Dog Eat Dog

by David Rosenfelt

  “So when you heard she had died, you thought it might have something to do with him?”

  “No. It was a random robbery. That’s what the police said, right?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out. So Tina was also unhappy at work in those final weeks?”

  Ginny nods. “Yeah. The place became a lot less fun.”

  I don’t ask why radiating cancer patients is usually fun. And while I’m sympathetic to her being disgruntled at work, it doesn’t relate to my case. “But Tina hadn’t quit, had she?”

  “No, she might have, if…” Ginny gets quiet for a few moments, then, “What a terrible day. Somehow even now it doesn’t seem real. And she was tied to the chair like that; she must have been so scared. How could someone do that?”

  Ginny pauses. I think she is going to burst into tears. But she keeps it together and says, “I’m just glad they caught the animal that did it.”

  If this is the prevailing sentiment in the community, and I’m afraid it is, I am not looking forward to jury selection.

  New England, and Maine in particular, has got to be the center of the craft beer universe.

  Until I got here, I didn’t even know that craft beer had its own universe. But the bar at King Eider’s, and I assume at every other bar around here, has an endless supply of beers that I have never heard of, but that everyone drinks.

  The other night I ordered a Bud Light and I felt like everybody was staring at me.

  This morning I have come to the source, or at least one of them. It’s called the Maine Lighthouse Brewing Company. I assume it got the name because Maine seems weirdly proud of a bunch of lighthouses that it possesses, although this brewery is in Warren and not near any of them.

  I’m not here to gulp my troubles away; I’m here to see the owner of the place, Mike Mitchell. Mitchell is identified in the discovery documents as a former boyfriend of Tina Welker’s. Because of that status, he was immediately on police radar as a potential suspect, but like everyone else, the fact that his DNA was different from the blood found on the scene cleared him. He had willingly given a sample when the police requested it.

  I had called Mitchell a few days ago, and though he said he had no desire to “relive” the horrible events, he agreed to speak with me. It’s a large building, but with minimal office space. I assume there are large brewing rooms because the sign outside lists eleven different beers that Maine Lighthouse makes.

  While I sometimes drink beer, I don’t understand the appeal. It doesn’t taste particularly good; at its best that taste is inoffensive. It’s like coffee for me: I drink it because it’s sort of the thing to do, and other people are drinking it too.

  I tried a craft beer the other night, but that was a onetime deal that will not be repeated. It basically tasted like beer times twelve, and as I said, I don’t even like beer times one.

  Mitchell comes out into the reception area to greet me and, after doing so, asks, “You want the tour?”

  I don’t want the tour, but I don’t want to insult him, so I hesitate. He fills the silence by saying, “Come on, I’ll give you a quick one.”

  We enter an enormous room filled with giant metal vats. Despite his promise that the tour will be a “quick one,” he goes on endlessly about barley and hops and all kinds of other beer words, showing me the process and what each vat is for. He also tells me there is another room the same size that has the same function.

  I’m sure it’s fascinating, but I basically couldn’t care less. I feel like I should ask a question, so I come up with “What’s the difference between a craft beer and a noncraft one?”

  “Excellent question.” I have a feeling he would have described my question as “excellent” had I asked where the bathroom is. “For one thing, to be classified as craft, less than six million barrels can be produced per year.”

  “So the goal is to graduate from craft to regular beer, meaning you sell more of it?”

  He smiles. “No, we’re happy where we are. There are other differences. Craft beer companies cannot be owned by the huge brewers, and craft beers are made by people who love beer. It’s like wine in that respect.”

  “And each one of your eleven brands is different?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You could identify them in a blind taste test?”

  He laughs. “Without question. And I do, much too frequently. Come on, let’s go in my office.”

  We sit down in his office, a small, modest one that has a messy, worked-in look. “Sorry for the long-winded speech in there; I was probably trying to delay having this conversation.”

  “Sorry about that, but if I can ask questions now, I might not have to ask them in court.” That was my not so subtle way of telling him that he needs to be forthcoming, or he’ll have to be under oath.

  “I understand.”

  “You dated Tina Welker?”

  He nods. “On and off. We actually stopped seeing each other just a few months before she died. We remained friends; whether it would have stayed that way or not, I don’t know.”

  “Why did you split up?”

  “That sort of implies that we were together, and that’s not really accurate. I was one of the people that Tina dated; she was open about it.”

  “Did that bother you?”

  “Less than you would think. Probably because she was so upfront about it. Those were her terms and she stated them clearly. If the people she dated weren’t good with that, they could move on.”

  “So you moved on?”

  “I did. I was getting to the point where I wanted to settle down with someone, and Tina made it clear that wasn’t going to be her. Like I say, everything was out in the open.”

  “Did you know Peter Charkin?”

  “I did. We all went to high school together. And then Peter came to work for me here, at least for a while.”

  “Was Tina part of this high school group as well?”

  He smiles. “Prom queen. Tina was really something.” He pauses for a while, maybe revisiting a memory, then adds, “May she rest in peace.”

  “Were she and Charkin dating?”

  Mitchell nods. “Definitely. By the time she died, I think she was dating him exclusively, which was unlike her. I certainly could never get her to be exclusive to me. I was one of a long list of guys who failed in that regard.”

  I had seen photos of Tina in the discovery documents. She was clearly attractive, although I also saw the coroner’s photos after she was shot in the head, and those are pretty hard to get out of my mind.

  “You said Charkin worked for you ‘for a while.’ Was he working here at the time he was killed?”

  “No. He had left a few weeks before.”

  “Why?”

  Mitchell hesitates, apparently measuring his words. “Let’s say that he did not leave voluntarily.”

  “Which means you fired him.”

  “Reluctantly; he was a close friend.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Peter was becoming somewhat unstable. I suspected drug use and I tried to talk with him, but I got nowhere. Eventually, his hours and his behavior became far too erratic, and it left me no choice.”

  “Did you have a sense as to where he was getting the drugs?”

  “No. Honestly, maybe I should have tried to figure it out, but it didn’t matter to me. Like I said, he was my friend, but firing him was a business decision. Actually, it wasn’t really a decision at all. Once I realized he wasn’t going to change what he was doing, I had no choice. It was hurting morale among the other employees.”

  “When you first heard that he and Tina were killed, did anyone come to mind that you thought could have done it?”

  Mitchell grimaces at the memory. “What an awful day that was. But, no, no one came to mind. It was inconceivable to me that anyone I knew, anyone we knew, could have done something like that.”

  “Do the names Jerry Donnelly or Henry Stokan mean anything to you?”

&nbs
p; “No, I don’t think so. Should they?”

  “Probably not. Thanks for your time and the beer education.”

  “No problem. You want some souvenir samples?”

  “No thanks; no refrigerator in the hotel. But I’ll get through them one at a time.”

  Marcus arrives at the hotel at 3:00 P.M.

  Not 2:59, or 3:01. We all know people who are chronically late, and some who don’t feel comfortable unless they arrive at places early. Not Marcus; he arrives exactly on time. Every time.

  Marcus just nods when he sees me, which is just as well. I can never understand a single word that Marcus says, though he says so little that I have few opportunities to practice. Laurie understands him perfectly, which leaves me bewildered every time.

  I’ve checked him in already; he’ll occupy the room next to mine. So I have his key and take him upstairs to tell him the lay of the land. He has just one bag; I pick it up, but it’s remarkably heavy, so I put it back down. “Do you have your rock collection in there?”

  He doesn’t answer, just picks the bag up as if it is filled with air. I got him a suite as well, though smaller than mine because Laurie and the dogs will be with me. He looks at the room and doesn’t say a word. He sits at the table and says something that sounds like either “Stokan” or “Stmph” or something else entirely.

  I’m going to go with Stokan since I’m not currently afraid of anyone named Stmph.

  We sit at the table and I show Marcus the photo of Stokan. “Stokan,” I say cleverly. For some reason when I’m with Marcus I tend to speak as few words as he does, though I try to make mine decipherable.

  He looks at the photo and nods, then looks back at me.

  “Has Laurie told you about him? That he threatened me?”

  That draws an affirmative nod.

  “I don’t know if he just doesn’t like out-of-town lawyers defending someone who might have killed two locals, or if he is somehow involved with our case. But last night I’m pretty sure he was in the parking lot with his friend, waiting for me to get here. I snuck in through the back.”

  Marcus doesn’t say anything, which is not exactly a news event.

  “Laurie will be here tomorrow. Until then I think your time is better spent helping me investigate; there are things you can do. You don’t have to watch out for me. I’ll be careful, and if I see Stokan again, I can call you.”

  “Nunnh.”

  I know from past experience that he means “no,” and it’s confirmed by his shake of the head. I also know where it’s coming from: Laurie has sent him here to protect me, and that’s what he’s going to do. I guess there are worse ways for him to spend his time.

  “Okay, I’m glad we cleared that up. Why don’t you rest up and we’ll go out to dinner? They’ve got great lobster rolls, if you like them.”

  I don’t mention that the restaurant I’m taking him to is where Stokan approached me in the parking lot. Maybe I’ll tell him later, or maybe not. I know Marcus well enough to know that it wouldn’t matter; if he sees Stokan and has to deal with him, Marcus will deal with him.

  I head back to my room. I have to admit that I’m not looking forward to dinner. When I’m with Marcus, I feel the need to carry the conversation, even though he clearly has no interest in it, and I’m incapable of it.

  Marcus makes me nervous, even though he has demonstrated many times that he is on my side.

  When we get to King Eider’s, we sit at the bar, which gives me other people to talk to. The game on the television is a national ESPN game, Cardinals versus Cubs; the Red Sox are not playing tonight. But there is less conversation than usual; the scary and silent Marcus is an inhibiting factor.

  Marcus probably couldn’t talk even if he wanted to. We keep ordering lobster rolls and Marcus keeps eating them; it’s as if his mouth is on the end of a lobster roll conveyer belt. I swear the kitchen staff in the back must have a pool going about how many he will eat. He eats seven of them by my count, though I could be missing one.

  When we leave, I look around warily for any sign of Stokan. I don’t see him or his truck, but that doesn’t surprise me. He knows where I am staying and, unless he’s a complete moron, probably has the back door covered this time.

  Sure enough, when we get back to the inn, he and his large friend are in the truck, lights on and waiting for me. I point him out to Marcus, who doesn’t say anything. It’s possible he still has lobster roll in his mouth.

  We get out and Marcus takes a step in the direction of Stokan’s truck, rather than the front door of the inn.

  “Marcus, wait.” He stops. “I don’t think we should confront him yet. Maybe we can get a better sense of what he wants, and whether he’s working for anyone. Then we’ll have a better chance of learning something.”

  Marcus just looks at me and doesn’t say anything.

  “Marcus, if he tries anything, we can deal with him. If not, let’s wait. Okay?”

  Again he doesn’t answer. I’m not sure if he’s going to do what I say. Laurie may have told him to deal with Stokan head-on.

  I feel compelled to add, “If he’s going to do something, he’ll do it. Right now he’s either just keeping an eye on me or trying to scare me by letting me know he’s here.”

  Still no answer from Marcus or movement in either direction. Finally he gives a small nod and we head for the lobby door.

  “You’ll get your chance, Marcus. That I can promise you. Starting tomorrow, we change the rules.”

  I am looking forward to seeing my family.

  Laurie called me after she dropped Ricky off at the camp bus and was starting her drive here. I got to speak to Ricky early this morning and told him I wished I could be there to see him off.

  I could hear the excitement in his voice. He was looking forward to getting to camp to be with his friends, and then spending the summer playing sports and having no responsibilities other than having a good time.

  I want to go to camp.

  I discussed with Laurie my plan for Marcus, which I had gone over with him last night. We’ve been playing defense with Stokan, being protective and waiting to see where he would turn up.

  We’re turning that on its head. Instead of watching me, Marcus is going to watch Stokan. That might lead him back to me, since Stokan seems to be spending a lot of time following me. I’ve asked Sam Willis to find out where Stokan lives, so Marcus can locate him. Sam will have no trouble doing that, especially since he has the license plate number of Stokan’s truck.

  That would still leave Marcus on the scene and in position to protect me, should Stokan try anything. But if Stokan is working for somebody else in this situation, then he might lead Marcus to that person. We could then turn around and try to tie that person to our case. It’s a long shot, for sure, but at least it’s a shot.

  The only risk in this new plan is if Stokan is not the only one following me. If another potential assailant is out there, Marcus wouldn’t be tracking him and couldn’t protect me from him. That person could then grab me and slit my throat without Marcus there to intervene.

  That would be an unfortunate outcome.

  I should be safe today, since I will be at the FBI offices in Portland. Laurie has talked to our friend Cindy Spodek, the number two agent in the Boston office, who has in turn set up this meeting. It’s with Special Agent Donald Nichols, who has agreed to speak with me as a favor to her.

  He only keeps me waiting for ten minutes, an all-time low in my FBI experience. That’s a good sign; the not-so-good part comes when he opens our meeting by saying, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Let me guess; Cindy Spodek said I was a pain in the ass.”

  He nods. “Before she even said hello.”

  “She’s quite a kidder, but that is a totally undeserved reputation. I am as user-friendly as they come. And I’m just looking for some information.”

  “About Jerry Donnelly. Cindy told me; that’s why I took the meeting.”

  “I take i
t you’re familiar with him?”

  “Very.”

  “He’s a bad guy?”

  “Very.”

  “I was hoping for a little more specificity.”

  “Then you’re going to need to tell me what your interest is in this.”

  “Fair enough. I’m defending Matt Jantzen, who was arrested for a double murder that took place two years ago.”

  Nichols nods. “I’m aware.”

  “So far it’s fair to say that I’m casting a wide net, which means I’m blundering around hoping to bang into a clue. One of the victims, Peter Charkin, was into illegal drugs, so I’m attempting to find out if that drug use is connected to the crime.”

  “Where does Jerry Donnelly come in?”

  “I’m told that that Jerry Donnelly is the dominant player when it comes to drug sales in Maine.”

  “Certainly true enough.”

  “How ruthless and violent is Donnelly?”

  “Very ruthless and very violent.”

  “So if someone like Charkin owed Donnelly money and wouldn’t pay, would he react by killing him and his girlfriend?”

  Nichols shakes his head. “First of all, Donnelly has people that handle the sales for him; he doesn’t stand on street corners or make collection calls. But let’s say that this Charkin guy stiffed Donnelly’s people; killing would not be a first step. Not even a second step and maybe not a third.

  “First he’d threaten him, and then he’d have people break his legs. Donnelly would not find it productive to kill a customer, not without trying other options. He needs customers these days.”

  “What about if it was not just a matter of collections? What if Charkin was trying to do something like move in on his territory?”

  “Different story,” Nichols says. “If Charkin was dumb enough to do that, and very few people would be that dumb, Donnelly wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. But he wouldn’t do it in a way that would help your case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, my understanding is that your client’s DNA was at the scene. I assume you will claim that it was somehow planted there. If Charkin was moving in on him, Donnelly wouldn’t play it like that. He’d want to send a message that he’s not to be messed with. Framing your client defeats that purpose.”