Graveyard Bay

by Thomas Kies

  John’s eyebrows shot up when he heard that.

  Ben was silent for a moment. “Okay, Genie. Do you think that’s a good idea? This Finn guy sounds bad. No story is worth getting hurt over.”

  “Thanks, boss. I’ll watch my back.”

  I hit the End Call button and then considered calling Caroline. Glancing at the time on the smartphone screen, it told me that it was only six fifteen. Still plenty of time to call her once I got to New York.

  John glanced at me. “Tell me what you know about Merlin Finn.”

  I spent the next fifteen minutes telling him what I saw in the video from the night of the murders. I described the transcriptions from the trial that sent Finn to prison and what I knew about the escape. Then I talked about my trip to Brockton, up on Oak Hill, my discussion with Bristol and Karl, and the torture chamber Finn had in the basement.

  John asked the occasional question but was silent the entire time I talked about Oak Hill. He cleared his throat. “You said they sold the place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seems to me it would have been easier to sell if they’d emptied the dungeon and turned it into a family room or something.”

  I shrugged. “I got the feeling that Bristol Finn didn’t want to get anywhere near that room again.” I changed the subject. “What was Abby Tillis doing in Connecticut?”

  He gave me a quick look and then turned his attention back to the traffic ahead of him. “After Finn escaped from prison, Judge Preston got spooked. He knew that Finn would be coming for him. He called the Friends of Lydia.”

  I frowned. “Why did he call the Friends?”

  “He needed someone motivated enough to keep him safe. Someone who wasn’t afraid to break the law if it was needed. Shana was the first to hear from him. He knew her from when she bailed Betsy Caviness out of jail.”

  The Friends of Lydia had posted the million-dollar bond after her arrest for torching her husband. There was no way she could have done it on her own. Betsy Caviness literally did not have a pot to piss in.

  “Preston was dirty, wasn’t he? He was working for the Tolbonovs. Didn’t Preston think the Russians could keep him safe from Merlin Finn?”

  John’s attention was drawn by something he noticed in the rearview mirror. He accelerated. “Is Preston’s name in the notebook?”

  “The notebook was in some weird Jim Caviness code. It was hard to decipher. There were a few notations with Judge P in them. After the homicides in the marina, I put two and two together and figured out that the judge was taking payoffs.”

  He continued to split his time studying the road in front of the car and glancing up at the mirror. Jerking into the passing lane and stepping on the gas, he answered, “The Tolbonovs are very, very smart. They didn’t use the judge very often. Just when they thought he could quash a case without giving himself away.”

  I turned and glanced out the back window. Not seeing what was spooking John, I glanced down at the plastic critter carrier in the back seat. Tucker was oblivious, obviously weary from the home invasion earlier that day. I turned back and faced John. “That’s what happened at the Del Randall trial. Preston ruled there was insufficient evidence.”

  “That’s right.” John picked up speed.

  “What’s back there?” I twisted around and stared hard, looking for what had John concerned.

  He slowly shook his head. “Don’t know. There’s a beamer a few cars back, pacing us.”

  “So if Preston’s tight with the Tolbonovs, why wouldn’t they keep him safe?”

  He gave me a quick glance. “Word on the street was that the Tolbonovs are restructuring Wolfline, changing up the chess pieces. They’re worried that someone has Caviness’s notebook and is using it against them.”

  I felt tiny tendrils of guilt and anxiety twist around my gut. “What made them think someone was using the notebook against them?”

  John knows I had the notebook. He knows it’s me.

  “Their drug dealers work in pairs. One is the front, selling and dispensing merchandise. The other acts as a lookout. One night, someone with a camera staked out one of Wolfline’s dealers. The lookout was posing as a homeless man and spotted the surveillance.”

  Damn it.

  That night on Edison Avenue, I’d staked out Travis Monk in his shiny black Escalade and taken photos right up until a smelly, old street creep came up to my car begging for money.

  He was the lookout.

  John gave me the eye. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

  I changed the subject. “Because of that, the Tolbonovs cut the judge loose?”

  “Actually, I think they were using him as bait. Give me a minute. We’re going to take a short detour.”

  When he accelerated, I sank back in my bucket seat like I’d been pushed back by an invisible hand. John pulled up close to the rear end of a Volvo SUV directly ahead of us and then cut fast to the right, sliding quickly across the middle lane into the right-hand lane, cutting off traffic, nearly hitting the front end of a Jeep Wrangler.

  The Jeep’s horn blared.

  John continued his fast drift to the right as we fell into the exit lane for Mamaroneck Avenue, and we were off the highway, travelling at sixty miles per hour. He braked hard to slow for the sharp curve, eyeballing his mirror. “Whoever was tailing us never got out of the passing lane.”

  I stared at him with wide eyes, adrenaline pumping through my veins. “That’s where I left my heart.”

  “Sorry. I saw the opening and took it. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  My heart was still in my chest, beating a samba against my rib cage. “Safe, that’s the word, John. Safe.”

  We stopped at the bottom of the ramp, waiting for the red light. John kept his eye on the mirror, watching to see who came up behind us. “We’ll get right back on the highway.”

  “Who do you think might be tailing us?”

  John shrugged. “The Russians, the Brotherhood, the feds. Between the two of us, we have a lot of people interested in what we’re doing.”

  My blood pressure was nearing normal again. “You said that the Tolbonovs were using Preston as bait?”

  “That’s what he told Shana. He thought the Tolbonovs were letting him dangle, trying to smoke Merlin Finn out of his hiding place. And worst-case scenario, Finn takes care of the judge and ties up a Tolbonov loose end.”

  The light turned green, and John rolled through the intersection and got right back onto the on-ramp to I-95 South. “Shana sent Abby Tillis to protect him?”

  He accelerated into traffic. “Abby was going to take him to Hartford. We have a safe house there. In return, he was going to give us evidence against the Tolbonovs.”

  “But it all went south.”

  He nodded in silence.

  “Did Preston’s wife know about any of this?”

  He glanced over at me. “He was going to bring her to Hartford with him. The night it was all supposed to go down, Eva Preston got cold feet.”

  “Wait a minute. She told me that Preston was having an affair and she thought he was going out that night to meet with his mistress.”

  John nodded slowly. “All bullshit. That’s her line to the cops. I’ll let Shana fill you in on all that.”

  “Eva Preston lied to me? She lied to the police?”

  Did Eva Preston betray her husband to Merlin Finn?

  I exhaled while mulling that over. “Sorry. How well did you know her? You know, Abby Tillis.”

  He was very quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat as if he had something caught there. When he answered, his voice was low and steady. “Abby Tillis was my ex-wife.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  John made his call on the car’s hands-free system. “Shana?”

  “Hi, John, where are you?” Her voice was low, parsing every word like it
was something of value, accented by the slightest hint of a sophisticated Southern lilt.

  “We’re on the FDR. I’m maybe ten minutes out, depending on traffic.”

  “Gerald will be waiting for you in the lobby.”

  “See you soon.”

  When they disconnected, I asked, “Who’s Gerald?”

  John grinned. “Shana’s manservant.”

  My laugh burst out as an explosive guffaw. “What?”

  “I know, right?” He eased us off the highway onto I-495 Midtown.

  As he turned right on East Thirty-Fourth Street, I watched the lights and the buildings go by until we got to Sixth Avenue. Finding our destination, he slowed and stopped in front of a four-story brick walk-up. The building was fronted by the Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant and Arthur’s Fine Liquors. Looking up and down the block, I could easily see there was no place to park.

  Still in the street, John put the Mustang in park, letting the car idle. He opened his door and said, “We’re here.”

  I opened my door, got out, and pulled my overnight bag out of the back seat. John lifted Tucker’s carrier out and hustled to the curb, which was covered in gray city slush that was once snow.

  As we moved across the sidewalk, a tall man in his thirties, clean-shaven, wearing a blue stocking cap and black ankle-length overcoat, burst out of a doorway nestled discreetly between the restaurant and the liquor store.

  Walking past him but not stopping, John nodded and mumbled, “Hey, Gerald.”

  The man nodded back but never slowed down. “Mr. Stillwater.”

  I turned and glanced behind me. Gerald hopped into the driver’s side of the Mustang and smoothly glided off. “Where’s he going?”

  John opened the metal door for me. “Shana rents space in a garage where she keeps her other vehicles. It’s about four blocks from here.”

  “How’s Gerald getting back?”

  John shrugged. “He usually hoofs it unless the weather is really nasty. Then he’ll catch a cab or take an Uber.”

  We went through a narrow corridor until we got to the elevator. John pressed a code into a keypad mounted on the wall. The door slid open, and we got in. The elevator had an Up-and-Down button and another keypad. He tapped in another code, and the door closed.

  “The only way to get to the fourth floor is with the code,” he explained.

  “What happens if you push the Up button?”

  “It takes you to the second floor where you’re greeted by a receptionist.” He glanced at his watch. “But I think the place is closed for the night.”

  “The place?”

  “This place, the Tower.”

  I frowned and was about to ask him what the hell he was talking about, but the short elevator ride ended, the door slid open, and we stepped out into a spacious living room. The floor was polished hardwood, and the walls were red brick. Dark-brown timbers served as ceiling beams. A black leather sofa and two tan cloth chairs faced a blazing, cast-iron fireplace embedded in the wall. Off to one side of the large room was a bank of tall windows that overlooked the street below.

  A ten-foot, gaily decorated, festively illuminated Christmas tree stood in a corner of the large room.

  Am I the only one who hasn’t decorated at all this year?

  Shana was seated in one of the chairs, leaning forward, tapping away at her laptop that sat on a small table in front of her. She looked up at us and smiled. A man I didn’t recognize sat on the couch, nursing a glass of red wine.

  Shana Neese was nearly as tall as I am. She was five nine, athletically trim, African American, with layered raven hair that framed her sculpted cheekbones, perfect lips, and classically beautiful face. Wide brown eyes fixed on my face, and she stood up. “Genie Chase, it’s so nice to see you again.”

  She wore a white long-sleeved top and black, fitted jeans. Shana came close and gave me a hug. I could feel the strength in her muscular arms and shoulders.

  “Thank you for letting me stay here tonight.”

  Her grin widened. “I have more than enough space.”

  I glanced at the stranger, who by then was also standing. He was about six three and very thin. He boasted a full head of hair gone silver, though I guessed his age to be in his early forties. He blinked at me through wire-frame glasses. The man wore a dark-blue button-down shirt, red bow tie, black slacks, and black dress shoes.

  Shana noticed my line of sight. “I took the liberty of inviting a friend of mine to have dinner with us tonight. Geneva Chase, meet Nathaniel Rubin.”

  He held out his right hand for me to shake. As I did so, I noted the watch on his left wrist. It was a Breitling easily worth several thousand dollars. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rubin.”

  Digging up dirt must pay well.

  “Please, call me Nathaniel.” His words tumbled out in a blur.

  I glanced back at Shana.

  She shrugged. “John told me that you’re thinking about taking a position with Nathaniel’s company, and since you were going to be here tonight, I thought this would at least give you two a chance to get to know each other in a social setting.” Then she looked at John and the critter carrier he was still holding. “Is that Tucker?”

  I grinned. “That’s Tucker.”

  She went over and opened the door to the container. While cooing at him, she took my terrier out of his box and held him to her cheek. All the while, his tail flapped happily back and forth.

  “He loves being the center of attention.”

  Shana gave me a sideways look. “So do I.”

  I snuck another glance at Nathaniel.

  This isn’t awkward at all.

  The elevator door opened again, and Gerald entered the room, taking off his knit cap as he did.

  Shana remarked. “That was fast.”

  I took the opportunity to get a better look at Shana Neese’s manservant. Attractive, blue eyes, brown hair cut tight to his scalp, rugged features, full lips, wide shoulders. He answered, “I took an Uber back. I thought you’d be ready for me to serve dinner.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Yes, tell us what you’ve prepared for us, Gerald.”

  “Prosciutto-wrapped asparagus as a starter. The entrée is lemon red snapper in herbed butter on a bed of brown rice. If you have room for dessert, I picked up a raspberry chocolate cheesecake at Bouchard’s while I was out shopping this afternoon.”

  “Nicely done, Gerald. Before you serve dinner, be a dear and take John’s and Geneva’s coats.”

  Before he took off his own coat, he helped us out of ours, draping them over his arm and hanging them in the closet.

  Shana stepped up to me. “Would you like a glass of wine before dinner? I just opened a lovely pinot grigio.”

  You bet.

  My nerves were still jangling from discovering a killer had gone through my dainties in my house, so my preference would have been a strong glass of Absolut. But I responded enthusiastically. “I’d kill for a glass of wine right now.”

  Shana glanced at Gerald, who was just returning from the closet. “Get Miss Geneva a glass of wine and Mr. Stillwater a Dewar’s over ice.”

  “Of course.”

  I watched Gerald disappear into the kitchen.

  I want one of those.

  * * *

  As I cut into my snapper, I glanced back at the living room. Pointing with my fork, I asked, “There’s a single photograph in a silver frame on your mantel. There are two little girls hugging each other. Are you one of them?”

  Her usually fiercely bright eyes faded for a moment. “My sister and me.”

  “Lydia?” I wished I hadn’t brought it up.

  “Yes.” It was simply said before she took a sip of her pinot.

  I knew that Shana Neese was the driving force behind the organization called the Friends of Lydia. The
ir alcoholic father had sold Lydia when she was only sixteen to a pimp who eventually beat her to death with a broomstick. The FOL was an underground vigilante group of volunteers dedicated to helping women, particularly minors, who were enslaved by sex traffickers as well as women who were victims of domestic abuse.

  Changing the subject, Nathaniel offered, “Shana told me that you had a visit from the infamous Merlin Finn.”

  I nodded. “He even left me a token of affection, a nice, shiny pair of handcuffs dangling from my freezer door.” I sipped my wine, then quickly added, “Oh, and a handwritten note in my underwear drawer that said he wanted to make me model my panties for him.”

  Shana nearly spit her words. “Bastard.”

  John finished chewing. “The handcuffs on the freezer were a nice touch. It was where Genie had hidden the notebook.”

  Shana leaned in. “Finn has it?”

  I sighed. “Guess I wasn’t as clever as I thought. I should have put it into a safe deposit box at my bank.”

  John smiled. “But you are very clever, Geneva Chase. You made a copy.”

  Nathaniel had been silent, following the conversation. I guessed that at some point before we’d arrived, he’d been informed about the mysterious notebook and what it might contain. He said, “It may not do Merlin Finn’s organization any good anyway. From what I hear, over the last month, the Tolbonovs have been shutting down most of their illegal operations and going legit.”

  Shana sat back, gazing at Nathaniel with skepticism. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  I was curious. “Why are they shifting gears?”

  Nathaniel cut into his fish and speared a piece. “Two reasons. One, the feds have them so bottled up, they can’t breathe. And they were always concerned about the notebook falling into the wrong hands. It appears as if those concerns were warranted.”

  I studied him carefully. He had an awful lot of information about the Russians. “How do you know all this?”

  Nathaniel gestured toward John.

  He answered, “Just like anyone else, they leave digital footprints.”

  “You’ve been hacking into their computers?”