Black Tide (28 page)

I leaned against the Rover's fender. At my back was a seawall --- or berm ---- made of rock and dirt, hiding the tumbled mass of rocks that at this point made up the shore of New Hampshire's Seacoast. Beyond the mound of dirt and the rocks was the sound of the ocean's waves, roaring in and then roaring out, no doubt disappointed that they couldn't touch the expensive mansion cross the way. The house was huge, with two large wings on either side that were made up of fluted columns and floor-to-ceiling windows. The gate was closed and the driveway was made of crushed stone, going up to a circle at the front of the home. The lawn looked like a green carpet and seemed to be one of those expanses of grasses that have not once ever felt the foul touch of a weed. There was an Audi parked out front. There was no movement in the yard or from the windows of the home. It seemed quiet and peaceful, yet the man in that lovely and elegant home had done something horrible to this seacoast. Whenever the wind shifted, I still caught a whiff of the foreign oil which had been dumped here.

Cameron Briggs. It was fairly ironic that he had a summer home on a part of the coast which was polluted by a tanker that he owned, but it was probably just a matter of time. There were many creaky tankers in the Petro Associates fleet, and it was probably just fate or kismet that one of those tankers would fulfill its destiny right on his doorstep. Another example, I suppose, of God showing that He had a sense of humor.

A Nissan slid by on Atlantic Avenue, its radio blaring some trumpet march, and the sound made me jump. Then a little voice began to whisper urges at me, encouraging little messages that said I should walk across the street and clamber over the brick wall and stroll up to that quiet and rich home and start pounding the door, demanding entrance, demanding Cameron Briggs, demanding answers.

Sure. Then I would spend the night in the Wallis police lockup. I thought that right about now Diane Woods would be content to let me rest there. Felix couldn't bail me out, and Paula Quinn, well, I guess it was time to see Paula again. I hadn't talked to her since that uncomfortable hour or so in the park so many days ago. It would be good to see her again. For professional reasons, of course. Before getting back into the Rover, I again caught the scent of petroleum, and I couldn't guess if the spill had caused Cameron Briggs any discomfort. But I was going to find out.

Chapter Sixteen

Before having lunch with Paula Quinn on Thursday I spent an hour or so at the Gilliam Memorial Library, which is near the center of town and about three miles away from Tyler Beach. Among its cool stacks of books, quiet reading areas and softly whirring fans, it was hard to believe that one of the Northeast's largest beach resorts was only about ten minutes away, and that sweating people in bathing suits supported the operation of this quiet library. A true story, but it was a miniature tale of how New Hampshire has supported itself for many a year: not from a sales tax or an income tax, but from an unrelenting reliance on the dollar of the tourist.

Which was fine, so long as you didn't mind paying high ,'property taxes, and so long as a recession or an oil embargo didn't keep the tourists away. A gamble, but one that our governor and citizen legislature take with determination every two years. During my time there, I found some additional information about Cameron Briggs through the usual references, such as Who's Who. He was about three years older than me, was born in New York City, and went to a private school called Collingwood, and then spent four years at Phillips Exonia, just down the street. From there he did the standard routine at Harvard, getting his MBA and then instantly working his way through a number of business and real estate companies. Names like Park Avenue Associates and the Briggs Management Company, as well as a couple of companies that seemed to be computer firms. Conquest Software. Brass Cannon Systems. Married to the former Joanne Ward Maynard and divorced, no children. Residences in New York City, on Long Island and in Wallis, New Hampshire. Active in a few charities in New York City: the Metropolitan Opera, the Central Park Trust and the Harbor Preservation Society.

But in this semi-official listing, nothing about Petro Associates. Nothing at all.

Why the big secret?

I spent ten cents and made a quick copy of Briggs's entry, and then put the red-leather volume back on the reference shell. I had the basics, but nothing I could touch, nothing I could hold in my hands. I needed some more information before I went traipsing up that gravel driveway, and this little entry from Who’s Who wasn't going to do it. I glanced up at the wall clock. I had another half hour before my lunch date, and I went back to work. In those thirty minutes I searched through the indexes of the
Boston Globe
, the
New York Times
and a couple of years' worth of
Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature
, and I found not one reference to Operation Harpoon.

Secrets, and this library wasn't going to help, as good as it was.

After lunch at the southern end of the beach, Paula and I walked for a while, each of us slurping on a cold drink, and we sat on a park bench near the harbor, looking at some of the moored boats and the gulls flying overhead. Most of the moorings were empty, with trawlers and lobster boats out doing a hard day's work on the lonely ocean.

Paula wore knee-length white shorts and a short-sleeved red blouse, and through the meal she'd had on her dark sunglasses, but for some reason that didn't bother me. She laughed a lot as we ate and I felt good about it. I enjoyed seeing her eyebrows ach above her sunglasses. I tried to guess in my own mind what her eyes looked like. I guessed that they were shiny and slightly mischievous, and I was happy with my fantasy.

She sipped on a large 7-Up and ice and allowed herself a small smile. "Every April or so I get anxious, waiting for summer to begin. Just waiting for those warm days, getting your shorts out, and not worrying about keeping your oil tank filled any more. I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes the happiest day of the month is taking down the storm windows and putting up the screens. It means summer's here. No more cold mornings. No more heating bills. No more frost to scrape off the windshields."

"Right," I said. ''And then you start digging out the insect repellent, you start paying higher electric bills because of air conditioning, and your clothes start to fall apart because you're sweating all the time."

She laughed and said, "Well, I tell you, in April I'm waiting for summer to roll in, but right now is when I start waiting for it to roll right out. I start thinking about cool nights, foliage, pumpkins and empty roads. In October, it takes me all of ten minutes to get to the police station from the
Chronicle.
A day like today, how does forty minutes sound? Forty minutes, to get from center of town to the beach. I'm getting tired of it, and I'm getting tired of writing beach stories. Today's the first of August. Labor Day's only four weeks away, and I can hardly wait."

"You working on anything fun?" I asked. ''And are you still looking to get out?"

She played with the straw in her cup for a moment. "No to the first one, Lewis. I'm just biding my time, until Labor Day passes, and then I'm taking a week off. That means a yes to the second question. I'm still job hunting, and I'm going to make some calls during that week. Maybe make an appointment or two. I tell you, right about now, I'm not too sure if I can spend another summer writing stories at the beach. It's the same stuff year in and year out. Accidents, arrests, beach business results, number of tourists passing through every weekend. Just change the names every year, and some years you don't even have to do that. How about you, Lewis? How goes
Shoreline
?"

A lot of things had been going on with my life recently, none really connected to
Shoreline
, but I decided then to try something and I said, "I'm thinking of doing a follow-up on the
Petro Star
spill, sort of talk to some leading residents who live on the seacoast, ask them how the spill might have affected them. Everybody does a story about the fisherman or the guy who owns a motel at the beach. I want to try somebody different."

”You got anybody in mind?"

"That I do," I said, wondering if this really constituted lying. ''A guy named Cameron Briggs. Lives up in Wallis. You ever hear of him?"

Then Paula surprised me by giggling so hard that her sunglasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them up and said, "Lewis, my poor boy. You really don't read the
Chronicle
that much, do you?"

My skin seemed to warm up, and I was sure it wasn't he sun moving in any closer.  “Whenever I see anything interesting on the front page, I do pick it up, honest. Paula, it takes me more than an hour a day just to read the
New York Times
and the
Boston Globe
and ---“

Look," she interrupted. "The
Chronicle
's just a small town paper, but you should read it more often. Not because I work there --- though that's a good reason --- but because there are times when we report on some interesting stories in spite of ourselves.”

I knew I was being set up but I didn't care. "Such as?'"

"Such as the front-page story last month about the annual Fashion Show to benefit the Exonia Hospital. You see, on front page there was a photo and story ---both done by the papers best reporter, yours truly --- and in the photo was a model, the head  of the trustees for the Exonia Hospital and one Cameron Briggs. For the last three years the fashion show has been held in Wallis, on the grounds of Mr. Briggs's summer home. So to answer your question, Lewis, yes, I have heard of Cameron Briggs."

There are times when I have been tempted to tell Paula every detail of my past life, and what I used to do for the Department of Defense, but this was not one of those times. For one thing, I doubt she would believe me, and for another thing, after this I was too embarrassed to even bring up my former job.

Reading the local newspaper. Not a hard thing to do. It can even prove helpful once in a while. Think you can remember?

I tried not to look too stupid and I said, "What kind of guy is he?"

By then she had stopped laughing. "Oh, typical idle rich, up in the rural sticks of New Hampshire every summer, away from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. The guy who tries to fit in by hosting the year's biggest fashion show every summer and then showing up in tan pants and Dock-Siders with no socks. So rich he can be comfortable anywhere. The society women around just adore him. Without the fashion show, about the only highlight is the occasional golf tournament or sailing party. I've interviewed him a couple of times about the fashion show. If you get a chance to talk to him, good luck."

"Why's that?"

She shrugged. "Hard to explain. He's the perfect gentleman, the perfect host. I've talked to him when he had these old society girls hanging off his shoulders, cooing and giving him air kisses. He was smiling and telling me how he enjoyed being up here, giving something back to the community, but there was something wrong with his eyes, Lewis. They weren't looking at me, they weren't looking at the society women, they weren't looking at the models." For just a second Paula's voice turned solemn. "I don't know where his eyes were looking, but it wasn't nice. It was like he wished everybody there was dead and gone, so he could stop with the act of being the nice rich boy, up here to do good. I think there's something very hard inside there, Lewis, and I wouldn't ever want to be alone with him."

Remembering how I had left Diane Woods the other night, I decided not to press things and I asked her about the latest gossip regarding a selectman in North Tyler and his habit of going to an adult bookstore in Porter. After a few minutes of talking and another bout of laughter, Paula said it was time to go. As she got up and slung her leather purse over her shoulder, she said, "Next time we get together, I'll bring that clipping about the fashion show. If anything, you'll like the model in the picture, She had a nice bod."

I winked at her. "Oh, I'm doing just fine now, thank you."

She kissed me on the cheek, not sisterly at all. "Put your eyes away, you brute. And I'll see you later."

"I'd like that."

Another smile. "Me too." She walked over to her Escort and I headed to the center of Tyler in my Rover, and though I was stuck in traffic on Route 1 for about fifteen minutes, I couldn't stop smiling.

After my lunch with Paula, I stopped at the big Shop 'N Save grocery store on Route 1 in the center of Tyler. I do most my eating in restaurants but I do have to get the essentials every now and then --- such as paper towels, trash bags and the odd food item --- and this day seemed to be as good as any.

I took my time, strolling the clean aisles and enjoying watching the young women with children who seemed driven to load up those wheeled grocery carts with as much food as possible. Me, I don't think I've ever used a wheeled cart in my life. With only a couple of items left to get for the day, I was in the frozen food section picking up six containers of Minute Maid lemonade, when he came up next to me.

"Been a while, Lewis," the voice said. I recognized the voice right away and finished putting the containers of lemonade away in my grocery basket, covering up a copy of the day's
Chronicle
in the process. I looked over at Felix Tinios, who had a bag of grapes in one hand. He had on dark khaki shorts with big pockets that looked as if they came from British soldier on the North African front in 1942 and a yellow T-shirt that had some Italian phrase on it I couldn't translate.