by Jed Power
Chapter 6
Lieutenant Ray Conover, of the New Hampshire State Police, knew this was a big case–a double homicide with possible drug smuggling ties. The brass had made sure he understood that. So it was only natural that he and his partner, Sergeant Vincent Bartolo, had been talking to a lot of people up and down the seacoast trying to shake something loose. Someone in the area had to know something. Bartolo and Conover were determined to find out who that someone was and what they knew, almost any way they could. That's what they were doing now–rattling another cage, putting pressure on another somebody. Hoping that one of those somebodies would tell them what he knew about a boat smacked up on the Hampton Beach jetty with two dead bodies in it.
Bartolo was doing the dirty work as usual. Conover was keeping an eye on him, letting Vinny do his thing, but making sure his partner didn't get carried away like he sometimes did. Right now Vinny was yelling and screaming at a short, heavy guy with gold chains around his neck. He was right up in the guy's face. And right now Tony Peralta, the guy with the gold chains, didn't seem like the tough coke dealer he was supposed to be either–he was cowering like a punk at the tongue lashing he was receiving.
"Look, you fucking scumbag," Bartolo said, punctuating each word with a jab to Peralta's sternum. "You think you're hot shit just because you live in a nice place. I got news for you, dirt bag. You don't help us, you can kiss all this goodbye." He waved his meaty hand at the surrounding room, barely missing Peralta's cringing face.
Conover hoped the threat would be enough to bring the guy around. Otherwise, even though he didn't like the thought of it, he'd probably have to look the other way while Vinny got a little rough. People had died, after all. If something didn't give quick, maybe more would. Hopefully, the guy would cave before Vinny decided to draw blood.
Conover glanced around. The punk wouldn't want to give this up. Who would? It was a beautiful home, brand-new construction. Couldn't have been more than a few years old. Perched high on the rocks of Boar's Head, a peninsula that jutted out into the Atlantic at the north end of Hampton Beach. The place must have more than a dozen massive rooms. If they were anything like the room they were in now, then they must be really something.
The room he was standing in now was a sunken living room on the first floor, with loads of expensive furniture and a well-stocked polished-stone bar. The wall behind Peralta was floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the ocean. A sliding door opened onto a patio, and beyond that there was an expanse of beautiful golf course-like grass with an extra long picnic table and lounge chairs scattered about. The grass ran right down to rocks that dropped at an angle fifty feet to the ocean.
Yeah, it was a hell of a place and Conover didn't think anyone, let alone a character like Tony Peralta, would want to lose it.
"I told you, I haven't heard anything about the murders," Peralta whined. "It's an enigma."
It was Conover's turn to cringe as Bartolo's hand suddenly cracked across Peralta's face. Peralta's head snapped to the side and he staggered back a step.
"An enigma?" Bartolo scowled. "Don't talk to me like that, you fucking asshole. We know all about you, you worthless piece a shit. The only reason you're living up here like King Tut is 'cause you ratted out some people to the D.E.A. And you're still feeding the feds names, aren't you, sleazeball? You think we don't know that? You think we're fucking stupid or something? I wonder what'd happen if word got around that you dropped a dime as big as a manhole cover on some of your business competitors? That you're still ratting on people? I bet you'd have to move out of this palace. Wouldn't you? And that's if you were lucky."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Peralta said, holding up his hands. "You got me all wrong." Sweat poured down his big forehead.
"I got you wrong?" Bartolo said, first pointing to his chest, then Peralta's. "No, you got it wrong." He went nose to nose with the dope dealer. "And if you don't cooperate, in one minute I'm going to throw you through that big fucking window behind you, beat your fat body 'til you're bloody as raw meat, then toss you down that cliff. And if you live, I'll put the word out in every bar on the seacoast that you're a federal informant before you can even dry your hair–or what's left of it.
Conover could see that Bartolo had worked himself into a frenzy, and that his partner wasn't going to wait for Peralta to answer him. And he was right. Bartolo grabbed Peralta by his loud Hawaiian shirt and introduced the dope dealer's cheek to Bartolo's massive fist. The blow hit hard and Conover thought he heard something crack. Peralta went flying backwards, landing heavily on his ass. Blood spurted from a gash, splattering down Peralta's face and shirt.
Conover didn't like the action one bit, but he didn't make a move to stop his partner. He could let it go a little longer if he had to; the image of the murder victims in his mind made sure of that. He watched as Bartolo pulled the man up from the floor by his shirt and cocked his big right fist.
"All right, all right," Peralta said, his voice shaking, his hands up trying to protect his face. "I'll do whatever you want." He gingerly touched his cheek. "My god, I think you broke a bone."
"So what?" Bartolo said. "You're lucky it wasn't your nose. Then you'd have to lay off sampling your wares for a while."
Conover knew it was his turn now. "Forget about your ugly face, Peralta, and tell us what you know about the murders down at the harbor."
"I don't know anything about the murders except what I read in the papers," Peralta said as he wiped the bottom end of his shirt across his face to sop up the blood.
They had some intelligence that a large load of cocaine might have been the motive behind the murders. Maybe it was time to pursue that avenue and see where it led. "You heard of anyone trying to move any weight of coke? Maybe somebody new?"
"Yeah, you should know about that, you fucking sleazebag." Bartolo moved in close again. "You like moving powder. Getting people all strung out. What do you care, right, shithead?"
"If it wasn't me, it'd be someone else. You know that as well as I do," Peralta said as he wiped his face one more time.
"You mother . . ." Bartolo raised his fist again.
Conover moved between them; he couldn't let this deteriorate further. They had a job to do. A job that didn't involve beating a suspect senseless. "I asked you if you heard of anyone trying to move a lot of coke. A new player maybe?"
Peralta started to say something, hesitated, then started again. "Nothing. I haven't heard anything unusual."
"Well, you better clean out your ears and hear something we can use," Bartolo said. "And it better be fast."
"The bottom line is we want whoever's behind these murders. And we want them bad," Conover said. "We also don't want any big loads of dope flooding our state. We're going to break hard on every goddamn dope dealer within fifty miles of here until we get what we want. You find out something for us. And when you're asking around, you tell them what I said too. They're all going to feel more heat than they knew could exist until we get some answers. And I don't care whether they're moving ounces of weed or pounds of blow. They aren't going to be able to make a dime and that'll be if they're lucky. Now get us something and get it quick."
"And don't forget what I promised you if you don't come across," Bartolo snarled, a wicked smirk on his face.
"I'll get you what you want," Peralta said. Blood dripped from his chin, spotting the thick beige rug.
"And remember–make it fast," Conover said. He took one of his business cards from his wallet and flipped it onto the sofa. Then he and Bartolo turned and walked out the front door.
When they reached their car at the end of the gravel driveway, they both stopped and looked back. It was a sunny day with low humidity, and they could hear the sound of the surf pounding the rocks below the house.
"I know it's the way it is," Bartolo said, staring at the house. "But I still don't like it."
"What's that?" Conover ask
ed, even though he already knew the answer.
"This dirtbag, Peralta. Here he is dealing a ton of coke and who knows what else and he's living ocean front. We'll never see that."
"He'll get his someday. What goes around, comes around," Conover said, and he believed it too.
Bartolo snorted. "Maybe, but I'm not holding my breath. The fed's are protecting him."
"You know them. They'll protect him only as long as he's valuable to them."
"A guy like him doesn't deserve to live," Bartolo said. "All dope dealers deserve to die, but this guy should die twice. Somebody should take him out."
"Somebody will, one way or another," Conover said. "Someday."
"Maybe, but I don't know who's worse–guys like this or the feds that let them operate." Bartolo scowled.
"Six of one, half-dozen of the other," Conover said, shaking his head. "Let's travel, partner."
"Yeah, yeah. Sure. But you want to know something else, Ray?"
"What's that, Vinny?"
"It felt real good clocking that guy," Bartolo said, holding up a fist and shaking it.
Conover had to chuckle. "Yeah, I bet it did. I bet it really did."
They both got in the car and headed down the road and off Boar's Head.
~*~*~