something gracious and noble, and now you tell me somebody’s using that against him. Disgusting.”

  “So no chance of an upset father or boyfriend picking up a rifle to take his revenge on Bronson.”

  “Oh, Christ, no, Lewis. That sounds like a bad movie.”

  “All right, enough of that,” I said. “About the Stone Chapel. The musical groups that Bronson hired to bring in—any disputes from anyone? Did they feel they got treated unfairly? Paid too little? Not promoted enough?”

  She shook her head and stood up. “You really don’t know Bronson, and you really don’t know the Stone Chapel. Bronson always treated them fairly, like members of the family, and he gave a lot of musical groups their first break, and some of them became famous because of it—and there are groups and performers who practically fight for the chance to come to the Stone Chapel. So if you think some disgruntled musician killed Bronson over some contract dispute, you’re wrong.”