Black Tide (18 page)

"What you're asking me to do is against office policy, against this museum's regulations," she said, one eyebrow raising up archly.

"I figured as much, before I asked you."

"Then why did you ask me?" "Because you don't seem to be the type of woman who cares that much about policy and regulations."

She laughed, tossing back her thick mane of hair with practiced ease. "That's so true. Justin's given up years ago trying to limit my lunch break to thirty minutes. We went round and round and he was full of threats and such, but he gave up."

“And why did he give up?"

She raised both of her eyebrows. "I wore him down, that's why. And I also run this office quite well."

"Were you working here when the Winslow Homers got stolen?"

"Mmm," she said, nodding her head, her chin still nestled in her red-fingernailed hands. "That I was, and only for a few months before the theft. There was another woman working here, an Ann Morse, and I was her assistant. I remember, after the [paintings were stolen, having to answer the phone calls, day in and day out, from those idiots who call themselves reporters. Some of them actually asked me questions about art and the value of the paintings." She laughed at the memory. 

"That was funny?"

She sat back some, waved at me with a hand. "Of course it was. I knew nothing about art or sculpture or paintings. I was fresh up from Massachusetts, and I saw this as an office job. Nothing else. It had phones and typewriters and a photocopier, that's all I cared about. That and the paycheck."

"Did you know either of the two guards who were working at night?" 

She shook her head. "No, not really. They worked at night, I only saw them during museum events, like the Christmas party. In fact, the most I ever saw of them was when they were brought in for questioning a couple of times by Justin, the Manchester cops and the FBI."

"What was that like?"

"Oh, nothing much. Craig --- the kid who was in college at the time --- he looked so scared, like he couldn't believe this was happening to him. And Ben, well, Ben was a cop before he came here, and he looked awfully angry, like the paintings were stolen and he couldn't do anything about it."

"I imagine things calmed down after a while," I said. "Yes, they did, and I began to like it here. Very quiet, very peaceful, and in a while I did begin to pick up on the art that was here. Even took a couple of night courses. Then, when Ann left a couple of years later, well, I moved up and saved the museum money because I did the job so well they didn't have to hire an assistant. I did it all myself."

"So you still like it here."

She shrugged. "I do, though now I find it can be boring sometimes. Especially around budget time. Which is why I like a little excitement here and there." She leaned forward and winked. "Like right now, for example."

Cassie got up from her desk and went over to the bank of filing cabinets, unlocking one of them with a key. She was wearing a light green dress that fell below her knees but had a slit up both sides, and her stockings today were black. She rummaged around in the files for a few minutes, humming something, and as she searched, she lifted one foot up, and a gray high-heeled shoe dangled from her foot. In a few minutes she relocked the filing cabinet, went over to a small copier, and after another five minutes or so, came back to her desk and handed me some papers, tucked in a tan folder.

"There you go, Mr. Cole," she said, eyes glittering with excitement at the naughty thing she was doing. "Information on the two guards who were working the night when the paintings were stolen, including their Social Security numbers and dates of birth. There are also some newspaper clippings, including the obituary of Ben Martin."

"Seems thorough," I said, taking the folder and slipping it under my shell parka. "That's the only kind of job I do. What kind of job are you doing, Mr. Cole? Is this just a magazine article or an investigation?" She was dancing too close to the truth for comfort, so I said, "Sometimes there's not much of a difference between the two."

"Hmmm," she said. "Did you really think that Justin Dix was going to give you this information?"

"Probably not, but maybe after a while."

"Why would he do that?" I said, "Because of my charming personality."

That got another laugh out of her, and she said, "If that's true --- and I have no reason to doubt it --- then you're about ten steps ahead of the charming personality game from Justin Dix."

"What kind of boss is he?" She thought about that for a moment, one hand gently tracing the stem of the rose at her desk, barely brushing across the thorns. "Oh, an all right man, but with some nasty things back there, behind his cool museum exterior. He's had some very bad problems, especially after the theft."

"Such as?"

"Such as I really don't want to get into that right now." She forward again and a bit of black lace escaped through the cleavage of her light green dress. I did my best not to look too hard.

''After all, I must keep some things secret."

I thought about that for a moment, and I rubbed the smooth cardboard of the folder. "Cassie, not that I want to put you at any risk or anything, or get some more secrets, but I was wondering, in addition to this information --"

"You also want Justin's date of birth and Social Security number?" she asked, her voice neutral.

I nodded, thinking that if she made a fuss, I could still be out of the building in a minute or two, with the information that I really wanted. Still, with what was going on in Justin's past… 

Cassie wrote something down on a slip of paper and passed it over to me. "I do his payroll every week and his taxes once a year. Here you go, and good luck in whatever the hell you're doing. I don't think I want to know any more."

I thanked her and got up to go outside to the wet weather. She looked up at me, her gaze direct and forceful, and said, "You owe me a big one, Mr. Cole."

"That I do. What can I do for you?"

She winked. "You just go. I'll think of something along the way."

So I went, the cardboard folder and the papers safe under my parka shell, with a favor owed to one Cassie Fuller. It seemed to be something I could live with, and something that would be more fun than the favor that I was going to do for Diane Woods.

An hour later the rain had lightened up some, and I was standing before a headstone at the Manchester Memorial Cemetery. A slipped ten-dollar bill to the cemetery's caretaker brought to Ben Martin's grave and the simple granite tombstone. Ben Martin and his wife, Melissa. Both born in the same year --- high school sweethearts perhaps? She had preceded her husband by three years. He had died only two years after that night in the Scribner Museum. In my folder was an obituary indicating how Ben had died. His Oldsmobile had been found one May morning in the parking lot of the Pine Tree Mall in Manchester, and Ben had been in the front seat. The two officers on patrol thought at first that he was sleeping, but after rapping on the windows with their nightsticks and looking further, they found that he was dead. Apparent cause of death was a heart attack.

''Apparent,'' the story said. No indication of whether an autopsy was conducted. The story also briefly mentioned his career with the Manchester police department and the citations he received, including one for rescuing a young boy on the ice on the Merrimack River one February, many years ago, but the bulk of the story had talked about that awful night at the Scribner Museum.

It was quiet in the cemetery, and it seemed as if the roads and the cars were very far away. Water was beading down the sides of the polished surface of the Martin headstone. Poor Ben Martin. Works all his life and feels comfortable and proud of what he's done, and in his obituary, his final notice to the world before ending up in this plot of ground, all that is mentioned is his role in the greatest art theft in New Hampshire's history. Not a good way of going out.

Besides the circumstances of his death and his funeral, the obituary also mentioned two sons. Dennis and Owen. One lived in Seattle and the other in Los Angeles. Both had gone far in their lives, and had flown back for the funeral of their father. It seemed odd that both had gone to the West Coast. To get as far away from Manchester and New Hampshire as possible? Or to get far away from their parents?

No autopsy. I twisted a bit of the sod and grass with my foot. That was sloppy work, considering his history. A possible suspect in the theft of the Winslow Homers, one who indicated that he recognized the two cops who came to the door of the museum that night in July five years ago, and when his dead body is found, taken to a funeral home and is put in the ground three days later. Cause of death is probable heart attack.

Sloppy. I could think offhand of a couple of ways to have murdered Ben Martin and made it look like a heart attack, and only a good autopsy would have turned up anything.

I looked around at the rows of stones that unfolded before standing there silent and still, but each one representing a family or friends who had been torn apart at the news of someone's death. People who had trudged here with sorrow in their hearts to put someone away in the ground. I'll always remember, they would have whispered. Always.

A couple of crows came by, calling to each other. It was a harsh and sharp noise. I wondered if anyone remembered the diver who came ashore near my home last week. His body was still at the county morgue, still unclaimed, and would probably end up in an unmarked grave at the county farm in Bretton. Unmarked graves. I knew the feeling too well. Old friends of mine were dust somewhere in the Nevada desert, unmarked and unvisited. One of these days I would return and pay them homage, but not today, or tomorrow. Instead I turned and headed back to the Range Rover. I had one more stop to make before the day was over.

Since I was in the area, back to Bainbridge I went, to the home of the other guard who was working that night. The rain had finally let up and I had switched off the windshield wipers as I drove into town. It was near dinnertime --- or supper, if you prefer --- and I wanted to wrap this piece of business up and then go get something to eat. Nothing against this part of the state, but there were dozens of fine restaurants within five miles of my home. Around here, I wasn't too sure if I'd be able to find even at fine little Scottish restaurant with the golden arches. The center of Bainbridge looked as quiet as the last time I went through. My overactive imagination was fascinated by the two classes that lived in the town: the wealthy ones who saw it as a place to sleep and play, and the not so wealthy ones who saw Bainbridge as a place to escape from. Did they ever talk to each other, or did they hide in their homes and trailers at night, fearful of what the others were plotting?

It was near 6 p.m. when I found myself back on Mast Road, past the small-town mix of small homes and dreary farms. I thought I saw the shades in some of the windows move a bit as I drove by, and it seemed as though my "watchers" were back at work, gathering intelligence, seeing who was invading their turf on this warm and muggy July night. At the 57-59 Mast Road set of mailboxes I made a right onto the dirt driveway and drove the bumpy hundred feet or so to the brown two-story duplex that was home to the Kotowski family and one Craig Dummer. Again, there were no cars parked out front, and it didn't seem as if there were any lights on at either end of the duplex.

I got out and walked across the muddy lawn to the Dummer side. Out in the fields beyond the house a soft curtain of mist hung low among the stalks of corn, and it was quiet enough for me to hear water dripping from the eaves of the duplex. Up on the stairs in front of the Dummer residence, I rang the doorbell, and there was no answer. I rang it twice and it had that empty sound that tells you someone has moved on. I bent over to look into the window, and as I did, I faintly made out the sound of something tinkling.

I got up and turned, just as a man came up the stairs swinging a length of heavy chain.

Chapter Eleven

It was the chain that saved me, of course. If he had come up me with a baseball bat, a knife or an ice pick, the first and perhaps only sound I would have caught would have been his feet upon the steps. Even then, it was a damn near thing.

I crouched down and ducked, as the chain chattered at me as swung over my head and struck the side of the house. The man was heavyset with a thick beard and thin black hair, and he had on a greasy set of dark gray mechanic's overalls and heavy worker's boots. He grunted with the exertion and he pulled back his arm again, saying, "Damn you, I warned your people this would happen! "

I had no idea what the hell was going on, but another part of me was thinking things through, and in the few seconds it took for him to draw back his arm I made it toward him in two quick steps and popped him one on the nose with a fast right. I think I hit him harder than the conscious part of me had planned, but running through my mind as my fist traveled those several inches was the hard knowledge that if I didn't stop this right now, it would get even nastier very quickly.

The bearded man yelped and dropped the chain, and I kicked it over the side and gave a sharp push with both of my hands into his chest, noting that he had an oval name patch that said, "Drew." He had both hands up to his nose and slipped back on the stairs, and ended up on his back in the mud.