“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Also, just so you know, I didn’t threaten him, hurt him, or insult him, or steal his lunch money.”
“But you were supposed to meet him at the apartment on Sher Avenue the night he was killed.”
“Yes.”
“What were you going to pick up?”
“Something.”
“Something being important papers having to do with the proposed casino zone on Tyler Beach?”
His fork paused in midair. “Very good. What led you there?”
“The apartment building is owned by Port Harbor Realty Association. Their offices were recently burglarized. The home office of Fletcher Moore—the casino proponent—was burglarized today. They weren’t going for jewelry or high-definition televisions. Shall I go on?”
“Please do.”
“I talked to Russ Gilman, the association’s owner. He said he hired you to do a security job for a condo project in Wallis. He was impressed with the results. He also hired you for the courier job, right?”
“Not sure if hired is the right word or not, but you’re on a roll.”
“Gilman’s connected to the proposed casino project.”
“Lewis, anybody and everybody in the real estate business within an hour of here is either interested or connected to the casino project.”
“And what happened when you got to the apartment?”
“What do you think? Saw a dead man on the floor, checked him and the apartment to see if there were any papers present, and then left.”
“What’s in the papers?”
“Don’t know.”
“Really?”
“Lewis, it’s not like I was going to transport a box leaking crystal meth or some recent immigrant with chains around his ankles. If it’s an envelope with papers in it, that’s all I need to know.”
“Where were you going to deliver them to?”
He was in the midst of swallowing and another leap came to mind. “Your attorney. Raymond Drake. Russ Gilman said he got your name as a recommendation from Realtors and lawyers he knew in Boston. Was it Raymond?”
A nod. “Christ, you’re doing great.” He looked over at my new wall-mounted microwave, checked the time. “I got ten more minutes before I have to leave.”
“Back at the courthouse, you set that fight up, right? So you could go to the hospital and then come here?”
“That I did.”
“But how in the hell did you get out?”
“Through fear,” he said. “Pure, undying fear. Plus a bribe or two. It’s amazing how alone you can be if you tell the admitting personnel that you think you’re running a fever and just came back from West Africa.”
“But the FBI’s told me that you’re in danger.”
His eyes slightly widened, which for Felix, is like shouting out loud. “I’m always in danger. That’s how I live.”
“No, I mean, right now. At the Wentworth County jail. From your fellow inmates.”
“Lewis, most of my fellow inmates are nonviolent offenders, keeping their heads down, up on charges related to drug or alcohol offenses. No Aryan Nation types need apply.”
“That’s not what I was told.”
“And that came from the FBI? For real?”
“Yes,” I said. “Two special agents from the FBI came by to talk to me during your trial, said they were concerned you might turn evidence to get a better sentence, give up some embarrassing information, either about past involvement with them or your past . . . associates.”
He slowly put his fork down. “You really think I’m one to turn? Against anybody I’ve worked with over the years?”
“No,” I promptly said.
“Thanks. And you think I’ve done anything at all with the FBI? The true guys and gals who believe in fidelity, bravery, and integrity?”
I waited. And waited. Felix shrugged. “Never the FBI. Considering how tangled they’ve been in the years with organized and unorganized crime in Boston, no, there’s no way I’ve done anything with the FBI. But let’s say I’ve come across items of interest that could be used by folks in your previous line of work, back at the Department of Defense. That’s a whole different story.”
“You’re saying my FBI agents might not be FBI agents, but they still work for Uncle Sam.”
“Makes sense,” he said. “Look, I work in the shadows, I cross the lines, but I’m opposed to car bombs and airliners used to knock down buildings and kosher supermarkets getting shot up.”
“Always knew that.”
“Guess I can’t keep too many secrets from you,” he said, slightly smiling. “So these alleged Feds, what did they want you to do?”
“Try to dig up something to get you out.”
He nodded. “I guess I do have some friends somewhere. Who knew?”
I said, “But, Felix, when did your pistol get stolen? And why are you being set up for his murder? Christ, with the video, your gun, and your fingerprints all over the apartment, aren’t you worried you’re never getting out?”
Felix wiped his fingers and lips. “Damn, that was fine. And I only got . . . six minutes left. I appreciate what you’ve been doing.”
“I’m trying to get you free from a trumped-up murder charge, and you’re not answering my questions.”
“I’m thankful, and sorry, time is a-wasting. But you’ve got to do something for me.”
“Felix . . .”
“It’ll all come together, promise. Will you help me?”
“Go ahead.”
“Get ahold of Raymond Drake. He knows what’s going on, what the papers were about, why I’m in this whole tangled mess.”
I wasted some of Felix’s precious seconds in looking at him, aghast. “You don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“He’s not at work, he’s not answering any phone calls, either at home or at his office,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he’s being held captive at his home in Boxford.”
Felix wiped his fingers again. “I’ve called his office and home when I can. His name’s on the visitors list. Damn. No wonder he hasn’t been by to see me. How do you know he’s there?”
“I went to his house on a pretext. There was a young tough woman and equally tough guy at the house. Eastern European. They didn’t say much, but I didn’t have to hear much to know I wasn’t welcome and that they were dangerous.”
“How do you know Raymond’s there?”
“I hope he’s there,” I said. “The FBI guys, whoever they are, they told me they had checked the house out, either via electronic surveillance or thermal imaging. There are three people in the house.”
“Damn.” He looked again at the microwave and its little digital clock. “Poor Raymond. He’s not getting any younger.”
“Still alive as of yesterday.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Shit, all this yammering on my part, and I haven’t asked how you’re doing.”
I knew time was pressing in on him, and I said, “Somebody took a potshot at me yesterday.”
“Where?” he said, standing up.
“Here. In my house. A shot through the office window, exited through my bedroom window.”
Felix whistled. “That’s mighty fine shooting.”
“Sure was,” I said. “The more I think about it, the more I think it was a warning shot. It was carefully placed to scare me, and not to leave any evidence. The bullet is now out there on the bottom of the Atlantic. Impossible to recover and identify. A shooter that good, if he wanted to kill me, would have taken my head off at the shoulders.”
“Warning you to stop poking around?”
“Pretty straightforward,” I said. Felix started back to my front door and I went with him. “Plus, well, since I’ve been asking questions, that’s when things started happening. The gunshot, the papers stolen from the two offices. I feel like I’m on the right track for something. I just don’t know what.”
He slapped me on the
shoulder. “Stirring things up. If you don’t get hurt or shot in the process, it can have a good outcome.”
Felix got to the door. “One more thing. Get Raymond Drake out of that house, get him someplace safe.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play games,” he said. “You need to get Raymond Drake freed, and the sooner, the better. The trial’s about to wrap up, he’s the key to unraveling this mess, and I don’t want him to be killed. That’s what’s going on at his house. Alive, he’s of value for some time to come, for somebody. And when that time expires, he’ll be killed as easily as crushing a cockroach under your foot. Get him out, Lewis.”
“How in the world—”
“Out of time, sorry,” he said. “I’m due back to the hospital.”
“Don’t.”
“Huh?”
It came to me as a quick rush. “Stay here. You’re being railroaded. Your lawyer sucks. Stay here, hide out, we’ll work together to get Raymond out, and we’ll take the heat together once we get things settled.”
He smiled. “You offering to help a fugitive from justice?”
“No,” I said. “I’m offering to help you.”
“No can do,” he said. “I need to go back to the hospital, back to jail, and serve my ultimate purpose. But I appreciate your offer.” He opened the door and said, “Thanks for the company, thanks for hearing me out.”
He started out and I said, loudly, “I know why you hired Hollis. I did some digging in news archives on the Internet. You were arrested once in Boston, with his dad, years ago. There’s a family connection, right? You needed a lawyer, you couldn’t call Raymond Drake, so you called Hollis Spinelli.”
Felix turned, stunned, like I had tossed a rock at him and had caught him right between the shoulder blades. “You found out about that?”
“I did,” I said, my voice still raised.
He grinned, cupped a hand around his mouth. “Then you didn’t get the whole story. Hollis Spinelli hates me with a passion.”
I could only shout back, “Why?”
“Because I killed his father.”
With that, Felix turned and loped his way up my driveway, and he was gone.
I moved around my house as if in a fog, cleaning up the remains of the best meal I’ve had in a long time, still trying to make sense of everything that had just gone on during the last half hour, and I was stunned, and I was stuck.
Felix.
I didn’t care much about his courier job, or the fact Russ Gilman was involved, or Raymond Drake. I cared much more about something basic, namely, his trial for homicide, and now learning the reason why his defense attorney was doing a lousy job.
But if Hollis hated Felix, why did Felix contact him? And why did Hollis agree to take the case? So he could toss it and put someone in jail who had killed his dad years back?
My home smelled of grease and cooked things, and with a full stomach, I didn’t like it. I opened a couple of windows, grabbed my jacket, and decided to go for a ride.
This early in the season, not much was open at the center of Tyler Beach, so it was easy to find a parking spot. I parked near the Maid of the Seas, a sculpture honoring the service members from New Hampshire who died on the world’s oceans during World War II. The waves were booming nice and loud, and I took my time walking up and down the Strip. The majority of places were still closed, but there were arcades—still hanging on in the world of iPhones, Androids, and other handheld devices—open for business, still sucking in quarters with their old-fashioned machines. Fried dough stands were also popular, as well as two pizza joints, a clothing store, and Chris Tefft’s sub shop, which was doing a fair business.
I bought a Coke from a young woman working at Chris’s—the owner and manager nowhere to be seen—and I walked across Atlantic Avenue, found a place to sit, and took it all in. Most of the folks wandering through were paying attention to each other or the beach and the ocean, but I was once again marching to my own drummer, and I was watching the Strip and the moving vehicles and the people. In a couple of short months, the Strip would be crowded with bumper-to-bumper vehicles, slowly passing by, most being driven by young men and women, looking for fun, looking for parties, looking for something slightly illegal to put a jolt of excitement in their lives.
And there’d be lots of families scurrying about as well, most of them on the edge, trying to show their young boys and girls some fun, some brightness in their lives, some sense of adventure with the wide and open beach, and all the shiny lights and noises, doing this with a thin wallet or pocketbook. At a time when taking a family of four to Fenway Park for a solitary Red Sox baseball game was closing in on five hundred dollars, Tyler Beach was still a haven of sorts.
I sipped at my Coke. Not a perfect haven, of course, as if there could be anything like that in the world. A quick glance at the Tyler police log every Monday morning, listing the number of arrests, fights, burglaries, thefts, and assaults, would show just how imperfect it was. But it was what it was, and it served its role, and year after year, it did it well.
Another sip, and I was sure the caffeine would keep me up tonight, and I pretty much didn’t care. I looked at the line of ticky-tacky buildings and their lights and sounds, and I saw something else. I saw boarded-up windows and entrances, chain-link fences erected, and then the construction equipment coming in. Tearing and crushing and flattening everything out. Then I saw the metal beams and framework being raised, followed by the wiring, the plumbing, the walls and floors. Instead of numerous little buildings clustered and cluttered together on the Strip, just one shiny behemoth would now take its place. A good chunk of the beach’s heart would have been torn out and replaced with something shiny and new. I saw balconies, hotel rooms, wide entrances, flashing neon, sharp-dressed men and equally sharp-dressed women, with frantic, false smiles and laughs, joined by others clutching paper cups full of nickels or quarters, and long lines forming in front of ATMs, waiting for the tempting whir-whir-whir of money being dispensed.
What would it be like?
Different, of course. Very different. The whole feeling of the beach and the resort, of its classless and tacky style, would be replaced by something sharp, cold, and bright. Like getting rid of a ’57 Chevy that ran fairly well and replacing it with the latest model that had back-up cameras, collision-avoidance alarms, perfect climate control, and no soul or identity or function at all.
Except for the most important function.
To happily, cheerfully, and exuberantly strip away money and dreams from the good people walking in.
Another sip of the Coke. But would it matter to me? I lived a mile or so farther up the coast, had no real allegiance to Tyler Beach or its history. I wouldn’t spend money here, I doubted anyone I knew would spend money here, and if it caused increased crime, decreased bank accounts, and additional mayhem on weekends, well, why should I care?
I stood up, started walking back to my Pilot, and, finishing my Coke, dropped the empty cup into a light green trash container with bright lettering on its side, which said it was SPONSORED BY THE TYLER BEACH AREA CHAMBER OF COMMERCE/PLEASE HELP KEEP OUR BEACH CLEAN.
I got in the Pilot and drove home, just a few lights in my rearview mirror, thinking of what it might be like to see a dazzling cold future back there.
Please, I thought. They had said please.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At home, the inside smelled fresher than it had earlier, and my phone rang before I headed back upstairs. I went to answer it and was once again greeted by a burst of static and crackling noises.
“Hello?” I asked.
More static, and I was about to hang up, when there was a warbling sound and then a man’s voice.
“Cole? Lewis Cole?”
“That’s me,” I said. “Who the hell is this?”
Another burst and the voice faded out, and then the male voice said “. . . hold on, please,” and then there was a click as my call was disconnected.
&nbs
p; I returned the favor, hung up, and went back to bed.
Breakfast the next morning was a hot cup of tea, and with the mold on my bread having crossed my own loose boundaries of what was considered edible, I added an extra spoonful of sugar to compensate and made a quick phone call, using the number supplied to me yesterday by the mysterious Mr. Krueger, from wherever he hung his hat.
The phone was picked up by one of those automated voicemail systems—which always warn you against going rogue in answering because extensions have changed, don’tcha know it—and I patiently waited, eventually punching a three-digit number that was briskly answered, “Hollis Spinelli’s office.”
“Mr. Spinelli, please.”
“Mr. Spinelli is on his way to court,” the man answered, with just a touch of boredom. “May I take a message?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” I said. “I’m returning his call.”
“Who is this, please?”
“Russ Gilman, from Port Harbor Realty Association, up in Porter,” I said. “I had an office temp working there yesterday—had to fire the fool—and he said someone from this office called. What’s up?”
I waited.
Waited.
“Can I put you on hold for a moment?”
“Sure,” I said, and there was a click and some soul-deadening smooth jazz music came on, and then there was another click and the helpful gentleman said, “Mr. Spinelli is still on his way to court and said he’d call your office straightaway.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said, and I hung up.
Intelligence mission of the morning completed, I decided to go to court as well.
I got there in just under twenty minutes, and a quick reconnoiter of the parking lot showed that Attorney Spinelli had yet to appear. Very good. I parked and walked over to the entrance and sat on a stone bench, watching people walk in. There were the lawyers, moving quickly and confidently, carrying their bulging soft leather briefcases, no doubt knowing however the day ended today, equally bulging invoices would be going out like clockwork.
Also moving in, and not so quickly or confidently, were friends or relatives of those facing justice today. Some stared ahead, like they couldn’t believe they were here and their loved ones were in trouble. Others laughed and joked and shared cigarettes, like this was just another odd field trip in the ongoing educational experience that was life, with side journeys to bankruptcy courts or hospital emergency rooms.
Storm Cell Page 18