Dedication
For Karen.
Epigraph
Evil is unspectacular and always human and shares our bed and eats at our own table.
—W.H. Auden
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By Bruce Robert Coffin
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Tuesday, 11:05 p.m., April 26, 2016
Attorney Paul Ramsey was having a bad run, capped off by one of the worst days of his professional life. He had been preparing for a change of fortune, awaiting the news that he’d finally been made a full senior partner at Newman, Branch & DeWitt, the law firm where he’d worked for the past fifteen years. He knew he deserved, and fully expected to see, his name following the ampersand on every sign, television commercial, and business card. Even on the billboards down in Massachusetts, along the Route 1 corridor, just outside of Boston. He’d also been planning to celebrate an eight-figure win, but that wasn’t what happened.
He was a litigator. A good one. One of the best in Maine. And yet, as he was well aware, many people saw him as an asshole. But he knew he was the asshole they wanted in their corner inside any courtroom. As a trial lawyer he had been hugely successful even before the offer to join N, B & D, having gotten acquittals for his clients in a handful of prominent murder cases. One of the defendants, accused of strangling his fiancée, who had benefited from his talents was the son of a prominent state senator. That victory, along with the ensuing press coverage, led to his being hired by Portland’s most successful and most expensive law firm.
It was after eleven Tuesday night and Ramsey had been planted firmly on a bar stool at the Red Fox pub for the past several hours. He’d been trying to engage the barkeep in conversation, while drowning his sorrows, but Tony was obviously more interested in the broadcast on the flat-screen television mounted above the Johnny Walker mirror behind the bar, where Boston’s Celtics were struggling to keep pace with Atlanta’s Hawks.
“Can I help it if the judge was too damn stubborn to listen to my argument?” Ramsey said, knocking on the highly polished bar top with the bottom of his empty glass. “He should’ve properly instructed the jury on the meaning of gross negligence. That’s his job, for chrissakes.”
The touch of silver creeping around the sides of Tony’s jet-black hair had always reminded Ramsey of Jimmy Conway, Robert De Niro’s character in Goodfellas. Tony’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing the muscular forearms of someone who either had a day job as a manual laborer or lived at the gym. Ramsey had never cared enough to ask. Tony strolled over and silently prepared a fresh glass of bourbon and rocks, the bartender’s eyes shifting only briefly from the television.
“You know they’re only considering her for partnership ’cause she’s got a nice rack, right?” Ramsey continued.
“Uh-huh,” Tony said absently.
“Told me a strong female presence might be good for the firm’s image.” He made air quotations with his fingers to accentuate the point, vaguely aware that his speech was tinged with a faint slur, and not caring. “How about some fucking talent?”
“Uh-huh,” Tony repeated.
“I mean, if I had those legs and tits I could sleep my way to the top too. It’s just not fair. Okay, so I just lost a major case. It’s not like I control what goes on in the mind of the judge, or for that matter, the goddamned jury. Losing one fucking trial shouldn’t be a deal breaker. Am I right?”
“Sure, Paul,” Tony said.
“There’ll be other cases. Can’t win ’em all. Right?” Ramsey looked around the room for agreement, catching the eye of a young leggy blonde sitting at the far end of the bar. He leered at her like a dog in heat. “I’ve made those pricks so much money it’s my turn.”
Tony placed Ramsey’s glass on a white paper napkin, both of which were embossed with the outline of a red fox, and slid them across the bar toward Ramsey. “Uh-huh,” Tony said again before returning his attention to the game. The Atlanta crowd cheered wildly as Kyle Korver sunk a three and drew the foul.
The ice clinked as Ramsey tipped his glass back and took a sizable swallow. He held the tumbler in his hand, studying it. “I’ve got five years on that bitch,” he continued. “She hasn’t earned it.”
“Ya know, the only bitch I see is you,” a gruff male voice said from the other end of the bar.
Ramsey turned on his stool and delivered his most menacing smile, the one normally reserved for prosecutors, to a heavily tattooed young man in a yellow wife-beater. He was sitting beside the blonde.
“How’s that, friend?” Ramsey asked.
“I ain’t your friend, slick. All you’ve done since you came in here is bitch and whine about some skirt who got your promotion. Maybe you should either shut the fuck up or leave. Nobody wants to hear your shit.”
“Cool it, Donny,” Tony said.
“No, that’s okay, Tony,” Ramsey said. “It’s a free country.” He looked back at Wife-beater. “Donny, is it? Allow me to enlighten you. It’s a partnership not a promotion. Big difference. Partnerships are something that happen to intelligent, hardworking, lawyerly types. Although I wouldn’t expect you to know about that.” Ramsey flashed his most condescending smile. “Tell me, did you enjoy your five years of high school, Hemingway? Or did you just opt for the GED?”
Donny stood, noisily scraping the bar stool backward over the wooden floor. His fists were clenched. “Whatcha call me?”
The barfly with the blond dye job sitting beside Donny put her hand on his arm to try and calm him. He shook it off.
“I called you Hemingway,” Ramsey said, continuing to smirk at the young man.
“What the fuck’s a Hemingway?” Donny asked as his cheeks began to flush.
“Who, not what.”
“Paul, that’s enough,” Tony said, removing Ramsey’s glass from the bar. “I think you’d better go.”
Ramsey turned his attention back toward the bartender. “What the hell? Come on, Tony. I’m not the one who started this.” He cocked his thumb in the direction of Donny. “It was Hemingway.”
“That’s it,” Donny said, stepping toward Ramsey. “You and me, outside, right now.”
“Sit down, Donny,” Tony said in a commanding tone Ramsey had never heard from the normally reserved barkeep.
“It’s you and I, Donny,” Ramsey said, goading him.
“Get out, Paul,” Tony said. “Now, or I call the cops. Go home and sleep it off.”
“I haven’t p
aid for the drinks,” Ramsey said as he stood and fumbled for his wallet. “I always pay my debts.”
“You can square up with me later. Just go.”
“Alright. I’m leaving.” Ramsey looked back at Donny. “Lovely conversing with you and your lady friend.” He looked her up and down. “I’ll bet she’s just as refined as she appears too.”
“Fuck you,” Donny said.
“Ah, now I see how you won the Nobel. It’s your true gift for understatement.”
“I mean it, Paul,” Tony said as he picked up the house phone. “Go. Last time I’m askin’.”
Ramsey held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
He staggered out the front door and onto the brick sidewalk of Portland’s Commercial Street. The nearly deserted waterfront thoroughfare was shrouded in mist. The sodium arc lights, refracting off suspended water droplets, reminded him of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Ramsey paused on the sidewalk, inhaling deeply the salty tang of the Atlantic. In spite of his calm outward appearance, his heart was racing. He’d let that punk get the better of him. Not a banner day for Paul Ramsey, Esquire, he thought. He paused, closing his bloodshot eyes, and allowed the cool night air to soothe his frayed nerves.
What he needed were the two things that would set him right. A little blow and a whole lotta Candy would surely do that. They always had, without fail. After regaining his composure, he opened his eyes and fished around in his pocket for his phone. He pulled it out and hit the speed dial.
“Hello?” a sultry-sounding female voice said from the other end of the line.
“Do you have any idea what hearing your voice does to me?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” she said.
“Can we meet at tu casa?” he said, exaggerating the accent.
“Not here. I’ve got my daughter for a few days. How about your favorite spot?”
“Mmm. That sounds delightful. I need something gift-wrapped too.”
“I’ve got just the thing. Give me a few minutes to freshen up.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
Ramsey reached back into his pocket, switching the phone for his keys. Wearing a big grin on his face he turned the corner, heading unsteadily up the cobblestone side street toward his SUV.
“Hey, friend.” A voice came from directly behind him.
Ramsey turned just as the first punch landed.
Chapter Two
Thursday, 4:30 a.m., April 28, 2016
Sunrise was still an hour away. Portland’s Casco Bay was heavily fogged in, a condition the locals referred to as “in the soup.” The winter had been unseasonably mild and although the air temperature had continued to warm gradually, the Atlantic Ocean, a chilly forty-nine degrees, had not.
Earl Nesbit, Maine native and Peaks Islander, was checking his traps without his stern-man, Billy, for the second time in the past four weeks. Billy liked to drink, and when he drank he liked to fight. The lobsterman’s only companion on this morning was his chocolate Lab, Otis.
Nesbit’s boat, the Dorian Grey, was a blue and white fiberglass Duffy lobster conversion with a small sleeper berth in the bow, where his AWOL stern-man often slept. At forty-eight feet in length, the Grey was hard enough to navigate through the rocky shallows of Hussey Sound when Billy was with him. Nesbit was grateful for calm seas as he steered the rumbling hulk through the mist. Otis stood on his hind legs, resting his front paws up on the side rail, while monitoring the passing buoys with great interest.
Nesbit had spent considerable time in the Sound, traveling between the two islands abutting it: Peaks to the south and the aptly named Long Island to the north. With nearly forty years of fishing the waters of Casco Bay under his belt, Nesbit had developed an uncanny knack for knowing precisely where the lobstering was best. When he made the decision to move his traps, many among the elder crustacean hunters were savvy enough to follow his lead.
This morning he was working near Whaleback, named for the distinctive shape of its shoreline, in Josiah’s Cove. He pulled the Grey alongside one of his buoys with the precision of a driving instructor demonstrating parallel parking. Each lobsterman’s buoys were easily identifiable by a unique color scheme, registered with the state of Maine. Nesbit’s were painted brown with a double yellow band. He hooked it and pulled it into the boat. Threading the nylon rope into an electric pulley, he raised the pot from the bottom, some twenty feet below. The trap broke the ocean’s surface, revealing three ensnared blackish-green creatures. He measured each, tossing the two undersized lobsters back into the water, while the keeper went into the live well. He replaced the bait with a fresh piece, then to the delight of several dozen screaming gulls, tossed the rotting carrion over the side. After restoring the trap and buoy to their former locations, he returned to the helm, spun the wheel, and throttled up the Grey’s engine. He steered toward the next buoy, one of three hundred he would check today.
By six o’clock Nesbit had already pulled and replaced more than three dozen traps. The Grey was idling just off the point between Spar and Wharf coves. The fog was beginning to burn off. Nesbit was hoisting another when the winch snagged.
“Son of a bitch.”
Nesbit quickly shut down the electric motor before it burned out. He removed the rope from the pulley and leaned over the side, muscling the trap up by hand.
Otis barked. With his front paws up on the starboard rail, he looked over the side into the water. His tail wagged excitedly.
“Whatcha think, boy?”
Otis barked again.
“Jay-sus,” Nesbit said, straining against the weight of it. “Either I’ve just caught Maine’s biggest lobstah or a fuckin’ log.” Otis vocalized his agreement.
The burly old mariner continued to struggle with the rope, pulling hand over hand, one foot at a time, until something large began to materialize. He squinted into the murky depths. Caught facedown on top of his trap, wrapped in seaweed, was the clothed body of a man.
“What kinda Christly mess is this?”
He continued tugging until the body was just below the surface. Hoping to keep the gulls at bay, he left it there, and tied the rope off to one of the Grey’s rusty cleats. Standing upright, he tipped his cap back and scratched his bald head.
“Jay-sus, Mary, and Joseph, whatdaya know ’bout that, Oat? Shit. Guess we won’t be gettin’ done early today after all.”
Chapter Three
Thursday, 6:55 a.m., April 28, 2016
Portland Police Detective Sergeant John Byron’s brain was buzzing. It had only been twenty minutes since the dispatcher’s call woke him but he’d already set a number of things in motion, making a half dozen calls of his own. One of those was to request the fireboat be readied to transport his team of investigators to the back of Peaks Island.
He slid the unmarked Malibu into one of the spaces on Commercial Street reserved for emergency vehicles, parking in the looming shadow of the black and white evidence van. Already waiting at the ramp were Detective Diane Joyner and Evidence Technician Gabriel Pelligrosso. Byron had also contacted police dive team supervisor Sergeant Jamie Huntress to request assistance. Huntress and two of his divers were already with the Coast Guard en route to Peaks.
The Portland fireboat, or the City of Portland IV as she’s known in maritime circles, was constructed in 2009 on the Meteghan River in Nova Scotia. The Ranger-class, aluminum-hulled vessel was built to replace the aging iron workhorse COP III. With a price tag of more than three million dollars, the sixty-five-foot, thirty-eight-ton, red and white beauty was the crown jewel of the Portland Fire Department’s expansive fleet of equipment. Manned by a crew of three and housed at the Maine State Pier, the COP IV was a formidable firefighting weapon, complete with five water cannons, or turrets, each capable of pumping seven hundred gallons of water per minute, or foam if need be. Additionally, the boat was a fully functioning ambulance, ready to respond to any maritime medical emergency occurring within the waters of Casco Bay.
None of the impressive capabilities of the COP IV would be needed today, as the person responsible for this massive mobilization was neither on fire nor in medical distress; he was dead.
The engine was already idling and warm. The crew was waiting with two uniformed beat cops as the detectives boarded.
“Ahoy, mates,” Captain Thomas said cheerfully. “Understand you need a ride out to Floater Alley.”
“Morning, Cap,” Byron said. “That’d be great. Never knew you guys had a special name for the back side of Peaks.”
“Hang on a sec, Sarge,” Thomas said as he grabbed the radio mic. “Marine One.”
Static crackled over the radio speaker as the dispatcher acknowledged, “Marine One, go ahead.”
“Marine One, ten-eight, en route to Peaks with four.”
“Ten-four, Marine One.”
Like their police counterparts, firefighters announce their movements by radio. All emergency professions share this common philosophy: if the dispatcher doesn’t know where you are, and what you’re doing, no one else will either. That unseen voice is often the only lifeline.
Thomas banged the mic back into its cradle just to the right of the gleaming ship’s wheel. “Sorry about that, Sarge. You were saying?”
Byron raised his voice in order to be heard above the rumbling diesel engine. “I said I didn’t realize you had a name for that area.”
“Oh yeah. ’Cause of the funky way the tides move between the islands, Hussey Sound is prime real estate for floaters. If we don’t recover them right away, they tend to come through here eventually.”
Like every other city, Portland had its share of dead bodies, and some of them ended up in the surf. Many having only themselves to blame, drunkenly wandering the working wharfs before stumbling into the ocean, while others intentionally took the sixty-five-foot plunge from the Casco Bay Bridge. Then there was the third type, the ones that mattered most to Byron and his detectives: those bodies that ended up in the Atlantic at the hands of another.
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