Black Tide

by Brendan DuBois

  He looked down at the beer can in his hand. "In fact, I couldn't believe how I lucked out in getting the job at the Scribner. I got paid to be in that museum and keep an eye on things. I thought I had the greatest job. Walk through that big museum at night, nobody there ‘cept for Ben Martin, just walk on those wide floors, all by myself. It was like those paintings were more alive after hours, without all the visitors poking around and walking up and asking dumb questions. Lots of times, on my breaks, I'd go out and sit there in the dark, looking up at the paintings, and the streetlights, they'd make them look fresh, like they had just been painted. Man, I had a plan, you know that? Work there after school, make some money, get some experience, and then get my degree in criminal justice and get a real cop job and study art in those adult ed classes, go to Europe for a month or two, visit some he museums, it was a hell of a plan…."

  His voice dribbled away and he stared down into his open can of beer, as if he was fighting back some tears, and said, more slowly, "That night, old Martin thought he recognized one of the cops at the door. Hell, he was such a big-shot veteran, he thought he knew everybody in the Manchester PD, and he said we should let 'em in. Give 'em a break, he said. They're just doing their jobs. What could I say? So we did, and just like that, everything bad that could possibly happen, happened, and there was no way I was ever going to work as a cop, Mr. Cole. Not ever."

  Craig looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, face set with fury. "So they came in and guns were poked in our ears, and we were taped up and blindfolded and dumped in a corner, and I was so scared I pissed and shit in my pants, and the next couple of months all I heard from the Manchester PD and the FBI was 'Why did you do it? Who were you working with?' Can you believe that?"

  I nodded in his direction. "You've got to admit, it's a logical place to look. Inside job maybe, with the two guards helping out."

  "Hah." He swallowed off the rest of the beer and then bent over, his gut hanging out, hands scrabbling around for another can of Budweiser, from which he pulled off the plastic ring. "Logical, but think this one through. When the cops undid me, I stank so bad and I was so scared I was shaking and crying, but they thought I was such a good actor that I could soil myself like that. They even laughed at me, you know? They laughed at me, 'cause I shit in my pants. Jesus. Me and Ben Martin. They jumped all over us like we were instant suspects, like we were the only two guys who worked at the museum."

  "You think they should have picked on somebody else?"

  He popped open his beer. "Sure. There were other candidates, other guys who worked there. It could have been anybody."

  "Like who?"

  He just eyed me as he tipped the can up to his mouth. I said, "How about Justin Dix?"

  The Budweiser can came back down fast, as if he had tasted something foul in the beer. "Justin Dix? What do you know about Justin Dix?"

  "I know he had money problems. You know any more than that?"

  He slowly smiled and held up his can in a salute and said, "I think I'll use a phrase I read about once in a magazine article. No comment. Is that right?"

  I thought that over for a bit and said, "Seems like you and Justin had a couple of things in common. Like money problems, Craig. You just told me you paid everybody off yesterday, including your landlord. Get lucky lately in Tri-State Megabucks, or are you trying to clean up your trail? Where'd the money come from, Craig? And why did you move here? Someone helping you out?"

  Then his manner changed a bit, as if he had reached another plateau of intoxication, and he said, "Man, if it weren't for that, I wouldn’t have had a job all these years… You think having something like the museum screw-up on your record helps you get job interviews, you're wrong… Guarding computers ain't much… Jeez, why should I even bother telling you shit."

  I stood up from the car and repeated myself somewhat. “Where'd the money come from, Craig? Who's been helping you? Justin? Has he been watching out for you?"

  He shook his head, finished off the beer. "Mister, screw you and get off my property. I’m tired of talking to you, and if you aren’t gone I'm calling the cops. Let's see how your magazine likes shit like that."

  I knew all of the cops in Tyler and most in North Tyler and Falconer, but I only knew the name of the chief in Exonia. I didn't think that little fact would help me if Craig came through on his promise. I tried to think of something snappy to say as I went back to the Rover, and I was still thinking about it when I drove to Tyler.

  In my drive home I succumbed to an urge to visit Tyler Beach on this hot Saturday afternoon. I parked the Rover at the Tyler police station, having thrown my "Press Parking" sign I the dashboard, and I walked up to the Strip, not feeling very proud about myself. The lot had been empty of Diane Woods' Volkswagen Rabbit, and I had a feeling of relief that I wouldn't feel compelled to go into the station to see if she was there. There was still that strong memory of our last get-together, and how sourly it had ended, so I went out of the station's lot without looking back. I had that cold queasy feeling you get when your mother sends you to the nursing home to visit Grandma and you go to the mall to play video games instead. Out on the Strip the summer games were continuing, and the sidewalks were pressed so full of people that they were even strolling out on the road. Tyler cops wearing orange safety vests were walking down the center of the slow-moving traffic, trying to keep it moving, and I saw how their eyes kept glancing down at the cars as they passed by. The casual observer might have thought that they were checking out the youth and sex of each car's passengers, while the not-so-casual observer would know that they were checking for open containers of alcohol or joints or mirrors or plastic Baggies full of green leafy matter.

  At the Tyler Beach Palace the arcades seemed louder than usual, and there was an unyielding crowd around the ticket booth for the Palace Ballroom. Some rock group was playing there tonight, and there were to be a lot of T-shirts and jeans around. I crossed the street and went over to the sidewalk bordering the wide white sands of Tyler Beach. I sat down on a park bench and watched the people for a while. There were young couples holding hands, whispering to each other as they went by, and older couples who strolled with a sense of contentment that something stronger than hand holding was bonding them together. A lot of kids, out by themselves, and even younger kids were scampering around under the watchful eyes of their parents or older siblings. There are bad days on the beach, when there are too many young people, whirling in and out of gangs and fights and accusations and thrown bottles, but this wasn't one of those days. And out on the sands there were still a lot of sun worshippers, all exposing their skin to the great sun god and cancer-giver Ra.

  Beyond the sand were the shapes of the Isles of Shoals, and there was a freighter out on the gray waters, heading up north and to Porter, and I thought again of my visit to Cameron Briggs. I hadn't disturbed him, and I was thinking that maybe it was time to give what I knew to Paula Quinn, and let the Fourth Estate train their big guns on him. Then I'd do that damn column for Shoreline about something, talk to Felix some more about the Scribner Museum theft and do nothing else except get ready for the Perseid meteor showers next week.

  In the meantime, I crossed my arms and waited for nothing in particular, just enjoying the show, and especially enjoying the bathing suits the women were wearing this summer. There was a combination of factors that I liked in seeing the women going by ranging from the skimpiness of the suits to the amount of flesh exposed to the self-confidence and self-assurance in how they walked.

  Tyler Beach wasn't a perfect place, for sure, but it would suffice for now.

  After pretending to be a philosopher for a while, I got up and walked around for another half hour or so, and at every expired parking meter that I saw, I pumped in a quarter. Then I went home.

  Dinner was takeout from the Lafayette House again. This night it was a sautéed mixture of sirloin tips and lobster meat, which I ate outside on the back deck of my home, with a glass of wine and my own self to keep me co
mpany. It took about ten minutes to clean up after the meal, which is a cleaning average that I like, and then I went back outside with another glass of wine, carrying the phone with me. I called Felix's house and left a message on his answering machine, and sat back and thought some about Craig Dummer. Disappears for a few weeks, even though Justin Dix had implied that he was under constant surveillance. Then he reappears and this time he has some money. Pays off bills, even his old landlord, which took some effort. So. Is he paying off bills because it's the right thing to do, or because wants to eliminate anybody out there looking for him?

  And where did he get the money? It couldn't have been that much of a windfall, based on his current living arrangements. So why the move?

  The wine felt good easing through my mouth and then through the rest of my body. A lot of coincidences in a short time span. I didn't like it. The whole issue of Winslow Homer paintings comes alive after five years, Felix starts getting postcards, his cousin gets dumped in the ocean, one Tony Russo gets killed in front of us and Craig Dummer pays off all of his bills, quits his job and moves to Exonia.

  I could talk to the Manchester police, but I got the feeling from Diane Woods that they weren't particularly enthusiastic about people asking questions regarding the museum theft, and with Diane and me currently on the outs, there wasn't much I could do in the law enforcement area.

  Still, there was the FBI. They were in on the theft right from the beginning, and were probably still actively involved, up to a point. Right. I took another swallow from the wine. That's a bright one. Go up to a federal police agency, give them your name and address and start asking questions, and who knows what roads they'll go down, trying to find out stuff about one Lewis Cole, stuff that should never be made known. Maybe it was time to see if Justin Dix's financial situation had also suddenly improved. I sat out there for a while, thinking things through, as the sky darkened and the first stars started coming out into the early evening sky. Only a few running lights were out on the dark waters, and it seemed as if even the boaters knew that summer wad drawing to a close, and that it was time to put away the toys for the fall and winter. Only a few weeks to Labor Day. The nights were coming sooner and the evenings were getting cooler. There's a difference between a cool evening in June and one in August. In June, the coolness is just the last gasp of spring and winter; you know that the hot and pleasurable nights of summer are approaching. But a cool night in August tells of a summer drawing to an end, with the cold fingers of September and October waiting to touch you.

  The phone rang and it was Felix returning my call.

  "How's it going?" he asked.

  "I was about to ask you the same thing," I said. "Progress?"

  "Some, though nothing I want to talk about over the phone."

  "Want to get together tomorrow?"

  "Sure."

  "Then name the place," I said. ''And time. But don't make it too late. I've got an appointment down in Massachusetts."

  "One o'clock," Felix said. ''At the place we've been to before, the one with the crazy ice-cream sundaes."

  I knew the place well, and I knew the games that Felix was playing. Very safe, very conservative and very circumspect. That's what kept him alive in a career where sharp elbows didn't mean a thing, but sharp knives did.

  "I'll be there," I said, "with some progress of my own."

  "Glad to hear it. And, Lewis?"

  "Yes?"

  He seemed to take a deep breath. "Thanks for coming back with me on this one. Ah, I usually like to work alone on a lot of things like this, but I appreciate all you've done."

  With those two sentences, I felt as if Felix had exhausted his sensitive-male quotient for the month. I said, "Not to worry. You owe me a meal. And not at the restaurant we were at last. I think it’ll be a long time before you and me can eat there without getting arrested."

  That got a small laugh, and he said, "Tomorrow, Lewis," and I hung up. I put the phone down on the deck and finished my wine, and sat back, looking up at the stars. I waited, hoping to see a taste of what was going to happen next week, when the great Perseid showers were to take place, and for once I wasn't disappointed. Two shooting stars flared across the night sky, quicker to see than to describe, and in their dying moments, they gave me a sense of tranquility and beauty.

  I thanked them for their gift, then I went to bed.

  Chapter Twenty

  On Sunday afternoon I met Felix at the Conquerin' Cone, an ice-cream store on Atlantic Avenue, just over the line from North Tyler and into Wallis. About five minutes from the Conquerin' Cone was Cameron Briggs's summer home, but I felt confident the man had never been here in his life. The place is across the street from a rocky strip of beach that is usually frequented by the locals, and it has picnic tables in a dirt lot with faded blue golf umbrellas overhead. The building is one story with peeling white paint and those yellow light bulbs outside that supposedly drive away summer insects but instead just give the customers an unhealthy glow about their faces. Not the type or place a guy like Cameron Briggs would visit.

  It's relatively well known for its elaborate sundaes --- some of which take a family of four to consume --- but Felix loves the place because it stocks some obscure brand of Italian ice that he enjoys. The times I've been with him, he's not been shy about ordering two or three at a time and then eating them all at once. "It saves walking back and forth," he once explained.

  I had a small dish of fudge swirl ice cream. Felix sat across from me, two empty cardboard dishes at his elbow, working steadily on a third one that contained a lemon type of ice. We both had free cups of ice water, for the owners of the Conquerin' Cone realize that odd fact of nature: eating ice cream makes you thirsty. Felix had on a white tank top and faded blue shorts; the tank top was loose around the shorts, hiding from everyone except me the fact that he was carrying a weapon.

  "Well, it seems like things are coming to a bit of a head," Felix said, scooping another little pile of yellow slush into his mouth. "I exchanged postcards last week and the meet seems to be on for sometime this week. Maybe Wednesday or Thursday. Exchange of the paintings for some money --- a hell of a lot less than what I was asking for --- and then that phase of the business is over with."

  The ice cream had real chocolate fudge in its swirl, which made for a fiercely loyal group of customers for the Conquerin' Cone. I said, ''And what happens with the second phase? Does hunting season open up?"

  Felix nodded, scraping a bit more ice. "That's true, my friend. Hunting season opens up. Damn thing is, though, I don't have names. Just postcards and that shooter with a mask that took care of Tony Russo. Besides that, I have nothing. It's going to take some work trying to catch the tracks of this one. No names, no faces."

  I waved at him with my spoon. "I've got two names, and two faces. I can't guarantee that they mean anything, or that they're connected with what's going on with you, but they are making things curious for me."

  "Go on," Felix said.

  "Head of security for the museum is a guy named Justin Dix," I said. "Seemed to be a straight shooter, until I did some research. Turns out he's a man who's run up a number of debts. Even had his car repossessed once. Perfect in for someone who wanted to steal three paintings and get away with it. Money in exchange for assistance."

  ''And the second guy?"

  "Craig Dummer. One of two guards on duty that night. His partner, one Ben Martin, a former Manchester cop, conveniently died a few years back. Craig wanted to be a cop, but the museum theft took care of that. That's not the kind of thing police hiring boards are thrilled to learn about. I talked to him yesterday, after he skipped out from his place up in Bainbridge. He used to have the same debt problems that Justin had. Now he claims he's paid everybody off and he made a reference to someone looking out for him, maybe a sugar daddy or something. He's living in Exonia, and he won't say why."

  Felix nodded, finishing up his Italian ice. He looked slightly amusing, hunched over the stained picnic
table, studiously eating his treat with a tiny wooden spoon, but I wasn't about to laugh and I don't think anybody within eyeshot would either.

  "Connection between the two?"

  "Justin was Craig's boss. And there was something odd, back when I started poking around this, Felix. Justin implied that Craig was still under suspicion, that his address and whereabouts were always known, but he gave me a bum address for Craig in Bainbridge. When I went there, Craig had moved out a couple of weeks earlier. So either Justin was sloppy in his record keeping --- which didn't seem apparent at the time --- or he was helping out Craig."

  ''Anybody else?"

  I paused, and said, "There's Justin Dix's secretary. A Cassie Fuller. But I don't think she had anything to do with the theft. She had only been at the job for a few months before the paintings were stolen. I don't think that's enough time to check out how the security system was working."

  Felix seemed to consider all of this as he reached out and crushed the three empty cardboard containers with his right hand. "Nice information, Lewis, but I've got a problem with what you're saying. Care to guess what it is?"

  I finished off my own treat. "It's apparent. It's too obvious."

  "Exactly." He wiped his hands clean with a napkin and looked over at the people at the Conquerin' Cone's windows. Seemingly satisfied that there were no assassins in line, he looked back at me and said, "It's too damn obvious, Lewis, that a security guard or his boss or anybody there would be involved in the theft."

  "Then again, maybe that was their perfect cover. No one would suspect them simply because it was so obvious."

  He shrugged. "That sounds too much like philosophy, and when someone mentions philosophy, I usually reach for my semi-automatic.”