She had a wicked smile on her face. "Frank's our college intern for the spring term from UNH. Call me cruel, call me unfair. but I remember when I was an intern, I had to do the same thing. So just consider this passing on a tradition."
"All right," I said, "I won't call you unfair."
She wiggled her nose at me and said, "I'll go clean up the conference room. We can eat in there. Jerry, show Lewis your stuff from the storm."
Paula got up and walked out to the paper's conference room. Phones were ringing and computer keyboards were being tapped, and I took off my own coat and draped it across an empty desk, and then sat down in Paula's chair. It was pleasingly warm, and I saw something that made me smile. On her desk was a photo of Paula and Jerry in the audience at some news conference, but taped to a filing cabinet drawer --- and only visible from her seat -- was a picture of me, snapped last summer on the rear deck of my house. I didn't try to read anything into it, anything deep or philosophical It was just nice.
Jerry spoke up, saying, "Make it through the storm all right?" I turned. He had on a thick brown sweater and jeans and hi brown hair and beard were neat and trimmed. Maybe this budding romance was helping his grooming habits.
"I did pretty fine, but I hear that you and Paula had some adventures."
"Sure did. Look at this stuff," he said, passing over some: eight-by-ten black-and-white prints. I was going to give them II quick courtesy glance, but I slowed down in an instant. I looked II)' at him and said, "Jerry, these are really good."
I think he blushed. "Thanks."
"No, I really mean it," I said. "These are great."
An embarrassed nod. "Well, the AP Concord Bureau did pick up the last shot, so that's on the wires. I'll be happy to see where it ends up."
I went through each print. There were two of the beach, showing the waves exploding over the seawall, a couple of cars and a plow being inundated. Another showed a wide-eyed elderly woman being carried by two Tyler cops to a National Guard truck, he cops knee-deep in water and slush. And another showed an older man bent over a shovel, a snowbank near him that was over his head, and a small dog on top of the mound looking down quizzically at his master. In each photo, he had framed it so you were looking at the faces of the people, their expressions, their fears, their exhaustion.
The last photo was the best of the bunch. It was taken from a height and showed the center of Tyler Beach, the Strip. Jammed with thousands of tourists every summer night, in this picture there were just two men in the foreground, tugging at a canvas awning in front of a closed-up building, trying to prevent it from blowing away. They were staring up at the awning, hands tense, struggling. Behind them a snowplow was approaching, and a wave of snow was being tossed up, and you knew that in a matter of seconds those two men were going to get covered with the snow.
"Did they save the awning?" I asked.
"Nope," Jerry said. "They got socked by the snow and fell, and the wind just took that awning and whipped it away. The guys were all right, but the last I saw that awning, it was heading toward Falconer. Here, you can see the series."
He handed over a contact sheet, which was an eight-by-ten sheet of strips of negatives, each photo just a bit larger than a postage stamp. I saw what he meant and saw that there were about a half dozen shots in the series, starting with the guys working, the plow approaching, the guys getting knocked down and then standing up, cursing at the plow. Out of all the shots, Jerry had picked the best.
"Nice vantage point," I said. "Where were you to get these pictures?"
He looked sheepish. "I was on top of the Chamber of Commerce building."
I stared at him. "How in hell did you get up there?"
Jerry shrugged. "The Tyler cops were in there, getting some gear from the state. I let myself in and went up, and there was an access hatch to the roof. I figured I might get some good stuff up there. The hatch was frozen shut, but I managed to beat my way through it, and when I got up on the roof, you wouldn't believe the view I had."
Oh, I could believe it. Last summer I was up on the same roof with Diane, as she was tailing some drug dealers that wore working on the Strip. We both lay flat on the roof, and even there, with no wind, no snow, and no slippery conditions, I was uncomfortable. The roof was built at a sharp angle and I dug in with elbows and heels to keep position, and I was never happier that evening than when we both climbed back down.
"How did you stay in one place?" I asked.
"Just stubbornness, I guess."
"You could have fallen and broken your neck."
Another shrug, a bearded smile. "I got the shot, didn't I?"
"But you could have fallen."
The smile remained as he picked up the photos and contact sheet, and then quickly turned his head. "But I got the shot. Look like someone's waiting for you."
I looked up and Paula was beckoning to me, and Jerry got up and walked to the stairway that went down to the cellar, which held the paper's morgue and darkroom. I went forward, past Rollie Grandmaison, who was pencil-whipping his way through a press release from the Friends of the Tyler Harbor. His tan sweater was wearing through the elbows and his strands of light brown hair were flattened atop his freckled skull.
"How's the editor biz, Rollie?" I asked as I went by.
He didn't lift his head and the eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses didn't move as he said, "Still sucks, Lewis."
I followed Paula into a conference room, again admiring the way she filled out her blue jeans. Her ears were still poking through her hair, but I was too polite to mention it. I raised my eyebrows and she sighed and went up to the door and closed it.
"Well," she said, sitting down, legal pad in hand. "Got something good, I hope."
"You tell me," I said, passing over the envelope. She pulled out the planning board minutes, and I looked up at the paneled walls. There were some framed photos there, of the governor with Rollie and a few of some senators and congressmen, passing their way through here on that bumpy and detour-filled road to the White House.
She looked up after a couple of minutes, face set. "You must think I'm an idiot."
"No. I think you're overworked, and I think you looked at the obvious paths. Nothing stupid about that."
Paula looked back down at the minutes, where I had highlighted where Mike Ahern had made his points. "This is insane. Do you really think Mike's behind these arsons?"
I folded my hands. "I don't know. On the surface it does sound crazy, that Mike would be involved and leave such a paper I rail. But in your line of work you know what crazy things people do, every day. Murderers who videotape their own exploits. Mothers who kill their children and blame it on witchcraft or mysterious black men. Sex offenders who call their victims later, looking for a date. It happens."
"All right, it happens," she said. "Plus, I don't think he's the most balanced person I've ever met. So. What's next?"
"Research," I said. "I'd like to find out more about our town's fire inspector. He's been here, what, a year? Would like to know more about where he's been, what he did before he came to Tyler, what other towns he worked in."
She flipped through the pages again. "You think he's done this before?"
"I don't know what to think. All I do know is that if we're going to believe that the town's fire inspector is burning down businesses in Tyler because of some grudge, we better have some good Information to start with. So far," I pointed at the minutes collection, "this is all we've got."
Paula's reporter's face was now firmly on. She has a number of faces, from ones that make me smile to others that give me the heebie-jeebies, and her reporter's face was creepy. She looked like a mother bear who's just found someone shaving her cubs.
"I think I can help you with that," Paula said. "Kristie Graham. She roomed with me for a semester back at UNH. She's now the secretary at the fire department."
"You think she'll let you see Mike's personnel file?"
"See it?" Paula said. "Hell, I helpe
d her pass English two semesters in a row. She damn better let me make a copy of it."
"If she does, pass it along."
"The hell I will, this is my story."
"The hell you won't," I said. "This isn't just a story. This is some very strange stuff. If you start digging around and Mike Ahern finds out what you've been up to, then your job will become even more hellish. All of the firefighters, most of the cops, and a good chunk of the townspeople will be quite upset with you."
She sounded glum. "But nothing bad will happen to you, right? Sounds pretty macho to me."
"No, it sounds right, and you know it. I can still write the column, even if the entire town boycotts Shoreline. I don't have much to lose. You do. And I promise, if anything comes up, its yours. Your story, top to bottom. Deal?"
"Oh, it's a deal, damn you."
Then the door opened up and Frank the intern came in with two paper bags containing a veggie sub for Paula and a pastrami and cheese on rye for me, and iced tea for both of us. As Frank went out Paula said, "Frank, can you go down to the police station this afternoon to check on the log for me?"
His face brightened. "Sure. That'd be great."
When he closed the door behind us and I started unwrapping my sandwich, I said, "You hate going to the police station for the log in the winter, don't you?"
"Unh-hunh," she said, taking a big bite from her sandwich "It's cold and I have to park in that lot that never gets plowed, and there's hardly anything there anyway."
"So you sent the intern."
Paula looked up and smiled. "I sure did. Payback can be fun can't it?"
After a brief stop at the post office, I drove back home, seeing that the roads hadn't improved much since my drive into town. There were still cars stranded in snowdrifts and people shoveling and snowblowing as I made my way back to Atlantic Avenue. When I got in and took off my coat and tossed away most of the mail, I saw the blinking green light on my answering machine, and found that I had a call from Meg Purdy, the landlord for Doug Miles. She was quick and to the point:
"Call me back, will you?" she had said. "Dougie will be home tonight."
So I did, and she answered the phone and told me, "One of Dougie's friends stopped by, asked me to give him this envelope. He says Dougie will be by just before eleven."
"He wants you to hand deliver it?"
"Yeah, can you believe that?" she said. "I made a fuss and he gave me twenty bucks for my trouble."
"What kind of envelope is it?"
"Nine-by-twelve, the brown kind. Nice and sealed shut with tape, so don't go asking me to open it."
"I won't," I said. "But thanks for the call."
"You're welcome. So. Are you and your friend coming by tonight?"
"I imagine we will."
"Well, you imagine yourselves nice and careful," she said. “You two look like a couple of strong young men, but you be prepared. And tell you what, you manage to get Doggie out, I'll give you something, and I don't mean twenty bucks."
"Thanks for the offer," I said.
"Don't bother, and don't mind me if I stay in my bedroom with the Tonight Show on and Krypton sharing my bed," she said with a laugh. "I don't think I want to know what's going on down there."
I nodded to myself. "I think you're right."
We were having a cup of coffee and some late-night dessert at the Grog in Newburyport, and I asked Felix how he had made it through the blizzard.
"Made it through, nice and fine."
"Even with the power out?"
He took up another forkful of cheesecake. "Who said I was at home? I had a business appointment in Boston."
"North End?" I asked blandly, and he gave me a look as he continued, "--- and I knew the storm was just going to get worse, so a friend of mine, we ended up in the Parker House. Nice place to ride out a blizzard. Big bed, big tub, and wonderful room service."
"Sounds like fun," I said. "Any chance I'll be meeting this friend anytime soon?"
"Not a chance," he said.
"Fine," I said. "How did your background check go on young Mr. Miles?"
"Our young Mr. Miles has been a busy boy, but nothing too outrageous," Felix said. "A few driving offenses and two burglary charges. A couple of barroom brawls, a marijuana possession, and one armed robbery charge that never went anywhere."
"Nice fellow. No wonder his landlord wants him out."
"Oh, I've seen nicer," Felix said, which I didn't doubt.
Later we went outside, walking carefully along the ice-covered sidewalk. It was about eleven o'clock and the hot coffee, along with the thoughts of our evening's work, had wired me up. Everything seemed crisp and clear-from the brickwork of the buildings and the sharp light from the streetlamps, to the crunch of ice and sand under our feet. After we got into my four-wheeler and waited for the engine to warm up, Felix rubbed his hands together and said. "A few more days, I'm going to be so warm, and you're going to be so jealous."
"Run that by me one more time?" I asked.
He turned and smiled. "Courier job coming up very soon. Sun, sand, and fun in the Cayman Islands, thank you very much."
"Plus bruises, broken bones, and a little blood to go along with it, right?"
"Only if I screw up, which I promise I won't."
"What are you bringing in?" I asked, as I drove out of downtown Newburyport.
Felix shrugged. "Maybe I'm taking something out."
"Maybe I'm stupid in asking you."
"No argument here.”
We drove out to the western part of the city, where Doug Miles and his odd landlord lived. Felix reached behind him and pulled out a small black bag, which he zippered open. Taking out his 9mm Smith & Wesson, he opened up his winter jacket and placed it in a shoulder holster. He left his coat open and tossed the bag back into the rear seat, saying, "And you?"
"Underneath the front seat."
"Good."
He pulled the coat closed around him and said, "What do you think the landlord meant with her little statement?"
"Exactly what she said. We should be careful."
Felix crossed his arms around his chest. "Well, others might disagree, but I feel more careful when I'm carrying."
"Glad to hear it."
In New Hampshire, carrying a concealed weapon means getting a permit from the local police chief, which was easy for me, considering my relationship with a member of the Tyler Police Department. In Massachusetts, getting such a permit as a resident was very difficult, and getting one as an out-of-state resident --- like me --- was damn near impossible.
So tonight Felix and I would be breaking the law in the fair Commonwealth save for one thing: Some time ago he had secured permits for the both of us as representatives of a security firm that probably exists only from a mail drop somewhere in Boston. While I'm sure the way Felix managed to pull that scam off was an interesting story, I was content to have the permit and also content not to ask too many questions.
"Coming up in a minute or two," Felix said.
The banks of snow along the road were quite high, and the pavement was still covered with a hard pack of snow and sand. '"Here it is," Felix said. "Slow it down."
Which I did, and which I kept on doing as we slid past Doug Miles's home. Nothing in the driveway, no lights on, no sign of anyone.
“Damn," Felix said.
“Exactly."
We drove by twice more and then, thinking we would arouse the' suspicions of anyone awake, I drove back to town and we stayed in a shopping plaza parking lot, listening to some late-night music. The sodium-vapor lamps made everything look orange, and at the far' end of the lot, plows and earthmovers were widening the lot, dumping the snow into huge mounds that looked to be almost fifty feel tall.
"You got a grand plan after tonight?" Felix asked, resting his head in his hand.
"Nothing too grand about it," I said. "We talk to the young master Miles, and see what he tells us. If it's nothing worthwhile, then that's it, we're wrapped up
and I talk to Diane later this week I give her a full report of everywhere we've been and everything we've done, and admit defeat."
"Nice."
"No, it's not nice, but it's all we can do. But if Doug offers us something, even something as small as knowing somebody that might not have liked Kara, or something Kara might have done to someone that she wouldn't admit to Diane, then we keep on going, until this road reaches a dead end."
"Then?"
I thought of Mike Ahern and the fires, and his dislike for one police detective. Another road to travel for a while, but nothing yet to get Felix involved with. Not yet.
"Then I think of something else."
"Couple of days ago, you said you might be taking a look at Diane and what might be going on with her. Still true?"
"Still true, but later," I said. "You ready for another trip back?"
"I suppose I don't have a choice."
"You suppose right."
This time, there were lights.
"All right," Felix said, zipping up his coat. "Slow down and let me out, and then come back in about five minutes. Head up to the driveway and knock on the door and I'll wait out back, and let's see what kind of mischief we can get into."
"See you soon," and I slowed down, and Felix opened the door, a cold blast of wind coming through the interior, and he slid out and on his feet and I sped up. I drove up the street, thinking again of why I was out here on a cold January night in a state not my own, with an automatic pistol under my seat and soon to be in my coat, and going in harm's way. I went about a quarter of a mile, enough time for Felix to settle himself in, and then I turned around and headed back, knowing full well the answer: For my friend. That's it. No deep philosophy, no heavy questions, no turgid debate. I was doing this for Diane, and for no one else.
The lights were still on at the shuttered and cold-looking house as I pulled into the driveway, making no attempt to quiet my approach. Parked in front of the house was an old Dodge Colt, its blue paint whitened with road salt, and I pulled up behind and switched off the engine. I reached under the seat and pulled out my own 9mm Beretta, unzipping it from its case, putting it in my own shoulder holster.
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