I wiped my hand on some napkins, left the place.
The offices of the Port Harbor Realty Association should have been near the harbor, with a view of the cranes and docks and buildings of the Porter Naval Shipyard, and the historic wood and brick buildings of downtown Porter. Instead it was in a strip mall near the traffic circle, where Interstate 95 continued its asphalt and concrete assault through New Hampshire and up through Maine to Augusta.
The realty association shared quarters with a bridal gown boutique, a comic book store, and an outfit that bought and sold gold jewelry. I walked in to meet a receptionist or admin assistant or whatever that particular job’s being called this year. It being a Saturday during a recession year, the office was open and doing business.
She was in her mid-twenties, and a nameplate before her said CAROL MOYNIHAN, and she looked up.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Hoping to see Russ Gilman,” I said.
A slight smile, even slighter shrug. “I don’t see why not.” She glanced down at the small phone console and said, “He’s on the phone right now, but I’ll let you know when he’s off.”
I said thanks but by then she had returned to her iPhone and the mysteries of the Internet universe. Her hands were slim but looked strong, like she had grown up laboring in some field before arriving here. Her desk was tidy, and at one side sat a thick USMC coffee mug, probably a souvenir from a family member in the Corps.
She noticed her phone display and said, “He’s off. Go right in.” I walked into a rear office, and her gaze was still frozen on the shiny object in her hands.
But still I had the feeling she was in complete control of the situation.
I guess upon first impression one would say Russ Gilman was flashy. He was wearing a two-piece gray suit and a crisp white shirt with French cuffs and cufflinks. He had a wide smile, perfect white teeth, and a fading tan. I pegged him as being in his late twenties or early thirties. He motioned me to sit down from across his desk, and I did. His windows had a breathtaking view of a fenced-in lot belonging to a used car dealership, and his office had printouts of real estate listings tacked up. About the only pricey thing in the office was an Oriental rug on my side of his desk.
“Sher Avenue,” he said, shaking his head. “Nasty piece of business. You looking to do a magazine article about that? For the FBI?”
It would probably take about ten minutes or so to clear up his confusion, so I just nodded and said, “That’s what I hope.”
“Do the Porter police know? Do you think they’ll mind me talking to you?”
I said, “I was over there this morning with Detective Steve Josephs. He didn’t seem concerned at all.”
True, even though I didn’t mention to him what I had planned to do.
He grimaced. “Any chance you can leave the name of my company out of it? I sure as hell couldn’t use that kind of publicity.”
I paused for something of a dramatic effect and said, “The scope of my article will be on the crime and other crimes along communities on the shoreline. There’s no need for me to list the building’s owner—that is, if I get my questions answered.”
The grimace was quickly replaced by a knowing smile, of one kind of guy recognizing another, traveling through this money-grubbing world with a wink, a nod, and an understanding, and maybe a few envelopes of cash slipped underneath a restaurant table if need be, a back being scratched in exchange for a future scratching.
“Sure, Mr. Cole, I see where you’re coming from,” he said. “I’d be glad to cooperate.”
“Thanks so very much,” I said. “My first question is, do you know why Fletcher Moore was in that apartment the night he was shot?”
“Nope, not at all,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, the first I knew that anything was going on was when I was woken up at about one A.M. the next day by some Porter cop, asking if I knew why Moore was there. First thing I said was, for shit’s sake, that apartment’s empty. There shouldn’t be anybody in there.”
“Did you know Fletcher Moore?”
“Shit, yes, anyone who’s into real estate along the seacoast knew Fletch.”
“I see. And how long has the place been empty?”
“Oh, a few months,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious if the previous tenant might have been a friend of Fletcher Moore’s. Maybe that’s how he got in.”
Russ shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. The woman living there, let’s see, a Grace Foley, she fell and broke her hip, had to go into a nursing home. No friends and family, unfortunately. I visited her a couple of times at the facility. I think I would have known if Fletcher Moore was friends with her.”
“And your tenants on the first and second floor?”
“Nope, not a thing.” He hesitated. “You plan on talking to them?”
“I might.”
“Oh.” His hands moved quickly, rustling some papers around. “It’s just that they’ve been talked to by the cops and the investigators from the state. They were lucky they weren’t there when the shooting happened. I just hate to have them bothered.”
“Well,” I said, scribbling away in my notebook. “We’ll see what happens. Now, did it take long for the Porter police to contact you about Felix Tinios?”
He rubbed at his chin. “A day, I think. I guess with these new computers, they can process fingerprints fast. I got a visit from that same detective, Josephs, about if I knew a guy called Felix Tinios. I said sure.”
“I understand from the police that Felix helped you with a security matter down on Wallis.”
“Christ, I guess you could say that,” he said, swiveling back and forth a moment in his chair. “We’re investing in some construction down there, upgrading a couple of old homes near the beach that we’re turning into condos. Hardly anybody can afford to buy down on the beach nowadays, and this seemed like a good opportunity to invest. You see, we take the old homes, subdivide them, spruce them up, and sell them as condos.”
“Not apartments?”
He recoiled from me like he was a lifelong member of PETA and I had just shown him photos of my last moose hunt. “Apartments? Shit, no. Apartments, you need a manager to run them, you’ve got all the complaints and evictions and damage deposits. Bleh. With condos, you sell them outright, the owners form a condo association, and that’s it, friend, you are out of there. Let them handle the heartache.”
“But Sher Avenue is an apartment building.”
A shrug. “It is what it is. Sometimes you need a few properties that you can rely on a steady income stream, something dependable, month to month.”
“And you hired Felix because of problems at the development in Wallis?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Wallis police couldn’t help?”
“Sure, if you call increasing patrols around the area help.”
“And a private security patrol?”
Another funky face. “Those guys. Some are good; some are ones who get paid minimum and wear polyester uniforms and work at finding a place to sleep. Nope, wasn’t going to waste money. I wanted to get the problem solved.”
“And how did you get to hire Felix?”
He started to talk, then thought better of it. “This is one strange article you’re writing.”
“That’s the writing process,” I said.
He sat in silence. Then to remind him, I said, “And the process can be quick or it can be thorough. You know, digging through ownership records, criminal history, that sort of thing. Me, I’m a quick kind of guy.”
Russ’s voice was flat. “You learn things. You meet people. You get recommendations. I know a few people in Boston. Other real estate agents and lawyers. His name came up, I gave him a call, we met, and a week later the problem was solved.”
“No more vandalism?”
“No more vandalism.”
“And did you know Felix before you hired him?”
“Nope. And to tell you t
he truth, I was glad when the job was done. That guy, he can be friendly as shit, but if you cross him, or upset him, those eyes of his. No, thanks.”
He glanced at his watch. “Are we through, Mr. Cole?”
I looked at him and his office again. Something didn’t make sense. Then it clicked. He and his clothing were splashy, high-powered, expensive. The desk before me was battered and stained, with old tape marks. The chair I was in had been repaired with colored duct tape. The carpeting was light green, scuffed, and dirty, except for the Oriental rug.
“I think so.”
“Glad to help,” he said, grinning. He stood up and I took his lead, also standing up. “Mind if I ask you where you live?”
“Don’t mind at all,” I said. “Tyler Beach.”
“Really? Good for you. A beach view?”
“Right out from the rear deck.”
His eyes widened just a bit, like he was a gold prospector in a barren desert, suddenly tripping over a nugget the size of his fist.
“Nice. Part of a complex?”
“Nope. Single-family home.”
“Close neighbors, I imagine. Some of those older homes were built about a couple of yards apart.”
“I’m sure, but mine is all by its lonesome.”
“Wow,” he said, licking his lips. “Those are pretty rare. You know, if you feel like moving and putting your place on sale, I could get a tremendous deal.”
I headed out of his office. “No, thanks. My home isn’t for sale.”
A quick laugh. “Come on, Mr. Cole, all homes are for sale. It’s just a matter of the price.”
“Not this one,” I said. “It was paid for, in blood.”
Outside the air felt refreshing, even though there was the constant drone of traffic heading in and out of the Porter traffic circle. I went to my Pilot and, before opening the door, noted something that didn’t make sense.
Earlier Detective Josephs had told me that an apartment like the one on Sher Avenue could be cleaned and rented in less than a week, even with the homicide that had taken place.
Yet Russ had just told me that the place had been empty for a few months.
Weeks?
Didn’t make sense.
CHAPTER SIX
After leaving the Port Harbor Realty Trust, I decided to take Saturday afternoon off, with a nice fried seafood meal at a fairly hidden restaurant near Porter Harbor, and then catching a late afternoon matinee of an alleged science fiction movie at a theater in Lewington. I left the theater thinking that of all the science fiction works from authors such as Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov and all the way up to Gaiman, Hollywood still relied on comic books. And more comic books.
Then I started south.
Back in Tyler Beach, things got very interesting indeed, in a quick and dismaying way. As I maneuvered my Pilot through the parking lot of the Lafayette House—passing some more campaign signs—I spotted a man sitting on one of the large boulders marking the lot’s perimeter. He had a cardboard coffee cup in hand and stood up as I approached. He walked over to the dirt lane that was my driveway and stood in the middle, blocking me.
Well.
I put the Pilot in park, stepped out. He was a young guy, maybe in his mid-twenties, with a happy smile on his face. He had on dark khaki pants, black sneakers, black T-shirt, and short tan leather jacket. A thick gold chain was around his equally thick neck, and his thick black hair was impressively trimmed and styled. A lot of thickness was going on.
“Hey,” he said.
“Good afternoon.”
He took a long sip from his coffee cup and said, “I’ve been waiting here for a long time.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
A grin. “Nope. But you know a friend of mine.”
“Doubtful,” I said. “But go on.”
“Hollis Spinelli.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Huh?”
“I’m sorry to hear he’s your friend,” I said. “He seems to be a real jerk.”
That didn’t seem to impress him, but he kept on. “Whatever. The thing is, he’s a friend of mine, and I owe him.”
“Did he send you up here?”
“Shit, no,” he said. “I don’t need anybody to tell me what to do. I’m doing this on my own, out of respect and appreciation. I learned you’ve been harassing him, giving him a hard time, that kind of shit.”
“That kind of shit is what he gets paid for, for being a lawyer.”
He stepped closer to me, and I could smell his cologne and the scent of coffee. “But you’re not paying him, are you?” he said.
“Not at the moment.”
“Fine,” he said, breathing a bit harder. “This is how it’s going to be. You’re gonna stop harassing my friend, making phone calls, hanging out in his office. In fact, shithead, you’re even gonna stop going to court. I don’t even want you in the same breathing space of Mr. Spinelli. You understand?”
“I comprehend.”
“Huh?” Hearing him say that pleased me. I went on. “I comprehend what you’ve just said, but I don’t understand why. What’s the point? What’s the beef? What’s the problem?”
He narrowed his eyes. “The problem is, I don’t want you bothering or seeing Hollis Spinelli ever again. Or you’ll regret it.”
“Regret it? Can’t you be more specific?”
“I could hurt you,” he said.
“I doubt it.”
He tossed the coffee cup at my feet. Some coffee splashed on my footwear, and he turned to the side. “I checked out your house earlier. Nice place, real historical. I heard it caught fire last fall, almost got totaled.”
I now felt so wired and tense and focused I was sure I could hear the ocean’s waves striking the Isles of Shoals, about six miles away.
“That’s very knowledgeable of you. Your name, if I may ask?”
“You don’t need to know my name. Now. Your house. A nice old house. It had a fire there last November. Too bad if it were to burn again, and the arsonist was more thorough. Know what I mean?”
“Definitely,” I said, and I punched him hard in the chest.
An overreaction, I’m sure, but I was letting emotions take control. I moved as quick and as sudden as I could, aiming right for the center of his chest, just below his breastbone. A good punch there can cause someone to lose his breathing and collapse if you aim it right.
My aim wasn’t good. My opponent was quicker than me, and managed to dodge to the left, so I succeeded in just nailing him in the front ribs. But he fell back and stumbled over a rock, and I was on him, slugging him in the chest, face, and anyplace else I could.
He moved back pretty hard, clocking me under the chin and making me bite my tongue, and I fell, too. He jumped on me, straddled my chest, started pounding me. I grabbed him around the waist, felt something hard and metallic. I tore at his jacket and shirt, felt the grip of a pistol. I tugged it free and jammed it into his side.
He fell back. I struggled to my feet, aiming the pistol—a small .32, it looked like—and he got up as well, face swollen.
A siren sounded out on Atlantic Avenue. I tossed the pistol into the mess of rocks, boulders, and crevasses behind me.
A while later I was in an interrogation room at the Tyler Police Station. A firefighter/EMT had put my right arm in a sling, and there were two bandages on the side of my face. I waited and waited, knowing I was being watched through the standard one-way glass on the other side of the room. I was sitting on a scarred wooden chair, and there were three other chairs in the room, along with a black-topped desk with a metal ring in the center.
But I wasn’t cuffed or chained. I hoped it meant something positive.
I could use something positive today.
The door opened up. Detective Diane Woods, wearing her uniform instead of street clothes—clomped in, metal cane in her right hand, some paperwork in her left.
The look in her eyes matched
the color of her cane.
She sat down.
“Well?” she asked.
“Glad to see you,” I said. “And whatever happens, happens. I don’t expect any favors.”
“Good,” she said. “Mind telling me what went on up there at your house, or do you want to lawyer up?”
Those words jabbed at me, and I tried not to let it show. My lawyer—who was also Felix Tinios’s lawyer—was probably being held captive at his luxurious home in Boxford, and so far I hadn’t done much to free him.
“No,” I said. “I’m not going to lawyer up. Ask away. No dancing this time.”
She tapped her cane, gave me a wry smile. “What a nice change of pace. No dancing this time. What happened?”
“I came home from Cambridge,” I said.
“What was in Cambridge?”
“The law offices of Hollis Spinelli. I went there because I had some information I wanted to pass on.”
“What information was that?”
I paused, wondering whether or not I should not tell her, but I had promised no dancing. No dancing it would be.
“Detective Steve Josephs, up in Porter, said that with the AG’s office, they’re going to drop something big during tomorrow’s court session. I wanted to make sure he was aware of it.”
“Still sticking up for Felix, eh?”
“Apparently so. And then I left, I drove back home, and when I got there I found this guy sitting near the driveway.”
“The guy you got into a fight with?”
“That’s right.”
“Looks like he beat the crap out of you.”
“You should see what he looks like,” I said.
“I did, and I’m afraid you took the worst of it.”
“Tyler’s finest arrived too soon,” I said. “And by the way, how did that first cruiser get there so fast?”
“Bird watcher over at the Lafayette House, sitting on the porch, with high-powered binoculars. She wasn’t finding what she was looking for—some booby hatch or something—and then she spotted the two of you flailing about. Made the call.”
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