Dead Reckoning: A Nantasket Novella (Nantasket Novellas Book 1)

by Robert White

  “If you know something,” Kounadis’s voice started to rise, “you had better tell me now.”

  “No, I don’t know anything. But you should talk to her again.”

  “Are you saying she is involved?” he asked, surprise just barely present in his voice.

  “No, just that she knows something, something she wants to keep to herself.” By this time I was wishing I had kept my mouth shut. “Who was shot first? Nolan or Eddie?”

  “Time of death was roughly the same for each, within an hour, anyway. Maybe your cousin got his first. This isn’t TV; the science isn’t exact.” Kounadis paused again, probably pissed at himself for answering me so easily. “Maybe you should come with me to talk to her?”

  “I’ll pass.” I could picture that scene. Now I really was a rat. It was bad enough before. “Any idea why Nolan had my name written down?”

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing. If you come up with anything, make sure you let me know.” He hung up before I could say anything else.

  I finished up my chores and rode my bike down to Schooners, a small restaurant near the beach. At the bar I ordered a fish sandwich and a Sam’s. It was too late for lunch and too early for the after work crowd, so the place was mostly empty. The early newscast was on the television. The sound was turned down, but the pictures of the islands and the harbor left no doubt about the topic of the leadoff story. I finished my meal, left a ten and four ones on the bar and headed out. I was unlocking my bike from the post on the sidewalk where I had left it when I heard someone calling me.

  “Over here, Mr. Smith.”

  I looked across the street and saw a boy and a girl in the beach parking lot, both students of mine. They were standing next to an old pickup that belonged to the boy, Chris. Erica, his girlfriend, was waving me over to them. I checked for traffic and crossed the street. The hazards of teaching in a small town with only one main road made for a lot of this, but I didn’t mind.

  “How did I do on my exam?” Erica asked me. Chris rolled his eyes behind her. When I had him in class, the previous year, he had done the basics and passed, but he made no secret about his feelings for school. Erica, on the other hand, was one of my best students, both in terms of talent and effort.

  “I’m pretty sure you passed.” I deadpanned. “Let me think. The class average was a 78 and you were right in there, maybe a bit above.”

  She paled and her eyes grew large. Chris started laughing.

  “97,” I said quickly, before she lost it. “Very impressive work.”

  “Hey Mr. Smith,” Chris said, “I heard you found Eddie Thayer.”

  I nodded.

  “Is that where you were during our exam?” Erica asked.

  I nodded again, hoping my silence would close the topic. No such luck; Erica wanted to talk about this.

  “Are you working on the case?”

  “No, that’s for the police.”

  “But you’re a harbormaster. That’s sort of a cop.”

  “I’m an assistant harbormaster, and that’s not anything like a police officer, really. It’s more of a public safety thing.”

  “Well it’s kind of spooky, that somebody from Hull would be killed out in his boat. I’m worried about Chris, out there every day.”

  “I’m working on Joey B’s boat this summer, third man.” Chris puffed up a bit as he said this. Joe Buscelli is one of our local lobstermen, one of the best, actually. It said a lot for Chris, to be working on that boat.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about him,” I said to Erica.

  We chatted for a few more minutes, and then I pedaled over to Nantasket Pier. Tom Evers was just locking the trailer door when I rode up.

  “Just saw your buddy Kounadis, over to Thayer’s house. He asked me where you live, said he might drop by later.”

  “How was Sharon?” I asked.

  “Upset, but making plans; she’s dealing with things. She did seem kind of rattled when Kounadis pulled up.” Tom paused. “I guess it’s different when your spouse is killed, rather than just dies.”

  Tom’s wife had died about five years before, after a long and hard battle with breast cancer. It was when she got sick that he quit fishing offshore and took the job as harbormaster, so he could be with her through the ordeal. He didn’t often talk about it, but he wore the pain every day. Still, it didn’t prevent him from empathizing.

  “What’s new with you and Lauren?” he asked.

  “It’s pretty much status quo,” I said. “I guess I need to just give her a bit of time and space.”

  He shook his head quietly, and got into his truck. “It’d be a damn shame if you two don’t work this out.”

  “Yes, it would,” I answered. I got on my bike and started for home, wondering if it really would be.

  When I got to my house, Kounadis was sitting in his car, in my driveway, talking on his cell phone. I wheeled my bike up the steps and onto the porch and turned in time to see him close his phone and climb out of the car.

  “You want a beer?” I asked, halfway through the screen door.

  “Why not.” He followed me into the house, looking around as we made our way into the kitchen. I took a couple bottles out of the refrigerator and popped their tops. He took his and examined the bottle.

  “Pacifico, hm,” he took a swig and nodded, “not bad. Nice place you got here,” he gestured with his bottle out the window towards the back yard where Straits Pond sparkled in the sun.

  I nodded and had a drink of my beer. I was learning the value of silence when dealing with Kounadis. It seemed better to let him get where he was going on his own.

  “This what a teacher’s salary buys around here?” he asked, skeptically.

  “I could probably swing it, but I don’t have to,” I answered. “I inherited it, from an aunt. I spent my summers here when I was a kid.”

  “Lucky you,” he said.

  “Yes, lucky me.” I pointed out the back door to the table and chairs on the deck. “Let’s go sit.”

  We settled in our chairs and looked out at the pond. After a minute or so, Kounadis set his beer on the table and faced me. “Thayer’s wife didn’t give me a thing. I gave her every chance, even asked her about your visit. She was upset from the start, but the mention of your name took it up a notch.” He paused for a sip of beer, and then he turned the bottle in his hands. “If you got something to tell me, now is the time.”

  “What if I told you Eddie didn’t really think that I ratted him out way back when?”

  “I’m listening. She tell you that?”

  I nodded. “But what if she thinks it’s best that people think I did?”

  “What people?”

  “Yeah, that is the question,” I said.

  We sat quietly for a while, drinking beer and watching a cormorant dive and surface. Across the pond a couple was launching a tandem kayak from their backyard. Muted music drifted indistinctly from a house, two or three doors down on my side of the pond, either The Guess Who or B.T.O. I worked my mind over the events of the past few days but couldn’t make any sense of them.

  “I suppose I gotta go back and sweat the widow,” Kounadis finally said. “You’re not holding out on me, are you? Are you sure you don’t know how your name ended up in that notebook?”

  I shook my head, trying to think of any connection that might exist tying me to Nolan. “It must be through Eddie. I wish I knew if my name was in the notebook before whatever happened went down, or if Eddie gave him my name.”

  “Why would Thayer do that?”

  “It’s all got to be tied to Eddie’s bust. But it was so long ago. Why would anyone care now?” I finished my beer and blew across the top, making a low, drawn out tone. Kounadis shot me an annoyed look.

  “Did anything interesting come out of the lab work or the autopsies?” I asked.

  “Like what?” His look shifted from annoyed to suspicious.

  “I
don’t know. I guess I’m just curious.”

  “Well don’t be. We’re not in the habit of sharing information with potential suspects.”

  “For Christ’s sake, give me a break,” I complained. “If you were me wouldn’t you…”

  “I’m not you, and you’re not me. And don’t forget that,” he interrupted. He got up to leave. “Thanks for the beer. I’ll be in touch. Make sure you let me know if you come up with anything.”

  I followed him around the house to his car. “Don’t you think I should be worried about all this?” I asked.

  He shut the car door and grinned out the open window, “What ever would you have to worry about?” he asked as he backed out onto the street.

  I went inside, grabbed another beer, put on the Sox pre-game show and settled onto the couch figuring to doze the evening away in my exhaustion. My mind, however, had other plans. After a good half hour spent trying to wrestle down my thoughts about Eddie, Jack Nolan, and Charlie Donnelly, I got up, poured out two thirds of a warm beer and made my way to my computer.

  Anyone who has ever tried to search for information on regular people on-line knows what a crapshoot it is. Jack Nolan’s only hits were related to his killing, and one briefly mentioned his criminal record, an assault charge that stuck. Eddie turned up as a charter boat skipper available for hire, as well as a murder victim, but I found nothing about his bust.

  Charlie Donnelly, on the other hand, had too many hits. I sorted through them as best I could, scouring the sites for biographical or professional information. I eventually pieced together the life story of a homegrown boy from Southie, beating the odds and making his way to the heart of power in the city via Boston Latin, U-Mass and Suffolk Law. Along the way he married a local girl and raised a couple boys. He lawyered for five or six years, got elected to the Statehouse as a rep for two terms, then ran for and got elected to the City Council about ten years ago. Whether that was a step up or a step down was beyond my political knowledge, but the man was currently running for the United States Congress and was widely considered to be the favorite in the race.

  It was around ten-thirty when I finished. Papelbon was closing out an 8-3 win for the Sox. I grabbed a box of pretzels, cracked a cold one and stretched out on the couch just in time to watch Melvin Mora strike out and end the game.

  Thursday -6:55 AM

  I had shut off my alarm to try and catch up on some sleep, but I was awake anyway when the banging started on my front door. I got up and stole a look out the bedroom window. Seeing Eddie’s truck in the yard was a bit of a surprise on a couple of levels. I heard the door open and Sharon’s voice calling.

  “John? Are you up, John?”

  I pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt and headed out through the living room. Sharon was looking at a picture of Lauren and me, taken in happier times out on a friend’s sailboat. I stood and watched her for a moment before I figured out that the slight shake of her body was because she was quietly crying. I waited as she settled down and then crossed the room.

  “I’m just getting up. I need coffee,” I said, as I headed into the kitchen. I set about filling the machine, getting out cups, some milk and sugar for her. I figured she would find her way in when she was ready.

  Out on the pond a cormorant surfaced, shaking its head and swallowing hard. I watched it until it dove again. Not a bad life, I thought, to be a predator but not really anyone else’s prey, at least not after surviving to adulthood, anyway. I realized that though I’ve seen a lot of ducklings and goslings, and seen them get eaten, too, I couldn’t recall ever seeing baby cormorants. Something to look into, I thought.

  “John I’m scared,” Sharon said, as she came into the kitchen a couple of minutes later. She looked tired and pale and drawn out, seemed somehow older, or maybe not older but more used up, than she had the day before.

  I handed her a cup and pointed to the milk and sugar while I thought about what she had just said. “Scared in general or scared specifically?” I finally asked her.

  “Last night, around ten, a car with no lights on stopped in front of the house for a good twenty seconds, then took off. It came back and did the same thing at about twelve-thirty and again at two or so.”

  “Did you recognize it? Get the plate?”

  “No, it was a big car, like an airport car, you know what I mean? Not a limo, but a car people get driven around in, black or dark. I couldn’t see the plate.”

  “Did you call the police?” I asked. I pulled the pot out of the coffee maker and poured us each a cup.

  “I didn’t think I should,” she answered. She stirred her coffee slowly. I took a sip of mine and waited for her to continue. “I figured it would be best to not respond, not react. Pretend I never saw them.”

  “Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “I would guess it was whoever killed Eddie. But I don’t know who that is.” She set her coffee down in the sink, then picked it back up and took a sip. “That night, the night he was killed, he thought he was… how did he put it… ‘finally going to get paid.’ I asked him what he meant and he said he would explain it to me when he got home.”

  “You need to tell this to Kounadis, the state cop.”

  “I know. Will you call him and set it up? I don’t want to talk to him in Hull. I don’t want to be seen talking to him.”

  “I can do that. When do you want to meet him?”

  “Later this morning… will you be there with me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You think you’re good to go home and get a little rest?” She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll call him and try and set something up for ten or eleven, maybe at the Starbucks in Hingham or something.” I took her cup and set it on the counter. “You’re going to have to tell him everything, you know. You can’t do this halfway.”

  “I know,” she said. She looked at me and tried to smile. “Call me when you get it set up.”

  I watched her head across the front yard and climb into Eddie’s truck. She backed out into the street and drove off without looking back at me.

  After breakfast and a shower I put in a call to Kounadis. It went straight to message; I told him Sharon’s request and asked him to get back to me. As soon as I hung up, the phone started ringing. I picked it up, expecting Kounadis, and was surprised to hear my wife’s voice instead.

  “Hi… how are you?” she asked.

  “I’m doing all right,” I answered. “How about you?”

  “Busy… very busy. I got put on Eddie’s case, just as a second, but…”

  “Is that good? Did you tell them that he was my cousin?”

  “They know. The boss says it’s not a problem. I’m just doing scut work, anyway. I feel like a paralegal.”

  An awkward quiet hung between us, then elongated. I filled it. “I was just trying to call Kounadis, actually. You know, the state cop on the case. Sharon wants to talk to him.”

  “Yeah?” She paused, thinking about that, then continued on with a nervous tilt in her voice. “Look, I’m calling to ask a favor. I have to go to this dinner thing tomorrow night. I was wondering if you would come with me. It’s stupid and political, but I need to go, and it would help me out very much if you would come, too.”

  She sounded nervous and scared to be asking, and my heart twisted. “Sure,” I said, trying not to sound excited. “Dress up?”

  “Your dark gray suit is fine; it’s not a black tie thing.” She paused a bit. “It’s at the Copley. Why don’t you meet me in the Oak Room bar at 7, okay?”

  “Okay, that sounds fine.”

  “See you then. I gotta run. Thanks.” She hung up.

  My phone was no sooner in its cradle than it started ringing again. I said hello but my mind was far away, thinking about my previous conversation with Lauren, so I wasn’t listening very well at first. It was Kounadis and he was saying how he ‘guessed he wouldn’t be able to talk to her now..’

  Sharon was not dead, but
she could not be much closer. She was on a ventilator, completely unresponsive, a massive trauma caused by a hit and run in front of her house that morning. They found the dark blue town car on a beach dead-end five blocks away. It had been reported stolen the night before, in Southie.

  It took me about an hour to get to the hospital in Weymouth and make my way to the intensive care unit. I only got a glimpse into the room, not being immediate family. Sharon seemed tiny, connected to all of the tubes and machines. One unmarked side of her face looked at peace, but the rest of her bore the signs of a brutal violence.

  Sharon’s mother sat in the lounge area outside the unit, holding hands with Danielle. I stood and watched them for a moment, not knowing what to say to these people whose world had been destroyed twice in the past few days. They sat quietly, each lost in her own horror. Finally, Danny looked up and saw me and burst into a fresh round of crying. I stepped closer, but was still speechless. A tear slid down my cheek.

  “Find who did this, John. Don’t let them get away with it.” Donna Kelly held my eyes with a steady, purposeful look.

  I nodded, wondering how I could do that, but knowing I had no choice.

  Friday -7:15 P.M.

  I stood at the bar in the Oak Room, uncomfortable in my suit, picking at my tie, looking about for Lauren and feeling uneasy. The bartender brought me a Sam’s, pouring half into a glass before I could grab the bottle. All around me, people looked happy and completely at ease; my aunt used to call them “the beautiful people.” It took me a minute to realize that Lauren had come in and stopped to talk with a group at a table near the door. She was one of them, blended right in. She turned to me and waved. I tossed a ten on the bar, poured the rest of my beer into the glass and headed over.

  She was wearing a black dress, heels, pearls at her neck, and a gold bracelet I didn’t recognize. She kissed my cheek and introduced me around, all folks from the office, no spouses, no dates. We pulled up chairs and sat down. Office talk worked its way around to the harbor murders and Lauren’s assignment to assist a senior prosecutor and the DA himself.