The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (18 page)

"Well you'd better be back by three. That's when
Joe's calling."

I nodded. She propped up the sunglasses on her head
and looked at me hard and level with those big obsidian eyes.

"Tell me, Charlie, and no screwing around. As
God is your witness, did you touch Janice last night?"

"As God is my witness, and on my immortal
soul—if, by remote chance, such a thing exists—I swear I did not
touch her."

She leaned forward and planted a wet one on me. Felt
great. "And how about any other time? Did you tou—"

"Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh! You only get one question."

"Bullshit; I get all the questions I want."

"If you tell me about the Old Days, I'll tell
you everything. Deal?"

She pondered this awhile, and shook her head sadly.
"No, Charlie. I mean, it's very personal, and happened a long
time ago. It's true Mexico was involved. And those gold trains and
cattle drives. The men coming down from the mountains, riding those
stallions, their spurs jingling. Saddle lean, rock hard, and dark.
And very, very horny . . ."

"Mary!"

She gave her shoulders a big shrug. "Hey, sorry.
What can I say?"

She went back up onto the dock and began walking
back. She walked with a soft, swinging glide. Saddle lean . . . rock
hard . . .dark . . . and very, very—

"Where are you going?" I shouted after her.

"Well," she said without turning around, "I
was thinking of Mexico. But I guess I'll stay here until you two get
back." She walked to the end of the dock, then turned and faced
me.

"Remember: three o'clock."

A few minutes later, Tony returned and said he was
ready to depart. We cast off, and within minutes, we'd cleared the
tiny drawbridge and were out in the passage again. Then we left
Juniper Point behind and were heading out to West Chop, the island of
Martha's Vineyard a big, purplish mound on the horizon.

"How do you think Mom's doing?" I asked the
young, bronzed helmsman as he took the
Hatton
into a slight heel, the spray breaking over the gunwale on the
leeward side. "Your mother, otherwise known as Tampico Belle?"

"Huh? Tampico Belle?"

"
Just a joke," I
said, adjusting the jib sheet. "I think."

* * *

Despite the good southwest wind, it took us over an
hour to get to Vineyard Haven. We were bucking the tail end of an ebb
tide running against the wind off West Chop and the water was
"lumpy," as they say. So we scooted around between the dual
lighthouses at West Chop and East Chop, lighting all that fast water,
then going into the inner harbor and looking for a roost behind the
breakwater. There was none; the place was filled. So we tacked back
out past the breakwater and anchored in the wide outer harbor, where
the wash from ferryboats and big yachts kept us gently pitching.

Tony said he was hungry and asked me if I'd ever been
to the Black Dog Tavern. I said no, observing that it sounded like
something out of Treasure Island. We decided to go there for lunch,
motoring over to the beach just north of the steamer wharf. We hit
the sand running, centerboard up, and jumped out, hauling
Hatton's
bow up onto the beach as far as we could. As we landed, I had a
vision of myself as a high school kid up in Frankfort, Michigan,
sailing with luscious Patty Froelich over to the far end of Crystal
Lake and beaching the sailboat on a deserted stretch of sand near the
town of Beulah. There was nobody there but us. The sand was hot in
the sun, but cool underneath the pines and sumac bushes. We gave each
other back rubs, then she took down the top of her one-piece, black
jantzen suit—the kind with the flap of cloth called the modesty
panel in front, so her good, Catholic crotch couldn't be seen—so I
could rub her better. Which I did. Then we were both naked. I
remembered how white her skin looked where her tan stopped. And how
cold her skin was where the wet suit had been. I got on top of her
and kissed her . . . Seventeen years old . . .

"What's going on?" asked Tony as we walked
up the bluff to town. "Why are you grinning like that?"

"Oh . . . nothing. I was just thinking about
something that happened a long time ago, when I was around your age."

"Yeah? Must've been a long time ago.”

Shut up, kid, I thought as
we padded up the beach toward town.

* * *

Tony and I had a fun time on the island. We rented
bicycles and rode the slow, tree-lined curves of the quiet place. It
sure was a refreshing change from the clogged highways of the Cape,
which are nearly bumper-to-bumper all summer long. I wore a happy
face, but inside I was anxious. I had a bad feeling about what was
happening up in Boston at the courthouse. I regretted we hadn't gone
up there with them, but Joe had been adamant in saying that it was a
private affair, and we weren't allowed into the chambers no matter
what. It was just a sworn deposition in front of a judge and
stenographer. I would feel better after his phone call. A little
after one we returned to the boat, hoisted sail, and started back.

Mary must have been watching Eel Pond because she was
at the dock to meet us as soon as we tied up.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry, Charlie, for getting
mad at you. I guess this thing with Jackie has me on edge. I had a
long talk with Janice after you left. She swore on a stack of Bibles
that nothing happened."

"'Course not. I told you the truth."

"I know you did. I remembered something. You
wrote me a note last night and left it near the bathroom sink. That's
how I knew where to find you."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I figure if you had planned that meeting
with Janice, you wouldn't have left me a note telling me the meeting
place, would you?"

"I wouldn't think so, Mare. That sounds even
dumber than usual."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."

"This mean I can come back into your room now?"

"Yes. And I- hey! I forgot. Look what I found in
our room when I came back before lunch time—"

She took a manila envelope out of her handbag and
handed it to me. I opened it and out slid my badge and wallet. I
looked at them in disbelief. The badge had been mutilated, struck
repeatedly with, it appeared, a ball-peen hammer. The state seal and
the lettering, which were done in enamel, were all chipped and
cracked. The badge had been ruined, deliberately. And the leather
folder had been burned. I turned it around and around in my hands.
Somebody had soaked the leather in a flammable substance, maybe
lighter fluid, and then set it ablaze.

"You didn't tell me you'd lost it," said
Mary. "And what do you suppose happened to it?"

"What happened? Lionel Hartzell was angry with
me and he mutilated it, that's what. Oh boy, wait till Joe sees this.
And Keegan, too. If this doesn't incriminate him, I don't know what
will. You found it in our room?"

"Uh-huh. After I saw you off I went for a drive,
then returned to the dorm just before lunch time to shower. It was
right there on the carpet inside the door."

"Hartzell must have slid it under the door. Good
God, Mary, he's a sickie, all right."

But that wasn't the only treat in store for us that
Friday. Joe and Jack showed up before three, when the phone call was
supposed to come through. As they got out of Joe's cruiser, I knew
right away the news was bad. Joe stood solemnly, his eyes on the
ground in front of him. Jack wore the face of the condemned.

Mary ran out with me, her
hands clutched into pale fists. Joe let us get up close to him before
he shook his head. And then we knew for sure.

* * *

"No, no, Doc. Your going up there wouldn't have
changed anything, believe me. It was over in a minute, and not a
goddamn thing we could have done about it. Jake Schermerhorn, the guy
your pal, Brady Coyne, found for us, is the best attorney around,
too. It's just that it's murder one, Doc. Hell, the judge said he
just didn't have a choice but to call the grand jury. He had no out,
and I realize that now . . ."

Mary thumped her fist on the roof of Joe's car, then
rested her head on the fist, crying.

"And will they indict?" I asked.

"Probably," he said in a deadpan voice.
"They'll indict and set a trial date. Which means we've got to
come up with another lead or suspect pronto to keep Jack out of the
hot seat. I'm sorry."

"You knew, didn't you?" said Mary, looking
up at her brother with tear-stained cheeks. "Goddamn you, Joey,
you knew before you even left—"

He shook his head, slowly and sadly.

"No Mare. But I had a feeling. The evidence—the
evidence at this point anyway—is just too overwhelming. I thought
if you were there you might have, well, blown your cool and the judge
would have—

"You're goddamn fucking right I would have blown
my cool! What do you think I—

I put my arm around her, trying to steer her back to
the dorm. But it was like trying to steer a mustang. Her emotional
fit proved one thing, if nothing else: Joe's instincts about her
being anywhere near the courtroom were correct.

The Adams family sat together for an hour in the
room. Jack said that on the way up to Boston his uncle had prepared
him for the reality of the situation.

"But everybody knows and likes this Jake
Schermerhorn, Dad," said Jack, sitting on the edge of the bed,
opening and closing his hands, trying to be upbeat. "Everybody's
got a lot of respect for him. You remember what Brady Coyne had to
say about him."

"I'm not doubting any of that. It's just the . .
. whole thing.

Hey, I forgot—

I hauled out the mutilated badge and folder and
showed them to Joe, who's face wore a look of horror as he examined
it.

"Holy shit. Have you touched the metal?"

"Not much."

"Let's get it dusted for prints, then," he
said, carefully folding it up and putting it back in the envelope.
"This might be the break we've been looking for. I think old
Hartzell's just given himself away. You say Moe was on the interview
with you? That's good. That's great, in fact. We can use a witness,
especially a practicing shrink."

"That's why I took him along."

"Has he seen this?”

"No. But he's going down to the cottage
tomorrow; we loaned him a key. When we go up to meet him there let's
take it with us."

"No, we'll just tell him about it; I want this
in a lab right away. By the way, Paul and I have located our friend
in the big white car. Slinky's real name is Edward Falcone. And he is
connected. A low-echelon Wiseguy from Providence. We do a lot of work
with the Providence law enforcement people, as you can imagine. We'll
have Slinky up here before long to question. But what you and I are
going to do right now is find Lionel Hartzell."

We left the dorm and went over to his house. Not
there. Went to his office. Same result. Asked for his whereabouts at
the administration office in the restored building on Water Street
called the Candle House. Drew a blank. Nobody knew where Hartzell was
hiding. And Art Hagstrom, we remembered, was out of town, gone to a
conference at the jersey Shore.

"Let's go back to his place," said Joe. "I
might even pick the friggin' lock. I know he's hiding somewhere."

"But where? Remember what the lady said: he's a
loner. He could be anywhere."

"We'll track him down. Hey, are you sure you
left the badge in his office?"

"Positive."

"You couldn't have dropped it on the way out?"

"I don't see how; I missed it right after the
interview."

"Hmmn. Well, maybe it's God telling you that you
shouldn't have done that interview, Doc. I know Keegan will be
pissed."

"Fuck Keegan."

"Hey, don't say that. You should have seen him
in the chambers. He's on our side. Hard to believe sometimes, but
true. Boy oh boy, I wonder what Joe Kenny would think."

"Who's Joe Kenny?"

"The retired cop who gave me this badge folder.
Remember? I wonder what he'd think if he saw it now."

"I know what he'd think. He'd think Lionel
Hartzell is a weird, vindictive son of a bitch who should be locked
up."

We went back to the Hartzell residence. Joe decided
not to pick the lock.

"Anything against regulations could blow the
whole thing," he said. "Let's try again tomorrow. We'll
find him sooner or later."

So we returned to the dorm
and girded our collective loins to make the best of a bad situation.
We went to dinner at a nice restaurant up the road, the Coonamessett
Inn, and it buoyed our spirits. With Jim and Janice gone back to
Boston, we had a pleasant, if subdued, family evening. The next day
was Saturday, and we were heading back to the Breakers.

* * *

"Doc? Moe."

"Jeez, what time it it?"