By Familiar Means (23 page)

Except we all did know. Jake would be tried for murder. Of course he'd be found innocent, because he didn't do it. I repeated this thought to myself a few extra times. Firmly.

“You have talked to Shelly Kinsdale, right?” I said.

“We have,” agreed Pete. “I take it you have, too?”

I looked to Frank. Frank just took a long swallow of coffee.

Kenisha sighed. “The press is avoiding us, Pete.”

“Frank, it's late.” Pete slumped even further over the table. “I would like to be home with my wife, but I'm not. I'm here, because somebody's got to try to keep the lieutenant from running away with this. So, help out here. Did you talk to Shelly Kinsdale?”

It took a lot of strength to hold out against Pete, especially when he started looking tired, because Pete was an okay guy, and you realized that as soon as you looked at him. It might have all been an act, but it was a very good act.

Frank actually managed to hesitate a whole three seconds before he said, “She had a lot to say about some plans for a new hotel.” Frank took a long swallow of coffee and raised his mug to signal the waitress he needed a warm-up. “Are you sure there couldn't be a connection with the new development and Jimmy's death? Especially since he had a lot of money on him. It could have been a bribe. Or a payoff.”

“It could have,” said Kenisha. “But it also could have been drug money, and we've got no proof either way. Unless you know something more?”

Frank swirled his coffee and said nothing.

“What have you got, Frank?” asked Kenisha. “Come on, nobody wants to see the Luces railroaded.”

“I know you don't,” Pete put in. “You've known Jake and Miranda even longer than I have.”

“I thought you didn't approve of civilian interference, Pete.”

“I don't,” agreed Pete. “Dangerous for everybody. But this isn't interference, right? This is cooperation.”

“And right now we're going to need all of it we can get,” added Kenisha.

I had never actually seen a good cop–good cop strategy. Like Pete's okay-guy attitude, it was surprisingly effective.

Frank took another long drink of coffee. His gaze strayed around the diner as if he was looking for clues as to how he should answer, or maybe he just wanted to check and see if anyone was paying attention to us. They weren't. A burst of laughter exploded from the frat-boy table, accompanied by a whole lot of high fives and fist bumps. Kelly Pierce and her business/midnight-breakfast partner exchanged another set of pages over their omelets.

Frank set his mug down. “I am hearing rumors, but they're contradictory. On the one hand, I've got people saying the hotel is looking at expansion.”

“It's already huge,” I said.

“But it's vintage huge,” said Frank. “Which is attractive in its own way, but might not necessarily suit the needs of the—and I have the quote marks written in here—‘modern luxury traveler.' My sources say the Hildes are pricing out what it would take to turn Harbor's Rest into a full-fledged exclusive resort.”

I wondered who those sources were, and if their names were Hilde, Kinsdale or maybe even McNally. “What would that have to do with Jake and Miranda?”

“Have you got an hour?” said Kenisha. “You're about to be treated to a trip through the wide, wonderful world of zoning ordinances.”

“Well, it's really not that complicated,” drawled Pete. “Jake and Miranda are community activists. They—along with plenty of our fellow seacoast citizens—think enough of the riverfront has been fenced in and what's left should be saved for parks, public recreation and nature preserves, that kind of thing. If the Harbor's Rest expands, so will the amount of riverfront that's closed off. The more exclusive they want the place to be, the tighter the enclosure. You can
bet that Jake and Miranda and their group will be showing up at every planning commission and city council meeting to try to keep that from happening.”

“And the city council are on Jake and Miranda's side, for the moment, anyway,” said Frank.

Which would go a long way toward explaining the mutual bad attitude between the Luces and the Hildes.

“So that's one kind of rumor,” said Kenisha. “What's the other?”

Frank set his empty mug down. “The other rumor is that the hotel is on shaky ground and if it can't turn things around in a hurry, they're going to close.”

25

“I don't suppose . . .” began Pete, but Frank was already shaking his head. Kenisha glanced at me, and I shook my head, too.

“Which rumor do you believe?” Kenisha asked Frank very quietly. “Build or bust?”

“I'm not sure yet.” Frank raised his mug to signal the waitress one more time. “It might be half and half. The Hildes might be gambling on an expansion and renovation to bring in new business to keep them from having to shut down.”

“But if Jake and Miranda's protests to the city council were making that expansion difficult, the Hildes would have reason to be angry at them.”

“And the Hildes are not known for playing particularly nice,” said Frank. “And Mrs. Hilde is a friend of Lieutenant Blanchard.”

The frat boys were laughing again. This time, Kelly Pierce and her partner looked up in irritation, or maybe it was surprise. Frank scrunched sideways and I ducked my head. The cops sitting on the other side from us exchanged
knowing glances. The two women up front didn't seem to notice any of this. They just started gathering up their papers. Kelly signaled to the waitress for the check while the other woman pulled out a smartphone and tapped at the screen.

“I wonder which rumor Jimmy Upton believed.” I said. Some previous customer, or waitress, had left a Bic ballpoint on the table. I pulled off the cap and began doodling on my place mat.

“Now, that's an interesting question.” Pete drained his cup just as the waitress arrived. Accurately assessing the situation, she just put the full pot down on the table and walked away.

Frank poured himself some more coffee, and then some for Pete and Kenisha. I was falling behind. Could you drink somebody under the table when what you were drinking was coffee?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. Pierce and partner walk out the front door without looking back. I let out a long sigh of relief.

“And you're thinking . . . what, Anna?” prompted Pete.

“She's thinking how money we found with Upton's body is related to Frank's rumors,” said Kenisha, as she watched my blue ink lines turn into the Harbor's Rest, and the old drugstore, with a rope tying them together.

“Actually, I'm trying to figure out how Blanchard can make any kind of case for Jake and Miranda being able to hide a body down in that tunnel,” I asked out loud. “The trapdoor in the Luces' basement wasn't exactly out in the open. I had to move about a dozen bricks to even see it, and Jake and Miranda had to take the hinges off to even get it open.”

“And if this goes any further, I'm sure we're all going to want to talk to you about that,” said Pete. “But, Anna, you are going to have to consider the fact that since you've taken a payment from the Luces, you are not exactly an objective witness.”

“You're kidding me,” I breathed. “It was for some artwork. I know Blanchard doesn't believe me, but, Pete . . .”

Pete cut me off. “Sure, sure, sure. I know you, but you need to see this from the outside. I know it's not fair, but it would really help us out if you could show us the contract to prove you were being considered for the job before this mess blew up.”

“Why do I have to prove anything?” I snapped, because I was getting scared again, and being scared makes me cranky, especially at one in the morning. “I'm not a suspect . . .” But the rest of my protest died in my throat, because the reply was already forming in the air between us.

No, I wasn't a suspect. Yet.

I stared at the rest of the diner, at the frat boys and their heaps of pancakes and the waitress leaning against the counter with her tattered paperback. I felt a little amazed that the rest of the world could be going on as normal. At least, I assumed this was normal. Usually I was sound asleep by this time. But usually, I was not being told in so many words I was about to be accused of being an accessory to murder.

“Did you find where the tunnel came out in the hotel?” I asked. “I mean, that big door would be a lot harder to hide than the trapdoor in the Luces' basement, and we're talking about a building that's been owned by the same family for generations.
Somebody
there has to know about the tunnel.”

Pete and Kenisha exchanged a long look. The tension thickened between them and my hands clenched around my cooling coffee mug.

“We can't find the door,” Kenisha said.

“What?” said Frank.

“We can't find the door, Frank,” said Pete, slowly and carefully, in case Frank was going to have trouble spelling anything. “We measured the tunnel and got an estimate of where it should run up against the basement of the hotel, but there's nothing there on the hotel side except a solid concrete foundation wall.”

“But . . . you did try to get it open from the tunnel?”

If my question irritated Pete, he didn't show it. “Yes, Anna, we did. We tried wrenches and we tried screwdrivers and we tried bolt cutters, but to get that particular door open from the side we have access to is going to take a welding torch. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not crazy about sending one of my guys down into an unstable tunnel to try to cut it open, especially when I already know what I'm going to find on the other side is concrete.”

“Plus,” said Kenisha, “everybody we've questioned so far, including all the Hildes, deny knowing anything definite about any door out of the basement. And, yes,” she said as Frank opened his mouth. “We've had a look at the building plans on file with the city clerk and the historical society. There's still no door, and no place to put one.”

“But, I mean, there must be a way to take measurements,” I said. “Or infrared scans or X-rays or something . . .”

Pete smiled sadly. “If this were Boston or New York, maybe. Or if I had the budget of a TV cop . . .”

“Or a boss that was interested in actually solving this,” muttered Kenisha.

“But, unfortunately, it isn't and I don't,” Pete went on as if Kenisha hadn't said a word.

“But it had to have been opened recently,” I said. “The air in the tunnel was good, and there was a draft.” Jake or Miranda or I had remarked on it, hadn't we? I rubbed my head, willing my Vibe-clouded memory to clear itself up. It wasn't listening. Not that it mattered. Because the fresh air could just have meant that somebody had opened the drugstore trapdoor before I'd stumbled over it.

Pete smiled gently. “What we have got is a door that
can
be opened at the Luces' end, and a door that
can't
be opened at the Harbor's Rest end, and a body in the middle. That creates a major problem for Jake and Miranda. And, I'm sorry to say, you, too, Anna.” Pete leaned across the table. “Now, I know you want to help, but you've got to do it the right way. If there's something you've seen, or even suspected, you need to tell us, right now.”

That was when the important realization crept into my
thoughts. Slowly. Because even after all my dealings with the police, including Lieutenant Blanchard, I remain slow. And entirely taken in by Pete's tired good-guy act.

I was under suspicion. I was talking to a couple of cops. That meant I was being set up to spill the beans. The worst part was, I did have beans to spill.

There are not a lot of feelings less comfortable than suddenly wondering whether you can trust the friend sitting across from you.

I told myself Kenisha was not breaking anybody's trust, especially not mine. She wanted what we all wanted—to find out who really killed Jimmy Upton. But Kenisha was in a bad position. She was not in charge of this case. She had to do her job. It wasn't her I had to worry about. It was Blanchard. And this conversation changed nothing. Telling her and Pete about Chuck before we had the full story would only feed Blanchard's version of events.

I put my pen down.

“I've told you everything I know,” I spoke the lie slowly and carefully. Alistair would have been very proud of the way I managed not to blink. “But I do want to help. Really. Maybe we could—”

Before I could get any further, Pete shook his head. “Look, Anna, if you really have told us everything, then you need to just go home and stay there. Do not go around asking more questions. Jake should be out again by tomorrow afternoon,
if
no one gives Blanchard, or the judge, any excuses to hold him.” He said this last bit to Frank as much as to me.

Frank's jaw tightened, and that distinct, professionally stubborn gleam lit his blue eyes. “Freedom of the press. I get to hang around everyplace and ask all the questions I want.”

“Yeah, until Blanchard has me arrest you for trespassing,” said Kenisha. “Which I really do not want to have to do.”

Frank looked at the bottom of his mug, and then he looked in the bottom of the pot. He sighed and pushed them both away. “I am not letting this drop.”

“Nobody is,” said Kenisha to me.

I didn't answer her. The coffee I'd drunk was at war with the exhaustion I felt, which just left me caught in the middle with a bad case of the jitters.

Frank signaled for the waitress and we all paid our share and got to our feet.

“I'll be right with you,” said Frank, and he headed toward the men's room.

The rest of us walked out the back door into the darkness and the white glow of the parking lot's lights. The Friendly Toast was the only place I could see with the interior lights still on. Portsmouth had shut itself down for the night. I wished I could do the same.

I'd given Frank back his jacket, so I wrapped my arms around myself to try to hold in a little personal warmth. It didn't work.

Pete looked at me and Kenisha. “I'll be waiting in the car, Freeman,” he said to her and me.

“Kenisha,” I whispered as soon as Pete was out of earshot. “Was coming out here Blanchard's idea? Were you—”

She didn't let me get any further. “This was Pete's idea, but, yes, we were trying to get you to talk, or at least Pete was. And don't look at me like that.” Kenisha stabbed the air with one finger. “Not when you're holding out on me.”

I bit my lip. What could I say to that?

“I know you were all in the old drugstore with Jake,” Kenisha said. “And I know you saw something you don't want to tell me. It's been in the back of your eyes all night.” When you're a witch cop, your sixth sense has a hair trigger.

Kenisha touched my shoulder. “Anna, I need you to listen to me, not just as a cop but as your coven sister. I cannot tell you everything I know, but as much as I hate to admit it, Blanchard's building a decent case. We have to look at Jake and Miranda clearly.”

“I can't believe you just said that!”

“Then tell me I'm wrong,” she shot back. “Tell me what you found in that building so Pete and I can put this thing together the right way.”

“I can't,” I whispered. “Not yet.”

“Then that's your choice,” she said, and her expression was as flat and hard as her words. “And we're all going to have to live with it.”