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  The other gentleman in question removed his ID and said, “Special Agent Zimmer.”

  “What field office?” I asked. “Porter?”

  “No, Boston,” Krueger said, replacing his identification. “Now will you talk with us?”

  “You think I’ll come along with you because you’re from the FBI?” I asked.

  “That’s what we’re hoping,” Krueger said.

  “Then hope again,” I said. “I’ve been indoors for most of the day, watching the wheels of justice grind along, and all I want to do is to go home.”

  “It’s about your pal,” Zimmer said.

  “Felix Tinios?”

  “That’s right,” Krueger said. “We want to talk to you about him.”

  “Then you should know he’s on trial for murder over there,” I said, gesturing to the courthouse. “Which is a state offense, not a federal offense.”

  “We know that, and more.”

  “What kind of more?”

  Krueger said, “His life is in danger, and if you want to see your friend live, you need to come with us.”

  I looked at him and at Zimmer. “His life is in danger? Why?”

  “We’ll tell you why,” Krueger said. “But not out in the open like this.”

  “All right,” I said. “Your vehicle or mine?”

  “Mr. Cole, if you want your friend to remain alive by the end of this week, please join us now,” Krueger said.

  I nodded. “You should have said that in the first place.”

  Krueger said, “We tried.”

  I grasped the Impala’s door handle. “You should have tried harder.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The interior of the Impala was clean and neat, which I always thought was a good sign, especially for a federal vehicle. Agent Zimmer was driving and Agent Krueger sat in the passenger’s side. I got in, and Krueger said dryly, “Seatbelts, if you please. There are rules about passengers.”

  “Rules about everything, I’m sure,” I said, snapping my seatbelt shut. “What’s going on with Felix?”

  Krueger lifted up a cardboard folder from the front seat. “Can we get the preliminaries out of the way? Meaning, can we both agree that we already know quite a good deal about you and Mr. Tinios?”

  We were on Route 125, heading north. Traffic was beginning to get heavier as the evening commute began. Even though it was March, there were solid piles of plowed-up snow and ice along the sides of the roads. It had been a hard winter in so many ways.

  “Sure,” I said. “I can be reasonable when appropriate. I’ll go along with you, Agent Krueger, that you have knowledge of me and Felix.”

  “Thanks,” he said, balancing the folder on his lap. “That will save us a lot of time. But if you don’t mind me asking . . . how in the world did a former Department of Defense research analyst who became a magazine writer, how did this person become friends with a man like Felix Tinios?”

  “We both belong to the same lodge.”

  “Which is what?”

  “The lodge of secrets,” I said. “Do go on.”

  Krueger flipped through a few pages. “It’s like this, Mr. Cole. Over the years, Mr. Tinios has come to our attention and has provided information and services to us on an irregular basis. We’ve come to value him. Has he ever discussed this with you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We’ve talked women, wine, and the winning ways of the Red Sox. His alleged involvement with you has never come up in conversation.”

  “If I can be clear . . .”

  “You can be clear, but I’ll be direct. Felix is facing life imprisonment or the death penalty for a homicide. Is there something he’s done for you in the past that’s embarrassing? Something he might use to seek assistance from the United States Attorney General? A possible deal, perhaps, so that if he’s convicted, the death penalty is taken off the table? Or his sentence gets reduced? In exchange for keeping his mouth shut?”

  “Nice scenario.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I practice at home by myself, in front of the mirror.”

  “You’re his friend,” Krueger went on, as Zimmer made a right-hand turn at an intersection and we started heading east along Route 101, a two-lane state highway. Headlights on the passing traffic shone as we started facing dusk. “Do you think he murdered Fletcher Moore?”

  “No.”

  “But he’s capable of murder, correct?”

  “Felix is capable of making French crêpes, stealing your wife or girlfriend, and killing a man when circumstances warrant. I can’t see him murdering a prominent Tyler businessman and selectman for no apparent good reason. Plus . . .”

  “Plus what?”

  “Plus it was sloppy, it was messy, with plenty of circumstantial evidence connecting him to the crime. Fingerprints, written evidence, weapon left behind. Felix is a pro. He isn’t sloppy.”

  “You think he’s being set up?”

  “Perhaps. But I also think the Porter police and the state police—God bless ’em both—saw a suspect pop up and grabbed him. I doubt any other police force in the state would pass up an opportunity like that, with Felix Tinios being so readily available. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I don’t recall you asking a question.”

  “Then I’ll remind you,” I said. “Felix is facing a very poor outcome in this trial. If he has something he can use to get him out, he’ll use it. That’s what this is all about, correct?”

  “Your talents could be better used elsewhere. Why didn’t you stay with the Department of Defense?”

  “Couldn’t stand the hours,” I said as we sped east, passing several exits that led to Exonia, the home of Phillips Exonia Academy and numerous writers, most of them toiling in well-deserved obscurity. “Felix must have done some interesting work for you folks. So why not go right to the state? Why not explain to them what’s been done, ask for some consideration?”

  I thought I heard Agent Zimmer grunt, and I was sure I heard Agent Krueger sigh.

  “Because you’re from the Boston field office, that’s why,” I went on. “With the Whitey Bulger fiasco that had the FBI agent cooperating with the Irish mob, overlooking murders, and putting innocent men away in jail, you can’t risk another embarrassing scandal. Even a scandal that’s not that embarrassing. There must be some history between the bureau and Felix.”

  Krueger said, “You have no idea.”

  “Care to share?”

  “No.”

  We sped on through the gathering darkness. “So why should I assist you?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said earlier? Felix’s life is in danger.”

  “From the state of New Hampshire? Please. It’s not like they’re going to stick a needle in his arm if he’s found guilty . . . there’s months ahead of appeals, and that’s assuming he’s going to be found guilty. Which I’m not ready to admit.”

  “Who said anything about the state of New Hampshire?”

  Up ahead the highway was now moving through flat marshlands. On the eastern horizon, the lights of Tyler Beach were becoming visible. The inside of the Impala—which earlier seemed clean and luxurious—now felt restrictive. I couldn’t wait to get out.

  “There are other parties involved,” I said.

  “Correct.”

  “Ones that, like you, want to make sure Felix doesn’t flip and say things he shouldn’t.”

  “Correct again.”

  “But Felix isn’t one to flip. Not ever.”

  “You know that, and I may know that, but other parties . . . they’d rather be safe than sorry. Deaths happen in detention all the time. Sometimes they’re made to look like suicides. You’re a man who knows his history. I’m sure you’re familiar with that.”

  “Stalin,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Stalin once said, ‘Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.’ What can I do for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”


  “Ask some questions. Poke around. Find out any gaps in the state’s case against Felix . . . and while you’re at it, try to find Raymond Drake. Mr. Spinelli is a competent lawyer, but your friend needs more than competence right now. He needs someone who knows him well, a fierce advocate. That’s Raymond Drake.”

  “I’m not afraid of poking around or asking questions, but as a private citizen, I don’t think I’m going to get very far.”

  “You’re a magazine writer,” Krueger said.

  “Former magazine writer,” I pointed out. “I was fired by Shoreline a number of months ago.”

  Krueger flicked on an overhead light, examined a few more sheets of paper. “Really? Seems to me that you were offered the job as editor, and declined it.”

  “I did.”

  “Doesn’t sound like firing.”

  “All right, let’s say I refused a promotion back then. That still means I don’t have a good cover to be asking lots of questions. When I was a columnist for Shoreline, I could always say my questions were related to an upcoming column. Can’t do that now.”

  Krueger shifted in his seat and extended his right arm over the seat back, holding a cream-colored business-sized envelope. “In there’s a freelance contract for Law Enforcement Bulletin. No deadline, no subject matter, but I’m sure you can come up with something that sounds like a prospective magazine article. How does that sound?”

  I took the envelope. “Sounds amazing. You have a way of me contacting you?”

  “Business card in the envelope.”

  The envelope rested on my lap. “Suppose this goes south.”

  Zimmer, the driver, spoke up. “We’re going east.”

  “Thanks for the geography lesson,” I said as the car slipped through an intersection and then started up Atlantic Avenue, toward the norther-n part of Tyler Beach. With the promise of spring just a few weeks away, a number of the restaurants, hotels, and motels had their lights on, getting ready once again for the yearly migration of tourists coming here to have fun and, more important, drop off lots of dollars. Election signs of all types were stuck in the diminished snowbanks, since Tyler’s annual town meeting was just days away.

  “Now we’re going the opposite of south,” I went on. “What I meant was this: What happens if I get into trouble, or arrested, or if some curious member of the Fourth Estate wonders why an unemployed magazine columnist has his hands on a nice, pricey freelance contract? What happens if questions come your way?”

  “Not my problem,” Krueger said. “You’re on your own.”

  I held up the envelope with the contract and business card inside. “And how would I explain this?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Krueger said. “But we’d say that under pressure and mental anguish, you stole my business card and faked those documents to give you some comfort that you were back at your writing gig.”

  I lowered the envelope. “I guess you guys think of everything.”

  “We do.”

  We came up to the spectacular view of the Lafayette House, a 19th-century Victorian-style grand hotel, with lots of porches, overhangs, and turrets. Zimmer made a right and took us into the Lafayette House’s parking lot, and went to the end of the lot, where a dirt driveway of sorts led down to my house.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “We took you home,” Krueger said.

  “You certainly did,” I replied. “But my Honda is back at the courthouse. You planning on dumping me here without my wheels?”

  Zimmer and Krueger remained silent for a moment, and then Krueger said, “Carl.”

  “Yeah.”

  Zimmer backed up the Impala, and in a little while we were retracing our route back to the Wentworth County Court House.

  “Agent Krueger?” I asked.

  “Yes?” he said, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

  “I guess you guys miss a few things along the way, huh?”

  Not a word more was said all the way back to the courthouse.

  I was running late for a dinner date after getting my marching orders from the FBI and a grand tour of Route 101, but I made up for it by gently exceeding the speed limit going back to Tyler Beach. Instead of going up north to the beach, where my home was located, I went south, to Harbor View Meadows, a condominium project where another one of my dear friends lived.

  The snow piles around the parking lot were lower than they’d been the last time I had been here, a good sign, and there were just a few campaign signs, most asking for certain warrant articles to be defeated or voted in. Out in the harbor, the only boats hooked to their moorings were stern trawlers and lobster boats. In another month or so, the sailboats and other pleasure craft would start popping up as the weather warmed.

  Including one special sailboat, the Miranda.

  I went up to a nearby condo unit, rang the bell, opened the door, and walked upstairs. There were cooking smells that tickled my nostrils and made my stomach grumble, and the stairway ended at the entrance to a large kitchen, where two women were waiting for me.

  Kara Miles was standing by the sink, drinking a glass of red wine. “You’re late, Lewis.”

  “I was unavoidably delayed.”

  “Hah,” she said, putting the wineglass down, picking up a dish towel. “You being a writer and an educated man, I’d think you’d come up with a better excuse.”

  “Educated?” came another voice. “You’re giving him too much credit.”

  Diane Woods, detective sergeant for the Tyler Police Department, got up from a chair in the adjacent living room, leaning on a metal cane. A few months ago she had been nearly beaten to death at a violent demonstration at the Falconer nuclear power plant, whose lights could be seen through her living room window. Now she was still healing, still breathing, and was back to work.

  Once upon a time there was a short scar on her chin from a long-ago altercation in the police booking room. That scar was now joined by a couple more on her face, yet I still found her delightful to look at.

  We exchanged a brief hug and kiss, and Kara called out from the kitchen, “You two knock it off. Bad enough I’ve got to leave early, I don’t need to see you two fondling.”

  “It wasn’t a fondle; it was a quick expression of friendship,” I said.

  Kara laughed. “Quick? Typical male.”

  In a few minutes Diane and I were seated at her round wooden kitchen table, while Kara bustled about and got ready to leave—“One of my clients just crashed his website and I’ve got to get over to his house to see what the hell he just did and try to fix it”—and then she left Diane and me to dinner.

  It was a homemade beef stew with carrots and potatoes—about the only two vegetables that I’m on consuming terms with—and warmed-up French baguettes and glasses of Bordeaux. Diane took a long swallow from her wine and smacked her lips. “One of the better parts of recovery? Being able to drink wine again. God, I’ve missed it.”

  “Are you making up for lost time?”

  “Making up for a lot of things,” she said. “So what delayed you coming over here? Felix’s trial running over?”

  “No, it’s proceeding along . . .”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “I still can’t believe he’s on trial.”

  “Oh, Lewis, believe it,” she said, a disapproving tone in her voice. “He did one more dirty deed, and this time, he got caught. Was bound to happen one of these days, and last January, that day came.”

  “Felix doesn’t get caught.”

  “He did this time.” Another long sip of wine followed. “Look, listen to me for just a moment, and don’t interrupt, okay? I know you’ve been buddies with him ever since you moved out here after you left the Department of Defense. You were damaged goods when you first arrived. For some reason, you glommed onto him with this sort of weird friendship and companionship. You being relatively goody-goody, he being very baddy-baddy.”

  “Baddy-baddy?” I asked.

  “I
told you not to interrupt,” she said. “The two of you had been on some . . . adventures. Misadventures. Pursuits pretty near criminal in nature. The two of you complemented each other: you with your sense of justice, him with his skill set of getting out of tight situations.”

  “I feel like there’s an enormous but coming my way.”

  “If you’re commenting on my widening ass, knock it off. Yet you’re right. Here’s the but. You’ve never, ever seen Felix Tinios in his natural environment. You’ve only seen him in your environment, in circles you’ve been running in, with your eyes. That’s not the real Felix. But with his background and in his environment . . . you have this romanticized vision of him, Lewis, but in his heart, he’s a thug, an enforcer, and a killer.”

  “My vision of him is twenty-twenty.”

  “Says you. But he’s spent a number of years with organized crime groups in Boston and Providence. That’s not sweet movie Godfather crap, with family loyalty, sincerity, and oaths, fresh pasta dinners and opera music. That’s mean, nasty work, beating up guys who owe too much money, running scared immigrant girls from motel to motel, and helping set up drug deals. He lets you see what he wants you to see. Don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good,” she said, spooning up another portion of stew. “This time . . . this time, Lewis, he got caught. I know it’s upsetting to you, but the odds were always against him. If he kept on playing his lawless game, he would eventually get caught. Joe DiMaggio eventually retires. Tiger Woods goes back to miniature golf. Someday Tom Brady will live in bliss with his Brazilian model wife, getting bossed around for the rest of his life. That’s how it goes.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But thanks anyway for the sports metaphors.”

  She muttered something obscene and said, “Oh. So what delayed you, if you don’t mind me asking? Paula Quinn of the Chronicle finally coming to her senses and breaking up with that slimy town counsel?”

  “No,” I said. “An attractive fantasy, but no. I was detained by two agents from the FBI.”

  “For shit real?”

  “For shit real,” I said. “They wanted to talk to me about Felix’s case.”