A Fatal Vineyard Season (7 page)

It sounded improbable but possible. What a world.

“I'll have a talk with Lisa Goldman,” I said. “Maybe she can find out if something like that could have happened. But even if it didn't, and it probably didn't, you two keep away from Alexandro and his brother. They are all the bad news anybody needs, all by themselves. They don't need Mackenzie Reed or anybody else telling them to be mean.”

I accepted my cup of coffee and we went out into the living room, where Julia gave Manny his cup. “How long are you going to be here?” I asked him.

“Should have this done in another hour or so.”

“And you'll be back again this afternoon?”

“You got it.”

“Good.” I drank my coffee and turned to the two women. “You heard the man. He'll be here now and later, so you can relax. You look like you could use some more sleep, in fact, so you might try a nap. I'll stop by the station and have a chat with Lisa Goldman on my way home. Check out your on-line chat theory, among other things, and see if she's got enough people to put an officer up here nights.”

“We can pay for a policeman, if that makes any difference,” said Julia.

“I think that might make all the difference,” I said. “In fact, the boys and girls may be standing in line for the job. It's the kind of work that's called a ‘detail,' by the way. Like when you see a cop directing traffic in front of the Edgartown A & P. Cops love details because they make good money above and beyond their salaries. It'll cost you, though.”

“We can afford it,” said Julia.

And I bet myself that they could.

I got into the Land Cruiser and felt the Beretta against
my back, where I'd been carrying it in my belt under my T-shirt. I took it out and put it under the seat. Then I drove to the police station, which is right across the street from the ferry dock.

Unlike the almost brand-new Edgartown police station, which was big and roomy and modern and the envy of all the other town forces, the OB station was a pretty modest affair. I found Lisa Goldman, who looked a bit worn.

“I've been up all night,” she said, “and I'm headed home to try to catch a glimpse of my husband and daughter before I go to bed. This business is playing hell with my family life.”

“Cops don't have family lives,” I said, “but Roger and Kayla will be glad to see you.”

When his wife had gotten the OB job, Roger Goldman had happily abandoned his law practice and had become a charter boat captain. He worked out of Edgartown on the
Kayla,
a nice twenty-eight-footer named after their daughter, so he wouldn't present any possible conflict of interest for Lisa, who, as chief of police, might be obliged to take sides in some controversy regarding the use of the Oak Bluffs docks. In OB, controversy was the rule, so Roger kept his own business out of town.

Smart Roger.

“What can I do for you in the next five minutes?” asked Lisa, yawning.

I told her of the offer to pay an officer to keep watch over the house at night.

“No problem,” said Lisa. “I'll take care of it.”

Then I told her the on-line chat theory, and about the Mackenzie Reed situation, which she hadn't heard of before.

“I don't know enough about computers or about Cedar Junction to know if the guests up there in the gray-bar hotel can talk with their fellow felons in other parts of this great land of ours, but I'll check it out.” She shook her head. “I'm way behind the times, I guess.”

“Aren't we all. Another thing: some protection racketeers set up legit businesses and use legal contracts to collect money from their customers after they've scared them into paying up. Do the Vegas boys have an office?”

She leaned back in her chair and put her hands behind her neck. “But of course. They learned a lot up there in stir, especially Alberto. Their outfit is called Enterprise Management Corporation. They have an office about two doors up from the Fireside. Alberto's wife sits there all day, reading paperback romances. She opens up at nine and goes home at five so her husband can beat her up again if he feels like it. The kids run in the streets.”

“They have a lawyer?”

“Of course they have a lawyer. Ben Krane.”

Of course it would be Ben Krane. Ben Krane lived off the island's criminal minority, representing them in court and filing endless appeals, suits and countersuits, and whatever other paperwork lawyers use to clog up the local judicial system. In his spare time, he was a slumlord who owned several filthy and disintegrating houses that he rented to college students each summer for outrageous prices. He was thin and gray and totally immune to criticism. He was also very sharp.

I left the station and drove up Circuit Avenue. There, sure enough, was a door with the words Enterprise Management Corporation written on it in black letters edged with gold. It looked like the door led to stairs that went to an office above one of OB's cheapest gift shops. Ben Krane probably owned that, too.

I went on home. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro said they were glad to see me, but the house felt empty. I didn't mind, because I had a bad feeling about Alexandro Vegas and was glad that Zee and the kids were out of town.

The next morning, as I was eating breakfast, the phone rang. It was Manny Fonseca.

“You hear?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“Somebody beat a cop nearly to death in Oak Bluffs last night. Kid named Larry something-or-other. You know him?”

“I know who he is,” I said. “How'd it happen?”

“He was in his own garage, I guess. Still in uniform. Somebody broke him all up when he came home. Ribs, arms, legs, face. Stuck his pistol up into him when they were done. Jesus!”

“Where'd you get all this?”

“I saw Tony D'Agostine downtown.”

Tony D'Agostine was a sergeant of police in Edgartown and not given to exaggeration.

“Thanks for telling me. Did you get both those doors fixed yesterday?”

Manny said he had. I rang off and called the Crandel house. Julia answered the phone in a cautious voice.

“J. W. Jackson,” I said. “Just checking up on things. Any problems since last we met?”

“Oh, it's you. No, nothing's happened. We went to the beach in the afternoon. We saw that man Vegas when we came home, but he was a long way up the street, and all he did was look. And there was a policeman outside the house all night.”

“Good. Just be careful, the same way you would if you were in the city, and you should be fine. If I can help you out in any way, let me know.”

“Maybe you can.” She hesitated. “Mr. Fonseca, the man who fixed our doors, said that you used to be a policeman and that sometimes you do things to help people. Is that right?”

“I haven't been a policeman for a long time.”

“And he said you might be able to help us.”

“If I can, I will.”

But she surprised me. “I want you to investigate, to find out who's working for Mackenzie Reed. If this man Alexandro Vegas is working for him, I want to know it. And if he isn't, I need to know who is, because he isn't just hounding Ivy, he's scaring me, too. Ivy and I room together, and Jane Freed was my therapist before she was Ivy's.”

I thought for about five seconds, then said, “I don't think I'm the person you want. I think you want a private detective agency. I can give you the name of a good one that's headquartered in Boston. Thornberry Security. They have a lot of people on the payroll, and they work on a national level. They'll give you your money's worth.”

“I'll hire the Thornberry people if you think I should, but I already hired a private detective agency out in California, and they didn't find anything useful at all.”

“Maybe there wasn't anything to find.”

“Somebody is trying to hurt Ivy and me and our friends! I want to hire you to find out who it is. Mr. Fonseca says that you've done investigations for people, and that you're good at it.”

“I'm not a private detective. I don't have a license to do this kind of work.”

“I don't care if you have a license. I need somebody right now, right here! I talked with Mr. Fonseca, and I talked with Uncle Stanley and Aunt Betsy on the phone last night, and they say that I can trust you. I need somebody I can trust. I'll pay you whatever you want. Please.”

I thought of the things Alexandro Vegas had said, and of what had happened to the young cop named Larry.

“I don't think I can help you,” I said.

“Please.

“I don't think I—”

“Please! When we came home from the beach and saw that man way up the street, he wasn't just looking. I could feel his eyes inside my clothes!” Her voice had a shiver in it.

I hesitated some more, then said, “All right, I'll be up in an hour or so, and we can talk about it, at least. Have the coffee ready.”

The world does not stop turning because people have problems, so before heading for OB, I finished eating, made sure the cats were fed, and mixed up a batch of bran muffin dough for future breakfasts. I have not yet met other muffins that can match mine, which are the kind made of dough you mix and then keep in the fridge until you need it. When you have a yen for muffins, you scoop out as much dough as you need and bake up a fresh batch. Delish! I put some of the dough into a plastic container for Julia and Ivy. They could use a little happiness in their lives. Then I drove to the Oak Bluffs police station.

As I went in, Roger Goldman was coming out, carrying Kayla. He and I had a common interest in having our kids around us as much as possible. He hadn't figured a way to take Kayla out when he had a fishing charter, but he was working on it.

“Hi, Kayla Frances Goldman,” I said. “How are things?”

Kayla buried her face in her father's neck.

“Things could be better,” said Roger. “Do you know anybody I can hire to shoot the Vegas brothers?”

“Just make sure you don't do it yourself. Lisa doesn't need a jailbird for a husband.”

“I've got to go to work,” he said angrily. He made a fist and shook it and walked on.

Lisa was in her office, looking older than before. I told her what Manny had told me, and about Alexandro's offhand threat to shove Larry's gun up his ass.

“Sex seems to mean a lot to Alexandro,” I said. “My impression is that he doesn't care if he does it with men, women, or goats.”

Lisa nodded. “It's a weapon he likes. He used it against women before he went into prison, but now he'll fuck anything living or dead. It's all meanness for him. I think it's
because he got screwed to a standstill up in Cedar Junction. The word is he got to be some people's girlfriend up there. He's a huge man, but he isn't as big as a dozen other guys who gang-banged him whenever they got horny. Since he got out, he's been getting even. Sex is a weapon he likes to use to humiliate people. We haven't been able to get anybody to testify against him, because the one time we had a woman who said she would, the woman's kid disappeared for two days and only came back when she changed her mind. The boy was raped before he was dropped off at her door, but couldn't say who did it because he'd been blindfolded all the time.”

“I don't remember hearing about any kidnapping case.”

“It never got into the papers. She never reported it officially, but she did talk to me after she got her boy back and told me she was dropping charges against Alexandro. Then she and the boy left the island. The story got circulated, and since then nobody's said a word against the Vegas boys. It's enough to make you either hang up your badge or become a vigilante.”

I didn't think Lisa would do either, but her smooth, girlish face wore a bitter expression.

“Is that what happened to Larry?” I asked.

She shrugged. “It looks like he got home after the detail at the Crandel place last night. Tired, probably, and not paying attention. Somebody was waiting for him inside his own garage, probably hunkered down behind the pickup in the other stall. As near as we can figure it, whoever it was came up behind him with a sack and dropped it over his head, then beat the shit out of him with a crowbar and stuck his piece up his rear and left him there. We got a call saying something had happened. Muffled voice from a public phone in Vineyard Haven. We're trying to find out if anybody saw anyone at the phone, but so far no luck.”

“Was he raped?”

Lisa looked at me. “Don't know yet. They've flown him up to Boston. He's in bad shape.”

“Could he tell you anything?”

“He's in a coma. They say he may have permanent brain damage. It makes me sick. We'll pull Alexandro in again, but a fat lot of good it will do.”

“If he raped Larry, maybe the semen will ID him.”

“We'll see.”

I left her there with her troubles, glad once again that I was no longer a policeman, and drove to the Crandel house.

There was now a peephole in the front door. More of Manny Fonseca's work, no doubt. Julia apparently looked through it before opening the door to my knock.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Ivy's got your coffee waiting.”

We went into the living room. Its large, comfortable chairs and couches, its Oriental rugs and filled bookshelves, its paintings and photographs of generations of Crandels, spoke of informal, genteel living, which was in sharp contrast to the tension in the air. Ivy Holiday was standing by the fireplace, her movie-star face bruised with a frown.

“You did come,” she said. “I wasn't sure you would.”

I pointed at a tray holding a coffeepot, cream and sugar, and cups. “I'll have one of those.”

She poured and we all sipped.

“I may be able to help you while you're here on the island,” I said, “but I don't think I can do much with regard to your admirer, Mackenzie Reed, because he's in a California hoosegow and I'm right here.”