Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (12 page)

“No,” I said. “Besides being town counsel, Mark worked for a small law firm in town, run by Hannah Adams and Carl Lessard. Carl told me last night that Mark had been in contact with him, telling him that he was safe.”

“Did he say anything else?” Felix asked.

“No. I pressed him, but he wouldn’t say any more.”

Felix reflected on that for a few seconds. “All right, north it is. We’ll see if we can find Carl at his office or court, find a quiet moment to chat, and try to convince him of the error of his ways.”

“Suppose that doesn’t work?” Paula asked.

Felix checked his watch. “There’s other ways of convincing.”

Outside in the parking lot of Anthony’s, my Honda Pilot and Felix’s Mercedes-Benz were missing. In their place was a dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe, engine running, bearing New Hampshire license plates.

“Not that I’m not grateful, Felix, but I had some stuff in that Pilot.”

“All belongings were transferred when the Tahoe came here.”

“That’s nice, but the Pilot’s also a rental.”

“True,” Felix said, “and a man about your age, identifying himself as Lewis Cole, has just called the Tyler Police Department to report that his rental vehicle had earlier been stolen.”

“Where’s he calling from?”

“One of the few pay phones still in existence in Tyler. He’s also going to say that he will be unable to make a report in person to the Tyler police because of extenuating circumstances.”

“What kind of circumstances?”

Felix slapped his hands together. “How the hell would I know? What, you think I know everything?”

Paula said “You sure give that impression.”

In the Tahoe, I took the rear, while Paula and Felix sat up front. I saw that my possessions were folded and piled neatly in the back of the Tahoe, and placed in the center of the rear seat was my 9mm Beretta in its Bianchi leather holster. Next to my pistol was a box of 9mm ammunition. I removed the magazine from the Beretta, worked the action to take out the round in the chamber, and then slipped the round into the magazine. From the box of cartridges I removed two additional rounds, pushed them into the magazine with my thumb.

Fully loaded now, I slipped the magazine back into the handle of the Beretta, heard the satisfying click as it snapped in, and then worked the action, lowered the hammer, and placed the Beretta on safe.

Sliding my pistol back into the holster, I glanced up, saw that Paula had turned in her seat, had watched every motion.

“Even when you were shooting back there, in Tyler, it all seemed make-believe,” Paula said. “Now . . . it’s too goddamn real.”

I put my holstered weapon back at my side.

“Lots to be said for make-believe,” I said. Paula turned around, and soon we were on Interstate 95, heading north back to Tyler.

Along the drive north, Paula made two phone calls, both relatively quick: she called the
Chronicle
and said she wasn’t coming in for the rest of the day, or tomorrow. She also called the law offices of Adams & Lessard, and said “unh-hunh, unh-hunh” a few times, and then disconnected her call.

“Must be something going around,” Paula said. “Carl Lessard called in sick today as well.”

“Hope it’s not catching,” Felix said. “Paula, you know where Attorney Lessard lives?”

“Sure,” she said. “Easy enough to get to. Spent a couple of ghastly evenings there with the witch that’s the partner and Mark, along with assorted friends and spouses.”

Up ahead finally were the main Tyler tollbooths, which greet northbound travelers about five minutes after they cross the border into my home
state. Probably not much of a welcome, but at least there’s a state liquor store just before to ease the pain. Before we got to the tollbooths, Felix took the last exit, which took us into Falconer and Route 1, thereby avoiding being tracked via the tollbooth. During the drive, Felix had the Tahoe’s radio set to WBZ-AM, the main news station out of Boston; and when we got on the main road leading to Tyler, there was a news-brief at the bottom of the hour, and the second news item concerned Hurricane Toni. It had been upgraded to a Category Two hurricane, and was still heading north. In a couple of days, the National Weather Service said, it was possible that all of New England would be under a hurricane watch.

Paula turned once more. “Sorry to hear that, Lewis.”

“I’ll be all right, thanks.”

Felix said, “What’s going on? Still no insurance settlement?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe your insurance agent needs some encouragement. You ever think of that?”

“One Don Quixote mission at a time,” I said.

Paula muttered, “Don Quixote was an optimist.”

We then stopped at the intersection of Lafayette Road and High Street, where several hours ago I had broken several traffic laws, town ordinances, and state laws to grab Paula before she got taken away by Reeve Langley. The street in front of the town common was clear. There was no Suburban with shot-out tires resting there.

“Paula, any idea what happened to the Suburban that was there this morning?”

“Jonah told me, right after I told him I was calling in sick. He said that after the shooting . . . the Suburban drove out on two flat tires, got abandoned in the woods off Meadowland Road. Police are currently investigating, so forth and so on.”

The light turned green. Felix said: “Threatening a motorcycle gang leader, taking somebody away that he wanted to talk to, and disabling his ride. Hell of a full morning you had there, Lewis.”

“True, and I’m hoping the rest of the day isn’t as full.”

“Don’t count on it,” Felix said, and we drove down High Street in silence.

F
ollowing Paula’s directions, Felix took a series of turns off of High Street, near the famed Tyler Beach. It was starting to get dark as the sun set, and I saw an old, faded
JACKSON HALE FOR PRESIDENT
sign flapping in the breeze.

That campaign sign seemed to get Paula’s attention, and she asked, “Hey, whatever happened to that lawyer girl you were dating, Lewis, the one who was working on Senator Hale’s campaign?”

“It’s been over now for almost a month.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“Politics.”

“A conflict, then?”

“I suppose,” I said. “She loved politics. I didn’t. End of story.”

Felix grunted. We were on Herbert Street, near the ocean, and then Paula said “That’s the house up there, on the right. The gray ranch.”

Which made sort of ironic sense, I suppose. The gray man, the gray lawyer, living in a gray house. It had gray siding, black shingles, and black shutters on the windows. The yard was small but neatly kept, with only a few fall leaves making a stand on the perfectly groomed grass. There was an attached one-car garage to the right, and Carl Lessard’s vehicle, a
salt-stained red Chrysler LeBaron, was parked in the driveway. There was another house to the right, and to the left—a rarity in Tyler—there was an undeveloped stretch of woods.

Felix didn’t slow down as he drove past Carl’s house, and Paula said, “Hey, that’s the place! You’re driving right by it!”

“I certainly am,” Felix said. “Hold on for a sec, young lady.”

He went on for about twenty yards or so, and there was a wide dirt-and-gravel space off the road to the right. Felix pulled in, dimmed the lights, kept the engine running.

“No need to advertise to the world that we’re here for a visit,” he said. “So Lewis and I, we’ll step out, trot up to the house for a friendly visit, a friendly chit-chat, and then we’ll come back here.”

Paula said “No, I want to come along.”

“Ah, but as you pointed out earlier, that’s a non-starter. Lewis and I will do what needs to be done.”

She turned in my direction, face red. “Lewis?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Felix is right. Three people are one too many. And Felix and I . . . we may get insistent. It’s best for you if you stay behind, so if there’s any . . . complications, you won’t get caught up in it.”

“I can handle myself!”

“Absolutely,” I said. “But suppose . . . and I know this is a wild shot in the dark . . . but suppose everything gets cleared up in a day or two. We find out the Stonecold Falcons have made a mistake, I pay for two tires, give apologies, and we find Mark safe and happy. What kind of reception will he get back at work if you were there when we talked to someone from his firm?”

She seemed primed for a fight, and then she sat back in her seat. “Damn you. That does make sense.”

“Good!” Felix said. “I’ll leave the keys here so you can listen to the radio. Climb over here and take the steering wheel. We shouldn’t be gone long. But if something unusual happens, anything at all, drive away. Lewis and I will be able to fend for ourselves.”

“What do you mean ‘unusual’?”

Felix opened the door. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

I stepped out with Felix, carrying the leather shoulder holster that held my Beretta, and we walked a bit; and when we were out of view
of Paula, I shrugged off my jacket, slipped on the holster, and put my jacket back on.

“Glad to see you’re carrying,” Felix murmured.

“Wish I wasn’t.”

“Me too,” he said, as we approached the front of Carl Lessard’s house.

We went up the flagstone walkway and I peered into a bay window in front, where I could see that a television was on, and not much else. Felix rang the doorbell by using the blunt end of a fountain pen. I could hear the chimes ring out, and waited, running through scenarios, points of conversation, ways of convincing Carl that he had to tell us where Mark was hiding out.

Felix pushed the doorbell again. I peered through the window. It looked like the five
P.M.
news program from the main television station over in Manchester. Even from here I could hear the volume.

Felix went to push the doorbell once more, hesitated. I nodded. “He’s not coming to the door.”

“Nope.”

“Still . . . I think we need to check out what we can.”

No answer from Felix; but through some alchemy he’s able to do, his own 9mm pistol was in his right hand. In his left was a handkerchief, and he slowly opened the storm door. I had my own pistol in hand, pulled back the hammer. Putting the handkerchief on the doorknob, Felix slowly rotated it.

It was unlocked.

He pushed the door open and I followed him in. The living room was sparse, neat, the furniture looking like it had come in from Sears about thirty years earlier. Adjacent to the living room was a wide kitchen, and there was a hallway to the left, down which Felix disappeared. I went to the kitchen, gave it a quick glance; and then Felix came back from the hallway, his face calm and looking like it had just been carved from stone.

“They got to him,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I moved past Felix and started down the narrow carpeted hallway, and the dull smell of copper reached me. Felix said “You don’t have to look.”

“Sure I do,” I said.

There was a closed door to the right, an open one to the left. I was preparing myself as much as I could, and even then my mind refused to
process it at first. My eyes saw what they saw, and part of my mind that wanted everything to be safe and secure said hey, what you’re looking at is no big deal, it must be an overdue Halloween gag or gift. There was a clothed shape sprawled out on a double bed, ankles and wrists bound by wire. Blood had stained the yellow plaster walls. There was a set of bureaus, another low bureau with a row of books. On the bureau were a few photographs, most of them black and white. I stared at the photos, just wanting to get things together.

The photos were family portraits. I saw a man and woman at a wedding, and a couple of schoolboy shots that looked like a very young Carl Lessard. The wedding portrait was probably of his parents. A smear of rust-brown blood had dripped down the glass.

I turned around. There was a pillow over the upper torso; on the floor, an empty two-liter soda bottle. Felix grabbed my arm.

“Seen enough?”

“Yes.”

“You should have listened to me.”

“No,” I said. “I had to see this. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Outside I wanted to take a minute or five just to stand out in the cool air, take deep breaths, and feel good at being alive, but I kept on moving. Bad enough what had happened in that pleasant Seacoast ranch house, but it would be worse if some inquiring neighbors saw Felix and me enter and then leave the house and hang around the front lawn.

Felix walked with me and said: “I know you feel like running, but no running. People walking around a neighborhood like this don’t draw attention. Runners do.”

“Not if they’re wearing sweatpants and sneakers.”

“Good point.”

It was now past dusk, and streetlights were starting to come on. I said, “The TV was on loud to hide their work. They went at him and went at him, and when they were done, they used a pillow to mask the sound of the gunshot.”

“You see the soda bottle on the floor?”

“I did.”

“Poor man’s silencer,” Felix explained. “Put the muzzle end through the mouth of the bottle, and aim close. Sloppy as hell; but at close range, it’ll work.”

“Now Reeve and his crew know where Mark is hiding out. It’s going to be a rough night for him unless he’s very, very lucky.”

Felix stopped walking. I saw what he was looking at.

The place where he had parked the Tahoe was empty. Paula Quinn was gone.

“Looks like it’s going to be a rough night all around,” he said. “You got your cell phone?”

“I most certainly do. It’s in the Tahoe. You?”

“In the Tahoe as well.” He sighed. “Well, maybe they’re in the back seat, copulating, and we’ll have a tablet when this is all done.”

I looked around at the deserted street. I could make out the distant sound of waves coming in.

“Felix.”

“Yeah.”

“Less than a day ago, I was talking with Carl Lessard. At this point, all he wanted in life was to work one more year, and then retire south to Florida, where he could have a life he’s always dreamed of. You saw what they did to him . . . in the bedroom of his own home. I don’t feel like joking right now. Let’s start walking.”