by Jed Power
Chapter 12
Lieutenant Ray Conover had a problem–too many donuts and not enough running. He was jogging north on Hampton Beach at an easy pace and already his lungs ached. The low tide left the sand hard, making a good running surface. It was 7:30 in the morning. The sky was a clear blue, the sun bright, and the ocean shimmering. This should've been an easy run, not a freaking endurance race.
There were only about a dozen people scattered along the entire length of the beach, some walking, a handful running. A few seagulls circled overhead, squawking. An orange parasail floated high enough above the water that the tourist strapped between the sail and the towing boat was an amorphous blob. Up ahead, leading by maybe a hundred yards, was Dan Marlowe and he was jogging too.
Conover swore at himself for not keeping in better shape. He needed to find something besides his own pain to think about. Immediately, a picture flashed into his mind: the mug of the Irishman, looking like a frozen turnip, staring up from the floor of the High Tide Restaurant. The poor soul's head had been bashed in with a kitchen pot. The little guy must've had been born with "The Luck of the Irish" because somehow the Irishman survived. He was in the Intensive Care Unit.
A couple of the local cops who'd been hanging around the crime scene insisted that the incident was a restaurant burglary-in-progress that Shamrock had inadvertently interrupted. One look at the Irishman's bruised face and Conover knew this was no burglary. Looked like the word he and Bartolo had picked up on the street–that the Irishman was trying to unload some serious blow and that blow had gotten him into some serious shit–was a more accurate scenario. You didn't have to be Einstein to figure there might be a tie-in with the murders down at the harbor.
There was always the chance the Irishman had spilled the beans and told whoever was beating on him where the coke was. If that was the case, that same somebody more than likely had the entire stash in his or her hot little hands. At least that would put an end to the rough stuff on Happy Hampton Beach. But Conover couldn't make assumptions. Except for one–if Kelly hadn't talked, then someone was still out there looking for the cocaine. And they would do anything to get it.
But who in the hell would beat a man almost to death with a kitchen pot and stuff him in an ice machine? Took a sadist who really enjoyed his work to pull off a mess like that. Conover had put a lot of guys away during his career, but none of them could hold a candle to this guy.
He'd discarded Dan Marlowe as a suspect right off the bat. After all, Marlowe had called right after he'd hung up with Emergency Services. The guy'd sounded really shaken. Said he'd found out a few things. That they had to talk. Definitely not a killer-like move unless Marlowe was trying to throw him off the track. But Conover had a good feel for people–had to in his business–and Marlowe didn't seem the type to go around pulverizing people's brains.
The jury was still out as far as the cocaine heist went. Marlowe was denying any involvement, but more and more it seemed that anyone and everyone could be mixed up in that kind of shit. And with what they had found out about Marlowe's past . . . well, he just wasn't sure.
Better than even odds that Marlowe was in danger either way. Marlowe sensed it too. His connections to the High Tide and Kelly, not to mention the fact that his history with coke was known up and down the beach, made him a prime target. If the coke was still out there waiting to be found, it wouldn't take long for whoever tried to turn the Irishman into a popsicle to connect all the dots. Those dots would lead them straight to Marlowe, and they wouldn't hesitate to introduce Marlowe's head to a kitchen pot, see what he had to say.
Conover wasn't happy with where his thoughts were heading. Happy or not, there was no doubt Marlowe was his best lead.
When Marlowe called, Conover had stayed away from pressuring the man about the coke. Instead, he hammered away at the danger Marlowe was in, pointing out whoever had battered the Irishman had probably been after him too, or would be soon. After some initial resistance, he'd finally convinced Marlowe to let him shadow him for a while. Marlowe had demanded only one assurance–he didn't want Bartolo anywhere near him. Conover had a chuckle over that and then had given his word.
Conover kept his eyes focused on Marlowe's jogging outfit–black t-shirt, black jogging shorts, white sox and white sneakers, Walkman in hand, earphones on his head. About the same getup that Conover was wearing, except instead of a Walkman Conover carried a small brown bag with a 9mm Glock pistol inside.
They'd started the run down on the sand at the south end of the beach and now Conover was across from the Casino, a two-story gray building two blocks long that contained everything from arcades to a miniature golf course.
Up ahead Marlowe clambered over a jumble of rocks separating the main beach from another short stretch of sand. The sandy spit was only about 50 yards long. Marlowe would have to turn and retrace his steps as soon as he reached the end.
Marlowe dropped out of sight and Conover picked up his pace. As he raced toward the rocks a feeling suddenly came over him, the same feeling he'd had off and on over the years. Something bad was going on behind those rocks. Something he couldn't see. It was ridiculous getting all worked up about a feeling, but Conover found himself pouring it on, his arms and legs pumping faster.
When he finally reached the rocks where Marlowe had disappeared and scrambled to the top he didn't feel quite so ridiculous anymore.
Instead, he felt worse.
The little spit of land was deserted except for Marlowe and two masked figures–a short pudgy guy and a muscle-bound giant–mixing it up at the far end. The giant yanked Marlowe toward the seawall. Didn't look like Marlowe was going easy. He landed what looked like a decent blow upside the giant's face, but the big man wasn't fazed. The smaller character danced out in front, motioning the bigger guy on.
Conover yanked his gun from the paper bag as he took two quick steps down the rocks and onto the sand. He paused a moment, uncertain who he was dealing with. No one had drawn a weapon yet. At least, not that he could see.
Conover raced toward the small group. "Stop. Police."
The words came out more like a squeak instead of a shout. Marlowe stayed put while the other two bolted for the seawall. They reached the wall just as Conover stopped next to Marlowe. He bent his head, put his hands on his knees, and tried to slow his breathing.
"Are . . . you . . . all . . . right?"
"Yeah, sure," Dan answered, sounding shaken. "I'm okay, I guess."
And except for a couple of red marks on his face he did look okay to Conover. "Who were they?"
"I'm not sure."
"What'd they want?"
Suddenly, a voice shouted out, "Hey, asshole."
Conover glanced up at the seawall near Ocean Boulevard. The big guy stood there, pistol held across his body like he was preparing for inspection, then he turned and leveled the barrel at them. The second it went off, the explosion that made his whole body jump told Conover the weapon was a magnum.
He and Dan both hit the sand. The big man fired the cannon once more, the bullet whistling as it passed close by. Conover lifted his face from the sand and watched the shooter turn and disappear beyond the seawall.
"Stay here." Conover jumped up and ran to the seawall where he boosted himself up onto the concrete and then over the gray railing onto the sidewalk. A silver Mercury Sable came peeling out of the parking lot that separated the north and southbound sides of Ocean Boulevard, and there was that jerk again riding shotgun with his cannon waving out the window, yelling obscenities, and then another god-awful explosion as he fired again. Conover found himself hugging the sidewalk. By the time he got up he knew it was hopeless, but he was so pissed he still raised his Glock in a two-handed grip and fired off half a magazine in the direction of the speeding car.
Dan was on his feet when Conover got back. "You sure you don't know who that was?"
Marlowe looked away. "I don't think so.
"
"Sooner or later we're gonna figure out who they are," Conover said, gun in his hand hanging at his side. "One thing we don't have to figure out, though, is what they're after. The coke. They think you got it."
Conover looked at Dan, waiting for him to respond.
Dan looked back.
After a long minute of silence, the two men–Dan holding his Walkman and Conover his gun–turned and started walking back south along the beach.
~*~*~