Black Tide

by Brendan DuBois

  Petro Associates

  1. Ownership

  2. History

  3. Current Factors

  I didn't think my finger trembled when I punched in 1, but know that I took in a deep breath when this showed up:

  Petro Associates Ownership: Majority owner: Cameron Briggs, New York, NY

  More information available (Y /N)?

  "Got you, you son of a bitch," I whispered.

  In the next five minutes I bounced around the system, getting, more information about Cameron Briggs, and my heart pounded so hard that I thought the sound would crack my computer screen. After having spent weeks working on this search and having come up with only a few lines of information, it was intoxicating to have pages and pages of data being sucked into my softly humming computer. Seeing all of this information unroll before me was like drinking a bottle of wine in five minutes on an empty stomach.

  The name was familiar and it was easy to see why. He was a big-time businessman in the Northeast, active in politics and one who got his name in a lot of newspapers and business magazines. DefNet was a dream --- I got the listing of businesses that Cameron Briggs owned (he was a majority owner in twelve, with most of them being computer companies), his credit rating (impeccable) and personal life (forty-two years old, divorced, no children). I had enough information on Cameron Briggs to hang him out on a very long rope and see him twist for some time in a cold breeze.

  Then I saw something that stopped me with my hands over the keyboard. Right after his personal information, there was this notation:

  Cameron Briggs (Personal): Criminal Investigations (Y/N)?

  I might have damaged the "Y" key, I pressed so hard, and this is what I got:

  Cameron Briggs (Criminal Investigations)

  See Op Harpoon JO Files

  J. Carney/Contact JD

  File Number: OC-NE-423

  '''Curiouser and curiouser,' said Alice," I quoted, and as I was poised to go on, the screen froze, and then went blank.

  Then this appeared:

  DefNet Password Verification

  Please Enter Confirming Password:

  The room's air conditioner seemed to have kicked in, for I felt a cold breeze on the back of my neck.

  "Whoops," I said, trying keep my voice light. "Big Brother is on duty tonight."

  I typed in "rangers" (or ******* if you prefer) and got this in return:

  DefNet Password Verification

  Invalid Response

  Please Enter Confirming Password:

  "Damn it, Peg, why didn't you tell me about the confirming password?" I said to the blinking screen. I waited, looked at the computer and thought for a moment. This was a way for the system to poke up while someone was on-line, to verify that he was really an authorized user, and thereby prevent easy access by people who might steal their co-workers' passwords, or who might be involved in a piece of phone scamming. Having a second password that kicked in after five or ten minutes of use would be an easy way to keep the system safe. Such a system hadn't been in use when I was at the DoD, and I guess I should have been proud of the system improvements, but I wasn't.

  I was thirsty for some reason, knowing that at this moment someone from the real System Security at DefNet was responding to an alarm, that there was a problem with this particular user and no doubt a phone trace was being conducted ----

  In one quick motion I reached over and pulled the phone line free, closed down my file, shut down my Macintosh, and the computer hummed to a halt. I got up and began unsnapping connections and pulling the cardboard boxes together, throwing the computer gear in without even bothering to make sure that they fit snugly in the foam protectors in the box. As I worked, I ran through a variety of scenarios, knowing that a trace was probably underway even at this moment. Would the local police respond? Perhaps. Maybe a well-placed phone call and a sheriff is at the manager's door, checking on this particular phone. Or would they send a military response? Where was the nearest base from here? West Point? Or Plattsburgh Air Force Base?

  Minutes to respond to the call from System Security, more minutes to get to this motel, long minutes, and I was working with seconds.

  I had no clothes in the room, just my computer gear, and I forced myself to be calm as I walked to the Rover and back, and it took only three trips. I left the room key on the counter and got in and started up the Rover, and as I drove out of the parking lot, I looked up to the rearview mirror. I thought I saw a dark blue Ford LTD or Crown Victoria with black sidewall tires pull in front of the manager's office. If so, that was one hell of a response.

  But I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to find out, so I kept driving. Yet I was sure of one thing as I entered traffic on Route 32.

  Cameron Briggs and I were going to get to know each other. For in his computer file were three addresses where one could find Cameron Briggs: one was in New York City, another was on Long Island and the third was a summer address at Wallis, New Hampshire, sometimes called the Gold Coast of New Hampshire, and all of five miles from my home.

  It was hard to keep my speed under the limit all the way back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was Wednesday night in Tyler, two days after my road trip to the city, county and state of New York, and I was still tired. That and the two beers I had with dinner made it hard to keep awake, but I was trying, for the evening was almost over, and favors were about to be exchanged. Diane Woods and I were in a condo unit that Roger Krohn was renting for the month he was staying at Tyler Beach, and we were sitting on an outside balcony, three stories up from the condo's parking lot, overlooking the beach and the sands and the crowded streets of Atlantic Avenue.

  Joining us on the balcony was one Rhonda Dwyer, Roger's dare for the evening. It was hard to keep my eyes off of her ---- not because she was any great beauty, but because she dominated any space she inhabited. She had on black stretch pants and a white pullover that had a lion's face silk-screened on the front, which was appropriate, in view of her mane of blond hair. During the evening and through dinner Diane had attempted on several occasions to enter into a meaningful discussion with her, and Diane had kicked me under the table a couple of times at my not so innocent smile when her attempts had failed. Rhonda worked at the Suffolk County courthouse in Boston, which is where she had met Roger, and during the night she hadn't said much. She had just laughed a lot whenever Roger said something witty or amusing, and it seemed to me that she was either well trained or well paid.

  "Fireworks should be starting soon," Roger said, leaning a hip against the balcony's railing, a bottle of Budweiser in his hand. "That's one thing I'll miss when I move back home --- the fireworks every Wednesday night. The first night they lit off, they sure as hell surprised me. I thought I was back in the Army, back in the desert. Real loud, but real pretty. You know what they say. There's not a problem in the world that can't be solved by explosives. Still, it gives this place some charm. I like it here."

  "Hah," Rhonda said, tossing back her hair. "You can keep this place, Rog. It's too damn quiet for me. And the sand --- Jesus, it gets into everything." She sipped at a cocktail glass, working on her third or fourth gin and tonic. Diane was sitting next to me, looking out at the night sky and the dark swath of the ocean, I could sense tonight was a strained event for her, pretending to be something she was not, in exchange for the future good graces of someone she expected someday to be her boss. I think her pride was taking a few hits tonight, as she masqueraded as my date.

  Between us was a round, glass-topped table which held the dirty dishes and remains of our meal. Dinner had been steak from the outdoor grill, baked potatoes from the microwave and chilled salad from the refrigerator, and during one moment in the kitchen when we were alone, Roger had nudged me with his elbow and said, "No wonder you were so antsy back when we had dinner and I was asking you about who was going out with Diane. You could have told me, Lewis. I would have understood."

  Actually, I thought of saying that no, Rog
er, you wouldn't have, but I just smiled and said, "I usually let Diane speak for herself. She's that kind of woman. Um, Rhonda seems to be a nice person.”

  Roger dismissed her with a wave of his hand, which was holding a fork to test the baked potatoes. "Ah, she's just an old family friend. I mean, we see each other now and then, but it's nothing serious. Just whenever both of us are in the mood to get together. But when she found out I was here for the month, she's been up visiting a couple of times. Sunning herself on the beach and shopping at the malls up in Porter and Lewington. No sales tax here, and she loves that, along with everybody else, it seems."

  "I guess a quarter of a million tourists can't be wrong."

  Out on the sands I made out the flickering flames where the fireworks were to be sent up. They usually go up at 9 P.M. give or take a few minutes --- and it was getting near that time. I like fireworks. I've never been able to say just why. Maybe because I liked the larger rockets that they represented. Or maybe it was just the child in me enjoying the bright lights and loud noises. In that case, I suppose I should like Boston's Southeast Expressway night, but that was never the case. Roger looked over the railing and said, "Christ, traffic's backed up all the way to the lights."

  "Guess Wednesday night is still popular," I said.

  "I guess. Look, Lewis, you want to give me a hand with the dishes before the fireworks start up?"

  I said sure and we both took a handful of dishes as we went through a sliding-glass door into the condo's interior. The living room had little furniture and the kitchen was equally empty of the photos and clutter that people usually acquire when they live in one place for a long time. The summer had been fair --- not the best one in years but definitely not the worst ---- and Roger had told me that he had gotten a good deal for his month's rent. The condo unit made me feel uncomfortable, as if I was in a bad place that was hiding behind a mask, pretending to be a home, waiting for the next hopeful man or woman or family to move in. I would have a hard time going to sleep in a place like this. Not enough memories, not enough thoughts. Everything was just smooth concrete and plastic surface.

  As we wiped the dishes down and started filling up the dishwasher, Roger looked thoughtful and said, "You know, I almost put another month's deposit on this place."

  "You did? Why's that?"

  He looked past me and at the two women on the balcony, and he lowered his voice. "I had lunch today with Bruce Gerrity and Gage Duffy, the town manager and the chairman of the board of selectmen. Between you and me, things don't look good for the chief, and they're very interested in me. Very interested. There are two deputy chiefs who both want the guy's job, and they're afraid if they give it to one of them, the other'll make a stink and ruin the department's morale. So they're looking for an outsider. "

  "You said they're interested in you," I said. "Is the interest two-way? Are you ready to give up the big-city life and come up here to New Hampshire? I warn you, it'll be different. People up here, if their mailbox gets vandalized, they expect you to do a real investigation, not just write and file a report. You think you're ready for that?"

  "Yeah, I think I am," Roger said, closing the door to the dishwasher. "You know what I've said before, about the craziness down in Boston. Just a matter of time before things get so wild that I pull the pin. But I'm worried about a couple of things. Biggest thing, I guess, is how I'll be treated in the town of Tyler if I do take the chief's job. There's always that tension between the out-of-towner and the townies in small towns, Lewis, and it's even worse when it comes to police departments, and it's triple worse if it's someone from Massachusetts taking a New Hampshire job."

  I washed my hands in the sink. "First time I've ever heard that expression. Triple worse."

  Roger smiled and put away some barbecue sauce and ketchup in the refrigerator. "Oh, it's just something I picked up. You know, I was wondering if I could count on you, Lewis, if I get the police chief's job."

  My ears seemed to tingle at that last sentence. "What was that, Roger? Count on me? I'm afraid I'm not much of an accountant. I just push words for a living and rely on a monthly magazine to keep me afloat."

  He twisted a couple of knobs on the dishwasher and the sound of flowing water kicked in. "You may say that but you're real1y well known in this town. I've talked to some of the people living and working here, and you're known up and down this coast."

  "My mistake, I guess."

  "No, I don't think so. I think you've got some influence here --- especially with Diane --- and I know writers need sources of information. I'm sure we could find out a way where we could help each other out. Maybe you could give me some advice."

  At that moment I felt uneasy at having this conversation with Roger and with being in the clean and almost sterile condominium, which was probably identical in shape, color and maybe even smells to thirty or so other units in this building. I decided make the best of it and gave him a grin.

  ''Advice?'' I asked. "Here's some advice. Always return a selectman's phone call, no matter how late or how drunk they might be. Treat the head of the Chamber of Commerce with respect, since the other business people see him as a moneymaker for the beach. If you're ever in a dispute with a townie or a tourist, always be on the side of the townie. The tourist won't be here at town meeting time. And don't be afraid of arresting prominent citizens. Just make sure your case is airtight and your resume is up to date. Got it?"

  He smiled. "Maybe I should have taken notes."

  I wiped my hands dry on a piece of paper towel and smiled back. "Give me a 'get out of jail free' card, and I'll type something up."

  “Deal," he said, tossing a dishtowel at my head. It missed and struck a cabinet door, and I laughed along with him as we left the kitchen. If Tyler was to get a new police chief, it could do worse. Out on the balcony I touched the back of Diane's neck just as I watched a flickering orange trail of sparks shoot up from the beach sands. She reached up for a moment and patted my hand. There was a sudden and quick blossom of light, of green and blue and orange. For a brief moment the parking lot and the buildings and the empty sands of the beach were lit up like day, and you could note the upturned heads of the crowds out on the sidewalk and the sands.

  Diane said, "Look at that," and Rhonda just said, "Ooooh," and then there came the teeth-rattling boom. The sound of the first rocket echoed across the beach, and by the condo buildings, and from far off on the sands, there were the faint cheers of the hundreds of people, pressed in together, watching an ancient Chinese weapon of war at work. Something to cheer for. Not bad, for an hour or so.

  After about a half hour Diane and I left, and we held hands as we went back in from the balcony. Rhonda was blushing as she hesitantly said good-bye, while Roger was still smiling, probably over our last conversation and my advice. We both made the promises that are lies --- about wanting to do this again real soon --- and Diane followed me as we went down three flights of concrete stairs and out to the parking lot. We got into my Rover without a word. The air was muggy and warm, and the traffic on Atlantic Avenue had lightened up some by the time I joined in.

  "Well," I said, "that was certainly an evening I won't forget anytime soon."

  "Me, too," Diane said, with resignation in her voice. "Listen, when we get back to my place, remind me. I have the background information you requested on those three people. And, Lewis," she said, her face serious in the glow from the passing streetlights, "I've got a couple of questions about that for you."

  "I'm sure you do," I said. "And I've got a question for you, detective. Tell me, did Roger's date do anything for you? Any chance the two of you will get together soon?"

  She seemed to glare at me, and then giggled and punched me in the shoulder. "Sorry, hon. I like my women with something between their ears, and not necessarily on their chest."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Really," she said, seeming to sink lower into the seat. "Now, why don't you just shut up and drive. Playing games is tiring and I’m beat.
" '

  I did what she asked. We drove south along Atlantic Avenue and we were slowed down a bit in the traffic around the Strip and the outlying motels and hotels. We passed Baker Street and at a hotel called the St. Lawrence Seaway, a plastic banner outside fluttered in the breeze. The banner said "Under New Management." I looked away, troubled by memories that weren't so old. In a minute or two we went by the fire station and the police station, and then I took a right as we hugged the small harbor that belongs to Tyler and is shared by the town of Falconer. The nuclear power plant's lights were bright orange and white. The trees near Diane's condominium eventually obscured them. The condo complex Diane calls home is Tyler Harbor Meadows, on the northern end of Tyler Harbor, where it narrows to meet the tidal flow of the Wonalancet River. It's made up of about a dozen townhouses built near the water's edge in a horseshoe formation, and I pulled into an empty spot in front of No. 12, Diane's place.

  As we got out, I said to Diane, "Mind living so close to a nuke plant?"

  “Hell, no," she said. "Beats living next to a chemical factory. Least this way you know there's only one thing out there --- radiation. Chemical factory, you never know what they're dumping out. But I do miss the protests."

  "Why's that?"

  She made a funny face. "Town of Falconer always needs help with the protesters, and it's a good chance for me to put on a real uniform and make some overtime. Sometimes civil disobedience just means money for the civil service."

  I followed her in and we went up a set of carpeted stairs. The stairs made a sharp turn and there was a kitchen to the left, overlooking the parking lot and the harbor, and to the right was a small living room, with a low wooden counter holding up a television and stereo system, and a tan couch with matching chairs. Another set of stairs started in the kitchen and led upstairs, to a bedroom and a study.