Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  So enough of that. Pepper found an empty office, closed the door and called the FBI's National Security Branch. Their analysts would have literally written the book on the thirteen groups Pepper was wondering about…

  Pepper explained who he was and the general situation in New Albion, then the intel and analysis he needed on the thirteen groups. Far more information than he believed he could access through the usual interagency law enforcement databases. Could they help?

  The clerk passed him to an agent, so Pepper told his story all over again to her. Finally the agent said she'd see what she could do, she'd have to clear it up her chain of command.

  Pepper didn't hear urgency coming back through the phone. He heard jadedness, weariness. So he played a card he'd hoped not to. "Have your boss chat with Deputy Assistant Director Edwina Youngblood, in your Criminal Investigative Division. She owes me a little favor."

  The pause that followed may have been caused by the agent trying to decide whether to ask what favor Pepper had performed for Ms. Youngblood, but eventually she just promised to be in touch.

  Pepper thanked her, wishing she'd said soon…

  Chapter Twenty

  Later that afternoon, Pepper Ryan made the drive back to Hyannis to help his dad leave the hospital. Pepper arrived to find Jake's widow, Julie Stowe-Ryan, already at his dad's bedside. Pepper hadn't seen her in three years, since Jake's funeral. She was unchanged: tall, athletically slim and pretty, despite her severe blonde hairdo and hard eyes.

  Jake and Julie had been married for six years when Jake was killed. She, Patrick and Little Jake still lived in the house in Boston's Jamaica Plain neighborhood that she and Jake had bought as newlyweds.

  "He's coming with me," said Julie, arms crossed.

  "Hello to you too, Julie," said Pepper. "How've you been?"

  His dad was sitting in a chair in the corner, tying his shoes. "Angry. That pretty much sums it up," he said. "She's been cursing at me in French, which Jake always said was a bad sign."

  Jake had met her a year after she'd received her master's degree in teaching at Tufts. A man had been murdered a floor above her apartment and Jake interviewed her when going door to door, leaving her apartment with no worthwhile information except her phone number. They'd married four months later in Las Vegas after a quick, crazy romance, to the horror of her wealthy Connecticut family.

  Pepper had heard that Julie went back to teaching French at a Boston high school after Jake died. In the first year after the funeral, Pepper had tried to send postcards and birthday presents to Jake's boys, but Pepper had never heard back. 'Papa' Ryan was allowed to visit his grandsons but his invitations only came just once or twice a year. Pepper didn't understand it.

  "It's settled, Pepper," she said. "I'm getting him away from whatever Ryan disaster you've unleashed this time. He's lucky to be alive! He could have been at the bottom of a dump truck!"

  "Your call, Dad," said Pepper, gritting his teeth, making eye contact with his dad. Who gave him the smallest nod back.

  His dad stood slowly, stretched, then walked over to stand at Pepper's side. "It'd be good timing to visit the boys—I don't have anything to pack. But that house was everything I had left of my wife. And Jake. All the pictures, everything… Sorry Julie but I need to stay, help figure out who destroyed our home. And I promised Pepper I'd help with another case, so that's two good reasons to stick around. Eisenhower said I could bunk with them."

  Pepper had an unhelpful mental image of his dad and the General in bunk beds. He laughed out loud, which earned him a glare from Julie. But she quickly refocused her anger on his dad.

  "Help?!?" scoffed Julie. "You're retired! What can you do?"

  Pepper's dad looked right at his son's widow, saying, "I can help track down the dirtbags—if they're in my town, I'll find them. Always could. And even better, I still know a lot of people with badges who owe me favors. So I guess it's time to collect."

  "Why did I even come down?" complained Julie. "And I won't even imagine where you'll be sleeping!" she said to Pepper with a toss of her short hair.

  Pepper said nothing. Angel had offered to take him in, but Pepper felt in his gut he had to stay on the Ryan property, even if that meant sleeping in a tent. Angel had promised to do better than that and they were meeting up later that day for Pepper to learn Angel's surprise solution. None of which would impress Julie…

  Julie's eyes were wet but her voice had no shake when she said, "Well, that house wasn't all you had left of Jake. Don't forget you have Patrick and Little Jake too. And I'll be praying for you both. Praying that my boys won't need to go to another funeral."

  Zula Eisenhower couldn't get Pepper to answer his damn cell phone. As usual. She tried his number for the eighth time. Finally, he picked up.

  "Hello?" Pepper's voice was scratchy. Far away.

  "Pepper it's Zula. I've got some--"

  "Hold on, Little Ike--"

  She heard his voice even fainter, yelling to someone else. Then he was back.

  "Sorry kid, I was just trying to back a trailer over Angel. What's up?"

  What? "Sorry to interrupt whatever nonsense you boys are up to, but we just got a call from the Coast Guard. They found Marcus Dunne's fishing boat about eight miles offshore. It was half sunk with no one onboard."

  Silence from Pepper. Then a burst of creative swear words.

  She filled him in on the water search efforts to find Marcus Dunne. The Coast Guard had sent a response boat crew from their Base Cape Cod. A helicopter and an HC-144 surveillance airplane from Air Station Cape Cod were both assisting in the search. As well as the New Albion harbormaster and the New Albion police boat.

  "Any other bad news?" he asked.

  Zula could hear a voice in Pepper's background. "Some good news," she said. "An outfit from Warwick, Rhode Island called A&M Demolition saw the news story about your house and called us. After maybe spending some time chatting with their lawyers. Said they had the contract to demo the house and fill the site. They were hired by email and paid in advance by wire transfer. They subbed out the utility shutoffs and landscaping to an outfit from Fall River. Their position is they received copies of all the paperwork and permits, so what's the problem. They weren't willing to share the correspondence unless we get a warrant."

  "They said 'so what's the problem'? Zu, what's their address in Rhode Island?"

  "Pepper, no! Pop would kill me if you showed up at their office. We've got to do this by the book. Get a warrant. Follow procedure."

  "You ever notice the good guys are the only ones following procedures? We don't have time to screw around with interstate warrants. What's the address?"

  "I know my pop ordered you not to investigate this yourself. I've given all the info to Lieutenant Hurd and he'll take it from there. Trust us, Pepper. We're not the enemy."

  But if Pepper was within reach right then, she would have strangled him.

  Oliver joined Croke at his room at the Sanddollar Motel and filled him in about two messages that had been waiting on the chat room site when Oliver stopped in at the Chatham library. First, telling them that the client had gone silent. And second, instructing Oliver and Croke to wait for further orders from them.

  "Uh oh," said Croke.

  Oliver'd had the same reaction. Had they caught wind of Oliver and Croke's moonlighting for the client?

  After a while, Croke said, "I might take off in the morning, somewhere inland. What with all these bodies piling up here."

  Oliver pulled out his favorite knife, a folding Gerber. He opened it, closed it. Opened. Closed. Just fiddling with it, but conspicuously. He needed to handle this development right—keep Croke in place. "Take off? You want me to leave a message in the chat room, tell them you're out?"

  Oliver and Croke both knew they wouldn't be happy. And when they were unhappy, even more dead bodies than usual tended to pile up…

  Oliver pocketed his knife and stood. "I'm going to bed. You get some sleep too. We'll ta
lk it over in the morning and figure out the next step, like professionals."

  By talk it over, Oliver meant convince Croke, even if that meant threatening the old-timer. And by figure out the next step, Oliver meant somehow figure out whether the cops were even close to them, so he'd know if they could hang on for just a bit longer. If not, Oliver would split immediately…there was no point being infamous and incarcerated, huh?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pepper Ryan had received Zula's news about Dunne's boat late Thursday afternoon, just as he was finishing parking his new home. A 1963 Airstream Globetrotter trailer. It was either really ugly or really cool, depending on your personal style. It looked like a baked potato wrapped in silver foil, on wheels. Angel had arranged it through his underground local network for Pepper as a cheap rental for the next few months without sharing too much info about its history. At least it was spotlessly clean.

  Pepper had hauled it down from Wellfleet with his truck and parked it at the grass lawn's end, just shy of the beach. Angel was unhelpfully waving his arms and shouting contradictory directions as Pepper made the final forward and backward adjustments to position the trailer in the perfect spot. He'd angled it so the first thing he'd see when he came out the door was the ocean.

  So it'd be home, for now. Before they figured out whether insurance covered whatever happened to the house. Before they would hopefully rebuild the Ryan home. But this would keep the weather off his head in the meanwhile. And maybe deliver a message to whoever took down their house, that Pepper wasn't going anywhere.

  And then the shitty news came about Dunne's boat. Pepper unhooked, saluted goodbye to Angel and headed out in his truck and civilian clothes, following Shore Road south to the marina to join the law enforcement gathering there.

  Pepper joined Chief Eisenhower and Lieutenant Hurd on a lower dock, where they were interviewing the captain of another fishing boat who shared the outside dock with Marcus Dunne's Shore Thang. The captain had been out with a charter yesterday afternoon, never saw Dunne or his charter clients. As they finished, Special Agent Alfson appeared on the ramp so they walked to meet him away from the boat captain's earshot.

  "Too bad about Dunne's boat," said Alfson. "They find him yet?"

  "The Coast Guard's hard at it but no news yet," said Hurd. "But look at this." It was a picture from a batch forwarded by the Coast Guard. It showed the fishing boat's stern, pretty low in the water, but clearly showing a large red starfish attached to the boat's transom, right next to the name Shore Thang. Hanging there like a weird decoration.

  "We don't know Dunne's dead yet," Eisenhower reminded them. "But that red starfish guarantees this is foul play…"

  Hurd yawned. "The clerk at the marina store saw Dunne talking to two men, one a bit older and heavier. One a bit smaller and younger. When Dunne came in to bum some baitfish, he told the clerk he'd picked up a half day with a solo tourist. A real sucker."

  "I'll have an artist stop by," volunteered Alfson. "See if he can sketch up something to help identify them."

  "The press is gonna pile on this," said Eisenhower. "You watch. They'll tie in that shark sighting next door in Chatham, the public'll be picturing Marcus Dunne being eaten by Jaws."

  The regional press had been hyping the presence of a great white shark spotted off Chatham's South Beach yesterday. It'd probably been chasing seals around in the channels but was trapped near shore for hours after the tide went out. Estimated over fourteen feet long.

  They were all walking back up the docks to the parking lot now in a small, unhappy cluster. And yeah, picturing the big Chatham shark tearing into Dunne—how could they not?

  "Well, my money's on the New River Front for both the Keser murder and your house's demo," said Alfson. "And the Dunne disappearance. Just our gut so far, given their body of work. By the way, my team got nowhere with the seafood angle. They drilled down at over forty seafood stores, supermarkets and roadside stands. They couldn't find anywhere that sold that shellfish combination found in the Keser clambake pit. Our new theory's the unsubs bought it in small batches from multiple locations, being hyper-careful. But my team bumped into something else funny. Every store they went to, someone else had already been there asking the same questions. An older guy, posing as a cop."

  "Yeah, funny," said the General.

  Pepper thinking, Dad!

  Alfson sighed, long and pissy. "I told my guys if they catch up to that clown to arrest him for obstruction. Anyway, the POTUS arrives tomorrow and Hanley's calling me for hourly updates at this point… So Ryan, can you please—pretty please—call me if you pick up any info even remotely helpful?"

  "Of course, partner. And speaking of pickups, that's Dunne's truck," Pepper said, pointing to a beat-up red Chevy truck parked next to a split rail fence. "We told his wife your folks'd probably want to sweep it before she can drive it home."

  "Thanks Ryan, we will. Hey, by the way, that story you're so famous for, the brown van? Some of us were wondering, how'd you know there was a little girl in the back? Nice work and all. Heroic, despite the wrongful death suit. But how'd you know?"

  Eisenhower and Hurd were watching Pepper now too, waiting for his answer.

  "Just luck," Ryan shrugged. "I'd seen the BOLOs, from the other two missing children. The driver didn't stop fully at a red, before he turned right. Then he panicked." Sticking exactly to what he'd written in his report, eight years ago.

  "Good luck he was so sloppy, with you right there watching him. Well, I gotta run. President Wayne Garby and family arrive tomorrow morning. So if all this chaos in your town's really been about him, then buckle up, friends. It's about to get much worse."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cape Cod is a great place to get away from it all. Unless you're the President of the United States. Then it all comes with you. But Wayne Garby wouldn't have had it any other way.

  As he sat in the leather comfort of his helicopter seat just before noon on Friday, he imagined what the little people on shore were seeing. He pictured their eyes growing to saucers as the five Sikorsky S-92 helicopters appeared over the ocean horizon and shifted in formation as they swooped toward New Albion. Four helicopters eventually spread in the sky but did not land. The fifth, only now identifiable as Marine One, approached shore and gently landed on Eagle's Nest's wide lawn. President Garby knew how to make an entrance.

  He allowed his in-flight security detail to exit first, then his twin daughters Brianne and Skyler, then himself with his wife. He loved being the man. And what better way than the air display to show Smith that Garby was the true big swinging dick and Smith was just lucky to know him?

  The remainder of Garby's entourage had preceded him to Eagle's Nest, although most would be staying in hotels, motels and rental homes nearby. Fifty-five staff members. Eighty-four secret service officers. 100 or so reporters and other media schlubs would be haunting the vicinity, like buzzards. And of course the protesters, camera hounds and miscellaneous nutballs. So, a circus of hundreds.

  Everyone knows the President of the United States can't do anything right. He can't even go on vacation right. The press had been sautéing him for the past two weeks, of course. The standard outrage: with all the crises going on in the world at that exact moment, how did Garby have the gall to take a vacation? The stock market was too far down, unemployment was too far up. And now he had the historic opportunity to nominate two Supreme Court members at the same time, to fill one justice's recent retirement and another's fatal stroke only two weeks later. The press was incredulous—instead, his priority was a beach holiday with his billionaire backer? Proving again beyond a doubt that Garby was irresponsible, out-of-touch, a money whore, etc.

  Well, it takes one to know one… And Garby's actual priority at that moment was to locate a nice, dry gin martini.

  On the plus side, both of his daughters had actually shown up. His poo-pooing of the assassination threat and his cajoling had, as expected, been largely unsuccessful. But he'd sol
d them on Smith's daughter, a jet-setter and money burner of the first class, being there as their personal hostess. With her London and Miami trash nightlife friends. It would be a scene. They knew her a little. And a little more by reputation.

  They would do it for the fam.

  Acker Smith and his daughter Maddie met them on the compound's Guest House patio-- handshakes, hugs and kisses. Smith looked like shit. Pale. Thinner. Death warmed over-easy. Which was accurate, Garby guessed. His daughter was Cape Cod delicious. Long wavy blonde hair. Thin where she should be, curvy where she should be. Little white shorts, the perfect fit between classy and obscene. Like she'd stepped from a Ralph Lauren ad. He noticed her studying him but she didn't look away when he caught her—she just smiled mysteriously, boldly.

  He toyed with the idea--could he? No, to even think about nailing Smith's daughter would be a disaster on all fronts. Garby had to keep it clean. For the sake of the millions he needed to secure from her daddy this week. And to not tempt Lulu to carry out her threat to assassinate him herself...

  When Garby had been briefed about the Red Starfish Wacko, the Secret Service Director had actually advised him to cancel his vacation. And Garby might have canceled if he could, but he really needed to ask Smith for a ton more money, this week. And almost as important, he needed to keep looking strong. Even if he was actually pretty damned scared.

  Fuck it, done was done. Garby wondered whether his favorite pal Alexis had arrived on the Cape yet. She'd be staying with a lady friend in Chatham, the next town over. He'd have to ask his chief of staff when they got a side moment—Alexis was one of his unwritten responsibilities. Garby imagined Alexis' newly blonde hair which he hadn't seen yet. He smiled. Sure, she was older than Smith's daughter, but she was like a mint condition vintage Corvette. Full speed on straightaways, exciting on curves.