The Price of Malice (23 page)

“Who is this?”

“Name is Lyn Silva.”

Cathy didn’t miss the connection. She had a cop’s memory and a suspicious mind. “Your girlfriend? What’s going on?”

“It’s long and complicated and I have to get going,” Joe told her. “This is more along the lines of a protective thing. Somebody trashed the family lobster boat; we don’t know why, and I’m afraid she might be in danger.”

“This tie into Wellman Beale?”

Joe surely hoped it didn’t. “I don’t know, Cathy. Anything’s possible. What happened to him?”

“He’s out,” she said bluntly. “Back on his island, and probably back to running drugs. Is this a case yet, Joe? I mean on the books?”

“No. The Gloucester PD has the vandalism of the boat, but that’s it, and they probably think it’s teenagers.”

“And you know it’s not?”

He demurred. “My instincts say it’s not, but I don’t know, and I gotta go. I’ll call you when I hit Maine, Cathy. I promise. I’m aiming for Bangor, which is where I think she’s gone, in case that helps. Just spread the word to keep an eye out for her and let me know if anyone gets lucky. You still have my cell number?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Okay. Thanks. See you soon.”

Her response was suitably ironic. “I can hardly wait.”

Lyn was not headed for Bangor. That had been her initial thought, but the farther she drove up the interstate, the more she began rethinking the idea. Dick Brandhorst, who was clearly behind the vandalism of
The Silva Lining
, was no doubt looking for her to react exactly the way she was—or had been. The better idea, Lyn saw now, was to stop playing his game. Joe had suggested turning the tables by getting him to expose why he was interested in her. But with the vandalism of the boat, and the implied threat to her family, Lyn was more inclined to embark on a plan wholly her own—something direct, unequivocal, and which right now was feeling immensely more satisfying.

She’d tried several times to share this new idea with Joe, but failing in that, she’d yielded to impatience and an oddly stimulating sense of higher mission. Perhaps something of her father’s and brother’s reckless spirit was lurking inside after all, but whatever the source, she was going for straightforward retaliation. And not against Brandhorst, either; she had no clue what his actual role was, nor was she sure she cared. She was shooting higher. Joe had mentioned that Wellman Beale lived on an island off of Jonesport, Maine. As far as she could figure, Beale was the one solid connection to José and
Abílo’s disappearance, even if the authorities hadn’t been able to act on it.

She unconsciously reached out to the passenger seat beside her and felt for her father’s old nine-millimeter pistol she had tucked into her bag.

Well, she wasn’t an authority. And she wasn’t bound by their rules.

L
ester was waiting in his car outside Parole and Probation. The parking lot overlooked a restaurant and a small marina, while the Department of Corrections had chosen a bright pink building that had once housed a chocolate factory. All told, it was an unexpectedly pretty spot, at the confluence of the West and Connecticut rivers—a shallow flooded area called the Retreat Meadows—a favorite of anglers and boaters in the summer, and skaters during the cold months. Les himself had driven the family down from Springfield a couple of times for winter outings, enjoying how Brattleboro, unlike his hometown, continually found ways for its populace to engage in its rural surroundings, often just a stone’s throw from the business district.

Now, of course, it was warm and sunny—a far cry from skating or ice fishing weather—and he had the window down to enjoy the breeze, waiting for his unsuspecting interview subject to appear from a scheduled meeting with his parole officer.

Les had been here for under ten minutes, and was just starting to
unwind and let the sunshine sink in, when he saw a big man in a T-shirt step into the bright light.

Karen Putnam’s husband, Todd, fresh from jail, squinted as he fumbled for the dark glasses hooked into the crew neck of his shirt. He was a muscular man, dressed in clothes one size too small, but he’d slacked off enough to ruin the overall effect—the gut struggling not to hide the belt buckle, the back of his tattooed arms flapping just a little as he moved. The cheeks beneath the glasses were slightly gaunt, the big shoulders a bit drooped. While clearly still the bull in his own mind, he appeared to be drifting toward the edge of the pasture.

Curious about what all this fading testosterone might become during a delicate conversation, Les opened his car door, hitched his gun more comfortably under his jacket, and strolled across the lot to meet the man.

“Hi,” he said, drawing near. “You Todd Putnam?”

Putnam hooked his thumbs in his belt, swelling his arms slightly. “Maybe.”

Les didn’t offer his hand, but kept his tone friendly. “Lester Spinney, I’m from VBI.”

“Good for you.”

“You got a minute?”

“I got a choice?”

“Sure,” Lester said agreeably. “You want to set up a better time?”

Putnam put on a show of considering the offer, glancing off into the distance as if contemplating some calendar in the sky.

“Okay,” he finally said.

Spinney pointed to a weather-beaten wooden picnic table at one end of the lot. “Let’s sit.”

He didn’t give Putnam an option, leading the way. He wanted the man sitting, his legs trapped between a table and a bench seat, and far from his own car, which was now parked beyond Lester’s. Spinney was tall and could be fast, but this man had thirty pounds on him, and a reputation for using them—any signs of aging notwithstanding.

“You aware of the Wayne Castine killing?” Les asked after Todd had settled in place.

Putnam pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and extracted one of its mangled denizens.

“Yeah.”

“You know the man?”

A lighter appeared from the other pocket. “Nope.”

“You ever hear about him before he was killed?”

The cigarette was carefully placed between his lips before Putnam ignited the lighter and deeply inhaled the first pull.

“Nope,” he exhaled.

Lester smiled. “How’d you hear about his murder?”

“News.”

“Not at home?”

That made him pause. He moved his gaze from the smoke coming off the cigarette’s tip to Lester’s face. “What?”

“You didn’t hear about it at home?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

“He’s been to the trailer. I assumed there’d been some discussion about it.”

Lester’s instincts worked faster than his brain, making him lean backward before he even saw the fist coming. As a result, Putnam’s swing fell short, just grazing Lester’s nose as he tipped over and fell off his bench.

“You son of a bitch,” he heard the man snarl, and fully expected him to come vaulting over the table.

Instead, Putnam added, “I’ll kill that whore,” swiveled away from the picnic table with surprising ease, and started to run.

“Damn,” Lester muttered, “not another one.”

He rolled to his feet and gave chase, pulling his radio free at the same time.

The parking lot was located on a flat stretch of land, between the water and Brattleboro’s busy “miracle mile,” named the Putney Road. Putnam headed for the latter, straight up the embankment.

Slipping on the grass in his city shoes, Spinney breathlessly gave dispatch a quick call for help, amazed at both his luck at not getting clocked this time, and the stupidity of parolees who were prone to hitting cops and then running for it.

“Putnam,” he shouted. “Stop, for Chrissake.”

It didn’t do any good. Putnam reached the Putney Road and a solid line of traffic, and cut right, parallel across the bridge and toward downtown, Spinney a hundred feet behind him.

Lester considered simply letting him run. Todd Putnam wasn’t a public menace, hadn’t done any damage to Les, and would be easy to find, given his parting words.

But that, of course, was the catch—Putnam was guaranteed to harm his wife if he found her before he was caught. Plus, Spinney had to admit, he was officially irate.

They pounded down the length of the bridge, Spinney’s better condition and lighter weight shortening the distance between them. Sensing this, and perhaps hoping for better luck over broken ground, Putnam took advantage of a small break in the traffic to cut between two cars and switch to the east side of the road, closer to the railroad tracks running parallel.

Lester did the same, loping along at a steady gait, pacing himself more to outlast the other man than to actually catch up to him. Spinney had been in enough chases to appreciate everyone being too tired to fight in the end.

But Putnam was clearly aware of his own flagging energy. At the end of the bridge, still hugging the road, he saw a chance to improve his odds. At a pull-off equipped with a war memorial and a flagpole, Putnam again cut left, and headed directly east, this time straight for the railroad tracks perched on an elevated berm.

“Shit,” Lester muttered, hearing sirens approach. He retrieved his radio and issued a quick update as he followed suit, now fifty feet to the rear.

“God damn it, Todd,” he then shouted. “You got nowhere to go.”

Putnam ignored him, his feet digging into the slope bordering the tracks above.

Neither one of them saw or heard the train.

It was on them, out of the south, like a mechanical nightmare, in the proverbial blink of an eye. All noise and blur and heart-stopping surprise.

Todd Putnam had both hands resting on the near track, lifting himself up off the embankment, when he saw it just to his right—a monster bearing down.

As the engine’s air horn exploded in warning, he threw himself backward, straightening briefly like a man surrendering, before being blown back down the slope onto Spinney by the passing gust of wind.

Both men, in a tight embrace, rolled to the bottom just as two patrol cars came skidding to a stop nearby.

For a moment, numbed and deafened, everyone froze, suspended in time.

And then, it was over. The short passenger train vanished across its own bridge headed north, and Lester and Putnam were left sprawled like two tired wrestlers.

As two uniformed cops approached with guns drawn, Lester reacted first, pushing Putnam away from him.

“Todd, you sorry son of a bitch. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Putnam just lay there, staring up at the sky, blinking.

“Did you see that?” he asked quietly.

Lester rubbed his face with both hands and got to his feet. The cops holstered their weapons and began chuckling nervously.

“Yeah,” Lester conceded. “I did. And you’re under arrest.”

Never fond of using a phone while driving, Joe was becoming a master at it. With the cell plugged into his cigarette lighter, he step-by-step shepherded Steve and Maria Silva through the move into a local motel, all the while aiming his car toward Bangor. Lyn had remained out of touch, and Joe was by now convinced that—angered and adrenalized—she’d returned to Bangor to beard Dick Brandhorst in his den.

With that in mind, he also called Cathy Lawless back, as promised, and more fully explained why he was headed to Maine. He mentioned the name Dick Brandhorst.

He heard her typing into a computer on the other end.

“We have him as a person-of-interest on a bunch of cases,” she reported. “Always on the money side of things.”

“No record?”

“Nope, which is probably how he can function as a financial advisor. I don’t know that side of the law very well, but I’d guess getting a license for a job like that would be tricky with a rap sheet. You really
think Lyn’s headed there to confront him? You don’t have any proof he trashed the boat, do you?”

“Not that I know of,” Joe conceded. “And I know what you’re thinking.”

She laughed. “That would be a first for almost anybody. What’s that?”

“That Lyn’s the one likely to get arrested if she hands the guy his head.”

“It crossed my mind,” Cathy agreed. “How ’bout I call in a favor and have one of Bangor’s finest keep an eye peeled for her at Brandhorst’s office door?”

Joe hesitated, fearful of the reaction once Lyn found out. He equivocated. “Just to watch and not stop her? You got a deal. Have them call me as soon as she’s spotted and we can go from there.”

“Right.” Cathy’s voice was ironic. “Just in case she’s carrying flowers instead of a sledgehammer? I’ll tell them to use their own discretion.”

Lyn killed her engine in a parking lot near the Coast Guard station at the base of the Moosabec Reach Bridge in West Jonesport, and slung her gun-weighted bag over her shoulder before stepping out into the evening’s salt-scented warmth.

She was tired and nervous. Her first stop, in Jonesport proper, had predictably been a bar—akin to the one in Gloucester—where, true to expectations, she’d found the local version of her own Harry Martin, and asked him how to find Wellman Beale.

That part hadn’t been difficult. Her veiled rationale had been commercial, which no one in that setting was going to obstruct—especially coming from an attractive woman.

However, she also understood the potential fallout of her approach.
She might get what she’d come for—a meeting time and place, arranged by a go-between—but it was guaranteed to be accompanied by a follow-up phone call she’d never witness, concerning details she wished she knew.

She looked around, half expecting a dark-windowed sedan with its engine idling, but all she got was a variation on the scenery she’d grown up with—water, boats, gulls overhead, islands in the distance, and that near cloying odor of most working-class maritime harbors, of rotting fish, diesel oil, and brine. The one striking variation was the bridge, leaping from the mainland to an island, two football fields offshore—a single slab of concrete, supported by a string of support piers.

At long last, perhaps because of the absence of any threat, she also began to experience real fear settling in.

There was a pay phone by the railing overlooking the docks. Without hope of success, she crossed over to it and dialed Joe’s cell number.