Most of the defendants, of course, were going in via a different entrance, including Felix, and I wondered if he’d had to explain to anyone last night about the drawn-butter stains on the front of his orange jumpsuit.
And speaking of explanations, for some reason I hadn’t told him what I had suspected last night, that somehow, Hollis Spinelli was involved in this casino controversy at Tyler Beach.
Was Hollis representing one of the parties? Was he a lawyer for the Tyler Beach Improvement Corporation? Was he, Christ, was he the one who killed Fletcher Moore that night, or at least arranged it and then also set Felix up?
Then again, the overarching question was this: Why in the name of all that’s holy would Felix call Hollis to represent him, knowing the man’s background, knowing he was responsible for the death of the lawyer’s father?
All right, then, why didn’t I tell Felix last night what I knew? Of Hollis’s connection?
I reluctantly nodded to myself. Because I was being a jerk. I wanted to impress him, show off what I knew—that Hollis and he had gone back years to their hometown neighborhood of Boston’s North End. And then I was going to impress him by telling him about the connection, about Hollis Spinelli’s office phoning Russ Gilman’s office.
But Felix had shut my mouth with his own revelation, that he had killed Hollis’s dad.
Further deep and disturbing thoughts were replaced by the fine sight of Paula Quinn, striding in as well. She had on tight slacks that flattered her legs and her curvy bottom, and an open waist-length leather jacket. In one hand she carried her soft leather briefcase, and in the other, a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and a brown paper bag.
Her smile warmed me right up—even though I wasn’t cold—as she came closer, and I patted the stone bench next to me.
“Care to join me for some fresh air before the circus starts?”
“Why not?” she said, coming over and sitting down. “Though I don’t think all of the clowns have shown up yet. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ve been . . . busy.”
“I haven’t seen you in court for a couple of days.”
“I’ve been . . . busy.”
“Mmm,” she said, opening up the top of the coffee cup, and the scent of the coffee and then her breakfast sandwich drilled right through me. “I’ll give you this: if you had the experience and a law license, I’m sure you’d be getting Felix off. I guess it’s too late for that, right?”
“Much too late.”
“Pity. You still looking into the Tyler Beach Improvement Company?”
“A little.”
“Find anything interesting?”
I thought of the empty files at a business in Porter and at a home in Tyler, and a figure jumping out of said house, and I said, “Lots. But so far, just big pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit, even if I were to take a hammer and saw to them.”
Paula nudged me with her elbow. “Sometimes pieces of a puzzle are just that. Pieces that make no sense, even if you can put them together. You trying to put something together connecting Felix’s trial and the casino vote?”
“I am.”
“What kind of success so far?”
“The hidden kind.”
That brought forth a pleasing laugh, and she took sip from her coffee and rustled open the sandwich bag, took out some sloppy-looking sausage, egg, and cheese croissant sandwich that looked and smelled mouthwatering. I did my best not to stare.
“Has the state finished its case yet?” I asked.
She took a healthy bite, and I hoped the sound of the people walking by and the traffic pulling in would cover the sounds of my grumbling stomach.
“Probably later today or maybe tomorrow,” she said. “Then, depending on the time, Hollis will get up and start presenting his case.”
I thought about my meet with Felix last night, and said, “I finally got word from Felix.”
She grunted, then swallowed. “What did he have to say for himself?”
“That he didn’t do it,” I said. “That he’s innocent.”
“You believe him?”
“Always have.”
She took another healthy bite. I looked away and focused on the filling parking lot. “All right, maybe it was a setup. The problem is the twelve people and two alternates up on the third floor, getting ready to sit in judgment for another day. They won’t know the Felix you know, or even the Felix I came to know last year. They’ll see a guy whose weapon was left behind, who was due to meet up with Fletcher Moore, who had his fingerprints all over the place and on the weapon, and, oh, yeah, video surveillance that shows him entering and then leaving the apartment building.”
“Well, if you’re going to say it like that.”
“Oh, it’s not going to be me,” she said. “It’s going to be Assistant Attorney General Deb Moran who’ll be saying it, and unless Hollis has a miracle or two hidden in his pricey suit, that’s all the jury is going to hear, and care about.”
Paula took one more bite and glanced at me, and said, “Lewis.”
“Right here.”
“You hungry?”
My pride wanted to say no, but my stomach wanted to shout yes, and so I gave in and said, “Skipped breakfast this morning on my way here.”
Paula smiled, handed over the rest of her breakfast sandwich. “Have at it.”
“No, really.”
She dangled it in front of my face. “Go ahead. Besides, it’ll probably have a happier home in your stomach than on my hips.”
I took the sandwich from her and finished it off in two healthy bites. It tasted great. I wiped my fingers on a napkin she passed over, and I said, “When I was very young and very dumb, and only a boy with not much experience with the opposite sex, I was told to be afraid of girls and their cooties, whatever the hell cooties meant back then. So glad I got over that.”
“Me, too,” Paula said, and I decided to jump in. I said, “Would you be interested in dinner at my place after this trial wraps up?”
She paused for the briefest of moments, and said, “I’d love to.”
“Great. We’ll make it happen.”
Paula sipped from her coffee and said, “But you want to ask, don’t you?”
“About you and Mark Spencer?”
“Well, I think you already know my bra size, so yeah, me and Mark Spencer.”
“I take it you’re on the outs.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Permanent or temporary?”
Paula said, “Don’t make me answer that question right now, okay?”
“Deal.”
She patted my leg. “Good man. It’s now time for me to earn my salary.”
Right then I saw Hollis Spinelli come across the courthouse parking lot, and I said, “Funny, me too.”
Once Paula left I stood up and made sure I was in the way of Hollis as he approached the courthouse steps. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”
“It certainly is,” I said. “Or do you want to see my ID?”
“Get out of my way,” he said. “I’ve got court in a few minutes. Or do you want to see your friend Felix go undefended?”
“Considering how rotten a job you’ve been doing, it might turn out better for him.”
He came toward me and I held my ground, and he stepped aside, and I stepped with him. His face reddened. “All I need to do is to raise a fuss, and a couple of court officers will drag your ass off. Might even get you arrested. So step aside.”
“How come you’re Felix’s attorney?” I asked.
“Move.”
“You’re supposedly working on his behalf, even though he killed your dad?”
His face turned a darker shade of scarlet. “What happened back then is none of your business.”
“Then let’s talk about now,” I said. “What kind of work are you doing for the Port Harbor Realty Association? You setting them up to do construction work if that casino article passes in Tyler?”
It was hard to
figure out what was going on with his face. It was a mixture of anger and anticipation, and then he shifted his briefcase to his other hand and said, “I think you had a visit from an old family friend of mine a while back, who told you to leave me alone.”
“The young Angelo Ricci?”
“Young and fearless,” Hollis said. “Congratulations, you’ve just earned yourself a repeat appointment.”
I stood still and let Hollis brush past me, and I couldn’t help myself, and I said, “That’s fine, I’m counting on it.”
But I don’t think Hollis heard me.
Which was fine.
I started back to my Pilot when I saw a sad trio approaching: Fletcher Moore’s widow, Kimberly, along with her two daughters, the older and the younger, Brianna. The daughters were flanking their mother, like two Secret Service agents protecting some presidential candidate. I walked by as they went toward the steps, and Brianna caught my eye and didn’t say a word.
As I got to the Pilot, I heard a woman’s voice behind me. “Lewis?”
I turned, expecting it was Brianna, but no, it was the oldest daughter, Justine. Her eyes were sharp and there were splotches of color on her cheeks. “Yes?”
“You’ve been poking around my family, and my dad, and I want it to stop. All right?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t make that kind of promise.”
“Then you should try,” she said. “I know a lot about you, since you harassed my mom the other day. You’re some sort of bum, a magazine writer, and you’re friends with the asshole who killed my dad.”
“I’m friends with the defendant, that’s right. Look, I—”
“Listen, I’m a law student at New England Law. I know a few things. I know that whatever I say to you can’t be used against me. My word against yours, right? So here’s my word. Don’t ever come back to this court, or to my house, or I’ll have you hurt.”
“Justine,” I said, taking my car keys out of my jacket. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry for the pressure you’re under. But—”
“You think I’m just making idle noise, think about this. Lots of my fellow students, they’re night students. They have other jobs. Other careers. Interesting careers that might have had a firsthand experience with the law, on the streets. Back off, or one of my new friends will make you sorry.”
I stood there, feeling foolish, car keys in hand, and said, “What’s going on? What happened with your dad and the casino proposal? You’re a smart daughter. Why did your dad get murdered?”
“You know what?” she said. “Some clown broke into our house, scared the shit out of my little sister, and why? I don’t know. All I know is that all this crap started once you started asking questions, being a pain in the ass.”
Justine’s frame trembled.
She spat in my face.
“Sticking up for my dad’s killer,” she said, voice trembling, red splotches brighter. “Asshole.”
Once she stormed off to the court and after I got my Pilot started, I went to the glove box, took out a couple of napkins, wiped my face dry, and then used a moist towelette to wipe my face again.
Heck of a start to the day.
I drove up I-95 to Porter, and at the traffic circle—after dodging those poor souls who don’t know how to maneuver through a rotary—I went back to the building holding the Port Harbor Realty Association, the comic book shop, the gold jewelry store and the bridal store. I parked at a distance and walked over to the building. There was a pickup truck, a Subaru, and another car parked in the spaces in front. Up at the front door, it was closed and locked, and the lying sign promising BE BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES! was still dangling in the front window.
Interesting.
I walked around the rear of the building, went up to its rear door. Last time I was here, it was unlocked.
Now it was locked.
Even more interesting.
I looked at the unmarked door and thought back to the other day. I had gone in, had poked around, saw a gap in their filing cabinet system where certain files seemed to be missing. There were also other things out of place. The hole in the wall in Russ Gilman’s office. The broken Marine coffee mug belonging to his receptionist, Carol Moynihan. All right, then. And right after I left the building, I made a quick call to the Porter police, saying something was amiss at the Port Harbor Realty Association.
All right, I thought. A Porter patrolman is dispatched to the office. He sees the door locked, sign hanging out front. He checks the neighbors, talks to them, doesn’t hear anything suspicious about what might have happened inside the real estate office.
A hoax call, then? Is that what he’s thinking?
But our patrolman goes the extra distance. He or she goes around the back, checks the doors, and—
Finds the rear door unlocked.
Our patrolman goes in, looks around. Doesn’t see a body, bullet holes, or blood spatter.
What does he do?
He probably tells dispatch that it looks like the owner or owners of the firm left unexpectedly, leaving the rear door unlocked.
Our intrepid police officer—not suspecting anything has gone amiss—departs and locks the door behind him or her.
Case—for now—closed.
I turned the door handle again.
Still locked.
I left the rear of the store, started walking back, when the breeze shifted, bringing a familiar stench to my nostrils.
I kept still.
Took in the scent again.
Damn.
I looked around, made sure I was alone.
I was.
I approached the dull green and battered Dumpster. The smell grew stronger. By the side of the Dumpster were two dented blue plastic milk crates. I piled one on top of the other, stood on them, balanced myself the best I could. I peered over the edge of the Dumpster.
Along with the usual trash—small white plastic refuse bags, coffee grounds, newspapers, rotten fruit—was a large green plastic form, wrapped in twine. One edge was torn. I leaned over. I tugged at the torn edge. It ripped. The smell was so thick I had to breathe through my mouth.
A shiny Italian shoe was revealed.
Attached to a stockinged foot and leg, wearing fine trousers.
Russ Gilman.
I pulled back, looked down again.
It looked like another large green plastic form, also bound with twine, was underneath the body of Russ Gilman.
I stepped off the milk crates, kicked them free, and walked slowly and casually back to my Pilot.
I got in and drove out, and then pulled into the same Irving gas station I had used before.
This was beginning to become one hell of a habit. I backed out and then went back into the rotary, again dodging the drivers who didn’t know what the hell they were doing, and I ended up at the Lewington Mall. It took some hunting, but in the food court I found two solitary phones, standing at lonely attention. From there I made my phone call to the Porter Police Department.
“There’s two bodies in a Dumpster behind the Port Harbor Realty Association, off the traffic circle.”
After hanging up, I then left, pretty sure my second call would get a more enthusiastic response than the first one had.
I drove south, not wanting to go back home, wanting to be on the move. I had a few plans in motion, and sitting still wasn’t going to be one of them. I went to the Tyler Post Office, was once again disappointed, and then went to a Market Basket supermarket in nearby Falconer, where I managed to scrounge together a meal consisting of a salad, a container of yogurt, and some water. I ate my meal in the front seat and then went for a drive.
Not sure why, but I ended up back on Tyler Beach. It was quite the warm day for March, and just above the large Tyler Beach Palace building—home in the summer for lots of concerts and comedy acts—I found an empty parking space, which was easy to do. In a few months fighting for a parking spot would be a popular pastime here, so I took advantage of the
time of the year.
I switched the engine off, folded my arms, gazed at the wide and open beach in front of me. Back in Porter I was sure an organized chaos had just broken out at the offices of the Port Harbor Realty Association, with the area roped off, bodies and evidence being collected, questions being asked of the other tenants.
So why did I leave? Why didn’t I stick around to offer what I could?
That would have been the wise thing to do.
But the right one?
Not sure.
But what had to be done, what had to be chased down, wasn’t back up there in Porter, with the unfortunate Russ Gilman and equally unfortunate Carol Moynihan. Other pieces of this puzzle were now jostling in front of me, demanding attention, demanding to be placed in the right spot.
I shifted in my seat. Behind me was Atlantic Avenue, the low buildings of the motels, restaurants, and gift shops. Beyond the wide beach sands was the real Atlantic, and people were at play out there. I saw a number of kites flying, kids digging sand, dogs chasing balls or Frisbees, and a few hardy souls who had stripped down to get an early start on the tanning season.
The famed Tyler Beach. Since I lived just north of this playground, I was still considered part of the history and aura, though I’ve always lived apart. Only a few occasions have bestirred me to come down here on a hot summer night—mostly to do with either dinner with Diane, or meeting up with her to discuss something I might be involved with—and I guess I had a little of the disdainful attitude of someone who considered himself above it all.
Yet here I was, and there it was. A relatively cheap playground for those stuck in tenements in Haverhill, Lawrence, Lowell, Nashua, or Manchester, a chance to get fresh air, sunshine, play in very cold water, and just kick back and leave the regular drudge for a while.
Nothing more fancy than that.
Yet fancy was now knocking at the door.
Just a ways up the sidewalk was the Maid of the Seas, built to honor the ultimate sacrifice of the Navy and Marine war dead.
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