The Price of Malice (30 page)

Joe stepped up beside him and commingled their reflections in the window. “I was doing the same thing in Maine that you were when you ran down Ryan,” he explained.

Willy turned to look at him. “What?”

“Lyn got kidnapped by some guy who had a hand in her father’s and brother’s deaths. I was getting her back.”

Willy scowled at him. “You are such an asshole, you know that?”

Joe shrugged. “We all have our moments.”

“One word, and we would’ve been there. Is this a New England thing? This I-am-an-island, screw-my-friends, do-it-alone-and-get-fucked attitude? Jesus, Joe, what happened to all your no-‘I’-in-TEAM shit?”

Joe was laughing by now, his exhaustion combining with the irony of this speech coming from this source.

Willy let him settle down before asking, “Wild guess—she’s okay?”

Joe wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and finally addressed the coffee machine, feeding it change from his pocket.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”

Willy nodded, his universe back to as close to normal as ever.

“What else did Hawke say?”

Joe extracted one cardboard cup from the machine and handed it over. “The nine loci match Ryan’s brother, Nicky. Turns out they’re full brothers, with the same father. Nick took on the last name King because he hates his old man.”

Willy turned that over in his head. “Crazy Nicky whacked Castine?”

Joe fed the machine more money, amazed by how he constantly had to rein the man in. “Maybe. The science is just saying that a drop of his blood was on Castine’s body. Right now, that’s all we’ve got.”

Lyn was no longer sure what she had. Having all but pushed Joe into his car to get him headed back toward Brattleboro, she’d spent hours with a succession of Maine police officers, repeating her story, onerously working her way through the ritual until she could finally reclaim her car in Jonesport and return to Gloucester, where Steve and their mother were still hiding out in a motel.

All that, she’d taken in stride, even using it to isolate herself from what she’d experienced at the hands of Wellman Beale.

But it turned to naught when the three of them at last reached home. As Lyn pushed open the door to her mother’s apartment, she had to reach out to steady herself against the jamb.

“You okay?” Steve asked from behind, his hands full of belongings.

He shoved by her to find the apartment as ransacked as his boat.

“Jesus Christ,” he said disgustedly.

Lyn was suddenly struck by fear and pulled him back onto the landing. “They might still be here,” she cautioned.

But Steve was having none of it. He stormed in as Maria Silva tentatively sidled up beside her daughter and peered over the threshold.

“Come on out, you sons of bitches,” Steve yelled, as it turned out, to no one.

The two women waited until he’d checked every room, swearing and waving his arms in frustration, until he finally sat heavily on the living-room couch, his hands between his knees, moaning, “What the hell’s going on?”

Lyn entered then, still nervous, with their mother trailing behind, uncomprehending. She made a more analytical tour of the place, trying to assess both the damage and the intent of the break-in, her own anger displacing the cold fear that had initially gripped her.

She stood before Steve and asked him, “Any ideas?”

He looked up at her, his eyes wide. “Me? How should I know? I don’t know who did this.”

“I think I do,” she told him. “What I don’t know is why.”

“And I’m supposed to know that?”

“You’re being pretty defensive about it.”

He stood up abruptly, forcing her to step back. “You’re full of crap.” Their mother approached them and began muttering nervously, touching them both, her hands fluttering like hummingbirds.

Lyn reached out and draped her arm around the older woman’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Momma. We’re just a little upset. Let’s get you settled in.”

She glanced at her brother. “Sorry, Steve. Let me start over.”

She could see from his face that he was ready for more, finally
tired of being tarred for misdeeds he considered far behind him. But he swallowed his protest and responded quietly, “All right. Go for it.”

She spoke as she steered her mother over to a chair, which she righted and placed before the TV set. “This look like the boat to you?”

“What do you think?” he asked.

“No, no. I don’t mean the mess. I mean the nature of it.” Lyn turned on the set, searching for a channel she knew Maria would enjoy. “Does it look like vandalism, or theft, or what?”

He glanced around instinctively, at first nonplussed. “How the hell do I know? A search, maybe.”

She faced him directly. “Exactly. They tossed the boat, looking for something, and now they’ve done the same here. That tells me—just maybe—that whatever they’re after was either moved from one place to the other, or is small enough to be easily missed.”

He spread his hands out wide. “What’s that mean, sis?”

She steered him into the kitchen where they wouldn’t disturb Maria, who was already transfixed by the program Lyn had chosen. “Steve, let’s face it. Dad and José were into something—smuggling, running drugs, something that probably got them killed. What I’m saying is that whatever it was looks like it’s still hanging around. Did you take anything off the boat and bring it here after we got it back?”

He scratched his head, trying to remember. “There wasn’t all that much. Beale had pretty much cleaned it out. There were some old charts; some equipment, like rope that I didn’t trust. I threw all that out.”

“Electronics?” she asked. “Any radios you replaced?”

He smiled at the thought. “Not with our money. I took Grandpa’s old barometer off the wheelhouse wall. It didn’t work and the glass was cracked. I figured it would be better off here.”

“Show me.”

He led her to the bathroom. Behind the door was the ancient, oblong, meteorological indicator of yore, now stained and beaten and quaint. He removed it from its nail and handed it to her.

“Don’t know what you can make out of that.”

She stared at it, wondering the same thing. “That’s it?” she asked.

“All I can think of.”

She turned it over in her hand, squinted slightly, and then moved it under the overhead light. “Look,” she said, pointing at something on the back.

“The screw?” he asked.

“Yeah—it’s shiny. Well, shinier, like it’s been fooled with. They all are. You got your knife?”

He handed her his pocketknife. She opened the screwdriver blade and inserted it into each of the four screws holding the instrument’s back in place. Crouching down in the middle of the bathroom floor, so as not to lose anything that might fall out, she gingerly worked the wooden back free.

“What do you see?” he asked, crowding next to her.

Instead of answering, she placed the back on the floor and tipped the barometer into the palm of her outstretched hand. A small, shiny, plastic object dropped into view.

“What is it?”

She took the plastic case between her fingers and pried it open, revealing an even smaller, tablike structure, smaller than a stamp.

“Looks like it belongs in a computer,” she said.

G
ood to have you back, boss,” Lester said, looking up as Joe entered the office, holding the door open for Sammie, who was on crutches right behind him.

Willy was already there, barricaded behind his own desk, which, as usual, looked like a recycling center for gun magazines and periodicals.

“Give the man a break, for Chrissake,” he growled, making Lester stare at him as if he’d just sprouted a third eye.

Keeping his counsel, however, Les got up, pulled Sam’s chair around so that she could more easily collapse into it, and commented, “How’s it feel this morning?”

She propped her casted leg up onto the desk and readjusted the ice pack swathing it, grimacing as she did so. “Like a pain in the ass.”

“Meaning you refused the Vicodin?” he surmised.

She smiled ruefully. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hate that stuff. It’s not bad if I keep it elevated and cold.”

He left it at that, knowing where a suggestion that she take a few days off would land.

Joe took up his place, sitting on the edge of his desk, and addressed them all. “I apologize for my behavior recently. As I told Willy last night, Lyn got into a jam in Maine—to be more accurate, she ended up being kidnapped—and I felt I had to do something about it.”

Lester burst out laughing. “Nope—sorry, boss—but that was way out of line. Next time, tell her to either suck it up or pull that kind of stunt when it’s more convenient, okay?” He then suddenly froze in mid-smile and asked, his face reddening, “She all right? Sorry—should’ve asked.”

Willy shook his head. “No, jackass, she’s on life support.”

Les’s eyes widened with horror.

“She’s fine, Les,” Joe said quickly. “Thanks for asking. It’s still an ongoing case, but the locals got it, and it looks like the worst is over. Have you three critiqued what happened yesterday with Ryan Hatch?”

“We talked it out at the hospital, right after Sam got out of surgery.”

“She was still dopey enough not to tear my head off,” Willy said.

“We fucked up,” Sam added. “We know that.”

“It’ll probably stay where it is,” Joe reassured them. “I’ve spoken several times with the SA and the investigators from the VSP—up to just a half hour ago—and they’re all hoping to keep things simple. You were there to interview Hatch, he wigged out, and you did what you had to do. No one’s going to open the can of worms about why you were there in the first place—or your lack of homework and preparation, the absence of any tactical coordination, your Keystone Kops approach, or your not having a backup plan for when all hell broke loose.”

“Cool,” Willy commented. “Thanks for not bringing it up.”

“No problem,” Joe told him. “Keep in mind that somebody might file a civil suit—the guy whose car you used as an anvil, for example,
or even Ryan Hatch, assuming he survives, which is looking good, by the way.”

“Swell,” Willy muttered, unrepentant. “Maybe someone will knife him when he gets to prison.”

“Hatch doesn’t strike me as the type to come after us,” Joe continued. “As for the driver you hit, who knows? Maybe he votes Republican.”

Joe rose and moved to the open window, where the morning breeze was beginning to pick up the first of the sun’s warmth.

“I assume you all know by now that the mini-STR came back, proving the blood we thought was Ryan’s isn’t, and instead fits his full-fledged brother, Nicky.”

Sam’s hand fluttered up like an embarrassed schoolgirl’s. “That was my bad.”

Joe stared at her.

“Richard told me Nick had changed his name,” she explained. “I should have asked him then to spell it out for me.”

Joe waved it away. “Doesn’t matter. But it does mean we need to locate Nicky and find out how and why he got that close to Castine. And we need to do it using a slightly different approach than what was used on Ryan.”

“You’re a riot, Joe,” Willy cracked. “Sure they don’t want you back in Maine?”

Joe smiled. “You’re stuck with me now, pal.”

“How do you want to do it?” Sam asked, still clearly self-conscious.

The phone rang and Lester picked it up. He listened for a few seconds, made a couple of comments, ending with, “We’ll be right there,” and hung up.

He leaned back in his chair and gave a lopsided grin. “Don’t know what it is, Joe, but this is never going to go the way you want.
That was Ron, downstairs. His people just called in from Karen Putnam’s trailer park. A unit was sent there for a domestic in progress—now it’s a hostage situation.”

Willy rolled his eyes and started to laugh.

“Who’s involved?” Joe asked.

“The man himself. Nicky’s barricaded inside with Becky, supposedly holding a knife to her throat. Karen made the phone call. Sounds like the family’s been having a knock-down-drag-out all night long.”

Joe rose from the windowsill. “Okay, so much for the organized approach. Guess we’re onto Plan B.”

Cathy Lawless walked down the dark, crowded hallway of the Gloucester police department, sidestepping several stacks of boxed files, and smiling about how certain items, like storage, plague every department she knew. At the end, near the bathroom, she found the tiny office of Detective Brian Wilkinson.

She stuck her head around the corner and waved. “Hey there. Cathy Lawless—MDEA. You Brian?”

Wilkinson struggled to stand without dumping the folder he was balancing on his lap. The computer was on before him, and he had obviously been trying to compare one source of information with another—another common challenge in the business.

She quickly entered and waved him down before he reached his full height. “No, no. That’s fine. Sit, sit. Been there, done that. No formalities needed.”

He settled back with a grunt, mashing the folder in place with a large, meaty hand. “Thanks. I hate this stuff.”

“Still,” she said, sitting on the edge of a worn-out office chair. “I’ll let you get back to it if you want to tell me what you got.”

He was wearing half-glasses, and looked at her wearily over the top of them. “Forget that.” He smiled. “I called you, after all. Guess I’ve lost whatever manners I ever had. You want coffee or anything?”

“Nope. Thanks. All set.”

Wilkinson carefully laid the open file across his keyboard, and slowly backed away from the desk before rising again. “Okay. Why don’t you come with me, then, and I’ll show you what we found.”

He led the way back down the hallway, out into the parking lot, and over to an unmarked car, unlocking the doors remotely with a key fob as they approached.

“Like I told you on the phone,” he said, “we got a call for a vandalized boat a while back—Steve Silva’s
The Silva Lining
. Looked pretty standard. It happens now and then—they cut lines or trash each other’s equipment in some stupid spitting contest.” He started the engine after Cathy had slammed her door shut, and headed for Gloucester’s main drag.