Fort Point (Maine Justice Book 2)

by Davis, Susan Page

  When they had left, Harvey called the men to him. “Okay, we’ve got something to go on now. That boy saw the Frederick murder. There’s no question any more of Frederick slipping on the rocks. There were three men on the beach, and unless I’m mistaken, they were Frederick, Murphy, and Nadeau.”

  “Fantastic! Can we make an arrest now?” Eddie asked.

  “I don’t think so. Joel wasn’t sure. He saw three men, then two. Doesn’t know who was who. One he thought hit another. But he wasn’t sure if the man had something in his hand. He was too far away to hear anything. He’s a good witness, as far as it goes, but he could be discredited. I say we wait. But we’re going to keep at this thing until we find out exactly what happened. Eddie, call Pat Lundquist and Thelma Blake. I want detailed descriptions of what Murphy and Nadeau wore that day.”

  “Pictures would be better,” said Tony.

  Harvey stared at him. “How could I have been so stupid? Probably a dozen people took pictures at the reunion. If we can get pictures of Murphy and Nadeau from a distance that day, Joel Dixon may be able to ID Frederick’s killer. Start calling the reunion guests. But whatever you do, don’t call David Murphy or Tom Nadeau.”

  “How about Alison?” asked Arnie.

  “Hmm. That might be like testifying against her husband.”

  “If she volunteers the photos, it’s okay,” said Pete.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Harvey said. “Call her, Arnie. Ask if she took her camera to the reunion or used her cell phone cam. She’d be bound to take pictures of her husband. Don’t tell her what we want them for, just ask for reunion photos. Pete, you and Arnie divide up the list again. I want everybody on this. I’ve got to call the state police. They’ll want the recording of the Dixon boy asap.”

  “It’s late, Harv,” said Eddie. “Do you want us to put in overtime?”

  He looked at his watch. 4:40. He couldn’t keep five men on overtime wages, even though the city wanted the case solved.

  “Everybody call two classmates living in Portland and ask for photos. Tell them to bring them here tomorrow, or we’ll send someone to pick them up. Then write your reports, and we’ll pick this up first thing in the morning.”

  Eddie hung back while the others dispersed. “Harv, take your own advice.”

  “What’s that?” Harvey asked.

  “Lose the guilt. You’re doing good work.”

  Chapter 17

  Tuesday, July 6

  In the Explorer the next morning, Eddie was ready to attack the case and pulled out his notebook and pen.

  “What do you want to do first when we get to the office? Round up those reunion pictures?”

  “Yes, and if we get some good ones, I’ll call the Dixons to see if they can bring Joel back. I’ll have one of the fellows make a copy of Joel’s interview tape for the state police. I don’t suppose there’s a chance the state lab is finished with the DNA test on the cigarettes.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Make a list for the other guys,” Harvey said. “You and I are going to visit Arthur Corson.”

  By the time he parked in the garage, Eddie had the assignments ready. He tore out the pages and gave them to Harvey. “Let’s pray about this. Do you think God would help us? We need to not make any mistakes.”

  It was a sweet reminder that, as muddled as he felt, God was still in control. Harvey prayed, and then Eddie said softly, “God, we need to get these guys. Help us to do it soon.”

  “Amen.” Harvey opened his eyes, and Mike was standing beside the Explorer, looking perplexed. Harvey opened the door.

  “What are you guys doing?” Mike asked.

  “Praying,” Harvey said.

  “Praying? You I understand, but Eddie?” Mike shook his head.

  “We’re both praying now,” Eddie told him.

  “That reminds me of something Sharon said last night.”

  “What’s that?” Harvey asked.

  “She said she prayed to God for patience to help her wait for me to retire. But in the Bible it says you get patience from troubles, or something like that. Me becoming chief of police is her trial now. She said next time she’ll be more careful what she prays for.”

  Harvey clapped him on the shoulder. “Sharon’s got her head on straight.”

  They went in and walked up the stairs together.

  “Still taking the stairs, now that you’ve got three flights?” Harvey asked.

  “I figure I need more exercise now,” Mike said. “And, Harvey, you didn’t get your administrative training yet. You’d better come up later today, and I’ll start teaching you the joys of scheduling and performance reviews and inventorying equipment.”

  “Oh, great. Can we put it off until after we crack the Blake case?”

  “And after the wedding? And the honeymoon? I don’t think so. Call me later, and we’ll make time.”

  Within an hour, they had promises of photos from three of the reunion goers. Two would send them by e-mail, and Tony went for the other batch. Nate kept calling around looking for more, while Pete copied the tape recording and Arnie called the state lab. Eddie and Harvey headed for Rosemont, leaving Arnie in charge.

  Corson’s lawn had grown up in weeds, and a beat-up Pontiac sat in the carport of the small, neglected house. Old tires and car parts were piled around it. Harvey knocked on the side door, and a white-haired man opened it. An unlit cigar protruded from the side of his mouth, and his belly hung over his belt. He glanced at their badges and opened the door wide.

  “Long time since any guys from the P.D. came to visit,” he said.

  They walked into the kitchen. It smelled like cats. The sink was full of dishes, and the table, counter, windowsill, washing machine, and every chair but one were covered with junk. Magazines, jigsaw puzzles, old lamps and pans and flower pots. A pair of whitetail antlers, a monkey wrench, a metronome, and books. Lots of books. Harvey quickly made the introductions.

  “We’d like to ask you about an old case of yours.”

  “Oh, my memory’s not so good, boys.”

  Harvey brought out a copy of the report Corson had made twenty-one years earlier. “One of your last cases, sir.”

  “Suicide,” Corson mused. “Whitney, Whitney.” He browsed on down the page. “I remember it vaguely.”

  “There was a handgun he had used. Do you know what happened to it?”

  He looked up, startled. “The revolver. Yes, that’s the one.”

  “The one what, sir?”

  “In here.”

  Corson started through a doorway into another room. Harvey looked at Eddie. Eddie shrugged, and Harvey followed Corson. He couldn’t see him in the next room. Stuff was piled so high on the furniture and windowsills that light came in only at the tops of the windows. Years’ worth of newspapers were bundled and stacked. Boxes and small pieces of furniture vied for floor space. A cat stretched and jumped down off a cabinet. Everywhere there was junk. Crocheted runners peeked out from under the edges of it. Coasters, sewing baskets, a slide rule, a shabby old briefcase, notebooks, cookie tins, and more newspapers. Paths wound through the house between the piles. Over the whole accumulation lay decades of dust.

  Harvey came to a narrow place in the path. On his left, boxes were chest-high, and newspapers overhung the top of them, reaching above his head. On his right, a narrow cabinet with glass doors was crammed full of china, and on top of it a spindly candlestick crowded against a porcelain German shepherd and a tobacco tin. A pile of cigar boxes teetered near the edge. Harvey didn’t dare move, for fear he’d be buried in an avalanche of newspapers and cigar boxes.

  Arthur Corson came toward him with a shoe box in his hands. Harvey stepped back. Eddie was right behind him, and he stepped back, too. Arthur turned sideways and made it through the pass without setting off the avalanche. They went back to the kitchen single file. He shoved aside a pile of dishes and crossword puzzle books on the table, and set down the box.

  “There you go.�
�

  “Sir?”

  Corson nodded toward the box. Harvey lifted the lid a little. His heart started pounding. He took the lid all the way off and lifted an oily cloth. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing an inexpensive .22 revolver, a nine-shot Harrington & Richardson. It was in fine shape.

  “The gun that killed Philip Whitney, I presume.”

  “That’s the one. Parents didn’t want it. The mother said, ‘Just take it away. I never want to see it again.’ So I brought it home. Don’t tell me someone’s making a fuss after all this time.”

  “No, sir, that is, it’s a little irregular, but that’s not why we need it. This gun belonged to a Richard Fairley.”

  Corson showed no recognition.

  “Fairley was killed in a burglary fourteen years before the suicide you investigated.”

  “Really?” He shrugged. “I didn’t know it. Suicide. I don’t remember the details.”

  “Well, sir, we may want to use this gun for evidence now. Is it all right if I take it?”

  “Sure. I never use it. Took it out for target practice a few times when I first retired.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Harvey wrote him a receipt. He took the shoe box back to the police station and gave it to Eddie in the garage. “Just double check the serial number, then enter it in evidence.”

  “Right. We’d sure look stupid if he gave us the wrong gun.”

  “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  Harvey went down the stairs to Records and lured Jennifer into the hallway.

  “We’ve got the gun. Corson had it all this time.”

  “Fantastic. One more piece for your puzzle.”

  “Right. Thanks for the tip. You’ll get your reward tonight.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m serious.”

  *****

  “It’s the right gun,” Eddie said when he got upstairs. “Too bad Corson used it. We might have gotten Phillip’s fingerprints off the ammo.”

  “Or Fairley’s,” Harvey said. “But not the other boys. We need Beaulieu. He’s the only one who can tell us who was in on the burglary.”

  “Except the burglars.”

  “Right,” Harvey said.

  Eddie frowned at him. “What if that whole thing is totally unrelated to the Blake murder, and the burglars are people we’ve never heard of?”

  “Then we’re back to square one.”

  Harvey called Oregon. It was only 6:30 a.m. there, but they’d waited long enough.

  “Commander Beaulieu?”

  “That you, Larson?”

  “Yes. You said you’d call me.”

  “I’ve been trying to arrange things.”

  “Beaulieu, you’re not skipping out on me, are you?”

  “No, I just had to take care of things with my wife and make travel plans. I’m flying into Portland on Thursday.”

  “Good. I really need you. I’m close to solving two murders, maybe three.”

  “Blake, Frederick, and who?”

  “The man who was killed during the burglary 35 years ago.”

  “What about Phil Whitney?”

  “You want four murders? Okay, you got four. But you’ve got to help us.”

  “If you don’t go after Phil’s killer, I won’t.”

  “What if it was suicide after all?”

  “It wasn’t. I’ve been thinking about it. It wasn’t.”

  “I’ve got the gun, Beaulieu.”

  He was quiet for a minute. “You have it now?”

  “Yes.”

  “There wouldn’t be fingerprints on it now, would there?”

  “If there ever were, they’re gone.”

  Beaulieu swore.

  “I have the police report from Philip’s death, too,” Harvey said. “They considered it a suicide, and the revolver’s been cleaned since then. The serial number matches the gun stolen from Richard Fairley during the burglary.”

  Silence for a second, then, “I thought so.”

  “Commander, if Phil Whitney didn’t commit suicide, tell me who pulled the trigger on him.”

  “I could be wrong.”

  “Then at least tell me the other three who were in on the burglary, and let us figure it out.”

  There was a pause, then he said, “One of them is dead.”

  “Luke Frederick?”

  “Yes. He drove the car.”

  “Thank you. And the other two?” Harvey asked.

  “I’ll tell you when I get there. I’ll land at two-ten Thursday afternoon.”

  “We’ll meet you.”

  “My sister’s meeting me.”

  “We’ll be there, too,” Harvey said.

  Beaulieu didn’t argue.

  Harvey got the men together.

  “Beaulieu’s coming Thursday. Says he’ll tell us the whole story then, but he gave me one very important thing today. Luke Frederick drove the car the night of the burglary, when the high school classmates killed Richard Fairley.”

  “Can we officially tie this to the reunion at Fort Point?” asked Pete.

  “I’m not sure. We still don’t know why Frederick was killed.”

  “I’d have said blackmail,” said Arnie. “I was figuring Frederick for the blackmailer.”

  “Revenge?” asked Nate. “Somebody found out he was in on the Fairley killing?”

  “I guess we need more facts before we can be sure,” Harvey said.

  Eddie leaned forward. “Frederick driving that car has got to be the reason he died. And the other two men Joel Dixon saw have got to be the other two who were in on it.”

  “We need Beaulieu,” Harvey said.

  Paula walked over to Harvey’s desk. “There’s a trooper here for some evidence, Captain.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Harvey looked around at the men. “Let’s get more pictures.”

  The state trooper introduced himself as Brian Longley, in charge of the Frederick case. The interview room was empty, and Harvey took him in there for privacy and told him what he’d learned from Beaulieu.

  “You’re saying this case may be related to a 35-year-old unsolved murder?”

  “That’s what I think. The more we learn about that burglary, the worse it looks. I’ve got a timid witness who says he knows who the burglars were. Frederick drove the car, but didn’t go in the house the others ransacked. One of the burglars supposedly shot himself fourteen years after the burglary with the stolen handgun, and the other two are walking around free. I figure one of those two killed Frederick at Fort Point.”

  Harvey gave him some background on Joel Dixon’s statement, and Longley left with the tape of the boy’s interview.

  Eddie had obtained some pictures from Michael Lundquist, but they weren’t much help. Martin and Thelma Blake were in two, and Patricia Lundquist and Cyndi Reynolds were prominent in others. There were some nice shots of the lighthouse, and one of Michael at the bell tower.

  Tony’s batch wasn’t much better. David Murphy was in one, up close and toothy. As Harvey examined them, Mike called and told him to report to the fourth floor.

  “Now?”

  “Now. Time for your lesson in being the boss.”

  Harvey wanted to protest but decided he’d better go. Leavitt’s old secretary sat at the same desk in the outer office. The door to the inner office stood open.

  “The chief is expecting you,” the secretary said somberly.

  Mike was sitting with his feet up on the antique desk.

  “Captain Larson.” He laced his fingers behind his head.

  “Is that desk Leavitt’s or the city’s?” Harvey asked.

  “Oh, it’s partly yours and partly mine and partly everyone else’s. Sit down.”

  Harvey sat and looked around. The Bambi picture was gone, and a print by a local artist, with a fishing net, creel, and rod and reel, had replaced it. Sharon smiled out of a pewter frame on Mike’s desk, and their children and grandchildren hung framed on the wall.

  “Nice,” Harvey said. />
  “Sharon fixed it.”

  Mike initiated Harvey into some of the mysteries of management, which was heavy on filling out forms and not telling the guys everything he knew. Staying active on field work, but letting the detectives handle their own cases. Not letting the administrative part get him down. He had set Harvey up for a management seminar October first, and was sending him and Eddie to the Maine Criminal Justice Academy for two days in late October for ballistics training on the IBIS system. After half an hour, they got onto the case. Mike said the new developments sounded promising.

  “You keeping Leavitt’s secretary?” Harvey asked.

  “She has a name. Judith.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  “She’s okay. Knows where everything is, and she’s old enough that Sharon isn’t jealous. Yeah, I think I’ll keep her. Don’t let her intimidate you.”

  “She never smiles,” Harvey observed.

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “How is it, having a private secretary?”

  “Not too bad. Sometimes I get lonely up here. You and the boys will have to come up once in a while.”

  “You’re still welcome in Priority anytime, too.”

  *****

  Paula and most of the men were out for lunch when Harvey got back to Priority. On his desk was a note from Eddie: At diner with Jennifer.

  He went down the stairs and walked to the café. It wasn’t really a diner, but the officers persisted in calling it that. The sun was out, but it wasn’t oppressively hot. Eddie and Jennifer sat at a table with Tony and Cheryl. Harvey stopped a few yards away and watched Jennifer. Her ring glittered as she raised her fork, listening to something Cheryl was saying. She was more beautiful than ever. The sides of her hair were pulled back, and the rest hung down a mile. If he were closer, he’d be able to see her eyes reflecting the royal blue of her dress. Eleven days.

  He walked over, and Eddie hitched his chair to one side so Harvey could pull one in from another table, between him and Jennifer. She turned toward him and smiled that wonderful smile. He put his arm around the back of her chair and wished all the other cops would disappear.