Black Tide (27 page)

Diane said, "Look at that," and Rhonda just said, "Ooooh," and then there came the teeth-rattling boom. The sound of the first rocket echoed across the beach, and by the condo buildings, and from far off on the sands, there were the faint cheers of the hundreds of people, pressed in together, watching an ancient Chinese weapon of war at work. Something to cheer for. Not bad, for an hour or so.

After about a half hour Diane and I left, and we held hands as we went back in from the balcony. Rhonda was blushing as she hesitantly said good-bye, while Roger was still smiling, probably over our last conversation and my advice. We both made the promises that are lies --- about wanting to do this again real soon --- and Diane followed me as we went down three flights of concrete stairs and out to the parking lot. We got into my Rover without a word. The air was muggy and warm, and the traffic on Atlantic Avenue had lightened up some by the time I joined in.

"Well," I said, "that was certainly an evening I won't forget anytime soon."

"Me, too," Diane said, with resignation in her voice. "Listen, when we get back to my place, remind me. I have the background information you requested on those three people. And, Lewis," she said, her face serious in the glow from the passing streetlights, "I've got a couple of questions about that for you."

"I'm sure you do," I said. "And I've got a question for you, detective. Tell me, did Roger's date do anything for you? Any chance the two of you will get together soon?"

She seemed to glare at me, and then giggled and punched me in the shoulder. "Sorry, hon. I like my women with something between their ears, and not necessarily on their chest."

"Oh, really?"

"Really," she said, seeming to sink lower into the seat. "Now, why don't you just shut up and drive. Playing games is tiring and I’m beat." '

I did what she asked. We drove south along Atlantic Avenue and we were slowed down a bit in the traffic around the Strip and the outlying motels and hotels. We passed Baker Street and at a hotel called the St. Lawrence Seaway, a plastic banner outside fluttered in the breeze. The banner said "Under New Management." I looked away, troubled by memories that weren't so old. In a minute or two we went by the fire station and the police station, and then I took a right as we hugged the small harbor that belongs to Tyler and is shared by the town of Falconer. The nuclear power plant's lights were bright orange and white. The trees near Diane's condominium eventually obscured them. The condo complex Diane calls home is Tyler Harbor Meadows, on the northern end of Tyler Harbor, where it narrows to meet the tidal flow of the Wonalancet River. It's made up of about a dozen townhouses built near the water's edge in a horseshoe formation, and I pulled into an empty spot in front of No. 12, Diane's place.

As we got out, I said to Diane, "Mind living so close to a nuke plant?"

“Hell, no," she said. "Beats living next to a chemical factory. Least this way you know there's only one thing out there --- radiation. Chemical factory, you never know what they're dumping out. But I do miss the protests."

"Why's that?"

She made a funny face. "Town of Falconer always needs help with the protesters, and it's a good chance for me to put on a real uniform and make some overtime. Sometimes civil disobedience just means money for the civil service."

I followed her in and we went up a set of carpeted stairs. The stairs made a sharp turn and there was a kitchen to the left, overlooking the parking lot and the harbor, and to the right was a small living room, with a low wooden counter holding up a television and stereo system, and a tan couch with matching chairs. Another set of stairs started in the kitchen and led upstairs, to a bedroom and a study.

The kitchen had a white tiled floor, a glass-topped table and white tubular chairs. There was a floral arrangement in the center of the table. "I'll be right back," she said as she went upstairs. I went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Pasted on the front of the refrigerator were two pictures of Diane's lover, Kara Miles. The pictures seemed to have been taken out on the
Miranda
.

Diane came back from her upstairs study, yawning a bit, holding a file folder in her hand. She had changed from her jeans and polo shirt to a white bathrobe, and her feet were bare. A joke quickly came to mind, of her being in a kitchen and being barefoot, but she looked tired and I decided to let it pass. She passed the folder over to me and I glanced inside. Three sheets of paper, covered with Diane's neat handwriting. Unlike many cops I know, Diane can write in simple, declarative sentences, and she can write without using such words and phrases as "perpetrator" and "dead corpse." At the top of each page was a single name: Justin Dix. Ben Martin. Craig Dummer.

She sat back, hands in her lap. "There you go, Lewis, and along with this info come some questions."

"Fair enough," I said, taking a sip of orange juice. I felt uncomfortable at getting these three sheets of paper, considering what nastiness I had encountered last Saturday night, when one Tony Russo was shot to death in front of me and Felix Tinios, and all over the matter of those three paintings. I tried to ignore that vivid and bloody memory of Tony Russo gurgling to the ground after being shot. I wasn't that successful. Right then I could have given the three sheets of paper and the folder back to Diane without a single feeling or regret, save a slight tang of guilt for having made her do some work that I no longer desired.

She motioned to the folder I was holding. "Those three men were all working at a museum in Manchester called the Scribner Museum. Five years ago they were there when it was robbed of three very rare and valuable paintings. But I guess you already know that, right?"

"That's true."

"You're doing a story or a column about this museum theft, right?" 

"I was," I said. "But now I'm thinking of letting this one slide by, Diane. It's too crazy and too complex."

She nodded. "That's good, Lewis. Very good. I'd prefer you just let this one drop. You know, doing background searches like this, sometimes you trip off alarms. The other police agencies Land their computers want to know why you're suddenly interested in their cases, in their suspects. Especially with a screamer case like one. Even though it's five years old, a case that big doesn't get forgotten that easy. When I started sniffing around on those people, I got questions tossed my way. All right, that's part of the business. Which usually means you share with other cops what you're doing, and you've got a cooperative arrangement going on. But that didn't happen this time around, Lewis."

The orange juice was cold and crisp, but there was another taste there, one I didn't like.  "No, I imagine it didn't. You had to lie to them, didn't you?"

She was rubbing her hands together. "I did, and I didn't like it. I had to tell them this was just a practice drill, that I wanted to see how fast I could get some background info from a number of different agencies about a big case, and this one seemed to be a case that would work well. Not a great lie but it worked."

"I'm sorry I made you lie, Diane," I said.

Diane motioned with her fingers. "What's another lie among many? It doesn't bother me that much and I'll sleep well tonight, but it's got to stop, just for a while. No more background checks or info checks, unless you clue me in as to what you're doing. I can't go out stirring up people I work with without a better excuse in my back pocket."

Damn. My half hour traipsing through the records of DefNet the other day, searching out information about Cameron Briggs. I didn't want that effort to go to waste, not when I was so damn close.

"Not even one more?"

"Lewis…"

"Just one more. All I need to know is something about a criminal investigation, something called Op Harpoon, or Operation Harpoon. It has ---"

"Lewis!" she said, interrupting me. "Have you heard one word I've been saying?"

"I have, but ---"

"Look. You and I, we've developed a professional relationship here. Sometimes I've let you cross over some lines that other cops wouldn't. Fine. I can live with that. Most of the time it has worked out for the better, and I've grown comfortable with it. But on these three names, we had an agreement. Information on these people for you in exchange for your company this evening with Roger Krohn. As far as I can see, the exchange has just occurred, and it's over. We've both settled our deals, and it's done for now, and for a while longer. No more."

I guess I couldn't give up that easily. "Diane, I'm in the middle of something, something that I need just a little help on."

Her voice was sharp. "Why don't you do some work yourself, Lewis?" she said, rubbing at the side of her head before slapping her hands down on the table. ''And while you're at it, why don't you just leave?"

The white scar on her chin was pale, which was a warning sign as visible as the fireworks we had just seen over Tyler Beach. I would have gladly traded those three sheets of paper about the museum theft for one paragraph about Operation Harpoon, but when I looked again at Diane, I would have traded all of that just to clear up that angry look on her face. It was late. I was tired. I couldn't think of anything good to say.

I touched her hand. "Okay. I'm leaving."

She looked away and said, "Sorry, I'm just tired. Try me again later or something, will you?"

I squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry too, about pushing you."

A squeeze back. "Fine. Now leave, before my woman comes here and finds me trying to seduce you." That gave us both a smile to hold things onto, and I left, with the flimsy cardboard folder in my hand, and I walked down the stairs and out onto the condo parking lot. I thought about the woman back up there in the condo. Diane Woods, my oldest friend here in Tyler Beach, who never once had seriously pressed me about who I was or what I did in my past. Not once. Now, not only was I hiding from her the identity of a homicide victim in her town, I had just spent the past ten minutes or so making her increasingly angry with me. What an accomplishment.

I guess I wasn't made for easy. I got into my Rover and drove away.

It was getting late and close to midnight, but the spat with Diane Woods had woken me up some. I stayed on Atlantic Avenue, heading north, past Roger Krohn's place. I had that confirming feeling that he and I would be spending some time together, when he came back here as the new police chief of Tyler.

Traffic was even lighter than when I had first driven past here with Diane, and the night air was still quite warm. I had the window rolled down and the stereo tuned to a classical music station from somewhere south as I rolled up the short coast. I drove past the Victorian splendor of the Lafayette House and the parking lot that led to my home, and I felt that little tug of unease you always get when you drive by your home and don't stop. You wonder what's going on in the empty and darkened rooms, and your imagination can race ahead of you, thinking of what might , occurring there while you're away.

After a few hundred feet, I crossed over the invisible line between Tyler and North Tyler, and I continued north, hesitating a moment as I passed Rosemount Lane, where Felix Tinios lived, in a ranch house that was near the ocean and which was remote enough so that no one could ever easily sneak up on him. I wondered where he was spending his hours this evening, for he had told me he was relying on a motel or hotel room in the area, and was staying far from his nest. There was that damn folder on the seat next to me, and I almost stopped and slid it under his door, but that would not be right. I would have to do something, but not tonight. No, not tonight. I had another destination ahead of me.

There are a couple of small beaches in North Tyler, none of which match the magnitude of Tyler Beach, and in a matter of minutes I crossed yet another invisible line and entered the town of Wallis. With the new town, the scenery and the homes that inhabit this part of the seacoast began to change. Most of the coastline turned from sandy beaches to a rugged collection of rocks, boulders and fissures, and most of the homes were transformed from rental cottages and condominiums to estates that would be right at home in Newport, Rhode Island, or on the Gold Coast of Long Island. Summer homes, of course, though many of them had been sold to successful businessmen and businesswomen and converted to year-round living. There are about a dozen of them and each summer tourists in cars with out-of-state license plates pulled over and helped the stock of the Kodak and Fuji companies by taking picture after picture of their elegance.

Most of the homes are set back away from Atlantic Avenue and have wide green lawns and gravel driveways behind fences or gates. Even at this hour of the night, every home I saw was well lit indoors with soft lights and outside with bright spotlights, and the cars parked before the great doors were all foreign.

It only took a couple of minutes and then I found the place I was looking for No. 4. It was easy enough, since the numeral 4 was inscribed in brass on the brick wall adjacent to the wrought iron gate. Another success story for the investigative reporter. I pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the engine and got out, my feet crunching on the dirt and gravel. A pickup truck loomed by, and was followed by two bulky men on Harley Davidsons. The full-bore throttle of those engines made the hair on the back of my arms rise up.