Storm Cell

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Storm Cell Page 17

by Brendan DuBois


  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” she said. “But I’m touched that you were about to do battle with him on my behalf.”

  “It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

  “No doubt,” she said. “Now, speaking about fights, what’s going on with Felix Tinios? I saw in the Chronicle that the Porter cops came up with a surveillance video from a grocery store, seeing him enter and then leave the apartment building on the night of the murder.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Doesn’t look good for Mr. Tinios.”

  “That’s right again.”

  “You going to give up, maybe think that for once, he’s guilty as charged?”

  I finished my salad. “What do you think?”

  She ate another potato chip. “Oh, I had to ask. Just in case you would surprise me.”

  I took another swig of water. “You planning on voting next Tuesday?”

  “As a concerned voter, taxpayer, and town employee, you bet I will,” she said. “And I really have no say. The supervisors of the checklist are a chatty bunch, and if I didn’t show up to vote, the word would get around town that I was slacking off, taking things for granted. That crap I don’t need.”

  “Article 13.” I said. “You think it’ll pass?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Depends on how scared and stupid the taxpayers are next Tuesday.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Hate to say it, but I think you just admitted you’re going to vote against it.”

  “Hah,” she said. “Based on your dating skills and sense of humor, I’m stunned you’re still single.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Diane, who runs the Tyler Beach Improvement Company?”

  Her phone rang, making me jump, but she glanced down and said, “Lewis, old friend, I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

  “I thought your inherent curiosity would lead you to find out.”

  “Nope,” she said. “My inherent curiosity is completely satisfied, and then some, on sexual assaults, burglaries, break-ins, and trying to get a handle on this damn heroin epidemic. The improvement company, what it runs is one tangled, fearsome mess, and it’s going to get worse once the lease expires and the mad scramble commences over who owns what, who’s going to sue who, and oh, by the way, will a Reno-by-the-Atlantic get built here. I have no interest in getting anywhere near that ongoing fiasco.”

  “Thanks for the explainer,” I said.

  Diane said, “Oh, you like that? Here’s a bit more. Tyler Beach is a fake place, from start to finish. It promises family fun, relatively inexpensive vacations and attractions, and crusty and yet adorable locals. Some of that is true, but not everything. Most of the locals are from away, most everything is crowded and overpriced, and a lot of folks coming here on the weekend looking for fun end up here, in our booking room, as guests of the town of Tyler.”

  “If the supervisors of the checklist were listening to you now, they’d probably faint.”

  “No, they’re a tough bunch of old birds,” she said. “Besides, if they all survived me getting out of the closet, they’ll survive anything. Anyway, the only thing we have here that’s real is the beach. It’s been built up, channeled, and sometimes ignored, but the beach is wide, it’s pristine, and it’s real. That’s been the draw for everyone, you know, the beach.”

  “Now Article 13 changes that.”

  “Yeah, it sure does that,” she said. “It’s a promise of cheap, easy money rolling into the town accounts, year after year. Something nice to keep the tax rate down for the true-blue residents while picking the pockets of visitors, because you know rule number one for casinos: the house always wins. And the second rule is, the house doesn’t give a shit about the home community.”

  She crumpled up the remains of her lunch. “That means the town gets the added joy and expense of drunks fighting each other in the parking lots, druggies peddling their wares, and prostitutes peddling their butts. The type of people who come here will have a sharpness to them, a sense of desperation that you don’t get from the regular tourist crowd.”

  “I see what you mean,” I said. “The people who are behind it, though, the supporters—”

  “—are blinded by the promise of shiny neon lights, roulette tables, and ringing cash registers. When I started on the force, tons of years ago, the first selectman and the chief agreed on one thing. As oddball as Tyler Beach was, it was still something for families to come to. That’s why we kept a lid on bars serving drinks to underage kids, that’s why we had extra guys on duty when rock bands played at the Ballroom, and why we worked with the selectmen to make sure strip clubs didn’t move into the neighborhood.”

  With mock innocence in my voice, I said, “What? You’re against naked beautiful women all of a sudden?”

  She crumpled up a napkin and tossed it at my head, and I was pleased when it made contact and fell to the floor. “Ass. No, I love naked beautiful women and plan to get officially hitched with one of them in a few months. But there’s beach resorts that allowed strip clubs and gambling in, and it changes everything about the . . . tone, I guess. Man, you’ve caught me in a philosophical mood today.”

  “Glad to do it. The town should give you a raise for being a thinker. Not much of that happening nowadays in our political class.”

  “Well, there you go,” she said. She peered out the window to the parking lot. “People who come here, those who work and live here, most of them have illusions about Tyler Beach. That’s fine. I just don’t want to exchange those illusions with a brighter, shinier illusion that promises nothing but grief.”

  I gathered up all of our trash and she said, “What’s on the agenda today? Off to court again to see Felix wilt under the pressure from the state?”

  “Funny, that’s one thing I haven’t seen. Him wilting. He seems to be the same.”

  “The muscular, smiling, confident son of a bitch who’s convinced he can get away with anything?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “Based on what I’ve heard and seen about his attorney, he’s probably relying on someone else to save his Greek-Italian ass.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “And that someone else is you.”

  I paused before exiting Diane’s office. “Probably.”

  Diane picked up her phone. “Then I’ll deny ever saying this, friend, but good luck.”

  “For Felix?” I asked, stunned.

  “No, for you,” she said. “You deserve to win at something, and it’s been a while.”

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching the door. “And if you change your mind about Mark Spencer, let me know.”

  “I won’t,” she said, dialing her phone. “But if you keep on after Paula Quinn, good luck with that as well.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I dumped our lunch refuse in a trash can in the hallway, and then got outside and to my Pilot just as my cell phone rang. The incoming call was the ever popular BLOCKED and I wasn’t surprised upon answering to find out it was Special Agent Krueger of the FBI.

  “Cole? I got that number you were looking for.”

  “Can I guess who it belongs to before you say anything?”

  “I suppose so,” he said, and so I told him, and he said, “Then why in hell were you wasting my time?”

  “I wasn’t,” I said. “I just wanted confirmation, and you provided it. Thanks.”

  “Wow, now my day is complete, knowing that I’ve just been thanked by an unemployed magazine writer.”

  “Always glad to help the men and women of law enforcement.”

  “You shouldn’t lie like that—karma will get you one of these days.”

  “You think? I already believe she’s camped out in the basement of my home.”

  “Funny,” he said. “Okay, here’s something guaranteed to wipe that grin off your face. Your friend Felix just got himself attacked, not more than twenty minutes ago.”

  “At the jail?”

  “No, the co
urthouse,” he said. “A fight broke out in a holding area where they prep the prisoners for transfer.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “Some.”

  “How bad?” I asked.

  “Not sure,” he said. “But he’s still alive. But, Lewis, it’s like we told you. Where he is, is a dangerous place. You need to get him out.”

  “Then why don’t you get him out?” I said. “Swing that magical federal wand you guys always have, and get him transferred out to a safer place.”

  Krueger said, “We can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can,” I said. “You just won’t.”

  “No matter,” he said. “Know only this: if he’s attacked again, or murdered, it’ll be on you. Not us.”

  And any argument on my behalf was stopped before it started, when he hung up on me.

  I was tempted to call him back but, please. That would be high schoolish, trying to one-up him, and I had more important things to do.

  But I did make one more phone call before leaving the Tyler police station parking lot, and I was pleased when Brianna Moore answered.

  “Did the police show up?” I asked.

  “Yes, they did,” she said. “A solitary patrolman, in a cruiser. He went in, checked things out, and said he’d contact the detective bureau, but I was out on the driveway with him, and he got a call about a multiple-car accident up on High Street, and he roared off. So far, no word from the bureau.”

  “Just so you know, the bureau is one woman, and I just had lunch with her,” I said. “I’ll bet the cop who came to see you has his hands full handling the accident.”

  “Even if your detective friend shows up, what then?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “But are you feeling better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” I said. “Mission accomplished, then. Where’s your mom and sister?”

  “Coming back from court, eventually,” she said. “I knew they were going to stop at Shaw’s to pick up a few groceries.”

  “Brianna, again, do you have any idea what that burglar might have been looking for when he was going through your dad’s office?”

  “Not a thing,” she said. “But I’ll tell Mom and my sister what happened today. Maybe they can come up with something.”

  “Sounds good.”

  On my way home I swung by the post office, and I was once more disappointed with the thin collection of mail I had received. Nothing at all from my insurance company, and it made me reconsider my decision not to get on the phone and persuade—or harass—my insurance agent. Maybe my settlement fell through the proverbial cracks. Maybe my settlement was being discussed at the home office in Nome. Maybe it was sent out to the wrong address. Lots of maybes, none of which were going to fill out my bank account anytime soon.

  When I got home I parked my Pilot in my new garage—it still smelled delightfully new—and then went inside, taking my jacket off, along with my Bianchi shoulder holster and 9mm, and then dropping the mail on my kitchen counter. The boxes of books on the floor seemed to have gathered together in some sort of guilty collective, and I knew it would be worthwhile to at least empty the boxes and put the books on my shelves, but for some reason, being home and getting the jacket off made me feel tired again, like the March weather was dragging me down.

  I had enough energy to go upstairs and stretch out on my bed after kicking off my shoes, and as I slid off to a late afternoon nap, I whispered, “Old bean, either you’re coming down with something or you’re just one tired old man.”

  That was certainly open to debate, and I fell asleep before I reached any conclusion.

  A banging at my front door woke me up. I checked the time. Just past seven P.M. I had been asleep for almost two hours. Holy crap. I swung out of bed, slipped my Top-Siders back on, just as another set of hand thumps against my door echoed upstairs. I moved quickly downstairs and was going to yell out, “Coming!” but I decided a silent approach would be best. My jacket was in the closet, along with my holster and Beretta. I opened up the closet, took out the Beretta, and then went to a front window to see if I could recognize who was there.

  It was a young man, late teens it seemed, who had on a tan cloth jacket and blue Red Sox baseball cap and who was holding a couple of white plastic bags. He thumped his fist against the door one more time, and I pushed my Beretta into the rear of my pants and answered the door.

  He looked up at me. “You Lewis Cole?”

  “Yes.”

  He had a look of relief on his face. “Great.” He lifted up the plastic bags, and I caught the scent of hot butter and cooked food. “Got a delivery for you.”

  “A delivery? From where?”

  “The Lafayette House.”

  “But I didn’t place any order.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I was told to bring this by, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “What is it?”

  “I dunno. A couple of dinners, I’d guess. All paid for.”

  “By whom?”

  “Mister, please, I really don’t know. Okay? All I know is that I work in the kitchen, making salads, and I was told to deliver these two bags to a Lewis Cole, who lives in the house just off the hotel’s parking lot. Okay? Everything’s been paid for, it’s all settled, and the only other thing I know is that while we’re standing here, yapping, it’s getting cold.”

  I took both bags away from him and he turned, and I said, “Wait! Hold on!”

  I lowered the bags to the floor and started to take out my wallet, and he shook his head one more time. “Nope, the tip’s been taken care of. Okay? Look, I gotta leave, go back to the Lafayette House and tell ’em that I’ve made the delivery.”

  He turned and started going back up my driveway. I closed the door and went to the kitchen, the scent of the cooked food serving as an alarm clock for my poor abused digestive system. I put the containers on my kitchen counter, tore open the white plastic bags, and took out the foam containers. Two held small garden salads with dressing on the side, and then I opened the other two, larger containers. Each held freshly made lobster pies, with French fries and a side of butter. The American Heart Association would probably advise me to toss everything away, except for the salads.

  Lucky for me, I’m not a member.

  Then someone started knocking at the door again.

  Damn. It was probably a mistake or a joke or a misunderstanding. I closed up the containers and said, “Boys, thanks for the tease. I think it’s going to be Hormel once again.”

  I replaced everything in the white plastic bags, got back to the door as it experienced one more knocking.

  “Hold on,” I said. I opened the door and dropped the bags on the floor.

  Before me was a tall, muscular man, wearing a dirty orange jumpsuit, with a wide leather belt and shackles around his waist. His hair was mussed up some, and one eye was swollen into a pretty fair black eye.

  “Hey,” Felix Tinios said. “I hear you’ve been wanting to see me.”

  I stepped back and Felix came in, and I read black letters on the back of his jumpsuit: WENTWORTH COUNTY HOC, meaning, of course, House of Corrections. He walked past me and into the kitchen and said, “Mind closing the door? And getting dinner laid out? Christ, I’m hungry for anything besides hot dogs or meatloaf.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I picked up the bags, went into the kitchen, where Felix was busy washing his hands in my sink. He turned and I said, “What the hell happened to you?”

  “In the last few hours? I got involved in some fisticuffs and made enough of a stink to get temporarily transferred to the Exonia Hospital.” He wiped his hands and face on a light blue cloth dish towel. “If you’re asking about the last couple of months, I don’t think we’ve got enough time to go through all of that.”

  He sat down at a barstool adjacent to the counter as I set out plates and silverware. “What do you want to drink?” I asked.

  He started digging into his meal with wol
fish glee. “A nice Chilean pinot noir would be perfect, but I don’t want to tempt the fates by consuming alcohol and going through a blood alcohol test later tonight. Man, that’s one strict jail we’ve got here in this county.”

  Felix started eating and I poured us both glasses of water, and said, “Okay. Right now. Tell me why you haven’t put my name on the visitors list.”

  He grunted in pleasure as he consumed another chunk of lobster meat, dripping in butter. “God, it’s been so long I’ve tasted so fine. Lewis, m’man, I kept you out of the visitors’ section to protect you.”

  “Me? You’re the one in trouble, for Christ’s sake.”

  He paused. “For real? Me? Gee, thanks for the news flash. So if you were let in to visit me, what then?”

  “I could ask you questions, get some tips, get some leads—”

  “And get every word you said, every syllable, recorded by the sheriff’s department, which would be passed onto the Porter Police Department,” he said, now going after his salad. “And how would that help me?”

  I kept my mouth shut, ate my own meal. Despite my anger and confusion about what the hell was going on, the lobster pie was tasting fine indeed.

  “Don’t frown,” Felix said.

  “Not frowning,” I said. “Just thinking.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “All right, first up, I’ve got to ask you the question. About Fletcher Moore and what happened to him in Porter.”

  Felix said, “Now it’s my time to frown. You really think I murdered the poor guy?”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t think you did. But I’d feel even better to hear you say it.”

  He chewed, swallowed, and took a big swig of water. I was conscious of how suddenly quiet my house was. I couldn’t even hear the ocean’s waves.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t kill Fletcher Moore.”

  I suddenly felt lighter in my shoulders and chest. Something had been weighing me down ever since I heard that Felix had been arrested, and now it was gone.

 

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