Darkness First

by James Hayman

  ‘So somebody else brought the drugs back to Maine. A third man?’

  ‘Yeah. Except what if the third man happened to be a woman?’

  ‘Stoddard?’

  ‘Possibly. She’s roughly the same age as the kids who killed the guard. Maybe they were in on it together. Let’s say she’s on a boat.’

  ‘A getaway boat?’

  ‘Why not? The boys kayak out, toss the drugs on board and she takes off. They try to paddle back to shore. But it’s the Bay of Fundy and they’re fighting an outgoing tide. Eventually they capsize. She comes home and opens her candy store. Hires Blakemore as a helper.’

  ‘Only one problem with that theory.’

  ‘Yeah? What?’

  ‘Tiffany Stoddard didn’t commit suicide and she sure as hell didn’t sexually mutilate her own body. And Emily Kaplan didn’t drive a car into herself. So who did?’

  Carroll shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My guess is a would-be competitor who decided to take over her business. What you might call a hostile takeover.’

  ‘Very hostile,’ agreed Maggie. ‘Same guy who killed Blakemore?’

  ‘I think so. Same guy. Same motive. Blakemore was the first step on the distribution ladder. Let’s say he uses her to work his way up to Stoddard. He kills her. Then he tortures and kills Stoddard. Forces her to tell him where the rest of the goods are. Kaplan’s just collateral damage.’

  Maggie nodded more to herself than Carroll, uncertain if his takeover theory made sense. What she was sure of was that whoever killed Stoddard didn’t do it just for the drugs. Or the money. Maybe as a male, Carroll didn’t feel the sexual nature of the attack as sharply or deeply as she did. Or maybe he thought hunting down a sexual deviant complicated his otherwise straightforward drug investigation. ‘Can you get me copies of the case files on Saint John?’ she said. ‘Both ours and the Canadians? Also the file on Blakemore?’

  ‘I’ll have somebody deliver a set to your father’s office later this morning. We’re setting up temporary headquarters there. Saves driving back and forth to Ellsworth.’

  ‘Also can you put a trooper on Emily’s room at Eastern, Maine. Once the bad guy figures out she isn’t dead …’

  ‘Yup. Got it. I’ll take care of it,’ Carroll said before Maggie finished the sentence.

  ‘Okay. Good. In the meantime what do you want me to do?’

  ‘First thing? Go to Eastport and inform Stoddard’s next of kin. While you’re there find out whatever you can about her, including where she was in January. Specifically the sixth through the eighth.’

  10

  Maggie found her father leaning against his Subaru, sipping coffee from a thermos and smoking another Camel. Polly Four was sleeping at his feet.

  ‘That coffee?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Mind if I take a sip?’

  ‘Nah. Take as much as you like.’

  The coffee was hot, strong and black, the way Maggie liked it. She hoped the caffeine would help. She hadn’t had any real sleep in more than twenty-four hours and it’d been a rough twenty-four.

  ‘Heard you signed on to be Sean Carroll’s sidekick.’

  ‘For the time being. What do you know about him?’

  ‘Not a lot. Except he’s supposed to be smart. Ambitious too from what I hear. I gather Tom Mayhew thinks he walks on water. Lets him pick and choose his assignments. Which means he only hangs out in Washington County when something like this hits the fan.’

  She took another sip of her father’s coffee. ‘You know anybody in Eastport?’

  ‘Sure. Lots of people. What do you need?’

  ‘I’m going up to inform Stoddard’s next of kin. Be good to have a little background before I knock on the door.’

  ‘Go see Frank Boucher. He’s chief of the Eastport PD. Frank and I go way back. I’ll let him know you’re coming.’

  It was easy for Maggie to spot the grey Impala hanging on her tail. Would have been easy even if Route 1 had been clogged with a full complement of summer-weekend traffic. But at this hour on a Saturday morning it was very nearly empty and whoever was following was making no effort to hide his presence. He could have passed her a half a dozen times but didn’t. When she went faster, he went faster. When she eased up on the accelerator, so did he. Growing bored with the game, Maggie unsnapped her holster, laid her Glock on the seat next to her, flipped on her directional to give her pursuer fair warning and made an unscheduled left on to a small road called Dinsmore Lane.

  She slowed to a stop on the grassy shoulder about a hundred yards in. The Impala pulled up behind. It had state police plates. She rolled down her window and waited. The driver’s-side door opened and Emmett J. Ganzer stepped out. He walked the twenty feet between the two cars.

  She slipped her gun back in its holster. Ganzer went around to the other side and climbed into the seat next to her. He was a big guy. At least six-two. Broad shoulders. Hard body. Thick neck like an NFL linebacker. He wore his hair in a closely cropped military-style crew-cut, sides shaved, the short hair in the middle standing straight up from his head. His bright little eyes darted this way and that. Checking out the car. Checking out Maggie.

  ‘Why are you following me, Emmett?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to have this conversation in front of a crowd. It’s between you and me.’

  ‘All right. What do you want?’

  ‘Y’know, Savage, this is a big-money case. Five million dollars big. Major media big. The kind that makes or breaks careers. Mine. Yours. Carroll’s. If I clear this one I’m a cinch to get my sergeant’s stripes just as soon as Carroll moves into Mayhew’s shoes. Only problem is you just pushed me out of the way. Tough to be a hero when you’re playing second fiddle to a good-looking babe. Media loves good-looking babes. So does Carroll.’ She felt Ganzer’s eyes examining her, mentally undressing her.

  ‘I’m not trying to push you anywhere, Emmett.’

  ‘Y’know, Savage, we don’t get many cases like this up here in the boonies. I know that’s why Carroll came prancing in on his white horse at four in the morning. And isn’t it interesting? You show up all the way from Portland just a couple of hours later.’

  ‘If you think I’m looking for publicity, you’re out of your mind.’

  ‘I’m a good cop, Savage. Got a good record. This is my case and I want it. I can’t do much about the boy genius horning in. He’s my boss and I do whatever he tells me. But you? You’re a whole different story.’

  ‘I don’t care who catches this guy, Emmett. If it’s you, I’ll cheer loudest. But I plan on doing what I can because whoever killed Tiffany Stoddard also damn near killed my best friend.’

  ‘Is that the story you told Carroll? You know something? I don’t believe you. I think maybe you talked about me instead. Told him you weren’t sure I had what it took to do this job. Or maybe you just batted those big brown eyes at him? Or wiggled your cute little ass? Carroll never could resist a cute little ass.’ He waited a beat. ‘But you know, since you’re here, why don’t you and I work together on this thing. You know? As partners. Might work for both of us.’ As he spoke he slid his hand on to her knee.

  ‘All right, that’s it, Ganzer. Get your hands off me and get the hell out of my car. I’ve got work to do.’

  Ganzer didn’t move. ‘Don’t decide so quick, Savage. I’ve got a feeling the two of us might just get along pretty well.’

  Maggie pushed his hand from her leg. ‘Get out of this car and get out now.’

  Finally he opened the door and climbed out. ‘Okay. I know you’re here through Monday, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But come Tuesday I want to see you on the road heading south. If you’re not, I’ll do whatever I need to do to make sure you regret it. And enjoy every minute. That, Detective Savage, is a promise you can take to the bank.’

  An hour later, still irritated by Ganzer’s bullshit, Maggie crossed the causeway on State Route 190 that connected the center of Eastport on Moose Island to the rest
of Maine. The town was once home to more than a dozen sardine canneries but both the fish and the canneries had been gone for decades. Other businesses had closed more recently and the city’s population, once considerably larger, now hovered around 1,500. In spite of a picturesque waterfront and a reputation as something of an art colony, Eastport shared the general poverty of Washington County and depended primarily on lobsters, scallops and summer tourism for income.

  Maggie hadn’t been here in a couple of years. She did a quick circuit of the historic waterfront, which looked just as pretty as ever. Noted license plates on the diagonally parked cars from Wisconsin, Michigan, Florida and Illinois. She parked in front of the building just off Water Street that housed the town’s six-man police department.

  11

  8:27 A.M., Saturday, August 22, 2009

  Eastport, Maine

  Chief Frank Boucher stood up from behind his desk in his small, paneled office. Photos of former Eastport chiefs going back to the early 1900s lined the walls with dates of their years of service.

  ‘So you’re the big man’s daughter, are you?’

  Maggie smiled and nodded. ‘Maggie Savage. Nice to meet you, Chief.’ She held out her hand and he shook it.

  Boucher looked to be in his early sixties. A receding hairline accentuated the roundness of his face which kind of matched the roundness of his belly, which extended well out beyond his belt.

  ‘You had breakfast yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. Truth be told, Maggie was starving. She and Billy had done more drinking than eating last night and she hadn’t had anything since.

  ‘Good. Let’s walk up the street to the WaCo. They keep a table on the deck permanently reserved for me.’

  The WaCo Diner, pronounced whacko, which kind of fit the décor, was an Eastport institution, having been established, according to the blue awning over the front door, in 1924. Some natives claimed the original WaCo opened even earlier than that. As Boucher promised, their table on the deck had a glorious view of the water. Campobello Island on the Canadian side was just a stone’s throw away. At least it was if you happened to have a good throwing arm.

  The Chief ordered blueberry pancakes. Maggie opted for scrambled eggs with bacon and home fries. When the food arrived, they both tucked in.

  ‘Tall like your father, aren’t you?’

  ‘Five-eleven. Some days six feet. Depends on my mood.’

  ‘Y’know, I remember you from when you played basketball at Machias Memorial. You and that Kaplan girl. The two of you were something else.’

  ‘She was a lot better than I was.’

  ‘You were pretty damn good yourself. Our daughter Lizzie played for Shead at the time and the two of you were not only way taller than anybody we had, you were way better. Jackie Comer, the old Shead coach, used to call you the “Twin Towers” – course, that was before 9/11. Anyway, my wife and I would go to the games and, man, you guys kicked our butts three years in a row. State champs as I recall.’

  ‘Three years in a row,’ Maggie smiled.

  ‘Anyway, you didn’t come here to talk basketball. John told me about the Stoddards’ daughter. Anyone know who did it?’

  ‘Not yet. We only discovered the body a few hours ago. I’ll be going over to the Stoddards as soon as I leave here.’

  ‘Tough job informing next of kin. ’Specially parents. Done it a few times myself and it’s never fun. How can I help?’

  ‘Any background you can give me about the family would be helpful.’

  Boucher leaned back, patted maple syrup from his mouth and chin and sipped his coffee. ‘Pike and Donelda Stoddard. That’s a whole other song,’ he said. ‘They’re both in their late forties. He’s from here. Eastport going back forever. She’s from away. LA, I think. She wandered into town back in the eighties and hooked up with Pike. Been with him ever since. Donelda still comes off like some sort of overage hippie. Flouncy skirts. Long grey hair down to her butt. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Three daughters. Teresa was the oldest. Three years older than Tiff in the middle. Youngest is named Tabitha. Guess they had a thing for names starting with T. Anyway, Tabbie was the afterthought kid. She just turned eleven. More than ten years younger than Tiff. Going into sixth grade next month. She’s the only one left now.’

  ‘You mean they already lost one child?’ Maggie hadn’t known.

  ‘Yeah. Teresa. Terri. Their first-born. Beautiful girl. Even prettier ’n Tiff. Always a hell-raiser like her old man. Tiff had some of that in her too. Like the old song goes, “Born to Be Wild”. Now they’re both dead.’

  Jesus. Two out of three kids gone. This was going to be even harder than she thought. ‘What happened to Terri?’

  Boucher looked away and exhaled long and slow. It was obviously a story he didn’t like telling. ‘Motorcycle accident that was her father’s fault. Pike used to tear-ass around here on this big black Harley he brought back from the marines. Always tinkering with it. Bike was his first love. Anyway, he’s out riding one summer night, June I think it was, three years ago. Terri’s on the back, arms around her old man. Neither one of ’em’s wearing a helmet. Pike takes a blind curve way too fast. Meets a truck coming the other way. Trying to avoid a collision, he skids out and just misses slamming into a tree. Terri flies off and hits the tree head-first. Killed her instantly. I was the first responder that night and I’ve got to tell you seeing that beautiful girl lying there with her brains splattered all over the road and knowing there was not a goddamn thing me or anyone else could do about it, well, that was one of the worst sights I’ve ever seen. Later, going around to the house and having to tell Donelda her daughter was dead and her husband, who was on a helicopter heading down to Bangor, was responsible for it, well, that was one of the hardest.’

  ‘What happened to Pike?’

  ‘For better or worse, he didn’t hit the tree. Just the stone wall behind it. Ended up with a severe spinal injury. Paralyzed from the waist down. Gonna be confined to a wheelchair the rest of his life. Donelda’s been angry at Pike and Pike’s been angry at the world ever since. Blames the truck driver for what happened. Blames the doctors. Even blames the tree and the stone wall. Blames everybody but himself. But the truth of the matter is the whole damn thing was his fault and Donelda won’t ever let him forget it. I figure somewhere deep down inside he gotta know she’s right. He was way over the limit …’

  ‘Speed or alcohol?’

  ‘Both. He never should have been riding that night. Especially not with his first-born on the back. I can’t imagine how much guilt that man must be carrying around.’

  ‘He do any hard time for that?’

  Boucher shook his head. ‘No, but he should have. Judge let him off with a suspended sentence. I guess because of the paralysis and maybe because he figured the man suffered enough killing his own daughter. I’ll tell you it’s a terrible thing to lose even one child, let alone two, even for a natural born sonofabitch like Pike Stoddard. All I can say is you’ve got one nasty day ahead of you.’

  ‘What do they do for a living?’

  ‘Pike used to be a fisherman. Mostly scallops and lobster, which is pretty much all that’s left around here. Few fish when he can find them. Still owns a thirty-five-footer named the Katie Louise after his mother. Used to captain her himself but since the accident he’s had to hire crew. Pays ’em like most owners do with a split of the catch. But there’s not many that like to work for him. Pike’s an angry man. Angry and suspicious. Always accusing his crews of trying to under-report. Cheat him out of money. As a result he usually ends up with the bottom of the barrel. Guys nobody else wants to hire. Barely makes enough to cover his loans. Donelda makes a few bucks digging for winkles and bloodworms. Paints watercolors to sell to the tourists. Picks up winter work where she can. Mostly making Christmas wreaths. It’s a hard living.’

  ‘Tiff know how to handle the boat?’

  Boucher shrugged. ‘Grew u
p on it. I’d be surprised if she didn’t.’

  ‘Pike ever had any other trouble with the law? Before the accident, I mean.’

  ‘Sporadic. I personally hauled his ass out of bars a few times back in the day. Mostly for being drunk and obnoxious and for beating people up. From what I hear, he still drinks a lot but mostly at home and mostly alone. Now he’s stuck in the wheelchair Donnie’s got him where she wants him. Poor sonofabitch can’t even take a crap without her helping him. My guess is she makes what’s left of Pike’s life a whole lot more miserable than any jail cell would have.’

  ‘How about the kids? Any history of drug use?’

  ‘Tabbie’s a little young. Tiff? I don’t know. You can usually tell the addicts. Look undernourished ’cause they’d rather snort or shoot up than eat. Have that haunted look in their eyes. Tiff never looked that way. Anyway, I always thought Tiff was too smart to get involved with Ox. Wild, yes, but smart too. Street smarts, anyway.’

  ‘How about Tabitha? You know anything about her?’

  A big sigh from Boucher. ‘Yes, I do. My wife Alma’s taught all three of the Stoddard girls each in their turn. According to her, Tabbie’s a totally different story from the other two. Terms of looks she got the short end of the stick. Kind of nerdy looking. Wears these big round glasses. Quiet. Not many friends. Always felt sorry for Tabitha marching through life behind a pair of drop-dead beauties like Terri and Tiff, knowing she was never gonna measure up to either one of them.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a blessing,’ said Maggie.

  Boucher nodded. ‘I take your point. Long as what happened to her sisters doesn’t screw her up too much.’

  12

  9:36 A.M., Saturday, August 22, 2009

  Eastport, Maine

  Maggie had no trouble finding Pike and Donelda Stoddard’s house at 190 Perry Road. A plain, grey-shingled Cape with a red front door set off by itself on a quiet road. Blinds on the windows either side of the door were drawn. One had a couple of broken slats. Flowerbeds looked weedy and uncared for. A ‘For sale by owner’ sign on the front lawn looked like it had been there a while, a phone number magic-markered underneath. Were the Stoddards trying to sell because they needed money? Or because they wanted to get out of town?