Quick Pivot

by Brenda Buchanan

  Probably true, but it meant serious money out of my pocket now. The morning’s shock had worn off and I was beyond pissed at the asshole who’d done the slashing. Fighting the urge to blow off steam in the wrong direction, I gave him the okay to replace all four tires. He mumbled that he’d get the car back to me within a couple of days and hung up before I could complain about the lag time.

  I found MacMahon’s number and shuffled over to my desk so I’d have what passed for privacy in the newsroom. A man with a deep voice picked up on the first ring. When I identified myself there was no wariness in the retired detective’s tone. He sounded almost as though he’d been expecting my call. Two minutes in, he was inviting me to come to Kennebunkport for an extended chat.

  “I was in a car accident a few years back so I’m not as mobile as I used to be, but my mind’s intact. I sure as hell remember the Desmond case. I saw your story in yesterday’s paper. Brought it all right back.”

  He gave me directions. I told him I’d be there by two-thirty.

  “Good thing,” he said. “They start serving supper here at four o’clock. It’s crazy. When I was working, that’s when I’d eat my goddamn lunch.”

  Rufe said he’d be up to his elbows in paperwork all day, so his truck remained at my disposal. A baby blue undercover vehicle. I loved it. Whoever was worried about me digging up incriminating dirt on the Desmond story would never look for me in a plumber’s truck.

  * * *

  Kennebunkport is one of those iconic towns that sells the state of Maine. Images of its quaint streets and rocky shoreline have been drilled into the American psyche, especially by TV reporters covering the summer White House during the first Bush presidency. To avoid the summertime tourist throngs, I got off the turnpike in Biddeford, and sneaked into the picturesque village the back way, skirting the busy shops and restaurants in Dock Square.

  MacMahon’s retirement community was a sprawling place called Harborview, but it didn’t have one, its wooded setting a good mile from the nearest harbor. He was waiting in the lobby. We spotted each other as soon as I stepped inside the automatic-open front door.

  MacMahon was in a wheelchair, which made it difficult to judge his height. I guessed six foot four, at least. As soon as I was in range his long right arm shot out from broad shoulders and his big hand seized mine with a solid grip.

  “Glad to meet you, Gale,” he said. “I was hoping someone would know enough to come see me.”

  His voice boomed in a way that reminded me of my almost-deaf grandfather, but if he wore a hearing aid, I didn’t see it. As we started down the hallway toward his apartment, MacMahon observed me taking his measure.

  “Worried you just bought yourself an afternoon with a lonely old codger?”

  When I started to protest, he held up a big paw.

  “If I were you, I’d be wary, but you don’t need to be.” He opened a wide door with his name on it and with one flick of the wrist propelled his wheelchair through. “My arms are strong, my heart’s good, and my mind’s still sharp. It’s just my damned legs that don’t work anymore.”

  He stopped in front of the kitchen counter where a full pot of coffee waited and asked if I wanted anything to drink. I said coffee would be good so he poured us each a cup and nodded at the dining room table, which was covered with file folders and legal pads. The previous day’s Chronicle sat on one corner.

  “Looks to me like you’ve done a lot of digging in the newspaper’s morgue.” His crystal blue eyes flashed behind the lenses of wire-rimmed, modified aviator glasses. “Good thing the newspaper’s records still exist. None of the cops working today would know enough to tell you the Desmond history.”

  “That’s why I’m here, instead of chasing down the state police press officer. I’m interested in what didn’t make it into the paper in 1968. Paulie Finnegan covered the story for the first month. I’m sure he knew plenty that never made it into print.”

  MacMahon took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes fixed on mine. “You knew Paulie, did you?”

  “Very well. Taught me most of what I know.”

  MacMahon set his cup down. “I’ve been reading your stuff. You’re good. Interesting that Paulie schooled you.”

  “He was a hell of a teacher.”

  “Don’t hero worship him too much.” MacMahon leaned back in his chair. “Paulie had his flaws. Was gullible from time to time. Occasionally blinded by his own opinions. That said, he was the best reporter I ever dealt with.”

  “Were you one of his sources on the Desmond story?”

  “You zero right in on what you want to know, don’t you?”

  “As I said, Paulie taught me.”

  He ran his hand through a crew cut so white it was almost yellow, stiff and thick like the kind of wire brush used to strip paint.

  “I didn’t invite you down here to play games. I’m eighty-three years old. I’ve been retired for almost twenty years. I’m not going to face any consequences from the state police brass if my words show up in the Chronicle, this time with my name attached. I’ll give it to you on the record, like I never could to your mentor.”

  “You were one of Paulie’s sources then?”

  “On this story, yes.” His gaze dropped from my eyes to his big hands, like a disobedient kid confessing an offense. “I never fed inside information to the press on any other case. On Desmond, I was pissed at the feds, furious they forced us to back-burner our leads and spend all our time doing legwork for them. It wasn’t just turf jealousy. They were screwing up a high-stakes investigation.”

  I stoked the fire that sparked in his eyes. “Who screwed it up, and why?”

  “The who part is easy—Curt Wellington, an FBI special agent who was too goddamn ambitious for his own good. He’d been working mob cases in southern New England when Desmond disappeared. He was furious that he’d been pulled off important matters for what he considered a two-bit case in a career backwater like Maine.”

  “Do you think he deliberately ran the investigation off the track?”

  MacMahon maneuvered himself back to the coffeemaker. I nodded when he mimed refilling my cup.

  “I never had any reason to think Wellington was corrupt. He simply didn’t want to be here. Thought he’d miss something big in Providence if he didn’t wrap up the Desmond investigation quick and get himself back to where the action was. So he seized on the simplest explanation and discounted facts that didn’t fit his theory.”

  “What evidence did he ignore?”

  MacMahon wheeled himself back to the table with his right hand, coffee pot in his left.

  “We had physical evidence that led us to believe Desmond didn’t pack up his kit bag and head to the Boston airport. There were no fingerprints where we would expect to find them. When we combed his property, we found a thin glove under the back porch. It hadn’t been there long. Someone had dropped it, and recently.”

  MacMahon stopped pouring coffee.

  “Then there was the parking lot attendant at Logan Airport in Boston. A young kid, getting ready to take the civil service exam and become a cop himself, meaning he was observant and eager to help. He described the man driving Desmond’s car in great detail. A big man, he said, six-three, built like a football lineman. Desmond was five foot ten and slender. The parking lot kid said the driver was bald. Desmond had a full head of hair. I went to Boston and interviewed him a second time myself. Came away sure Desmond’s Dodge was placed at Logan Airport by somebody else.”

  “How could Wellington ignore that?”

  There was no mirth in MacMahon’s smile. “All I know is he stuck with his goddamn pre-written script Desmond stole the money and blew town. No variations permitted.”

  “Did you have more evidence that pointed to another scenario?”

  “We were never given time or resources
to develop it. Wellington kept all of the investigators on a short leash.”

  “Sounds like a first-class jerk.”

  “I’d use a different term.” MacMahon picked up some notes. “Desmond’s bank accounts also supported our case. He had almost ten grand in checking and savings when he disappeared. What thief leaves that kind of money behind?”

  “A guy who has a half million in his pocket?”

  “Wellington said the same thing. But he didn’t want to dig for the truth, and I’m betting you do.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Lieutenant MacMahon, I read up on you before coming down here. You were a highly respected detective. My guess is Wellington’s disinterest in your footwork—and his short leash—didn’t stop you from investigating this case your way. So who do you think killed George Desmond?”

  He studied his big hands for a few seconds, then cleared his throat. “Very well, then. You know a guy named Coatesworth?”

  “Ken Coatesworth? He was manager at the Saccarappa when it breathed its last breath in the late 1970s. I’m not sure what he did after that. He’s retired now.”

  “If my instincts are correct—and they almost always are—Coatesworth either engineered the scam or was deeply involved in it. If we could access his financial records, I’m quite sure we’d find that since 1968 he’s had plenty of money at his disposal.”

  I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Why do you suspect him?”

  “It started out as pure gut instinct. I was assigned to interview him and all of his peers in mill management. Background chats. Absolutely routine. Every other mill muckety-muck was all shook up by the embezzlement. Not Coatesworth. He acted indifferent. Like it didn’t matter to him at all. How the hell could you be indifferent at a time like that?”

  “That might be his personality. He’s always struck me as exceedingly low-key. Vanilla with a capital V.”

  “There’s more,” MacMahon said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We got some anonymous correspondence about him. Three weeks after Desmond vanished, a letter arrived in the mail.”

  Extracting a sheet of paper from a file folder, he handed it across the table to me. Typewritten in a standard Courier font was a cryptic message: He who lives by the mill dies by the mill. GD hasn’t gone far. Like in prep school, some boys have all the answers.

  “Let me guess. Ken Coatesworth went to prep school?”

  “The only employee at the Saccarappa who did. He went to Phillips Exeter Academy, over in New Hampshire.”

  “Did you question him about this note?”

  “Of course. The interview was what we call nonproductive.”

  “So why do you think Coatesworth is your man?”

  “After we talked to him, we tailed him. He caught on, played cat and mouse with us. When we confronted him, he had his lawyer call us. A real pip he was, told us to arrest Kenny or leave him be. While our case hadn’t quite solidified, things were getting awfully warm. But don’t you know, Wellington, big tough fibbie, backed right down.”

  “An FBI agent working on a murder investigation let a local lawyer intimidate him?”

  “I was furious,” MacMahon said. “Kicked and hollered about it to the state police brass. Got nowhere.”

  An ill-fitting detail floated around inside my brain. “You said the whiz kid at the airport parking lot said the car was dumped by a big bald guy. That wouldn’t have been Coatesworth. Who was he hanging around with who fit that description?”

  “He was friendly with some of the local gaming boys. People who knew him in college—he went to Bates—said Coatesworth and his buddies liked to drive over to the Lewiston Armory to watch boxing, wager a little bit. Being college kids, they thought they were wild, rubbing elbows with that crowd. Kenny never lost the taste for it. Over the years it appears he ingratiated himself with a couple of very rough characters. I don’t know what they got out of it—money, probably—but he had himself some loyal friends. Loyal big bruiser friends.”

  “Organized crime?”

  MacMahon pushed his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed a big hand across his face. “How long you been in Maine, Joe?”

  “Close to fourteen years.”

  “Some of those you would have been at UMaine right?”

  “Bowdoin, actually.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. You don’t seem like a rich kid.”

  “I’m not. Scholarship.”

  “Then you probably have a more realistic sense of the world than your typical Bowdoin man. And Paulie Finnegan taught you the kind of stuff you can’t learn in any school.”

  I nodded.

  “Organized crime here is nontraditional. Maine-style, if you want to call it that. Independent. Decentralized. Clannish.”

  “In 1968, what clan suddenly had a lot of money?”

  “That’s the thing,” MacMahon said. “In those days, there were two significant southern Maine mobs. One was waterfront based. It was a smuggling outfit for the most part. The other ran the betting racket. We had moles in both organizations but they didn’t know Coatesworth.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If he ran the money scam inside the Saccarappa and set up Desmond as the fall guy, he not only designed the scheme himself, he found some muscle willing to help him out, muscle that wasn’t connected to either local gang.”

  “Either that or they knew how to keep their mouths shut.”

  “Guys who hire themselves out as killers don’t tend to be good at keeping secrets.”

  “I’m guessing they also don’t wear gloves and take great pains to make it look like their victim blew town,” I said.

  “Righto,” MacMahon said. “They usually dump bodies someplace obvious.”

  “So Coatesworth would have been freelancing.”

  “Either that or some out-of-staters came up from Beantown and did the job.”

  “How would he have known Boston mobsters?”

  “He went down there for more schooling once he graduated Bates. Our informants asked around a little bit, chatted up some guys they knew in Charlestown. Got a mixed message in reply—he’s not one of us, but stay the fuck away.”

  “We don’t know him, but somebody important does?”

  “That’s always been my guess. But that asshole Wellington wouldn’t let us near that can of worms.”

  My mind was racing to fit MacMahon’s information into the puzzle. “What do you think Coatesworth will do now that Desmond’s remains have been found?”

  He barked a laugh. “Lie low. Unless an enterprising reporter pokes a stick in his eye.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday, July 15, 2014

  Peaks Island, Maine

  I called Helena Desmond while driving back to Portland from Kennebunkport. She picked up when I began talking to her answering machine.

  “Sorry for screening. The damn TV stations have been hounding me.”

  “I’m sure that’s painful.”

  “I’ve avoided them so far,” she said. “The last damn thing I want to do is go on television to talk about the likelihood my brother’s grave has been found after all these years. A crew actually came to the island to look for me, video camera and all. My friend Liz saw them on the ferry. She called on her cell phone to warn me about it. I escaped before they barged into my dooryard.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “We islanders look out for each other. There are a dozen kitchens where one can wait out a media storm over a cup of tea.”

  She was intrigued to hear I’d tracked down Joan Slater. “C’mon out here for supper and fill me in. The police still are keeping me in the dark. It’s damned frustrating.”

  “I could make the five thirt
y-five ferry.”

  “Jimmy’s painting today. I’ll walk over to his studio and bang on the door,” she said. “One of us will meet you at the boat in that disreputable truck of his.”

  On my way to the ferry I picked up two bottles of wine, one red, one white. Both worked with the pasta and vegetable dish Helena had whipped up using produce from her garden. Jimmy brought me to her house along with a big appetite.

  “I want to know everything Joan Slater told you,” Helena said as soon as we walked through the door.

  I filled them in as we sipped wine around her kitchen table, omitting mention of Paulie. My discretion was wasted, because Helena remembered that he and Joan had been lovers.

  “She was a nice girl. George’s disappearance brought us close, in an odd kind of way. After a couple of months she withdrew. The next thing I knew she was moving to New Hampshire. I never figured out if she left town because she was upset about George’s disappearance or because Paulie Finnegan broke her heart.”

  I wasn’t about to get into the issue of Joan and Paulie’s relationship.

  “She said George’s disappearance was stressful, but the FBI’s hounding put her over the edge. Pretty much everyone says the head honcho—Curtis Wellington—was a first-class jerk.”

  Helena played with the stem of her wineglass. “I had my share of conversations with Wellington. Unpleasant doesn’t begin to describe the man. I’ll bet his own mother disliked him.”

  “The things he said to Joan were outrageous.”

  Pouring refills, Jimmy prodded for details.

  “Wellington was convinced George and Joan had a thing going and she was in on the embezzlement,” I said.

  Helena took a deep drink from her wineglass. “My theory? Mr. FBI Man was fighting his own attraction to her. Joan was a beautiful girl. She was quiet in front of men, hung back and let them do the talking. Wellington made too much of her reticence.” Her eyes grew soft with the memory. “When it was just the two of us, she talked till my ears hurt. She paid careful attention to how people were reacting to George’s disappearance. Developed her own theory, though I can’t remember what it was. She tell you about that?”