Third Strike

by Philip R. Craig

  His brows arched. “Really? How sure are you?”

  “Fairly but not absolutely.”

  “Enough to act on the assumption that he was?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well,” he said, “that adds spice to the stew, doesn’t it? Mortison was in Chilmark, Doyle works for Mortison, and Frazier is afraid of Doyle. How do you suppose Zapata fits in?”

  “They all go to his church.”

  “So did Alvarez,” Brady said, “and he’s dead.”

  “Maybe Frazier knows how and why,” I said. “Let’s try to find out.”

  As we drove out of the lot I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that Father Zapata had come back out of the church and was watching us leave.

  “I don’t suppose you have a phone book in this car,” said Brady, peeking into the backseat. “If you do, I can see if Frazier is listed there and learn where he lives.”

  “We don’t have phone books in our cars,” I said, “because we almost never use our cell phone except to call home, and we know that number.”

  “In another generation or two,” said Brady, “babies are going to be born with one hand fastened to an ear, and all the parents will have to do is slip a phone into the hand.”

  “We’ll stop at a filling station and peek at their book.”

  We drove toward Vineyard Haven while Brady told me what he’d seen when he went to look in the back of the church building. It was just what we’d guessed: two bathrooms, one for men, one for women, a combination kitchen-pantry on one side of the hall, and another room on the other side, notable for the padlock on its door. A storage area, probably, with stuff no one wanted stolen. Did each group that used the building have a key, or was the locked room used by only one organization? If you knew who to ask, you could find out, but who knew who to ask? Zapata, maybe.

  On Beach Street we stopped at the first filling station, and while Brady was looking with horror at the price of island gasoline, I was failing to find a single Norman Frazier in the station’s phone book.

  “My God,” said Brady when I climbed back behind the wheel. “How can you people afford to drive cars down here?”

  “Prices have gone up even more than usual because of the strike,” I said, “but everything on the island costs more than on the mainland because of freight charges. Gasoline always costs fifty cents a gallon more.”

  “But gasoline comes here by tanker,” said Brady, “just like it does to every other part of New England. The delivery cost is no greater here than it is anywhere else.”

  I ignored this appeal to reason. “Liquor costs several dollars more a bottle because of freight, food costs more because of freight, shoes and socks cost more because of freight. Fortunately for us islanders, we’re all multimillionaires, so we can afford the necessities.” I pointed to the left as we drove toward Oak Bluffs. “There’s the Trident. She doesn’t look too bad, but there’s not much left of her engine room.”

  “So that’s where Alvarez died.” Brady looked at the boat as we passed.

  “So they say.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a restaurant called the Wheelhouse in Edgartown,” I said. “Frazier worked there with Alvarez. The woman who runs the place may know where Frazier lives.”

  Nellie Gray did know. Frazier lived out on West Chop.

  We turned around and drove back the way we’d just come, passing the line of cars parked beside the beach between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs, and going on through downtown Oak Bluffs and Vineyard Haven out toward the West Chop Lighthouse. Near the library I pointed out the street at the end of which, long before, Lillian Hellman and Dashiell Hammett had cohabited in a house overlooking the outer harbor. The island now crawled with more celebrities than ever, but Lillian and Dash were still my favorites.

  “Maybe the falcon is hidden somewhere here on the Vineyard,” said Brady.

  “Could be.”

  “We could use Sam Spade on this case.”

  “I think Sam works in California,” I said. “Maybe we can bring Stoney Calhoun down from Maine. He’s as good as Spade.”

  Brady gave me a blank look. “Who’s Stoney Calhoun?”

  “I’m not absolutely sure, and neither is he.” I slowed down. “In any case, we’re here, so it looks like we’ll have to handle things ourselves.”

  Norman Frazier lived in a small house not too far from where Harry Doyle lived. I wondered about that. Did they socialize? Did they even know they were almost neighbors?

  My mind was filled with questions and memories. I remembered what Doyle’s boyhood pal Steve had said about Doyle asking him to help on a job and the two of them being seen together by Bonzo and Eduardo Alvarez. I remembered, too, Steve’s suspicion that Doyle might have been involved with the explosion on the Trident. And I remembered Bonzo saying that Steve and Eduardo often argued but never came to blows, because Eduardo didn’t believe in fighting.

  What were Steve and Eduardo arguing about? Union violence? Blowing up the Trident? Maybe Norm Frazier knew. He and Eduardo were friends, and Eduardo might have confided in him. Was that the reason Frazier feared Doyle? Because of what Eduardo had told him?

  Frazier’s house was on a narrow dirt lane leading off of West Chop Road. It was surrounded by trees and in need of paint. His car was beside the house. I parked in front, and Brady and I went to the door.

  I think that if Frazier had had a peephole he probably wouldn’t have opened the door, but when I knocked he did open it, just far enough for him to peek out and for me to slide a sandal between the door and the jamb.

  He pushed, but Brady and I pushed harder, and we were in his hallway before he could even yell for help, if that was his inclination.

  I kicked the door shut and said, “We need to talk, Norm.”

  He backed away. “No.”

  We followed him down the hall and into his dingy living room. He backed into an overstuffed chair and sat down hard, seeming to sink into the cushion. I ignored a wave of guilt because I was exploiting his fear.

  “I need to know about Doyle and the others,” I said in my hardest voice, leaning over him.

  He cowered. “Leave me alone. I can’t tell you anything.”

  I poked a thumb toward Brady. “You may not be afraid of me or the police,” I said, “but my friend, here, is down from Boston. You don’t want to know what he does there, but he can do it here too, if I ask him to. You’re playing with the big boys now. Do you understand me?”

  He threw a frightened glance at Brady, who, I hoped, was looking tough.

  “Jesus,” said Frazier, “I don’t know what to do. I’m in a mess, but I never done anything.”

  “You don’t have to do anything to be in trouble,” I said. “You just have to know something. What is it you know? Tell me quick and save yourself some grief.”

  “If I say anything,” he said, “they’ll do something to me! Something bad!”

  “We’ll do something worse if you don’t, and we’ll do it right now. Isn’t that right, Bruno?”

  Brady made a choking sound that he turned into a growl.

  “Oh God,” moaned Frazier.

  “I’m running out of patience,” I said.

  “All right, all right,” cried Frazier, putting up his hands as if to protect himself from attack. “Eddie Alvarez and me were buddies. Hell, he even got me to go to church with him and tried to teach me Portuguese, you know what I mean? I mean, we were close, and we talked about everything. Some of it was union stuff he wouldn’t even tell his wife because, you know, he didn’t want her to worry. Well, he told me that he seen Steve Bronski talking with Harry Doyle, and he said Doyle was a bad apple. Eddie was afraid that Steve might get involved in some shenanigan that would hurt the union, and so he tells Steve not to get mixed up with Doyle. So him and Steve get nose to nose, and Steve tells him to mind his own business, says he don’t know nothing about Doyle’s plans and he ain’t gonna get involved anyway, but that he don’t w
ant Eddie or that Bonzo guy talking about him and Doyle, because Doyle is working for Mortison, and Mortison ain’t helping the union any, and Steve don’t want the other union guys to think he’s pals with a scab.”

  “So far you’ve told me nothing I don’t know,” I said, narrowing my eyes a little.

  Frazier seemed to try to sink out of sight. “Come on. Gimme a break, willya? I’m tryin’ to help, ain’t I? What happened was, whatever Doyle had in mind when he talked with Steve, it was going down the next Wednesday night, so Eddie tells me he’s going to find Doyle that night and follow him and find out what he’s doing and keep him from doing it if it’s something that’ll be bad for the union. I tell him that’s probably not a good idea, because Doyle is a bad egg, but Eddie says he don’t want any trouble to happen, so he’s going to stick to his plan. Well, I didn’t want him out there alone, so I said I’d go with him, but I didn’t want no trouble either.”

  He looked up at me with fear in his eyes.

  “Continue,” I growled. “I want all of it.”

  “Sure, sure.” Frazier nodded vigorously. “So, okay, I drive us up to Doyle’s house—he lives a couple blocks from here, you know—and we see his car’s still there, so when he leaves we follow him down to the docks, and when he parks, we go down a ways farther and we park, too. Like they do in the movies, you know?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  “Okay, so anyway,” said Frazier, “even though it’s dark we can see Doyle carry a suitcase out toward the Trident, walking sort of sneaky and like the suitcase was heavy, and Eddie doesn’t like whatever it is he sees, so he goes running after him, but I don’t want no trouble so I stayed where I was.”

  Frazier stopped talking and gave me a sick look.

  “And?” I said.

  “That was last Wednesday night. Eddie didn’t come right back. I waited, and after a while I see Doyle headed back to his car. He drives past me and sees me and slows down, but then he keeps going, and just as I’m about to go find Eddie, the Trident blows up.” Frazier’s wide eyes stared up at me. “I ain’t got proof, but I think Doyle maybe hit Eddie with something and left him there to take the rap for the explosion, you know?”

  “I do know,” I said. “Then what?”

  “So,” he said, “there I was with Doyle knowing what I saw. So he comes over here the next morning and tells me to keep my mouth shut or else, but if I do, everything will be fine and I should just keep doing the things I usually do. But now you’ve got me blabbing. Jesus! I never should have gone with Eddie that night.”

  “That explains Doyle,” I said. “Who are the others you’re afraid of?”

  “Honest to Christ,” he said, “I don’t know who they are, but there’s got to be more of them than just Harry Doyle. He wouldn’t do nothing like that unless it was somebody else’s idea. Why would he? I don’t know who they are, but they must know about me, too, and now you do, too. I gotta get away. I can’t live a normal life here anymore.”

  “You sure you don’t know who those other people are?”

  “No. Yes! I mean I don’t know!”

  I turned to Brady. “Bruno, maybe you should ask him.”

  Brady glared at him. It was a truly impressive glare.

  “No, wait,” cried Frazier. “Doyle works for Mortison, I know that. Mortison knows a lot of people. Maybe it’s them. And I’ve seen Doyle up at church a lot. He don’t seem like the churchgoing type, but he goes up there.” He looked past me at Brady. “I swear to God that’s all I know about Doyle, but I know he didn’t blow up that ship without somebody telling him to.”

  I heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house, then heard Brady’s steps going to a window.

  “We’ve got company,” he said. “It’s Harry Doyle.”

  Frazier groaned.

  “Have you got a gun in the house?” I asked.

  “Gun? No, I ain’t got no gun!”

  “How about a back door?”

  “Yeah, I got one of them.”

  I put down a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Use it,” I said.

  He did.

  I looked to Brady.

  “Bruno,” he said. “Is that the best thug name you could come up with?”

  “It worked,” I said. “Is Doyle alone?”

  “I think the guy with him is a genuine thug.”

  There was a heavy knock on the front door.

  “What do you think?” I said. “Should we open that door or go out the back one?”

  “Leave this to me,” said Brady, and he went to the front door and opened it.

  “We want to talk to Norm Frazier,” said Doyle, frowning.

  His companion stood behind him, looking very large.

  “Who wants to see him?” asked Brady, standing square in the doorway.

  “None of your business,” snapped Doyle. “I want to see Frazier. Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Coyne. I’m an officer of the court. If you have any business with Mr. Frazier, you’ll do it through us or not at all. You can start by telling me who you are.”

  Doyle suggested that Brady perform an impossible task.

  “Not everyone enjoys your favorite practices, Mr. Doyle,” said Brady smoothly. “Yes, I already know who you are. We have photos of you in our files.” He turned to me. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

  “He looks worse in person,” I said, my right hand behind my back.

  “Mr. Frazier is in our custody,” said Brady. “However, we would like to talk with you, too. Maybe you’d like to come with us now and save us the trouble of finding you later.”

  But Doyle didn’t accept the invitation. Instead, he turned on his heel, said, “Come on, Bruno,” and walked to his car. The big thug followed him.

  Brady watched them drive away, then shut the door.

  “Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “Another Bruno. It’s hard to believe.”

  “Maybe Doyle was lying about his name,” I said. “Have you ever noticed that there are a lot of liars in the world?”

  “It’s recently come to my attention,” said Brady. “What do you make of this business between Frazier and Doyle?”

  “I think Frazier is right,” I said. “I think there are other people behind Doyle, and I think we’d better find out who they are.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Brady

  We went out to the Jeep. “What do you think?” said J.W.

  “I think,” I said, “I want to get out of this jacket and necktie and back into my blue jeans. I feel like a damn lawyer.”

  He looked sideways at me but didn’t say the obvious thing. Instead, he started up the car and pulled out of Norm Frazier’s driveway. “Far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we just solved the mystery of who blew up the Trident.”

  “Doyle,” I said. “Maybe on Mortison’s orders.”

  J.W. nodded thoughtfully. “That’s if Norm Frazier is to be believed.”

  “I think you scared him pretty good.”

  “It was you who scared him, Bruno,” said J.W. “I’m not sure fear produces truth the way wine does, though.”

  “Maybe we should go tell the police what Frazier told us,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said dubiously. “Maybe.” He paused. “There’s still too much we don’t know. Maybe we should try to follow Doyle and his thug, see where that takes us.”

  “This red Jeep is kind of noticeable,” I said, “and I’m not so sure I want to know what those guys would do if they spotted us tailing them. I think we should try to think things through a little bit before we do something stupid. Besides, this necktie is choking me. Take me home, Jeeves.”

  “At once, sir,” said J.W.

  He knew how to get to where we were going, and I didn’t, so I just watched the scenery go by. It was a postcard-perfect late-summer Sunday on Martha’s Vineyard. A lot of people paid a lot of money for this, but it seemed as if every time I was on the island I ended up getting involve
d in something unpleasant and didn’t have the leisure to pay much attention to the scenery or the weather.

  We drove in silence for a little while. Then J.W. said, “They’re all connected.”

  “All these men,” I said. “Mortison and Doyle and the priest.”

  “Yes. And Eduardo Alvarez, and Steve with the broken ankle, and Dr. Lundsberg. Larry Bucyck, too. All of them.”

  “Doyle killed Alvarez and blew up the boat,” I said. “Doyle is buddies with Mortison, and Mortison’s was the back of the head you recognized at Dr. Lundsberg’s last night.”

  “And they were all at Father Zapata’s church this morning.”

  “Larry Bucyck got tortured and killed for what he saw at Lundsberg’s the other night.”

  “It looks that way,” said J.W. “And we saw even more at Lundsberg’s.”

  “What did we see?” I said.

  “We saw men studying a map of the island, for one thing.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Two men have been murdered. Unless I’m way off base, Larry Bucyck and Eduardo Alvarez got murdered because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They saw something they shouldn’t’ve seen.”

  “Whatever they saw,” I said, “it had to be pretty important to be worth murdering for.”

  “And those guys with Uzis tried to murder us last night, don’t forget,” he said.

  “I bet it’s occurred to you,” I said to J.W., “that you and I haven’t exactly been keeping a low profile lately.”

  He turned and smiled at me. “You mean like getting chased by men with Uzis and showing up in church?”

  “It’s not that funny.”

  “Detecting 101,” he said. “I learned when I was a cop that sometimes you’ve just got to keep kicking the bushes and shaking the trees until something falls out.”

  “And you hope whatever falls out doesn’t land on your head,” I said.

  When we pulled into the yard, we found Joshua and Diana in their bathing suits playing in the tree house. We declined their invitation to join them on the grounds that we still had our church clothes on, and we went inside.