The Truth Will Drop: Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 5

by Al Boudreau

  “Done,” Sarah said and went back to the kitchen.

  My list of particulars concerning Robie came together quickly. He lived in a coastal town in Massachusetts, less than 40 miles from Bridgeport. He’d never remarried, but had started dating again a couple years back. He worked a part-time job as a bouncer in a strip club close to where he lived. And, he belonged to a boating cooperative. Made sense, being the hobbies he’d listed were boating and fishing.

  It took no more than 15 minutes to go over his entire social media presence with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing jumped out at me in terms of clues.

  Which could be a clue in itself.

  It made me wonder if the big shots at Moray, or maybe Moray’s lawyers, urged him to keep his head down as part of their agreement to let him maintain his status as a free man.

  I decided to give his pages a second look, being that he was the closest thing we had to a proverbial smoking-gun.

  As I scanned the photos a second time it became apparent to me that Robie was in his element when out on the water. The guy rarely offered a smile in any of the pictures taken of him, but had a broad grin on his face in each of the three photos captured while aboard the boats he took out.

  I studied the details in each photo, impressed with how nice all three boats were. Nice enough where I had to check out the boat sharing organization’s website.

  Your Boat US was a new company, started less than a year ago by a wealthy family who wished to share their love of the water with others. Membership in the club appeared to be an ideal situation for folks who liked variety, giving those who could cough up 7 grand a year the ability to reserve and use any one of the association’s fleet of 10 ocean-going craft.

  I clicked on the button that allowed me to check out their fleet, and immediately wished I had a surplus pile of cash. The boats were top-notch, each page containing photos and a detailed list of features for 10 unique craft. I’d never been overly fond of the water, but after being on Everett’s boat, I was starting to catch the bug. By the fourth page I found myself daydreaming about warm, sunny summer days out on the Piscataqua River.

  I snapped myself out of it, knowing we had a job to do, and quickly clicked through the next several pages.

  Until I hit number 9.

  There, before me, were pictures and specs for a 25 ft. Safe Boat Defender-class vessel.

  The same make and model used by Homeland Security.

  I grabbed my laptop and went straight for the kitchen. “You have both of those videos up and running?” I asked Sarah as I set my device down next to her.

  “I do. I’ve watched them several times. It’s nearly impossible to tell if the boat in Frenchie’s video and the one Homeland uses are one and the same.” Sarah looked at my computer screen. “What’s this?”

  “A 25 ft. Safe Boat Defender, owned by a company called Your Boat US. Our boy Robie is a member there. This Safe Boat is one of ten different boats he can choose from. For all intents and purposes, it’s like owning every one of them.”

  Sarah paused the video we’d taken, the freeze-frame showing a crisp side view of Homeland’s Safe Boat. We both studied the images in silence, comparing and contrasting the one in the video with the boat Robie had access to.

  “They’re the same,” Sarah said, resignation in her voice. “I mean, Your Boat US’s boat doesn’t have all the crazy guns and antennas all over it, but the area of the hull we can see on Frenchie’s video could be either of these boats.”

  “Yep. They’re identical. Same color. Same level of upkeep. Same … everything.”

  Chapter 24

  “So, Homeland’s boat, and the one Dale Robie has access to … they’re the same make and model. Does that mean what I think it means?” Sarah asked.

  I nodded. “That video could easily have been shot by Robie.”

  “Where is this company, Your Boat US, located?”

  “Down in Shell Harbor, less than forty miles from here. Meaning, with a full tank of fuel, that boat has over twice the range needed to get someone to our area and back again.”

  Sarah shifted her chair so she could see me. “So, Robie had the means. What about motivation?”

  “I’d say he has plenty of motivation, all right. For any number of reasons. Maybe he feels partially responsible for Frenchie Taylor’s death. Remember the note?”

  “Uh-huh. I should have acted and put a stop to this months ago. Time you knew the truth.”

  “Good memory,” I said as I took a seat at the table. “You know, this could also be an attempt to get back at Moray. Robie’s way of trying to force some justice down a money-hungry corporation’s throat.”

  “Yeah. By convincing poor Carol Taylor to do the heavy lifting.”

  I threw my hands out to my sides. “As unfortunate as it might seem, if that’s the case, it worked.”

  “In a real scumbag sort of way,” Sarah said. “What kind of man takes advantage of a grieving mother’s emotions in order to get her to do his dirty work?”

  “Let’s back up a bit,” I said. “At this point, everything we just talked about is nothing more than speculation. It’s possible he could be our man, but we’re miles away from being able to prove it.”

  “True. You know what really stinks? Now, I have serious doubts in my mind about Jason Taylor’s role in all of this. Maybe he’s been doing nothing more than trying to help his mother move on, like he told us.”

  I shook my head. “It’s frustrating. We’re back to having more questions than answers.”

  “Does a company like Your Boat US keep records of use on their boats? Club members must have to sign logs, just in case any of the boats get damaged. How else would they keep track of who is responsible?”

  “Excellent point,” I said. “They’re less than an hour’s drive from here. I’ll go pay them a visit while you dig for dirt on Moray.”

  * * *

  Shell Harbor, Massachusetts was one of those quaint fishing villages New England’s famous for. A long public pier, fishing shacks, boats tied off to moorings in the harbor, and some of the best clam chowder in the United States: just a few of the details from a long list of reasons this place sees more tourists during the summertime than any other Commonwealth town.

  “Welcome to Your Boat US,” the fifty-something man said as I walked inside the slick facility, lounge chairs, fancy desks, and wide-screen monitors dotting the warehouse-sized showroom. To my surprise, they had every single boat I’d looked at on their website parked under their roof. I walked over and ran my hand across the hull of the Safe Boat Defender.

  “That boat, right there, is one of our most popular vessels. Sign up with us, and that boat can be yours. In fact, they can all be yours.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it … but that’s not why I’m here,” I said, the statement instantly changing the guy’s demeanor.

  “Look,” he said. “Like I tell you guys all the time, we don’t give out information concerning our clients without a warrant.”

  I let go a laugh. Yeah, well, I’m not a cop.”

  The guy nodded. “We never give information to private investigators, either.”

  “I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. Tell me about how this place works. Do you keep records of who takes each of these vessels out, and when?”

  The man turned his back on me, walked over to one of the fancy desks, and took a seat.

  I followed him---while reaching inside my jacket for several 100 dollar bills I’d brought along. I tossed the cash onto his desk, then sat down in one of the lounge chairs in front of him.

  He opened his desk drawer, tossed the bills inside, then shut it and locked it.

  “Records of use are kept on an off-site computer server. Once an entry has been in the system for six months, it’s automatically deleted. And, no, we don’t keep hard copies of the information.”

  “I take it you’ve been asked this question more than once.”

  The guy let go a sigh an
d shook his head. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter 25

  Sarah was busy taking notes as I opened the door. I kept my fingers crossed that her afternoon was going better than mine had. “Back all ready?” she asked. “That can’t be a good sign.”

  “It’s not. Your Boat US only keeps boat use records for six months. Not that I was going to be able to get them, anyway. According to the salesman, they get hit up for information a lot. Said they don’t provide squat without a warrant.”

  “Well, that stinks,” Sarah said. “What’s our plan B? Do we track this Robie guy down? See what we can get out of him?”

  “Too risky. You told Keef Hall some big lies to get the information he gave us. Good chance he’s spoken with Robie by now. We have to assume we’re blown.”

  “Wouldn’t Robie welcome the help if he’s the person who sent that video to Carol Taylor?”

  “Sure, if he’s the one who sent it. So far, we have no way of figuring that out. I would imagine he’d be pretty pissed-off at us for meddling in his affairs, though, if that video was sent by someone else.”

  “In other words, we’re back to square one.”

  “Not necessarily. We have a built-in resource who might know something about our boy Robie.”

  Sarah stared at me for a beat as she thought about it. “Carol Taylor?”

  “Yep. We owe her an update, anyway. Let’s set up a face-to-face with her. We can put our heads together before the meeting. Discuss how much to share with her.”

  “You mean, like, whether or not we should reveal that her son showed up at our house to deliver a veiled threat?”

  “Right. In the meantime, tell me what you’ve got on Moray, so far.”

  “Hoo boy. It’s frightening. This corporation is a virtual monopoly. They have dozens of tugs and barges located in ten states, plus Puerto Rico. Government contracts up the kazoo. In fact, one reporter called them the Bushes of the water---as in George H. W. Bush. We both know how powerful that guy is.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Anyway, Francis Moray III started the company in the mid-eighteen hundreds, when he bought one-half interest in a tugboat in New York Harbor for twenty-three hundred dollars. Today, the company has over six hundred employees, and an annual revenue stream of more than seventy-five million dollars.”

  I let go a whistle. “That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

  Sarah nodded. “My concern is getting sued. Imagine how many lawyers an organization like Moray keeps on retainer. Squashing people like us would be child’s play to them.”

  “We’re not going to get sued,” I said. “We don’t need to dig that deep in order to get what we need to satisfy Carol. Certainly not deep enough where Moray would feel compelled to start legal proceedings against us. It’s just not going to happen.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’m going to call Carol right now. You’ll feel better after we meet with her.” I left the kitchen and headed to my office to gather my thoughts before contacting our client. I wasn’t as confident about our path forward as I wanted to be, but progress could only happen if we forged ahead.

  I got out my notebook and reviewed the particulars of the case. All signs pointed to Carol’s hunch: there was some kind of cover-up that had taken place.

  Problem was, if Keef Hall’s comments about a smuggling operation had merit, so did Sarah’s concerns about the involvement of some very powerful people.

  I decided in that moment that we needed to limit our focus to the minor players; the men in the trenches. Carol simply wanted closure. She wanted answers as to why her son Frenchie was gone, and why no one---including several members of her family---seemed the least bit interested in understanding the circumstances surrounding his death. Why had such a tragic loss been swept under the carpet and the book closed without a mother’s blessing?

  I placed the call and hit speaker.

  “Mr. Peterson. I’ve been wondering when I’d hear from you,” said Carol Taylor.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Taylor. We’ve been quite busy pursuing leads in our investigation. I think we’re at the point where a meeting would be beneficial. I’d prefer to get together somewhere other than your place. What does your schedule look like?”

  “Were you thinking today?” she asked.

  “If that would work for you, we’re available,” I replied.

  “Please, the sooner, the better. Do you have a place in mind?”

  “You’re welcome to come to our home.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I think you said you’re in Bridgeport.”

  “Correct.” I gave her our address, confirmed a time to meet, and ended the call.

  I was about to go give Sarah an update when she appeared in the doorway. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “Guess you heard.”

  Sarah came in and sat down. “How much should we share with her?”

  “Well … I figure we can only share what we know to be factual. Which isn’t much. Guess I’m more interested in what she can tell us.”

  Sarah sighed. “She’s expecting a progress report. We have to give her enough to make her feel she isn’t throwing her money away.”

  “The smuggling part is out … for now. We have nothing but a dope smoker’s opinion on that front. I’m not too sure about the video footage we shot, either. What if she has no idea her husband was working Moray’s tug on Sunday morning?”

  “How? I mean, why would he keep her in the dark about that? If he wasn’t working, where else would she think he was?”

  “No idea, but do you really want to risk creating a bigger rift between them? It’s crystal clear to me she resents her husband and son for their shortcomings, already. If there’s any chance this scenario is as big as we think it might be, I feel it would be best to tread lightly---at least until we know more.”

  “Which leaves us with what? What the heck are we going to tell her?”

  “Let’s tell her we spent time on the Piscataqua River, observed Moray’s operations twice, and witnessed the transfer of the crate during the second one. Then we’ll tell her what we found out about Dale Robie. See if she recognizes the name.”

  “What about the unannounced visit by her son, Jason? Are we going to bring up the fact he came by?”

  “I say let’s wait and see how the meeting goes. But, if she doesn’t bring it up, I think we probably should.”

  Sarah began massaging her temples. “Fine, but I have to tell you, the idea of holding out on her. Not sharing all we know. That really bugs me.”

  “We’re not holding out on her, Sarah. We’re being responsible.”

  “OK, I’ll go along with it, but if you aren’t willing to divulge the rest, then I think it’s best to have you do all the talking.”

  “Not a problem.”

  * * *

  “Mrs. Taylor, come in,” I heard Sarah say as I reviewed the case in my office. I grabbed my notes and headed out to the living room. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Taylor. Thank you for agreeing to meet here at our place. I thought it would be best, given the fact this is your husband’s week off.”

  “Well, I had no issue with coming here, but you needn’t worry about running into Donald,” Carol replied. “After spending the whole week on that lousy tugboat, he wasn’t home an hour when he decided he’d rather spend his free time inside of a casino than at home with me.”

  I looked past Carol. Sarah was standing behind her, jaw hanging, shaking her head. I suspect she thought I was some kind of mind reader.

  I gave her a subtle smile then turned my attention back to our client. “Please, have a seat. We were just about to put some water on the boil. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Tea?”

  “Coffee, please. Black.”

  “I’ve got it,” Sarah said, winking at me as she passed.

  I shared the news of our time on the Piscataqua with Carol, leaving out specific details as previously discussed with Sarah. I did my best to prolong the discus
sion until Sarah returned to the room, hoping to have her present for our discussion of Dale Robie’s involvement in the case.

  “How close were you to the tugboat when they dropped the crate?” Carol asked. “Could you see what it was, or who was working on deck?”

  “We were on the edge of the Piscataqua,” I said. “Across the river from where the ship was docked. Unfortunately, the bulk of the operation took place before dawn.”

  “I see.”

  “Coffee’s brewing,” Sarah said as she came back to the room. “Should be ready in five minutes.”

  I gave a single nod then continued. “Mrs. Taylor, does the name Dale Robie mean anything to you?”

  She stared off at nothing in particular for a beat, then said, “No, I don’t think so. Should it?”

  Sarah spoke up. “Some people know him as Bones.”

  A few seconds passed when Carol’s face lit up. It was the first time I’d ever seen her smile. “Bones Robie. Of course.” An uncomfortable silence fell as a wistful look came over her. “Frenchie and Bones went to school together. They used to chum around when they were young. Not so much as they got older, but they still remained friends. That kid was trouble---my husband hated him---but there was always something about him I liked. He had a good heart.”

  “Have you seen him at all in recent years?” I asked.

  “Personally? No. Don and the boys did, though. Bones worked on Moray’s tugs for a number of years. He got himself in a fix a while back, and they let him go. I never heard the details. Why are you asking me about Bones Robie?”

  “Well … there’s a possibility he may be the individual who sent you the video, along with the note.”

  Carol’s body appeared to shrink before my eyes, as if every molecule of air had been sucked out of her. “What? That’s … why on earth would he send it anonymously? He knows he can talk to me.”

  “How many years has it been?” Sarah asked.

  “Oh, my, I … goodness, twenty years? Twenty-five?”