Black Tide (3 page)

It could be true, I thought. The police chief was away on medical leave, being treated for cancer, and if anybody knew when and if he might come back, they weren't talking. This boy was fairly smart then. Show the local yokels a good job and they'd think twice of him if the applications started coming in for the chief's position.

"Lewis," she said when she got close to me. "I want you to meet Roger Krohn. He's the detective with the Massachusetts State Police I told you about."

Roger looked about thirty-five, which made him my age, and he was a couple of inches taller than me and wearing a short-sleeved blue-and-white-striped shirt and tan chinos. His face was angular and his nose was just a tad too large, and he had light brown hair that was thick and parted on the side, the type of hair that dries in about five seconds and looks perfect for the rest of the day. His smile was tentative, for like all cops, he wanted to know what was going on, and he wasn't sure who I was and how I was connected with Diane. His eyes seemed blue and were squinty, as if the sun off the beach sands disturbed him.

He held out a beefy looking hand. I reached up and grabbed it, and his grasp was dry and firm. I said, "I'm sure you don't mind that I don't instantly jump up."

His smile became less tentative. "I can see why. Not a problem." Diane said, "Lewis is our resident writer in this town. He writes for a magazine out of Boston, called
Shoreline
."

Roger looked slightly impressed. "Really? A magazine writer. But Lewis, I'm sorry to say that I've never heard of
Shoreline.
"

"Don't worry," I said. "It seems like no one has."

Diane smiled at me and squatted down and said, "I've read over what you gave the first guys on the scene. Fairly straightforward, Lewis. Anything else you can add? Anything more since you've been here?"

The taste of rubber was still strong in my mouth. "Nope. Just taking it easy on my rear deck and spotted something floating off North Beach. Figured it was a lump of seaweed or a large tar ball until I saw the flippers poke up."

Roger said, "You have good eyesight."

"I was using binoculars. Seven-by-fifties."

He smiled. "Checking out the babes on the beach, right?"

I decided then that Detective Roger Krohn had a wonderful career ahead for him in Massachusetts, where he and I would probably never meet again.

I said, "I'm sure it might come as a surprise to someone from the big city, but when you live by the ocean, you like to look at the ocean. Sailboats. The Isles of Shoals. Birds."

Diane said quietly, no doubt trying to defuse the situation, "Then what?"

"Then I called Tyler dispatch and grabbed some rope and came down here and went into the water. Damn near froze everything I'm proud to own. And then I snagged the body with the length of rope and dragged it in, and when I saw what happened to it, I nearly lost the day's meals, and then I started talking to your comrades."

"Why did you do it, Lewis?" Roger asked, also squatting down next to me.

"Do what?" I said.

"Go into the water like that to retrieve the body," he said. "It wasn't like the guy was in trouble or was drowning. You could have waited."

I thought of what I should have said to him. That some years ago friends of mine had died in the high desert of Nevada, and that all their families knew was the lie that they had died in an aircraft accident, that the bodies were burned and charred beyond recognition, and that no remains were retrievable. That somewhere, somebody would want this poor body in the ocean back, and I wasn't going to allow it to drift away.

Instead I said, "It seemed to be the thing to do."

Roger nodded and got up and brushed some sand from his pant legs and said, "Pretty ballsy move."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

By then he almost looked shy, and I noticed that he was developing a bit of gut, and he didn't seem so perfect after all. "Listen, Lewis, I didn't mean to jerk you around like that. Place I come from, the only time someone wants to retrieve a body, they want to see if it's carrying a fat wallet. Know what I mean? So I didn't mean to come on to you that strong. And I meant what I laid --- going in after this floater was a pretty ballsy move."

I decided then that I was tired and felt miserable and that Roger Krohn probably didn't kill puppies for a living. I said,  “Not a problem."

He shook my hand again and said, "Diane? Will you excuse me for a minute? I want to see how the photos are coming along." She said that was just fine and when Roger was out of earshot I said, "Is he as good a detective as he is a politician?"

Diane was balancing the clipboard on her knees, which were tanned. "What do you mean?"

“After giving me the big smart detective routine, he remembered that you and I were friends. And then he was Mr. Apologies.”

She laughed and said, "Stories he's been telling me about Boston, Lewis, would curl your hair. And I mean stories about politics and the work. So cut him some slack. He's not too to the slow pace of this town."

I nodded over at the people standing around the body. “Some slow pace, Diane."

“Yeah, I know."

"I never did take forensics or animal science in college, but I would say that the poor diver did more than drown, and I don't think his body was nibbled on by sharks or tumbled around by a boat's propeller while he was in the water. Someone took off his head and hands, Diane. Nice and clean."

She looked down at her clipboard. "That's a fair observation. Someone did take care of this guy, wanting to make it hard for him to be identified, and they did a pretty good job. Oh, we'll check his wet-suit gear to see if it was rental, and we'll do a canvass of the dive shops up and down the coast, see if that works. But I doubt it. If there's anything traceable on that wet suit, I'll give you good odds that it's already gone. Starting the job to ID this guy means we're already starting from a deep hole."

By now Roger Krohn was back with the small group of officers around the body, clipboard in hand. A few yards away a young Tyler police officer in his dark green uniform was talking to two young ladies in black-and-white bikinis. Their skins were oily and slick and even with that horror only some feet away, they were smiling at the officer. I guess his presence had a calming effect.

I said, "But without an identity, what's the point?"

She got back up on her feet. "What do you mean?"

"Without word getting out that this guy is dead, what's the point?" I asked. "The only people who'll know that our diver is dead are the guys who did it. So maybe they left the wet suit on as a message, so someone reading tomorrow's paper will know that his or her husband, brother or father --- who's also missing from a trip up here involving skin diving --- has just turned up at Tyler Beach with his head and hands missing. They get the message. And it'll be interesting to see what kinds of calls you get, once this hits the papers." "

Not a bad thought," she said, and when I decided to stand up and go home, she said quietly, "You intending to write a column about this one?"

I brushed the sand off my hands and looked at her. She didn't look mad or angry. Just curious. Each month I have a 2,0000-word column in
Shoreline
, called "Granite Shores." I have the freedom to write about practically anything I want, so long as it has something to do with this state's eighteen-mile coast, the shortest in the United States.
Shoreline
covers the New England coast, from Eastport in Maine to Greenwich Point in Connecticut, and what with the boating industry, the US. Navy and the hundreds of years of history along these New Hampshire shores, I've not yet tired of having to come up with a monthly column.

Then there are my other projects, my other "columns." One was my current attempt to find out the parties responsible for the
Petro Star
. Other columns I've done in the past in Tyler have led me down some paths that have also been trod upon by Diane Woods, and over the years we have come to an agreement on what I do. So I knew that my answer to her one question would cause her to make some decisions and assumptions about her investigation. I decided then to make it clean and clear.

I said, "Diane, I'm tired. I've been tired for a while. I think I'm going to pass on doing a column on this one."

She put the clipboard under her arm. In the dark clouds approaching from the north, there was a flash of lightning, and a boom that came only a few seconds later. Less than a mile away and closing fast. "You still feeling down from your operation?"

I shrugged. "I'm doing better. Honest. And I appreciate the cards and visits last month, you know that. And if this had happened last summer, yeah, I'd probably be doing a column. But right now, well, I'm not particularly interested in looking up the names and addresses of people who can sleep at night after cutting someone's head and hands off."

She nodded. "I know, I know," she said, almost sighing, turning to look down at the group around the body and then turning back to look at me. "This past summer's been rough, Lewis, real rough. And with the chief's condition up in the air… The department's in a shambles, with the two deputy chiefs practically pounding on each other over who sets policy and controls the budget. I just try to do my job, but it doesn't seem like I've been winning that much, Lewis. There's too much going on with too many tourists and not enough cops, and then this diver washes up ashore. And now I'm going to have to try to look up those names and addresses you mentioned."

For a moment her face was troubled, as though she had gone many hours without sleep and seen many awful things with thick smells, and she said with a bleak tone, ''At least you have a choice, Lewis. "

And then she went back to the body.

When I made my way up the short concrete stairs that led to the opening through the seawall that was next to the sidewalk on Atlantic Avenue, a young woman was coming through, wearing loose black slacks, white sneakers and a plain white T-shirt. She had a handbag over her shoulder and a reporter's notebook in her hand, and she had on dark aviator-type sunglasses. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and her ears stuck out at a slight angle. Paula Quinn, reporter for the
Tyler Chronicle
and second-best writer in Tyler, stopped at the bottom of the steps as I came closer.

And then she surprised me. She actually smiled. "Lewis Cole. I guess the story is true. You were the one who discovered the body."

"My reputation precedes me," I said, conscious that she looked as if she had just stepped away from a beach party, while I looked as if I had spent the night inside the North Beach rest rooms. My shorts and NASA T-shirt were soaked and crusty with beach sand. I carried my binoculars in my right hand, and I was happy to leave behind the rope I had brought to the beach.

"Maybe your reputation does precede you, but the cop directing traffic up there told me you were here."

"How did you hear?"

"Came over the scanner, Lewis. We started something where we rotate weekend duty, and I have to check with the local cop shops. I also have to stay within ten miles of home in case a story breaks, like this one. It really stinks. But tell me what happened."

I said, "Off the record?"

"Off the record." She nodded, and I told her. She took a few notes, and even with what had happened --- or hadn't happened --- I trusted her not to use me in her story. There are many times I like to keep a low profile, and this was one of those times. Being publicly ID'd as the guy who discovered a headless and handless diver would definitely not contribute to that fine effort.

Then she looked up at me and said, "How are you feeling, Lewis?"

A lot of things and phrases came to mind, and I just said, “I’m doing okay. And thanks for your cards. Both of them."

The minute I said those last three words, I regretted it. But her smile didn't waver. She nodded and said, "That was a good one. I guess you are doing better."

"I guess." She just stood there, and I said, "It's been a while, Paula. Haven't seen you since you spent the night at my place, back in June. Before I went into the hospital. How are you doing?"

She shook her head and said, "I'm doing all right."

I said nothing and she returned the favor, and then she sighed and said, "Lewis, I'm sorry but this conversation is like being in a dentist's chair without Novocain. I've got to get to work and talk to Diane Woods and find out what the hell is going on. Look, I know we've got some things that need to be cleared up but I've got to get this story. I'll give you a call."

Paula went by and I said nothing else, because with my wet clothes and what I had seen on the beach sand and other things, I was in no mood to talk. I just nodded my head and walked across the street to my Range Rover.

And through it all, she kept her sunglasses on, which I found disturbing. I had wanted to see her eyes, to see what they were saying to me.

I drove north along Atlantic Avenue, which is also known as Route 1A. There are a lot of roads in this part of the world that have two and even three names. Some of the old maps show this road being called Ocean Boulevard, but that was changed sometime in the mid-1920s. From what I've been able to figure out, some investors building a hotel at the beach wanted something to mirror Atlantic City, and Atlantic Avenue was as good as they could get. The investors soon went bust and their hotel was never completed. I have a feeling their ghosts knew what had happened to the real Atlantic City and they probably decided they got off easy.