Bark of Night

by David Rosenfelt

  And now Lorna has set a target date for the resolution of whatever it is to be resolved … October 5.

  But all of this is a long way from knowing one way or the other whether Grobin was the victim of foul play.

  “I don’t know how I can help you, but if I can, I will,” is the best I can offer her.

  She doesn’t seem thrilled with my response; the look of disappointment on her face is obvious. I’m a pretty good judge of that; I’ve been disappointing women since high school.

  She gives me her phone number, thanks me, and leaves. I resume watching television, reclining on the bed in a dozing position. It doesn’t take long before I am in full doze mode; I vaguely know in the back of my mind that at some point I should wake up, take my clothes off, and get under the covers, but that does not seem like a priority at this point.

  Suddenly, annoyingly, there is another knock on the door. This time it’s a stronger, more authoritative and demanding knock, and therefore more worrisome. As I get up I look at the clock and see that an hour has passed since Lorna Diaz left.

  This time I don’t ask who it is; I don’t want to reveal that I’m even in the room. I look through the peephole and the good news is that it’s not someone there to kill me. The bad news is that it’s Marcus.

  I open the door.

  “Come,” he says. “Now.”

  Lorna Diaz is sitting in the back seat of Marcus’s car.

  As signs go, this is not a good one, and it’s made worse by the obvious fact that she has been crying. She’s still sobbing softly as Marcus and I get in the front and pull away from the hotel.

  “What happened?” I ask. I’m hoping she is composed enough to answer, because Marcus seems disinclined to.

  “I drove home and parked behind my house. Someone in the alley … attacked me from behind … he was choking me. Then this man…” she says, meaning Marcus.

  “Marcus,” I say. “His name is Marcus. He intervened?” It’s a pretty good bet that happened, since Marcus is a world-class intervener. If intervening were an Olympic sport, Marcus would have a boatload of medals.

  She nods. “He would have killed me. I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Where is the man now?”

  “Behind my house. He’s … I’m sure he’s dead. The side of his head was … I’m sure he is dead.”

  “Is that where we’re going now?” The question is addressed to Marcus, even though I know the answer. There’s a dead body behind this woman’s house, and Marcus is bringing me there.

  Marcus nods. I briefly consider jumping out of the car, but it will only be a temporary solution. Instead I put the pieces together. With me tucked safely in my room, Marcus must have seen Lorna leave the hotel and followed her to make sure she was safe.

  It was a smart move; she was obviously not safe. She was attacked, probably because she had come to see me. Her attacker must have been afraid that she was revealing knowledge that was dangerous to him, or to those he worked for. Marcus then did what Marcus does, which is why there is a body waiting at the end of this drive.

  We arrive at Lorna’s house after a brief five-minute drive. She lives in what seems to be a rundown area outside of town, though I’ve lost my bearings and don’t even know which town it is. The body is still there, as predicted. Marcus must have clubbed him in the head with his elbow or forearm; his head looks like it lost a battle with a truck.

  “Do you know who he is?” I ask.

  “I don’t know his name, but he is one of the people who worked with Vincent.”

  Marcus has obviously brought me here because I am to be the decision maker as to what our next step is. One thing is certain; that next step is going to be all-important.

  The question is whether or not we report this to the local police. It doesn’t take a lawyer to know that doing so is the proper procedure. A man has died; he was justifiably killed to save the person he was himself trying to kill, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is dead.

  I know that Marcus acted properly, but in a civilized society that is not my call to make. That is a police and prosecutorial function.

  But in a civilized society those same police are supposed to be the good guys, and I have serious doubts that that is the case here. Lorna said that they are corrupt and that everyone living here believes that as well. She also said that Vincent Grobin was murdered, and the events that have transpired since she left my hotel have only bolstered her credibility.

  More significantly, I have no doubt that Silvio’s death was faked, but I have real doubts that it could have been pulled off without the police being complicit in the setup. So I think there is a good to excellent chance that at least some of the cops here are, in fact, corrupt.

  For me, in a situation like this, it always comes down to an upside-downside analysis. Whether we report it or not, the upside is that we don’t get hassled and we get to go home without facing any kind of charges. The guy is dead and will remain dead, no matter what we do.

  But if we report it, then the potential downside is enormous.

  Marcus could wind up in jail.

  I simply cannot take that chance.

  I call Marcus over to the side and talk softly so that Lorna cannot hear us. “Marcus, we are required to report this to the police, but we are not going to report this to the police.”

  He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod, doesn’t even blink.

  “Lorna does not trust the police in this town, and based on what’s happened, I’m inclined to trust her opinion about that. If we report it, it could get very ugly for both of us.”

  Silence from Marcus.

  “Can you do something with our friend here so that he is not found, at least not for quite a while?”

  He nods.

  “Good. Can you drive me back first? I don’t want to call a cab; that would establish a record in case anyone gets suspicious as to my whereabouts.”

  Another nod.

  Now I go back to Lorna. “Lorna, it’s important that you never speak about this to anyone. It would be very dangerous to you, and could also get Marcus in trouble.”

  “He saved my life.”

  “I understand, but it’s still dangerous for you to stay here. Is there anywhere you can go? Do you have family anywhere?”

  “I have a sister in Atlanta, but I have no money.”

  I have seven hundred dollars in cash and I give it to her. She doesn’t want to take it, but I insist. “Leave tomorrow morning,” I say. “There will be a time you can come back, but it won’t be for a while.”

  “And Vincent?” she asks.

  “I’m afraid you may have been right about Vincent.”

  Marcus drives me back to the hotel. I turn on the television and get back into bed, but this time I can’t fall asleep for a very long time.

  Wilton Key makes Tarpon Springs look like Midtown Manhattan.

  It’s even smaller than Miranda City, though similar in style. It’s a tiny community totally contained within three blocks of the shoreline. I haven’t counted, though that would be relatively easy to do, but it seems as if there are as many boats docked here as there are buildings in the town.

  Like Tarpon Springs and Miranda City, the dominant industry seems to be sponge fishing. Each place along the harbor appears either to be a working sponge company or a tourist attraction centered on sponge diving. Vacationers can go out on working boats and watch the sponge divers in action; based on the signs the trips are either half day or full day.

  The Ginny May, the boat Lorna had said was where Vincent worked, is on the north end of the pier, the third boat in. Its sign advertises tourist excursions to observe the “ancient art” of sponge diving.

  The boat is sitting there unattended at the moment. It’s similar in size and style to the others at the pier; I know nothing about boats, so I have no idea if there are any significant differences. I also don’t know if the owners and/or crew have an awareness that one of their colleagues is missing.

/>   The police station, such as it is, is across the street from the pier. It’s a small building, barely distinguishable from the shops and offices alongside it. I enter into a reception area maybe ten feet square with a single desk manned by a uniformed officer.

  “Can I help you?” he says.

  “I’m here to see Mike Morrison … Sergeant Morrison.” Morrison is the cop Hunnicutt contacted on my behalf.

  “He expecting you?”

  “I think Lieutenant Hunnicutt from Tarpon Springs told him I’d be by.”

  He nods and yells out, “Sergeant, someone here to see you.”

  Sergeant Morrison comes out from the back room, which I believe is the only other room in the building. “Yeah?”

  I identify myself and he nods in recognition. “Come on back.” When we’re settled in the sparse office, he says, “So what’s this about?”

  “I’m investigating the death of Frank Silvio.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s tangentially related to a case I have back home. Can you tell me the circumstances?”

  He shrugs. “I can tell you what we know, which isn’t much. Witnesses saw him go out on his boat, alone. A storm came in and we got an SOS from the boat. Once we were able to, we went out there and just found wreckage.”

  “He was experienced out on the water? He knew what he was doing on a boat?”

  “Yes. No doubt.”

  “Wouldn’t he have known better than to go out with a storm coming in?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes the fact that guys have a lot of experience makes them think they can handle anything. They become less careful, when it should be the opposite.”

  “I understand there was DNA evidence?”

  He nods. “Bloodstains on a piece of wood, which would have been part of a bench. The theory is that he was thrown and hit his head. No way of knowing whether he went overboard, or went down when the boat broke apart.”

  “But no body?”

  “Wouldn’t expect there to be.”

  “Were you out there when the wreckage was found?”

  “No, one of my officers. He does most of the work out on the water when necessary, rescues or whatever.”

  I don’t want to express my doubts that Silvio is really dead, because I have no idea if Sergeant Morrison can be trusted. I’m not about to reveal anything significant to him.

  He also seems pretty mellow and shows no signs of stress, so I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know Marcus clubbed someone to death last night. “Do you know James Haley?” I ask. “He’s a filmmaker who was down here shooting footage for a documentary.”

  He thinks for a few moments. “Yeah, he stopped in here. Just checking in to tell me what he was doing. Nice guy. Is the movie finished?”

  “Not yet,” I say, opting also not to share what I know about Haley. I want to ask Morrison about Vincent Grobin, but I don’t want to say anything that will tie me to last night’s events. My hope is that Lorna Diaz is on the way to her sister’s house in Atlanta and that she can begin to put this behind her. Last night must have been shocking and frightening for her. I can say with certainty that it was shocking and frightening for me.

  I’m not going to learn anything more from Sergeant Morrison or from wandering around town. I leave and look across the street at the Ginny May. There are two crewmen there, but no real activity. Maybe they are waiting for their colleague to find out how last night went. They’re going to have a long wait.

  This place is giving me the creeps. I take out my cell phone and call Marcus. “Yunh?” he says.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say.

  On the way back to the hotel I call Lieutenant Hunnicutt in Tarpon Springs and tell him that I need to hire an investigator down here.

  “Did I give you the impression I was looking to become your HR director?” he asks.

  I laugh. “No, but you’re a top candidate, and this is your chance to prove yourself.” I go on to say that I need somebody good, somebody discreet, and somebody able to meet me at the hotel in forty-five minutes.

  “I’ll call you back,” he says, and he does call back, in five minutes. “Jack Hagans is on his way. He’s as good as it gets down here.”

  Fifteen minutes after we get to the hotel, I get a call saying that Hagans is downstairs. I ask him to come up and am struck by his appearance. Marcus is an investigator, and if he has an exact opposite in the field, at least physically, it’s Hagans. He is probably in his fifties, five foot seven and a hundred and forty pounds.

  But I’m not hiring him to beat anybody up, and after I talk to him for a few minutes, he seems knowledgeable and smart. He gets $250 an hour, so he obviously doesn’t charge by the pound.

  I’m not very specific in what I tell him to do. I want him to observe the Ginny May and its crew as closely as he can, and report back to me what he learns. He asks what it is I’m looking for and I say that I don’t have any idea, but that I think there might be some criminal activity going on.

  That seems to work for him, and I ask him to report by telephone every three days. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but I do know that if he is down here, then I don’t have to be.

  That alone makes him worth the money.

  The flight home gives me a lot of time to think.

  I’m looking forward to telling Laurie the events of the last couple of days and discussing what I think is going on.

  When I get home, Laurie, Ricky, Tara, and Sebastian are waiting for me on the porch. Ricky runs down the steps and I lift him in a big hug. Laurie and Tara are not far behind. Sebastian couldn’t care less.

  I am one lucky guy.

  We all take Tara and Sebastian for a walk and then spend another half hour in the den, with Ricky regaling us with camp stories. In honor of my return, Ricky is given the choice of anything he wants for dinner, and he chooses pizza.

  That’s my boy.

  When Ricky finally goes to his room, I tell Laurie everything that’s happened down in Florida. She is of course stunned to hear about the attack on Lorna Diaz and Marcus’s lethal intervention. I have no doubt that she disagrees with my handling of it; the ex-cop in Laurie would have preferred that we report the entire incident to the police. But she doesn’t criticize what we did and realizes the hassles such a report would have caused. And if the police down there are actually corrupt, then it could have gone much further than just mere hassles and inconveniences.

  On some level I think she trusts Marcus more than me to deal with these kind of situations. Marcus is unflappable and physical danger doesn’t stress him out the way it does me. I doubt Laurie thinks Marcus would have gone along with my plan if he didn’t think it was the correct approach.

  So she doesn’t argue with me or lecture me on the evil of what I have done. It’s over, and it’s not like I need to learn how to handle these things in the future. The chance that I will have to ponder what to do with a dead body in a back alley will hopefully not come up again, though the way things are going, you never know.

  We agree to leave open the possibility of reporting the incident later on, perhaps to Cindy. But I don’t make any commitment to do so, and I doubt that I will. The upside-downside analysis will likely still hold.

  With that out of the way, Laurie asks me what my impressions are of the situation down there and its effect on our case.

  “I think the reason James Haley was murdered originated down there. The feeling of danger and corruption is palpable. He either discovered something, or was part of something, that caused people to want to kill him.”

  “George Adams was a Philadelphia hood. How would something that James Haley learned in Florida result in Adams coming to Paterson to kill him?”

  “That’s just one of a thousand questions I can’t answer,” I say. “But it all comes down to money. There is money all over this case, and large amounts of it.”

  “Drugs?” she asks.

  I nod. “I can’t think of anything else. But how c
ould a sponge-diving boat, which pretty much always has tourists on board, somehow bring enough drugs into the country to generate this kind of money?”

  Laurie has a good question of her own. “What was James Haley even doing in Paterson? He goes down to Florida, something happens that’s so momentous that he thinks he is going to make a great deal of money, momentous enough that he becomes a target to be killed. What he does next is go to Paterson to shoot a movie about urban blight?”

  “I hear you,” I say. “It’s not like it was so incredibly timely that it had to be done now. It’s pretty fair to say that urban blight is not exactly going away. Blight seems to be the wave of the future.”

  “Okay, so let’s assume for the moment that coming to Paterson was connected to whatever happened in Florida,” she says. “That means everything he did in Paterson is part of the puzzle. That includes interviewing Joey so he could ask about drugs and Chico Simmons and also going to Christopher Tolbert’s funeral.”

  I nod. “And we know Tolbert and Chico Simmons were connected. Zip, the gang member who led the threesome waiting to attack me outside my office, told us that Simmons was behind Tolbert’s murder. So Florida is the center of the wheel, and we know there are spokes in one form or another in Philadelphia and Paterson. What we don’t know is whether there are other spokes, whether those other murders that Sam found are a part of this. If they are, then this whole thing explodes.”

  The phone rings and Laurie looks at the Caller ID. “It’s Cindy.”

  She hands me the phone and I say, “Hello,” which is a conversation starter I have perfected over the years.

  “Hello, Andy. I should not be doing this, but I feel like we owe you. I will preface this by saying that if you do not treat this confidentially, the rest of your life will be a constant misery.”

  “I’ve never felt closer to you than I do now,” I say.

  “Yeah. Anyway, the Bureau has opened an official investigation into the information you provided.”