by Jed Power
Chapter 26
Mid-morning and over twelve hours had gone by since Conover had lost Dan Marlowe. When Dan hadn't come out the front door of the High Tide within ten minutes of when he should have, Conover had gone right in and found out that Dan had gone out the back door. Why Dan would give him the slip he didn't know, but he didn't like it. He'd called Bartolo and the two of them had been beating the bushes ever since.
Conover shifted his feet on the Ocean Boulevard sidewalk and glanced over at Bartolo. Marlowe's disappearance threw up a red flag as far as Bartolo was concerned. His partner was more certain than ever that Marlowe was involved in the coke heist.
They were standing in front of Funland, listening to the sounds of arcade games and teenage voices spilling through the open front door. They had a kid backed against the outside wall of the building. He was about twenty, twenty-one, thin, greasy hair with a baseball cap planted backwards on his head. Looked like he'd been raised hard. Still, the kid looked plenty nervous.
The conversation wasn't going anywhere and it was time to wrap it up, but Bartolo was busy playing tough guy again.
"You make sure you get your skinny little face right up to a phone if you hear anything, Freddy," Bartolo said, a menacing look on his face. "And don't fucking forget it."
"Yes, sir," Freddy said, his head bobbing up and down on his thin neck. "I'll call ya. Right away too. I won't forget. Not me, sir."
Conover rolled his eyes. The kid had probably already forgotten what day it was. He was definitely no genius. Their investigation of the harbor murders and last night's disappearance of Dan Marlowe was going nowhere. So he and Bartolo were reduced to scraping the bottom of the barrel for people like this Freddy.
"Come on, let's go," he said to Bartolo. He glanced at Freddy. "Have a good day."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't forget what I told you," Bartolo said.
Conover grabbed his partner's arm and gave him a jerk. "We're wasting our time here."
Conover led the way south on Ocean Boulevard. They cruised past jewelry shops, t-shirt stores, and fast food joints with the smell of fried dough thick in the air.
"What's the story on all these urine-colored people? How come they're the ones running these joints now?" Bartolo asked as they moved by another t-shirt shop with a dark-skinned man standing out front. The man gave Bartolo a dirty look.
"What d'ya know?" Bartolo said, not trying to hide the contempt in his voice. "He can speak English. I'll bet he isn't a citizen though. What do you think they're up to?"
"What do you mean up to?" Conover was irritated with the question. He had more important things on his mind than harassing the locals, citizens or not.
"You know what I mean, Ray," Bartolo said, sounding hot now. "You don't think it's strange that all of a sudden almost every goddamn t-shirt store on the beach is owned by an Iranian or Pakistani or whatever the hell they are?"
"No, I don't, Vinny. It's a free country."
"Yeah. And that's what we're giving it away for–free. Even the t-shirt stores, for Chrissake. See what I mean?" Bartolo nodded in the direction of another t-shirt joint and the men working it. "I feel like I'm in the bazaar in Baghdad walking around here."
Conover shrugged. "Hey, anybody can open a business. That's what it's all about."
"I still think there's something fishy."
Conover didn't want to go down this road with his partner, but still he had to ask. "Like what."
"Like where do they get the money for all of these stores? Rents are big bucks around here for the season. You wanna know where I think they get it?"
"Okay, tell me," Conover said with a sigh. "Where do they get the money?"
Bartolo gave a smug grin and nodded. "The part of the world they come from . . . it must be either heroin or hashish. I'm telling you, they're hiding big action here."
Conover shook his head in exasperation. He already had enough to deal with without listening to his partner's crackpot ideas. "I doubt it. Besides, we already have enough action to keep us busy."
"Yeah," Bartolo said disgustedly. "But we aren't getting anywhere. And we've talked to every jerk on the beach."
"Then we'll start back at the beginning and talk to every single one of them again if we have to."
"If you'd listened to me, we wouldn't be traipsing around now looking for Marlowe, we'd have him in custody."
"I know, I know," Conover said. Bartolo'd been pushing to put illegal taps on the phones at both Dan Marlowe's cottage and at the High Tide Restaurant. Conover hadn't liked the idea one bit. Still didn't. Good old-fashioned footwork–chasing down leads and asking questions–had always worked for him before. It would work now.
They passed McDonald's and turned down D Street, heading toward the parking lot behind the Casino where they had left their car. It was a sunny, humid morning. Already too warm for even a lightweight sport coat. A great day to be home, air conditioner on high and a cold six-pack in the fridge. But he hadn't had a day off since this investigation started. The sooner they wrapped this one up, the better–for everyone involved.
As soon as they rounded the back corner of the Casino a Hampton police unit pulled into the lot and screeched to a halt in front of them. Two uniformed cops jumped out with guns drawn.
"Get your hands up," one of them shouted.
Bartolo shot Conover a quizzical look. "What the fuck?" he said.
"What the hell's going on?" Conover asked as another cruiser pulled into the lot, disgorging a pair of armed cops.
"I said get your hands up!" the first cop shouted again.
"I'm . . ." Conover began, and before he could finish, the cop moved toward them, his weapon pointed directly at Conover's chest. "Up against the building. Both of you. Now."
The other cops took the first one's lead, keeping their weapons trained on Conover and Bartolo and advancing like trained seals. Very dangerous trained seals.
"Are you crazy?" Bartolo started, but Conover put a hand on his partner's arm.
"I'm Lieutenant Conover with the state police and this is Sergeant Bartolo. We were in your station just the other day, talking with your chief."
"Yeah and I'm Elvis Presley," said another cop, a pimply-faced kid, as he spun Conover around and slammed him hard against the Casino wall.
"Hey, that's my fucking . . ." The first cop grabbed Bartolo, spun him around, and shoved him against the building.
"Look what I got," said Pimple Face, holding up the pistol he'd taken from Conover's shoulder holster.
"Check my wallet," Conover said. "My ID . . ."
"You bet your ass I'll check your wallet," Pimple Face said as he yanked the wallet from Conover's back pocket. He flipped it open. "Oh, oh." He held up the shield and squinted at it.
"Looks real," said the cop holding Bartolo against the wall.
"You bet your ass it's real," Bartolo shouted over his shoulder. "We're state police, you jackass."
Conover grimaced. Calling these jokers names wasn't going to win them any friends.
One of the new arrivals pitched in. "Look, pal, we got a call you just did a transaction with a known dope dealer up on the boulevard."
"Are you for real?" Bartolo growled. "Do we look like dopers? That was Fast Freddie. He couldn't deal his way out of a paper bag, for Chrissake. Besides, we're on an investigation, you nitwits. Didn't you get the word?"
"Easy, Vinny, easy," Conover said. Getting in a shouting match with these locals wasn't going to help. He knew some Hampton cops, but these guys looked like they were all summer help. "Look. We checked in with your chief when we got into town. We're working the Harbor Murders case."
"Well, we got a phone tip and we have to check it out," said another youngster, lowering his weapon. "If you're working the murders, why were you kibitzing with dealers up on the Boulevard?"
Conover took a deep breath. Before this case was over they might n
eed help from one of these young policemen. No use burning any bridges. Besides, the kids were just doing their jobs.
"Following up a lead," Conover said, stretching the truth more than a little. That was the problem with this whole investigation–all their leads were leading nowhere except into trouble. "Your little 'tip' was probably somebody just trying to throw a monkey wrench into our investigation."
"This one's got a statie ID too," said the cop holding Bartolo. He lifted Bartolo's wallet so Pimple Face could see. "Matches his driver's license."
Pimple Face cleared his throat. "Let's take a walk across the street to the station." He nodded in the direction of the one-story cinder block building. "We'll let the chief straighten all this out."
"Hand over my gun," Bartolo demanded as he turned and smoothed his rumpled shirt.
Pimple Face thought for a moment. "We'll talk to the chief first. He says it's okay, we give them back. Come on, let's go. We'll walk."
Two of the Hampton cops stayed with the cruisers. The other two paraded across the parking lot toward the station with Conover and Bartolo in tow.
"Boy, am I going to bust these assholes' balls," Bartolo said. "Pushing us around like that."
"Forget it."
"I can't forget it. We could've been killed. Who the hell would've told them we were doing a dope deal on Ocean Boulevard anyway?"
"Maybe a urine-colored person who speaks English?"
"Why that fucking cocksucker. I'll strangle him when I get my hands on him."
"Come off it, will you," Conover said. "I got something else I want you to do."
"What's that?"
Conover didn't feel good about it, but he knew it had to be done. They were wasting too much time and getting nowhere fast. "Do the tap on Marlowe's cottage. But forget the restaurant. Too many people probably using it."
Bartolo punched air. "Yes! Now you're talking. When?"
"As soon as I explain our way out of this insanity. And could you please clam up and let me do the talking."
"Absolutely, Ray. I'll be nice and cool."
"Yeah, sure," was all Conover said as he walked through the front door of the Hampton Beach police station and up to the big wooden door marked "Chief of Police."
~*~*~