Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  As he climbed from his police car near the fountain, he saw Acker Smith's employee Lizzie Concepcion hustling across from the president's guest house to the main mansion. Her color-coded pin from the Secret Service for vetted staff was prominent on her blouse lapel. She was sweating and breathing heavy. The loyal worker bee.

  "Oh," she said, putting her hand to her throat. Must be his handsome uniform. "What are you doing here?" She snapped then unsnapped her purse in agitation. So maybe she wasn't overcome by his looks, maybe only had debated pepper-spraying him?

  "Official business. How's old Mr. Smith today? Maybe I could talk to him for a minute? I have a couple questions for him about one of his fund companies. Turnstone?"

  She stared at him, frowning. "Mr. Smith's terrible today. If you call tomorrow, I'll see if he's able to talk to you."

  "Thanks, Ms. Bumpers."

  She recoiled slightly, but didn't otherwise acknowledge Pepper's use of her old married name.

  "But right now I'm looking for Special Agent Alfson—have you seen him?"

  She studied him. Partially like he was dog poop on the driveway, partially like she didn't have time to be dealing with dog poop. Finally, she smiled. "He went out to the Madeline Too, about half an hour ago. More security work, before the president goes onboard," she said. "You'll have to call Captain Vinter. He'll probably send someone in the tender to pick you up, eventually." Then with a final condescending look, she hurried off.

  Pepper headed down to the shore, passing another Secret Service agent positioned on the lawn. Had to give his name again, wait for confirmation.

  Free again, Pepper walked down to the dock. The tender wasn't there, as Lizzie had said. But a sleek speedboat was—with a fat, powerful outboard motor. Another billionaire’s toy. Why bother Vinter, and ruin dear Alf's surprise? So Pepper hopped in and fired up the outboard. Revved up the big motor as he pulled away in a quick, powerful arc and headed straight toward the big yacht. Ignored the Secret Service agents running down the beach towards him.

  But Pepper wasn't able to ignore the two gray and blue zodiacs zipping across the water on a path to intercept him. Again, federal officers--Navy or Secret Service? Each with two men. One steering, the other shouting and gesturing but Pepper couldn't hear over the engines and distance. They were also pointing semiautomatic machine guns at him, which he did understand. The universal language of impending death.

  So Pepper shut down his motor. He was two-thirds of the way to the yacht. The two zodiacs converged on him in seconds, one on each side. Men boarded his boat, still screaming orders Pepper wasn't processing. They pig-piled him. Wrestled him face down on the floor of his boat, none too gently. His hands and feet were quickly and efficiently bound with zip ties, and one officer—the heaviest in the group?--knelt squarely on his back.

  Thirty minutes later, they perp-walked Pepper through the front door of his own goddamn police station. Didn't even do him the favor of taking him to the county sheriff's lockup instead.

  Lieutenant Dwayne Hurd was there waiting, a tight smile on his face that said I told you so. Pepper saw Zula Eisenhower's face, eyes wide in shock, as they led him through. Hurd escorted the agents down the yellow tiled hallway into the lockup area and secured Pepper in a holding cell.

  Zula was in shock. What had Pepper done this time? But she instantly called her pop, told him the little she knew. After a short burst of swear words followed by an apology to Zula, he was on the way.

  Lieutenant Hurd had rejoined the New Albion officers and staff in the outer area. He told them to settle down, get back to work. But he also listed possible charges the agents had mentioned Pepper could be facing for unlawfully entering a restricted perimeter around the President of the United States. Assaulting, resisting or impeding Secret Service agents. Making threats. A handful of felony charges and probably some misdemeanors, as icing on Pepper's farewell cake.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Pepper had been in the cell for an hour when Chief Eisenhower arrived, with Lieutenant Hurd at his side. So he'd had plenty of time to think about how much trouble he was in and what he was going to say. Fuck. Pepper understood he'd screwed up, but no one had yet been willing to explain his offense. Some protocol about the POTUS protection?

  "Golfing. With your dad," said Eisenhower.

  "What?" asked Pepper.

  "I'm sure you were wondering where I was on my first afternoon off in three weeks, when you got yourself arrested for storming the President of the United States. And I had a good chance to break 100. Four holes to go, so who knows what kind of shit I'd get into. But on track for the high nineties." And Eisenhower just stood there, waiting as if there was something he expected Pepper to say.

  Pepper stayed silent.

  "So, starting with the bad news," said Eisenhower. "You're suspended. I'll need your badge and firearm. The good news for you? The Secret Service's going to treat this as a misunderstanding. No charges. They don't want a lot of noise about whatever was going on with President Garby, out on Smith's yacht."

  "President Garby? What was he doing on board already?"

  Hurd glared at him. "It isn't clear who was on the yacht with the POTUS, except it's classified and so none of our fucking business."

  Eisenhower put up a hand, cutting off Hurd. "But you're suspended anyway, Pepper. And your carry license is revoked. Failure to follow Secret Service orders? Resisting arrest? What the hell were you thinking?"

  "I was thinking the president hadn't gone to the yacht yet," Pepper said quietly. "Because Acker Smith's goddamn assistant told me so."

  Zula figured she'd find Pepper heading out the police station's back door. Knew he'd avoid the staff and media circus out front.

  And here he was. But not alone--he was chin to chin in the narrow back hallway with Lieutenant Hurd. This can only end badly…

  "You've got no respect for authority or your badge," Hurd was saying. "Just like your old man. What'd you really come home for, huh?"

  "Put down your badge and gun and step outside and I can take care of all your questions."

  Hurd stuck a finger in Pepper's face. "You stay far away from police work. And the president, his family, the whole mess."

  "I'm off the job but it's still a free country."

  "Fuck you, Ryan."

  Time to go. "My pop's looking everywhere for you!" she said to Hurd. Then she grabbed Pepper's arm and pulled him out the back door.

  "Hey, thanks," said Pepper. "But you probably don't want to be seen with me. Just another Ryan failure."

  Then she slapped him. A good hard slap--surprised them both. Her hand was instantly tingling pins and needles and she hoped his face was too.

  "I don't know exactly what you think you're doing," she said. "And not just getting arrested. You won't follow orders. You won't report what you're finding, what you're up to."

  "I've been investigating, not pushing paper. The goal's justice, right? Even when the laws don't make it easy to get there…"

  She snorted. "So that's it, the old 'end justifies the means' bullshit? It doesn't matter how many rules you break, as long as you get to be Wonderboy? How far would you go?"

  Pepper just looked at her, said nothing.

  "Tell me, what's your good reason for not listening to Pop? Your boss? Cause you're making it really easy for the people around you to get hurt." Stupid, stupid Pepper. He took her from caring about him so badly to being pissed off, so fast. She had to get out of there or she didn't know what she'd do.

  "Hey Ryan! Didn't you used to work here?" asked Sergeant Weisner as she came out the back door, headed to her cruiser. "Shouldn't you be off doing the beach body boogie with the Smith girl? Or maybe the First Daughters?"

  Beach body boogie? "You know, Jake was great," said Zula, softly enough so Weisner couldn't hear. "We all loved Jake. But you were always better."

  And then, with a disgusted shake of her head, she left him.

  Lizzie Concepcion was with Mr. Smith on his balcony
. Standing at the railing. He'd told her he was actually not feeling too terribly that afternoon.

  But Lizzie knew Mr. Smith would have been weaker—and very quickly—if she'd let Pepper Ryan harass him with questions. Lieutenant Hurd had told her all about Pepper Ryan, every dirty detail. Dangerous, out-of-control and arrogant. Lizzie had dealt with people like Pepper Ryan all her life. People who let their emotions get the better of them. The way to handle people like that is to bug them. Irritate them. Then sit back and watch them defeat themselves. So yes, she'd sent him into trouble by pointing him out to the yacht…and was proud of herself for the result.

  She stepped inside to call her police lieutenant chum, Dwayne Hurd, for an update. He confirmed Pepper Ryan was in deep shit.

  "Are the feds charging him?" she asked.

  "Unfortunately no. But he's off the force. He'll probably disappear somewhere, that's his M.O. A quitter… But I gotta go, Lizzie, someone's coming. We can't talk about confidential stuff anymore. And I definitely can't do you any more little favors until the president leaves town. My boss has been kicking asses all over the police station this week, including mine. Did you tell anyone about me helping you out, telling you things I shouldn't? My life's gonna be over!"

  He sounded beyond stressed—dangerously ready to snap. Lizzie spoke to him for a bit—low voice, calm, flirty. Talking him down. Then she insisted she had to see him later. "No talk tonight…" she promised. "Just a private, special reward for my hero."

  Back on the balcony, she found Mr. Smith gazing out over his estate and muttering loudly about the President of the United States, his continuous preoccupation in recent months. Garby's betrayal, Mr. Smith had essentially funded his successful election! How Garby had reversed course on a number of tax and regulatory policies dearest to Smith--policies Smith believed would ensure the brightest future for America and his financial empire. Garby had looked right into Smith's eyes and promised to deliver on Smith's priorities, only to flip-flop as soon as his poll numbers began to fall. So, a spineless, poisonous traitor.

  Muttering, but also chuckling about how miserable Garby's vacation had been so far. With the biggest humiliation yet to come…

  Then, as was more and more typical of Mr. Smith these days, he changed topics without warning. "Lizzie, why is Brandon Blacklock flying up to see me?"

  "Sir? Remember I told you yesterday—he was coming, but then didn't show. Maybe he changed his mind."

  "I saw the email from two days ago—he wants to meet about a new fund, Turnstone…"

  "The new developmental fund? It's International Special Equities, ex. Europe. We set it up as master-feeder, for tax purposes. Remember? What did he say was his issue—no compensation? We never pay portfolio managers on developmental funds—the only assets are your seed money. He has to prove the strategy so we can take in investor money before he gets even a nickel. Greedy—"

  She was interrupted by her phone's ring. It was Captain Vinter on the Madeline Too. She stepped inside again.

  In his slow, stubborn Norwegian accent, Captain Vinter was questioning his orders to prepare to take Madeline Too over to Nantucket for the night. Who will be on board as guests? There was weather coming and it might be an uncomfortable stretch. If they could move it up by six hours, the seas would be calmer. On and on…

  "Captain, I'll check and we can touch base later. I can't trouble Mr. Smith with this right now, but I'll follow up with you as soon as I can talk to some people. And that's a promise." If she didn't have a mental breakdown first…

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Oliver and Croke were hunkered down at the boat shed near the New Albion/Chatham line. It was very industrial, very basic. Concrete floor strewn with odds and ends of boat repair projects and Dunkin' Donuts cups and bags. Metal benches along one wall. Dirty skylights. A big water well led out through a door into the ocean. A small battered dingy with a tiny motor was floating in the water well, tied to a cleat. It had a couple inches of greasy water in its bottom. Luckily they wouldn't be needing to ride in that. They'd spruced up the place with a couple folding beach chairs, a white Styrofoam cooler and two air mattresses. Tolerable, for the very, very brief time they'd remain on Cape Cod.

  Oliver was on edge. The drumbeat of his blood seemed to be encouraging him, begging him—forget any more assignments, just get the hell out of town. Hogs get slaughtered, wasn't that the saying? And Oliver had enough money to disappear for a good while. But his savings weren't quite F.U. money, yet. He'd have to get back to work sooner than he liked and he'd probably need to find new bosses, using a brand new name. And he felt like infamy was so close, he could almost smell it…

  A call from the client interrupted Oliver's worrying and made him glad he'd stuck around, when he heard the new assignment. The job was someone Oliver knew by sight—and well enough to dislike: the police lieutenant, Dwayne Hurd. The fisherman's punching bag at that bar fight. And who'd been in the 4Runner, tailing Croke from the ice cream stand handoff back to the Sanddollar…

  The client emphasized the target had to be killed that night, after midnight but before dawn. No earlier, no later. And the client emphasized: make it messy. Which worked for Oliver—he figured the lieutenant might have tipped off the bosses in Queens if he was dirty, resulting in the three-man mafia death squad at the Sanddollar Motel. Or if he was straight, he'd probably been waiting for the right time to raid the motel anyway. Karma's long, deadly hand, coming back to bite the lieutenant in the keister.

  And what about the elusive Pepper Ryan? The client confirmed Ryan was still on the to-do list, but first things first. So they would take care of the lieutenant—messily!—then handle any final assignments from the client in the next day or so, if the pay was fat enough. Easy, sneezy. The client said don't kill him until after midnight, but that didn't restrict when they grabbed him, right? So why not get right to it a few hours early, maybe before the lieutenant arrived home?

  Oliver's karma was rocking—the lieutenant wasn't home when Croke dropped him at the address the client had given. The dumpy little house didn't have an alarm so it was quick work for Oliver to pick the back door. Oliver wandered around a bit, enjoying his home invasion. Kinda voyeuristic. The house was mostly empty of furniture. The guy seemed like a loser.

  Oliver went into the larger of the two bedrooms. One dresser, one nightstand. A metal bed took up most of the rest of the space. Oliver pawed through the dresser drawers and found nothing interesting except some tighty-whitey underwear—who wears those anymore?—and a passport with a picture of Hurd, staring glumly straight into the camera. Oliver tucked the passport into his pocket.

  Oliver was pleased to find that the metal bed had just enough room for him to hide underneath, like a childhood nightmare, so he did. With a chuckle, he soon fell asleep.

  He woke to the sound of someone walking into the bedroom. That person—Hurd?—changed his clothes, walked out. From his spot under the bed, Oliver heard more noises from the direction of the kitchen.

  Sounds from a television. Then of a beer can slishing open. Was Oliver going to have to hang around all night? Then, faintly, a door knock. Then voices—Hurd's and some woman's. Oliver could only make out snatches of conversation. Something about eagles. Something about a yacht.

  Then something about…the motel raid? Oliver definitely heard motel and Secret Service. The woman's voice was flirty and interested but too low for Oliver to hear. Hurd's voice was just loud enough to make out snatches of what he was saying: hadn't caught the suspects just yet… had some good leads… found some evidence… high caliber bullet…

  Under the bed, Oliver's mind was racing. A bullet? What'd that idiot Croke done—fool around with the sniper rifle, drop a bullet? Did it have Croke's fingerprint?

  The tone of the conversation changed, more flirty now. More giggling from the woman. And soon after, footsteps coming back into the bedroom. The wet smacks of overly passionate kisses, punctuated by more bursts of sexy talk from the woman. Soon the l
ight went out.

  And then Hurd and the woman began doing the dirty deed. Yes, with Oliver tucked right underneath the bed. Their moans mingled, grew. The woman, higher pitched, louder. Somebody's nose was whistling too—had to be the lieutenant's? How'd they ignore that, keep focused? The bouncing, grunting and whistling intensified quickly.

  The back of Oliver's head was pressed against the dusty hardwood floor and the mattress smacked his forehead and stomach as it rose and fell… It was dirty under the bed and all the activity was generating a little dust storm around Oliver. He felt the electrifying tingle in his nose that signaled he was about to sneeze. Disaster! He pinched his nose and smothered the explosion, which popped his right ear. Ouch! Then he pulled up his shirt to cover his nose and mouth.

  Hurd and the woman carried on much longer than Oliver expected. He snaked his other hand down into his pants, to make some adjustments. The situation was both ridiculous and erotic. Finally, with a burst of moans and whistling, the couple's activity climaxed, then petered out. Oliver's forehead was tingling where it'd been pounded on by the mattress.

  Oliver heard more gentle talking, some light laughing, and feet shuffling back and forth to the bathroom. Over the running water, Oliver could make out one little snatch of the conversation, Hurd saying, "I mean it. I'm out." Sounding both adamant and panicky.

  Then the woman's answer—softer and calmer but Oliver couldn't hear the words. More kissing noises.

  Was the woman going to sleep over? Oliver hadn't brought two needles. Stick him, then silence her with the knife? Oliver could improvise… But Oliver heard them leave the bedroom, a little more laughter, some muffled goodbyes and more lip-smacking. The front door opening, closing.

  So the woman was gone.

  Hurd returned, futzed around in the bathroom for a while, then finally climbed into bed. He was soon snoring in rhythmic, tortured gasps and squeaks.