by Landon Beach
✽✽✽
Papa Pete’s men opened up their Uzis on full automatic, and two of the assassins’ bodies fell to the ground near Ciro and Big Joey, their corpses covered in bloody holes. But the last assassin, who had not yet made it around the side of the bullet-riddled Mercedes, was able to get off a few rounds at one of Papa Pete’s men. The man staggered back in pain, and the arm holding the Uzi lifted and then swung wildly to the left. The other men aimed their weapons at the last assassin and finished him off. There was silence for a moment—and then screaming from directly across the street.
✽✽✽
Kelvin Murphy applied pressure to little Nancy Murphy’s chest, which had two holes in it—one two inches above the belly button and the other a few inches south of her throat in the center of her tiny chest. Lydia had been hit in the leg, and her blood dripped onto the sidewalk as she huddled over Nancy and wailed.
“Daddy,” Nancy said. “I feel like I do when I’m gonna...get...sick.” And she was gone.
✽✽✽
FBI Detroit Field Office
Patrick Bruno was in the middle of studying a December 2009 302 from Nolan to FBI Headquarters when Nolan burst through the office door.
“We’ve got to go. Now,” Nolan said.
Patrick rose quickly, watching the elder Special Agent sprint to his desk and bend down behind it. Nolan had left for the break room to snatch a donut ten minutes ago. What in the hell had happened in that time? “What’s going on?” Patrick said.
He heard Nolan shut a drawer and saw him stand up with two extra magazines for his Glock. “Ciro Russo has just been killed along with his driver. Civilians have been injured.” Nolan put the magazines in one of his jacket pockets. “Fuck! This is not gonna be pretty.”
Patrick handed the stack of 302s to Nolan, who locked them back up in one of the filing cabinets. Then, Patrick put his hand underneath his jacket and felt his Glock there. Are you ready to use this? You better be. He pulled his hand back out.
Nolan turned around. “Ready?”
“Right behind you,” Patrick said.
17
Put-in-Bay, South Bass Island, Ohio
Present Day
Brad Cranston walked down the C dock in Miller’s Marina. It was noon, and he thought the temperature was around seventy, albeit a windy seventy. On the way over, the winds had been northerly, barely a knot, but had now shifted to SSE at around ten knots. After another stride, Allison Shannon drew even with him.
“Got the directions?” he asked.
“Right here,” she said, holding a notepad in her hand.
“Not going to use your cell phone?”
“Not unless we have to,” she replied, all business. “C’mon, let’s pick up the pace.”
Last night had been uncomplicated and a reminder that he missed the company of a woman. Just knowing that another human being was sleeping in close proximity to him had given him a sound night’s sleep. Then, this morning, they had maneuvered around each other with ease. He was up before she was and had made coffee. When the aroma began to fill the cabin, he had heard movement from her berth, followed by a yawn, and then, “Something smells good.” It was simple and unnoteworthy, but that was why it meant something to him. It was genuine human contact but without recognition of supposed rules of cohabitation. He was so out of practice from the morning rituals and routines followed by two adults living together that he was surprised the morning had proceeded like they had lived together for years. Did this mean something? He was attracted to her. Was this a start? Whether it was working with her on the case or just the chit chat on the boat ride over about safe, select details from each other’s past, he appreciated her straightforward manner. There appeared to be no positioning, strategizing, or hedging present in her manner or words. There was only what he could see and hear, and he liked it. He had once read that on a first date you don’t actually show up but rather send a representative of your best self. Well, he had been on too many first dates over the past decade that had been stuffy and filled with rote pleasantries, boring conversation, empty promises to call again soon, and lies that he had enjoyed the evenings. A few of the dinners had led to sexual encounters, momentarily satiating his physical needs, but he determined that without the emotional connection, the relationship was doomed. Surprisingly, when the subject of his divorce had come up, he had felt at ease sharing how he had been left by his wife for the glamor and vistas of the west coast. Allison had seen a few of the films produced by his ex-wife’s partner and said that she liked them. Normally, even this slight nod of positivity toward the people that now populated his ex-wife’s life would trigger bitterness, but this time it didn’t. Perhaps it was Allison’s indifferent and matter-of-fact way of talking about it. She felt no need to probe or make anything more of it than what it was. She didn’t feel that she needed to understand him and his full story before breaching other topics. She had a reservoir of practicality and tough-mindedness, and yet there was still a sliver of vulnerability in her professional manner. For a few minutes on the ride over, the conversation had faded, and she had reclined on the cockpit bench and watched the sun glisten on the cobalt sheen of water as the Stingray cut the surface in two. Then, the conversation had shifted to some of her past. There had been someone once, but it had ended. She didn’t provide details, and he hadn’t pressed for any. What became clear, without overtly saying so, was that they were both single and both passing through life doing their respective jobs.
Brad snuck a quick peek back at the twenty-five-foot Stingray, which was berthed ten yards behind them. Larry’s boat had run like a dream on the way up from West Harbor past Catawba Island and all along the eastern shore of South Bass Island, slicing the calm Great Lake with ease. When they had reached the northern tip of South Bass and rounded Buckeye Point, the seas had grown to two to four feet as they headed west before calming down as they turned south into the harbor. To their left, and in the distance, they had seen the legendary 352-foot Doric column rising from the island to commemorate Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry’s victory over the British in the War of 1812. The column was officially named “Perry’s Victory and International Peace Memorial,” and Allison had told him the park was a major tourist attraction. It was the U.S.’s third-tallest monument after the St. Louis Arch and Washington Monument.
“Where else do you get to stand by a monument that honors both war and peace and yet stands only five miles from the longest undefended border on the planet?” she had asked him.
He had only replied with Perry’s famous quote, “We have met the enemy, and they are ours.”
“You a history buff?” she had asked.
“No. That would be my brother. And an author named Jody DeWaters had the quote inside one of his books. I did the cover art for it.”
“A nautical adventure?”
“No, a book about weed.”
They had called Park Place Boat Club on VHF Channel 79, hoping it had a cancellation, but its slips were full. So, they had called Miller’s Marina on VHF 74 and hailed the dockmaster, who had been helpful and pleasant to work with and had slips available. The electricity and fresh water had been easy to hook up, and there was a pavilion, newly renovated restrooms and showers, Wi-Fi, and a dock shop. Since it was the weekend, they were supposed to rent the slip for two nights, but Allison had explained the situation to the dockmaster. It was $2.50 per foot, so fifty dollars a night for the Stingray. Brad had paid to top off the boat’s fuel before they left in the morning, so she gave the dockmaster seventy-five dollars for one night. He had tipped his cap, and the slip was theirs.
Brad turned back around and watched as Allison strode with a purpose toward the end of the dock and Bayview Avenue. She had the three pictures tucked into her tan backpack along with a camera. He patted the leather case on his belt that held his trusty Swiss Army knife as they stepped off the dock and crossed over Bayview to the sidewalk. They turned left and headed toward the village of Put-In-Bay.
“Oka
y, we go down a block, take a right on Catawba Avenue, then a left on Delaware, go past a couple of golf cart rental places, past—” she looked at the notepad in her hand—“Mama Maria’s Pizza, then Pasquale’s. We cross over Loraine Avenue, and we’re there.” She put the pad down and met eyes with him. “Sure you don’t want to rent one of those golf carts?”
“Not yet,” Brad said. “No Siri, no golf cart.”
She grinned. “Smart ass.”
✽✽✽
They arrived in front of The Round House Bar, and Allison unzipped her backpack, taking out her camera and the picture with the woman in front of the bar. She handed the camera to Brad.
“Step back, drop to one knee, and see if you can recreate the shot.”
He stepped back as she positioned herself in the street like the woman in the picture.
Dropping to one knee, he brought the camera to his right eye and started to swivel the zoom. “Move a little to the right...there. Hold it.” Click. Click.
He rose and they compared his pictures to the one taken from Conrad’s cell phone. It was a close match—Allison’s head blocked out all of the letters except for ‘R’.
It felt eerie recreating the picture. It had been a long time since he had seen his brother, but now he felt closer to him knowing that his brother had recently stood about where he had just stood and snapped a picture of someone that appeared to mean something to him.
“Brad?”
He heard his name, but it had the soft and muffled quality like when his ex-wife would call for him while he was working on a book cover sketch and had on his Koss headphones. For a moment, the people milling about on the sidewalk were silent; the patrons lifting drinks to their mouths behind the red, white, and blue bunting of The Round House were silent, and the breeze rustling through the trees behind him was silent. He heard it again. “Brad?” Where was he? Now all he could see was Conrad, slim, stressed out, reaching out with his hands, pleading for help.
“Brad!” yelled Allison.
The noises around him flooded his ears, and Allison’s hand was gripping his arm, pulling him off of the street.
His feet left the hard pavement and stepped back onto soft grass. A golf cart passed in front of him, the driver frowning and shaking his head, the passenger giving him the evil eye and then turning around and running her hands through her hair.
He felt Allison’s grip release. “You okay?” she said.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. Not sure why my brain picked that moment to zone out.”
“Thinking about your brother?”
“I guess recreating the picture affected me.”
She gave a positive nod of acknowledgment. It wasn’t fake, and it wasn’t sympathetic. He sensed empathy, and that made him wonder what similar experience she had had.
“Let’s head inside the bar.”
Two more golf carts whizzed by, and they crossed Loraine Avenue and walked up to the bar’s entrance.
The Round House Bar had been around for over one hundred and forty years on South Bass Island and was known for its live entertainment, buckets of beer, and rowdy summer crowds. The boats poured into Put-in-Bay, the boaters made their way to The Round House, the buckets of beer were filled, emptied, and refilled—and the volume rose as summer visitors partied deep into the night. If drinking was a graduate degree, then Put-in-Bay’s population in June, July, and August had the largest concentration of PhDs in the world. Things started in April with a tradition that rose the collective spirits of the island faithful: the legendary turning on of the neon “WHISKEY” light above the front door. There was even a song to commemorate the occasion by a talented musician named Ray Fogg. And the song was played again in the waning days of October at the ceremony where the light was turned off until April when the weather began to warm again and the patrons got thirsty.
As Brad looked up at the WHISKEY light, Conrad passed through his mind again like a cab traveling down a road at night and then turning a corner toward a monstrous city’s lights.
“Time to commence the siege of the Round-House, David Balfour,” Brad said as he opened the door for Allison.
“What was that from?”
“Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Ever read it?”
She shook her head no, and they entered the bar.
To say it was busy was an understatement. Boaters knew how to party, and they started early. What struck him was not the crowd dipping their plastic cups into their red buckets of beer but the absolute beauty of the wood inside. Round wooden bar stools, round wooden bar tables, and a round bar with a stage behind it. Murals adorned the walls, and an enormous red, white, and blue canopy hung from the ceiling. A banner on one portion of the wall had the phrase, ‘Don’t Give Up the Ship’ on it.
As they maneuvered their way to the bar, he caught snippets of conversation, ‘Mad Dog’ll be on in an hour,’ ‘Dude’s forty-first season, bro,’ ‘Go Bucks, Muck Fichigan.’
Allison asked for two waters and if the manager was available. The bartender filled two plastic cups and then disappeared into the crowd behind the bar to check.
“I like this place,” Brad said. “Wouldn’t mind coming back here when this is over.”
“Yeah, the vibe in here is real. There’s a reason this place has lasted over a hundred and forty years. You think Conrad and his lady went inside?”
“I wouldn’t bet against it.”
They listened to the music and sipped on their waters. After five minutes had passed, the bartender returned with a tall and slender balding man with a handlebar moustache. He wore a red t-shirt and khaki shorts. If Brad had to guess, the guy’s gray hair and wrinkled forehead put him around sixty.
“Art Mackadoo,” the man said, extending his hand.
Brad and Allison shook it and introduced themselves.
“What can I do for you?” Art shouted over the music.
Allison told him that she was a professional investigator and asked if they could speak with him in private. Art rubbed his moustache and looked as if he was pondering whether the world was flat or round. Then he shrugged and led the way back to his private office. Inside, he offered them two chairs and then sat on the edge of a weathered wooden desk that had a bucket of beer on it with a stack of plastic cups next to it. “Beer?”
They both shook their heads. He dipped a plastic cup into the bucket and then took a chug. His manner was relaxed, like ‘it’s summer in Put-in-Bay and nobody’s countin’ the number of beers you’ve had or are gonna have’ type of relaxed. “What problem can I make go away for you today?” Art asked, using his shirt to wipe the excess beer off of the outside of the cup. His grin made the handlebar portions of his moustache more pronounced.
Allison showed him the photographs and explained the situation.
After a moment of thoughtful reflection, or feigned thoughtful reflection, Art handed the photographs back. “I’ve been workin’ this here bar for thirty years, almost as long as Mad Dog’s been playing here,” he said, motioning to the muffled live music and crowd cheering just outside the closed door. “I know every local and season regular, and I’m being honest when I tell you that I’ve never seen this man or woman before.”
“Any idea about the boat? Anything look familiar?”
Art shook with laughter. “Do you know how many boats visit South Bass in a summer? Thousands.” He scooped out another cupful of beer and drank. Then, he followed the same routine by wiping the outside of the cup with his shirt. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re shit out of luck.”
Not ready to give up, Brad took the picture that had the woman in front of the bar and tapped it with the back of his right hand. “Any chance they came into the bar? You’d have video, right?”
Art ran his index finger around the rim of his beer cup. He gave a shrug. “Always a possibility.” He raised his cup up and tipped it back.
Brad was about to get the well-then-let’s-see-your-videos ball rolling and get Art away from the beer bucke
t, when something seemed to change in the old bar manager—like he had just had an epiphany about the whole situation during his drink, realizing that he was the sole holder of the most valuable information ever sought.
Art set his cup down. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, jogging to the door.
Allison and Brad exchanged looks of bewilderment.
When he returned, Art was followed by a male employee who was immaculately groomed and had fruity-scented cologne on. Brad thought the guy was in his mid-twenties. Brad also thought he had a cocky grin.
Art closed the door behind them. As if he were Senator Tiger Akin, pulled from the pages of a horrible Jody DeWaters novel, Art put his hands on his hips and set his jaw. His eyes swiveled to Mr. Perfect. “This is Christian Huer—”
Of course it is, thought Brad.
“—one of our summer bartenders.” His eyes moved to Allison. “Your pictures had me convinced that our business was over for the day. But when the possibility of them entering the bar and video—well, you know, all that tech stuff got mentioned, it clicked.”
“What does that mean?” Brad asked.
“Don’t just stand there. Get me a beer,” Art said to Christian.
Christian ‘The Chiseled Model’ frowned, embarrassment evident in his eyes as well, and then dipped a cup in the bucket for Art.
After a measured sip—this was serious business now—Art said, “What I mean, is that this grasshopper couldn’t stop talking about ‘The Goddess in Blue’ the other day. It was one of my rare days off, and I come in the next afternoon, and it’s all he can talk about. Says she stood him up, and that her tall boyfriend threatened to kick his ass.”
“So, they did come in the bar,” Brad said to Allison.
“I guess she didn’t fall for his good looks,” Art joked.
“Look, I can get any piece of ass I want—”
Art slammed his cup down, and beer erupted like a volcano, splashing all over the desktop. “Shut up, Christian!”