Killer Waves (6 page)

Alive, with memories and scars and the threat of an odd disease coming back at any time to strike me down. Which explains my daily skin searches.

The shakes continued, and I knew why. Once I had been in the middle of a dark and deep world, with missions and projects and tasks that were classified ABOVE TOP SECRET and which were never made public. A world of intelligence briefings and missions and black budgets. A world that didn't exist in any newspaper or magazine or TV or Internet report.

I thought I had safely left this world behind me, and for the most part, I had been right.

Until last night. With those LTDs and that crew of people, and that smug woman who looked as if she knew all the answers.

I bent my head down, rubbed at my face with a towel. Two options, then. To forget everything that had happened, or to stay awake nights with questions and concerns, waiting for that phone .all or knock at the door, to see if the almighty Them had finally decided to do something about a witness who had been on the scene of something highly classified.

Or to do something else.

I cursed and got up and got dressed. I wasn't about to forget a damn thing.

The only person I know well in North Tyler is Felix Tinios, a native of the North End in Boston.  I’m not sure if he chose the town because it had the word “North” in its name, but it’s a good a reason as any.  Felix lives a couple of miles north of the Samson State Wildlife Preserve, on Rosemount Lane, a road that extends off to the east and which contains six houses. As I made the short drive north, I kept on glancing up at my rearview mirror, as if I was expecting to be tailed by one of the cars I had seen the night before. But the only traffic behind me was a bright red pickup truck, and I made the turn onto Felix's road with no problems and no mysterious cars behind me. Five of the homes are clustered together, but Felix's house sits by itself, on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. It's a low-slung ranch and parked in the driveway was his blue Mercedes convertible.

I got out and felt again that twinge of anticipation that comes from the scents of spring, and then I felt another twinge of guilt as I walked up to the house. I suppose I should have called first, but I didn't want to talk to Felix over the phone. I wanted to see him face-to-face before I unburdened what was troubling me.

I rang the doorbell twice, and as I waited I looked out across his lawn. While my own lawn is the size of a couple of postage stamps and is a collection of weeds and whatever, Felix does take no small pride in his own turf. Even this early in the year the lawn looked good, and Felix had told me once proudly that since growing up in a crowded brick apartment building, he had always dreamed of a wide green lawn to call his own. Of course, his lawn also contains no shrubs, trees or brush that could obscure a gunman crawling up to visit Felix. He once told me that a door-to-door census taker had asked him his occupation, and when Felix had replied, "Security consultant," the teenage girl asking the questions just shook her head quickly in terror and walked away. Felix sometimes has that effect on people.

I was about to ring the doorbell for a third time when the door flew open and there he was, dressed in gray sweatpants and a white tank-top T-shirt, nearly soaked through with sweat. "Jesus, Lewis, haven't you ever heard of the phone?"

"Sorry," I said. "I was driving by, thought I'd stop by for a quick visit. Did I catch you working; out?"

He ran a hand across this thick black hair and grinned.  “Yeah, you could say that.  Jesus.  All right, for a few minutes, but only if it’s important.

I followed him in through the foyer and then stopped. Piled up by the doorway were a horse saddle, knee-high leather boots and a riding crop. I gave him a look and asked innocently, "Taking up a new hobby, Felix?"

He laughed. "No, not really. It's, uh, well ... "

Then I made out the sound of a shower at the other end of the house, just barely drowning out a woman's voice, singing. "I see," I said, now feeling embarrassed, like a small child breaking into his parents' bedroom at an inopportune time. "Look, I won't keep you---"

He waved a hand and led me into the living room. "No matter. Her name is Michelle, but she likes to be called Mickey. Met her a few days ago up at Sandtree Stables. She's a horse trainer and her boss hired me for a situation."

"What kind of situation? Somebody skimming the oat bags?"

Felix turned, still smiling. Fine black hair ran up both muscled arms, the skin a light brown, and his feet were bare. "No, not really. A stablehand was threatening to torch a barn or two unless he got some back pay he thought was owed to him. I convinced him otherwise and now he has a new and satisfying career as a fry cook, over in Keene." Felix sat down on a couch, motioned me to an easy chair across the way. "Of course, his career will be more satisfying once the cast comes off his arm. What's going on?"

While my house is old antiques and creaking wood flooring, Felix's is relatively modern and up-to-date, with Scandinavian type furniture and polished hardwood floors. Even sitting still, Felix seems to dominate a room, which was certainly the case now. I looked at him and wondered where he kept his weapons hidden.

"What's going on is a murder that took place in North Tyler last night," I said. "Hear anything about it?"

With the showering and the singing continuing, I now had Felix’s attention. "No. Tell me more."

"I was out on my deck about one A.M. this morning ---"

“Doing some stargazing?” he interrupted, and I nodded.  No use in explaining any more than that.

"That's right. Then I saw some lights, over at the state park. Police and ambulance lights. I took a hike over and saw what was going on. A rental car was parked in the lot, and there was a guy in the front seat, with what looked to be a gunshot wound to the head."

His eyes narrowed some and he rubbed at the blue-black stubble on his chin. "Don't like the sound of that."

"Why?"

"Don't be coy," he said. "You know where I've been, what I've done. Most murders in this lovely state of yours occur between friends or lovers. It's domestic-related, usually fueled by coke or booze, and it takes place in the home or at a bar. A knife, a baseball bat, and sure, maybe gunfire. But not like this. Not a guy alone in a rental car with a tap to the hat. That shows a level of professionalism you usually don't see in the Granite State. Go on. What next?"

I would have thought that the singing and the water running would have distracted me, but it almost made me feel calm, at peace. "What's next is that I talked to the cops at the scene and they had squat. The guy rented the car from the Manchester Airport, under the name Smith. I went over and took a look. Guy was in a suit, no necktie. Dark-skinned, mustache, blood down one side. No weapon in Sight. And then, while I was waiting there, it got weird."

Felix now seemed tense, like a hunting dog, detecting a foreign scent. "I can hardly wait to see what your definition of weird is."

"These three Ford LTDs came racing into the lot, like they belonged there. Five muscled guys and a sharp-looking woman came out, took control of the scene. The cops and the EMTs have been shut up, and when I had the license plates of those LTDs traced, they've been faked up. The official story today from the North Tyler cops is that this guy killed himself. The police chief said a revolver was found on the floor of the car, even though I didn't see anything. There was also a suicide note in the glove box, he said, and became it's a suicide, no more information’s coming out.”

“The crew that came in, did they ID themselves?”

“Nope.  And the chief said I was imagining the whole thing, that there wasn't a crew there in three cars with fake license plates. So there you have it. Dead guy in a rental car and all's quiet."

"Yeah, I guess that's weird all right," Felix said, shifting some on the couch. The sounds of showering and singing were continuing. "It seems like Uncle Sam has an interest in this guy. That make sense to you?"

"Right from the start," I said.

"Then that's probably why you didn't call me, right?

Wanted to keep things confidential, in case there are electronic ears out there."

About then I felt about as thick as a plank "You know, you're absolutely right. I just had this odd feeling that seeing you face-to-face made more sense than calling you up."

"Fair enough. So what's your interest?"

Good question, and about the only answer I had was a weak one. "I don't like having guys murdered next door to my house, and I like it even less when I'm told to pipe down and pretend it didn't happen."

"Might make the most sense-pretend it didn't happen."

"Sometimes what I do doesn't make sense."

"True," Felix said, smiling. "And what would you like me to do?”

"Damned if I know," I said. "I thought maybe these feds are with the FBI or Department of Justice, something like that. If that's the case, then maybe you can find out if anybody down south in Boston has a dad or brother missing, somebody that fits the description."

He nodded confidently, as if a challenge had been issued and he was glad to pick it up. "Sure. Easy enough. You know, I don't like guys getting whacked in my adopted hometown either. Okay, let's say I do find out it's mob-related. Maybe a meet gone had, maybe somebody's been removed for gross stupidity or having sticky fingers. What then?"

"Then I do nothing," 1 said. "That kind of rough justice… well, not much point to me finding out any more.

"Then we'll go from there, won't we."

"Hah," Felix said. "Not sure why you're mentioning 'we,' I don't recall agreeing to ---"

Then the shower stopped, as did the singing. Then a pleasant, clear woman's voice came calling out, each syllable stretched for effect: "Felix ... will you come wash my back?"

I looked over at him and he was trying hard not to laugh.

"Sure, Mickey, in a minute!"

"Hurry up," the unseen woman said. 'Tm getting cold... "

I got up from the easy chair. "You go ahead, Felix. Looks like you've got some washroom duties to attend to."

He stood up and slapped me gently on the shoulder. "Well, we've all got our burdens to bear. Tell you what, I'll give you a ring tomorrow, let you know what I found out. And I'll keep it low-key. If nothing's there, I'll just say I went out last night and had a bad dinner. If there's anything else, I'll just make a lunch date with you. Sound okay?"

I headed for the door, not wanting to keep Felix from his appointed rounds any longer. "Sure, sounds great."

"Good," he said. "Now get the hell out of here so I can get scrubbing."

Outside, the sharp smell of the ocean seemed to settle around me like an old and comfortable blanket. Walking back to my Ford, I felt good. Felix was on the case, and Felix was quite smart, and quite deadly when he wanted to be. I'm sure he'd get the answer I was looking for soon enough. I had full confidence in his abilities.

It was a good feeling, one that was due to expire in less than twelve hours.

Chapter Four

The next morning the weather gods decided that winter would come back for a day or two along the New Hampshire seacoast, for the clouds were thick and dark and a stiff wind whipped up the ocean, causing whitecaps and little sprays of foam. A short walk up and back from the Lafayette House, bundled in a heavy coat that I had to retrieve from a storage closet, secured my morning newspapers, and I had a breakfast of tea and toast as I scanned the front pages and the editorial sections.

The New York Time
s and the
Boston Globe
had the usual customary stories about world atrocities, and little flashpoints that seemed to pop up every now and then, mostly concerning rogue nations and weapons of mass destruction. Refugees were also on the move this spring, being bombed either by rebel movements or governments, the bombs and bullets and shrapnel still doing their bloody work, no matter whose slogans or dollars paid for them.

Closer to home, the
Tyler Chronicle
was taking a decidedly local approach, by the second in a four-part series on what was called “The Hidden Danger: Porn in New Hampshire’s Playground.”  The stories in the series were prominently played on the front page and focused o the few adult bookstores doing business in the small towns around Tyler. The meat of the stories was that none of the stores did a very good job in checking IDs of young males who were skulking in, and that the stores were mostly owned by a guy who lived in Massachusetts, and who had a dreary criminal record consisting of drug offenses and a couple of burglaries.

The stories, not written by Paula Quinn, had a nice moralistic tone --- I imagined the Rupert character heavily editing them for the right flavor --- but the tone was offset by the photo illustrations on page one that went with the stories: color reproductions of adult magazine and videocassette covers with black bars covering what British television delicately calls "naughty bits." Not a bad job, if you were trying both to raise circulation and run a moral crusade at the same time.

After breakfast --- the rain hadn't started yet --- I retreated upstairs to my office. It's the smaller of the two upstairs rooms, and it was full of bookshelves on every wall, save the one with the window overlooking my sparse lawn. I settled down at my desk and got to work setting up my new Apple computer. My previous computer had been more than four years old, and in computer years, that's equal to a century. So it had been time to upgrade, and the old computer with its files dumped sat forlornly in a corner. I had tried to donate it to a couple of the local schools, but something so ancient was no longer of any value. Just as I got one cardboard box opened, the phone rang.