The regulars at the Trap were mostly fishermen and lobstermen, with a smattering of local cops. My dad was a fixture here before he died. I often came on Wednesday nights; Wednesday was really the only night of the week that I didn’t sit home alone, thinking too much and unsuccessfully resisting the urge to hack into corporate or government databases. Like at Proctor & Gamble or the DOD. Sometimes boredom got the best of me.
I went in, bellied up to the bar and smiled through the haze at the bartender. A gaggle of old men with bald heads, shiny eyes and hairy ears nodded at me from both sides. I was reminded of those seagulls.
“Sam, looks like the freckle factory’s been running overtime.”
I laughed. “Every summer, Tommy.”
Tommy hadn’t worked at the Trap for long, but he knew my drink. He grabbed the Dewars bottle, poured me two fingers, added an ice cube and pushed it across the bar.
Then he leaned over and got in my face. “So, when you gonna let me count ‘em?”
Tommy had a salt and pepper crew cut. He had dark, close-set eyes and the barrel-shaped body that comes with a lot of years of weight lifting combined with a lot of years of beer drinking. He was pushing fifty and, I heard, had done some time. He was always cracking a joke, but there was a hardness about him that made me a little nervous. I didn’t back away.
“When I’m suffering from the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s you might have a shot,” I fired back. The gulls at the bar squawked and Tommy threw his head back and hooted.
“Keep the change,” I added, as I slapped ten dollars onto the bar. I felt a flush rising in my face. These guys needed to understand that Sam Warren wasn’t just Jack Warren’s little girl anymore. More importantly, I needed to believe it. I’d been a hotshot back in Maryland, but here in Plymouth I was still the geeky girl I’d been in high school.
I had another hour before Dennis was scheduled to show. I took my Scotch and squirmed through the flock. I headed over to the corner where Grady Cooke was hooking up his mike and speakers. Grady was an old family friend. He played his banjo at the Trap every Wednesday night.
“Grady Cooke! How’s it going, old man?”
Grady untangled himself from an impressive mass of cords, stood, grabbed me and mashed my nose into his sternum. Grady was 6’4” tall. His face was weather-lined but still handsome and his muscles were still strong. He had thick white hair and he’d probably been wearing his black corduroy Levi’s since high school.
“Samantha!” he yelped. “You’re a welcome sight. Where were you last week?” Grady was the only person alive who could get away with calling me Samantha.
My mind flitted to the conversation I had that morning with Harvey Mattison.
“Working for a stupid, stupid man on a stupid, stupid assignment.”
Grady’s smile faded but I slapped him on the back. “Hey, at least I figured out how to use some of my new PI gadgets.”
That was really the only good thing I could say about the job, so I stood there smiling stupidly for a few more seconds. I wasn’t about to elaborate on the reality of my glamorous work as a private investigator. Not at the Trap. I was working to cultivate a reputation as a Tough Bitch, not a Whiny Bitch. And if I spilled even one little bean about helping on the murder case, Dennis would have my ass.
After an awkward moment I leaned in and asked, “How’s Laura doing?” Grady’s wife was fighting breast cancer.
He took a deep breath.
“Ah, you know, Sam. She’s cheerful as always most of the time, but I know when she’s hurting. But the doc’s optimistic.” Grady’s eyes twinkled. “She’s laughing more now, too.” Laura had the best laugh on the planet.
“Grady, that’s great! I’m so happy to hear it.”
Grady leaned down and just about blew out my eardrum. The old man was too vain to wear a hearing aid. “Milo’s the one who’s a problem. Working the traps with me instead of finding a real job. I just wish he’d get his ass into the city and use that degree of his.”
I glanced over at Milo, who was playing pool in the corner of the bar. He’d nodded at me when I came in, but we didn’t talk much anymore.
“Cut him some slack, old man.”
Grady shook his head with a frown. “That’s what Laura says, but I can’t understand it. Degree from Harvard just collecting dust. That sound normal to you?”
I laughed a little, but Grady didn’t and neither did Milo, who took a big swig of beer and turned away. Lobstering had been Grady’s life for more than forty years; if he said he didn’t want his son on the boat, he meant it. And Milo had heard it, probably not for the first time. Grady wasn’t one to mince words.
Grady nodded at someone behind me and said, “Gotta get this road on the show, Samantha. You take care and stop by the house some time. Laura’d love to see you.”
He turned back to his equipment and crouched down. I leaned over and squeezed his shoulder before working my way back to the bar.
For the next hour I sat with the flock nursing my drink, listening to Grady’s gravelly voice and tossing my two cents in with the gulls’ banter.
I knew all of Grady’s songs by rote. When I was young, he’d bring his banjo over to my house and he and Dad would drink and sing together late into the night. Those songs brought back good memories, for me anyway. I had some suspicion that Mrs. Trimble would disagree.
I avoided Milo’s gaze but periodically I could feel him staring at me. Milo Cooke was tall like Grady but pretty like Laura. Handsome might be the gender-correct term, but really, he was pretty. He had Laura’s dark hair, big brown eyes, a straight nose and wide full lips. He had smooth, freckle-free skin. His shoulders were wide but not too bulky and his waist was narrow. And that butt….
Milo and I had a thing when I was sixteen, but we never even rounded second base before my mom was killed in a convenience store robbery. Dad had asked her to pick up beer and she went in in uniform. A nineteen year old gangbanger panicked and shot her in the neck. She was dead in less than a minute. Dad never forgave himself, and, for a long time, I didn’t either.
After that I’d pulled away from my friends, including Milo. Over the next few years my father learned the fine art of pickling himself and I discovered the security blanket of the online world. Milo got on with his life. He went to Harvard on a scholarship, travelled Europe for a year and then returned to Cambridge for an MBA. Here in Plymouth, everyone had expected big things of Milo Cooke.
Then, just before I quit the NSA, the golden boy lost his mojo. I didn’t know why. He quit school one semester before finishing his MBA, although it had been decided that Grady didn’t need to know that a degree was never bestowed. Milo moved back home and took up lobstering with his dad. At the time he said he was just ‘taking a break,’ but the months passed and then Laura was diagnosed with cancer. Milo was still living at home and lobstering and Grady was none too happy about it.
I felt awkward around Milo, but I felt even worse about how long it had been since I’d been to visit Laura. The Cookes had been a surrogate family to me after my dad died, and Laura in particular had seen me through some rough spots. I promised myself I’d go see her soon.
Chapter 5
I ordered another drink and Tommy served me wordlessly. With any luck he’d found some other woman to honor with his charm. I was sick of his creepy comments and manner.
I checked the time on my phone every five minutes. By ten-fifteen, Dennis still wasn’t there and I was getting discouraged. I bought a bag of Fritos and sat there shoveling them into my mouth, thinking about what I’d learned so far.
I’d watched the press conference that afternoon on TV. Dennis would have flipped if I showed up in person, and anyway it was your typical information-free affair, with a bunch of frantic, Teflon-coated journalists asking stupid questions.
“Do you have any suspects?”
“We’re pursuing all avenues of investigation but we have nothing to report at this time.”
“Did the
victim die from being hanged?”
“An autopsy will be performed tomorrow morning.”
“Chief Hastings, do you think the murder at Plimoth Plantation has something to do with Native American animosity over Thanksgiving?”
He nearly rolled his eyes. I saw him. But the Chief just said, “No, we don’t,” and took the next question.
In its statement the PD hadn’t mentioned the note found with the body; I figured they were keeping that tidbit to themselves so they could filter out the bogus tips and confessions that might come with a case like this. At least that’s what they did on TV.
I thought I was on to something with Sight Ministries and Elizabeth Smit’s husband, but I needed to know about the victim. All I knew at this point was that it was a she and that duct tape was wrapped around her mouth and head before she was tied up and hanged. I shuddered, thinking of her final minutes.
“Hey.” Milo was leaning over the corner of the bar looking at me. He grabbed some Fritos and crunched on them.
“Oh! Hey.” My heart flipped. He always had that effect on me; it was one of the reasons I avoided him. I looked down at my drink and took a sip.
“You waiting on someone? Saw you checking the time…”
“Well, uh…..no. Not really. Nope.”
I ate some more Fritos. I studied the bag. The silence dragged on; I felt an irrational need to fill it.
“Did you know there are only three ingredients in Fritos?” I tapped the bag. “Corn, corn oil and salt. They’re practically good for you.”
Milo blinked. “Really? Huh. That’s cool.”
For God’s sake, where was Dennis?
“I’m going to get another bag, you want a bag?” I hopped off my bar stool.
Milo put his hand on my arm and I felt a jolt that would have jump-started an eighteen wheeler. I looked up. Behind Milo I could see Turk leaning in through the front door. He caught my eye and waved at me to come outside, then slipped back out. Thank fucking God.
“Shit, sorry, Milo, I’ve got to go. I just realized what time it is.”
“You’ve been checking the time every few minutes for the past hour.”
“Right, well, yes, and now it’s time for me to go. I’ll see you….”
I slid around him and made a beeline for the door.
Dennis and Turk were in Turk’s Lincoln at the edge of the parking lot. I jumped into the back seat and Turk pulled out and headed up the road away from the bar. I leaned forward between the seats.
“So, do you have the name of the victim?”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down, Nancy Drew. First I want to hear what you got. I’m still not convinced I should be talking to you at all. This is a major case; the state police are involved and we’ve called in the FBI too. Somehow I don’t think the Feebs would be too impressed by your…techniques. Then there’s the media; they’re fucking foaming at the mouth. Tell me why I should even be talking to you right now.”
I blew out my breath. I had to make this good. For the next forty-five minutes I walked Dennis and Turk through all of my research and findings, building up to the clincher: Sight Ministries and the writings of Charles Smit, husband of Elizabeth Smit, Executive Director of Plimoth Plantation.
They were quiet for a while. I was holding my breath.
Turk spoke first.
“That be some good shit for one day.”
Turk’s a tall slim black guy who looks a little like Eddie Murphy and talks like he’s from the ghetto, even though he was born and raised on the Cape. But he’s no joke on the job; Turk made detective before he was thirty. Dennis once told me Turk was the best partner he’d had in thirty-five years on the force. (“Bullshit,” said my Dad.) Dennis was drunk when he said it, and the next day he made me promise never to tell Turk. He said Turk was a cocky bastard as it was. I was starting to like Turk.
Dennis still didn’t reply.
I couldn’t take it anymore. “So, do you know who the victim was?”
After another excruciating minute, Dennis exhaled.
“Anna Fuller.”
Yes! Yes! Yes! I would have done cartwheels if the back seat were just a little bit bigger.
Dennis continued. “Twenty-eight years old, worked in Boston at a financial firm.” He shook his head. “Just got married. Husband’s name is Alan Perkins. She kept her own name. Here, I put everything we got so far together for you.”
He handed me a thick manila envelope.
“You knew all along I’d come up with the goods, didn’t you, Dennis?” I punched him in the arm. “You’re a real shithead, you know that?”
“Yeah, well....I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Sam. I’ll take all the help I can get. Do what you do and update me every evening. Call my cell, not the station. And don’t. Get. Caught. No one can know what you’re doing. More importantly, no one can know that I know what you’re doing. Don’t fuck up my pension, Nancy Drew.”
“Not a problem, Dennis, you watch. I’ll find your man. And consider your pension completely unfuckable. I don’t get caught.” Cockiness must be catchy.
“You go, Sister,” said Turk.
I turned to grab my backpack so I could put away the envelope. I came up empty handed. Shit. I’d left it on my bar stool when I fled Milo. I looked at my phone. It was after eleven. They stopped serving at eleven, but Tommy would still be at the bar, closing up.
When we pulled back into the Trap’s parking lot, there were a couple of cars besides mine and a pickup truck still there. They probably belonged to old gulls that Tommy put in a cab.
“Um, can you just wait for a second and make sure I can get back in? I left my car keys in the bar.”
Turk laughed and Dennis snorted.
“We right here, Sister,” said Turk.
Clutching my precious envelope, I jogged over to the door and pulled. It didn’t budge. Shit! I knocked on the door. Nothing. I knocked again harder and Tommy opened the door. Whew. I signaled OK to Dennis and Turk and they pulled out of the parking lot.
I stepped into the bar and hurried past Tommy.
“Thanks, Tommy, sorry about this. I left my backpack—”
I moved toward the corner where I’d been sitting, but I didn’t see anything on the back of the stool. I walked around the bar, crouched down to the floor and looked under the tables and chairs.
“Tommy, did anyone turn in a lost backpack?” I yelled. I thought he’d gone into the back room. But as I stood, I felt his breath on the back of my neck, and then he spoke in a low voice. He was right behind me. And too close.
“Nope. The only one lost right now is you.” I turned around and he grabbed me by the back of my neck. He pulled my head up to his face and forced his tongue down my throat. I tried to squirm free. With his left arm he pushed me back over the bar and then pinned my arms down with his elbows. His breath reeked of alcohol. I could feel my 9 mm; it was wedged between my back and the bar, still inside the waist of my jeans. With Tommy’s full weight on me and my arms pinned down, there was no way I could get to it. I tried to turn my head away and Tommy lifted his mouth from mine just long enough to slap me across the face. I was too stunned to shout.
“I’m gonna count me some freckles now,” he said. He yanked at my jeans. I squirmed to the side and my nine clattered out onto the floor and slid beneath a table.
“What was that?” He loosened his grip on me for a split second and I dove under the table. I hit the gun with my elbow and it flew across the floor and landed under a booth. Fuck!
Then Tommy was back on me. He pulled my head back by my hair and twisted my right arm up behind my back. He was kneeling on me; I felt like I was pinned under a horse. I screamed but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. (“Louder, Sam!” yelled Dad.)
A second later there was a loud thud and Tommy collapsed on me, dead weight. Then he was lifted off of me and I heard another loud thud.
I rolled over. Milo was standing there, breathing hard and rubbing his knuckles. He’d thrown Tom
my up against the wall.
Without a word Milo reached down and eased me up. I was trembling so hard I could barely stand. He helped me to a bar stool and I sank into it.
Milo walked over to the booth and got my gun out from under it. He came back to the bar and placed it in front of me. I put both of my hands on it. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes.
Finally, Milo said, “You want me to shoot him?”
I giggled a little.
He smiled. “Or do you want to do the honors?”
“I want to do the honors.” I took my gun, stood up and once I was sure I was steady on my feet, I walked over to Tommy and kicked him in the knee. When he didn’t move, I kicked him in the ribs.
He groaned. “Fuck, what the fuck—” He opened his eyes and looked up into the barrel of my gun.
“You don’t work here anymore, Tommy,” I said.
“Jeesus Christ, that a gun?” He scrambled down the wall like a shit-scared crab.
“Get up,” I said.
He stared at me. Blood was running down his cheek. Milo’s punch split the skin near his eye.
“Get up!” I shouted.
He grabbed a table, pulled himself up and stood there swaying.
“Now get your things and leave. And don’t ever come back here again.”
“But—”
I aimed the gun a little to his left and fired into the wall.
“Move!”
He ran behind the bar, grabbed some keys and hobbled out the front door. An engine turned and I heard wheels spinning. Gravel spattered the door as Tommy pulled up and yelled, “Crazy bitch!” The wheels spun some more in the gravel and he squealed out onto the pavement.
Milo locked the door, walked behind the bar and grabbed the Dewars. He poured us each a drink and we sat there sipping for a while.
Eventually I looked up and said, “Thank you.” I took another sip. “But why were you still here?”
“I was waiting for you. You left your backpack.”
Thank God.
“Do you have it?”
“Yeah, it’s in my truck. I came outside right after you left because you forgot it. I tried to catch you. Then I saw your car was still here, so I figured you’d be back. When you didn’t show up by closing time, I decided to wait, and then when you got here, you ran inside so fast….I told Tommy to let you know I had it, so I figured you’d be right back out. When you seemed to be taking too long I came over and looked in the window. You know the rest.”
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 3