Storm Cell Page 6

  “You would think, but that sort of statement would be quite confidential.” “I’m sure.”

  There was a faint ring-ring, his fingers moved across a keyboard, and he murmured, “One moment, please.” After a second, he said, “Millicent, it’s Councilman Schwartz returning your call.”

  When he was done he looked up at me, surprised to still see me standing there, and said, “I’m sorry, you can’t see Mr. Spinelli. Besides, he’s not here.”

  “Really? I find that amazing, especially since I saw his Audi in the parking lot.”

  His face flushed, and I said, “Tell you what. Tell him I’m here, and I’ll just take a break over here on your fancy furniture.”

  That kept him quiet, and I went over and sat down in a plush chair. It was pretty damn comfortable.

  From the coffee table before me, I picked up a copy of that day’s New York Times and started reading.

  Over the next hour or so, I read and reread the Times, then the Boston Globe, and then the Economist. I was hoping to find a National Geographic magazine to lighten up the doom-and-gloom theme of the previous journals, but that was not to be. During the later afternoon there was a constant stream of men and women coming in and out of the nice offices. Everybody moved briskly, everybody was nicely dressed, and I didn’t see a single pair of blue jeans or a T-shirt or a scruffy leather jacket during my time there. Once a slim young woman, moving fast and carrying a briefcase in each hand, hustled up to the redheaded gatekeeper and dropped her burdens on the floor. She had on a severe-looking black-and-white pantsuit ensemble.

  “Miss Linehan,” he said, passing over a sheet of paper. “HR called. You didn’t fill out your contact form in case of emergency. Could you fill it out and give it back to me?”

  “Sure,” she said, breathing hard. She looked to me, and I looked to her—for a second longer than I should, because I had the oddest memory of having seen her before, laughing, at some place, sometime—and then she bustled back to the rear, and I picked up the Economist again and decided to try reading it from the back to the front.

  At five P.M. the chilly man at the reception desk stood up, stretched his back, and removed his Bluetooth.

  “Sir?”

  “Me?” I said, also standing up.

  “The offices are closing,” he said. “I’m afraid Mr. Spinelli has gone for the day.”

  “Oh.”

  I felt like a fifth-grade student who just found himself in a high school honors classroom.

  “When did that happen?”

  He glanced down at his desk. “Approximately two hours ago.”

  “I suppose there’s other entrances and exits to these offices.”

  “You suppose right.”

  I decided not to make a fuss, or a stand, or anything else. I just said, “Nicely played,” and left the building.

  But to be on the safe side, I checked the firm’s parking lot. Hollis Spinelli’s Audi was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning was a Saturday and I drove north to the scene of the crime in Porter. It was a bright, sunny morning, and the last of the snow piles were starting to melt, leaving pools and rivulets of dirty gray water along the cracked pavement of Sher Avenue. The homes here were two or three story, all wood, with narrow clapboards and small windows denoting construction from the late 1700s to early 1800s.

  Porter was founded back in 1626 and I was certain there were scores of such homes throughout the city, nice, tidy little structures, maybe with the proverbial white picket fence, tiny lawn, and flower boxes out front, so sweet and peaceful. Yet years or decades or centuries earlier, blood had been spilled, bones had been broken, and brains had been splattered in some nasty spasm of violence in those now-quiet places. It made me wonder if there was something still askew in such homes that were the homes of such murders.

  I walked up to the murder house. The house before me just looked old and tired. Three stories, light yellow paint on narrow clapboards peeling away, small windows. There was a front door that didn’t have front steps, making me think it was an original door that was now nailed shut since the home had been subdivided into three apartments.

  I had parked near a corner convenience store and walked across the street to the house. There was an addition to the left, an enclosed stairway that led to the three apartments. I went up to the door, found it locked.

  Interesting.

  I stepped back, looked up. A couple of oak trees in a nearby yard would provide some shade once the leaves came back, but now, the bare branches just made the place look even lonelier.

  I stepped back again. Odd, still odd. This wasn’t a fancy apartment building, or a hotel, or a mansion somewhere near the outskirts of Porter that had views of the harbor or the ocean. Nope, this was a typical creaky old apartment building in an old New Hampshire city. So what had brought Fletcher Moore here one night, to an empty apartment up on the top floor? And what had brought Felix here as well? I still had many doubts that he had murdered Fletcher Moore—too much dumb evidence—but his pistol had been recovered here, along with a number of fingerprints.

  What had brought Felix here, then?

  A car pulled up behind my Pilot. It was dark blue, with a police whip antenna on the rear trunk, and a side spotlight on the driver’s side door, which then opened up, revealing Detective Steve Josephs.

  He came across the road and said, “Lewis.”

  He looked past me, up at the house. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a typical old house. Still trying to figure out why Fletcher Moore was here, and why Felix was here?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A dark blue plumber’s van rolled by. Detective Josephs shrugged. “Who knows. Who cares.”

  “What was that?”

  His voice now had a defiant tinge to it. “You heard me the first time.”

  “I thought you’d be the first in line to find out why the two of them were here, in an unoccupied apartment.”

  “Not my department,” he said. “I don’t care why they were there, or what Felix’s motives might be. All I care about is the evidence, and right now, all of the evidence is pointing toward your criminal friend.”

  I was tired of defending Felix for the day, so I said, “And motive doesn’t play into it?”

  “Nope. Don’t care. Evidence is what I care about.”

  I turned and looked again at the house. “I’d like to take a look.”

  “Knock yourself out,” he said.

  “No, I meant going inside.”

  Josephs shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why? It’s not still an active crime scene, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Then why not let me in? Any particular reason you’re being a hard-ass today?”

  “No, not really,” he said. “I don’t see the advantage of it, that’s all. Besides, I hear you’re unemployed from your magazine gig. So why do you want to go in?”

  “I’m still thinking of writing an article about this homicide. It’s a puzzler.”

  “Who are you writing for? Boys’ Life?”

  From the inside of my jacket, I removed the envelope I had gotten from Agent Krueger. I passed it over to him; he read the letter contained within and then put it back into the envelope and handed it back to me.

  “Impressive,” he said. “How in the world did you get a story assignment from the FBI?”

  “My experience and charming personality,” I said, putting the envelope back into my jacket pocket.

  “Well, I won’t give you an argument about the first,” he said, smiling gently. “But as to the second . . .”

  “That’s why you’re here,” I said. “Somebody call this in?”

  “You know it.” He looked around the neighborhood. “Porter’s changed over the years. My dad tells me stories of when the shipyard was at full capacity, the bars and brothels were hopping, and some places by the harbor, the Porter cops wouldn’t go in alone at night. Beating
s and homicides—not unknown back then. Now? This murder still spooks the neighbors. They see someone like you hanging around the house, somebody gets nervous. I was in the area, decided to see who that might be.”

  “I guess you were surprised to see me.”

  “I guess.”

  “Tell you what, now that you’re here, how about some help?”

  “You want to get in the third-floor apartment?”

  “I do.”

  “What for?”

  “Research,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said. “You doing an article for the Law Enforcement Bulletin about this one homicide?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Then why go in?”

  “Because I want to.”

  “And this will help your article how?”

  “Detective, you’re now an editor?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then be a good guy and escort me in, Detective.”

  He laughed. “Your lucky day. I feel like a good guy. So we’ll head up.”

  He had a key that opened up the stairwell door, and he led me in. He noted my look and said, “Borrowed key. I like to be able to get in here if I need to, like right now.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Gee, I’m so happy to have your approval.”

  There was a door to the right, a brass numeral 1 in the center. On a near wall were three black mailboxes. Names for the residents of 1 and 2 were carefully printed on white pieces of cardboard, MONTELEONE and JASPER. The third mailbox was blank.

  Detective Josephs went up the narrow stairs, and I followed. At the third-floor landing, there was a yellow-and-black police seal across the door. He peeled it open, then unlocked the door and gestured me in.

  I stepped in. The place was bare and had a lingering smell of spilled fluids and sweat. Before us were a small kitchen, faded green linoleum, unplugged refrigerator with its door hanging open, small counter and sink, and stove. A set of empty cabinets painted yellow overlooked everything, including stains in the center of the floor where Fletcher Moore’s body had been found. I walked forward. The floor creaked and I saw it had a severe slant, like all good old buildings. A window overlooked the street.

  “Pretty bare.” There was an oak tree in the rear yard, thick branches almost reaching to the window. I looked down. The small yard was pretty bare of grass.

  “Not every place in downtown Porter is worth a half-million dollars, filled with artwork and pricey furniture. But having said that, even a tiny and grungy place like this one will be rented soon enough.”

  “You think so? Even with what happened here?”

  “Sure,” Josephs said. “Space is at a premium this close to the downtown. Put down some fresh linoleum, wipe down the dust we use for fingerprints, and this place can be occupied by this time next week.”

  “Point noted,” I said. “Why do you think Fletcher Moore was here?”

  “Beats me,” he said. “His wife said he often worked evenings, doing deals, going to town meetings, stuff like that. It wasn’t unusual for him to be out late at night.”

  I went back out to the kitchen. “What did you see when you got here?”

  Josephs said, “A body near where you’re standing, and a young cop who was standing there, as cool as ice.”

  “Where was the pistol found?”

  “Underneath the body. Once the ME declared him dead and cleared us to move the body, that’s where we found it. SIG Sauer 9mm, sold six months ago to Felix Tinios of North Tyler. Twelve-shot magazine, ten remaining shots left behind.”

  “Any idea who placed the call?”

  “Nope. Blocked cell phone; that’s it.”

  I couldn’t help looking at the stain on the floor. Through his years of growing up in Tyler and the New Hampshire seacoast, did one Fletcher Moore ever imagine that this was where he would end, shot to death in an empty, dingy apartment in downtown Porter?

  “Did he have any business with the real estate company that owns the building?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody else in the neighborhood hear or see anything unusual?”

  Stephens smiled again. “Like your buddy Felix leaving the side door, with a sign hanging around his neck saying, ‘I done it’?”

  “That would be something.”

  “Nope.”

  “But Felix has had business with the real estate company, right?”

  “He did,” Stephens said. “They were building a set of condos in Wallis, and they were being hit with some nasty vandalism. A week after he was hired as a security consultant, the vandalism stopped.”

  “Funny, that.”

  “Oh, yeah, real frickin’ funny. About that time, a couple of lunkheads showed up at the Porter Hospital with broken hands. What a coincidence.”

  I stayed silent for a few seconds, just taking everything in. “It looks like an ambush to me.”

  “Very good, Lewis,” he said, gently clapping his hands together.

  “Mocking me now?”

  “It seemed called for.”

  I went on. “Fletcher Moore is called here. The doors are unlocked. He goes up to the third-floor apartment, is shot twice in the head, and then the killer leaves.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “Beyond the circumstantial evidence, what makes you think Felix Tinios did it?”

  “Besides a signed confession?”

  “Sure, besides that.”

  A couple of horns blared from the street below. Josephs said, “We know that Felix had done business with the company owning this building. In Fletcher’s iPhone, his calendar noted that he had a meeting in Porter with F. Tinios. Felix’s fingerprints are in the kitchen, are found on the murder weapon, and, oh yeah, the SIG Sauer used to shoot Mr. Moore was his.”

  “He could claim that it was stolen.”

  “And I’m sure his defense attorney will mention that, one of these days.”

  “It sounds good, but also sounds thin.”

  “What, you’re now a dietician, Mr. Cole?”

  “No, just a curious guy.”

  “I’m curious, too. Why are you so devoted to trying to get Tinios off? That’s what his lawyer should be doing.”

  “Yeah, doing being the operating word.”

  “You don’t think he’s doing a good job?”

  “I think he’s doing an adequate job, which I don’t think is going to work.” I gave him a steady gaze. “I don’t like jobs just being adequate.”

  “Like detective work, for example?” he said calmly.

  “Not looking for a fight, Detective.”

  “You just might get it, Mr. Cole. You’re saying the case is circumstantial, but you know what? Most cases are circumstantial. That’s how it goes in the real world. Witnesses are unreliable, people lie or forget, and things fall through the cracks. You’ve got to go with what you got, putting things together, tugging threads. That’s what we did.”

  I let him go on, and he did. “We have the murder weapon, we’ve got the fingerprints, and we’ve got the meeting appointment.”

  “But you don’t have anyone putting Felix here for real.”

  A smile flickered across his face. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Wait,” I said. “What do you have? What does the state have? New witness? New evidence?”

  He said, “Not in a position to say. But make sure you’re at court tomorrow. Don’t be late. Something . . . interesting is going to be presented.” He pulled back the sleeve of his coat, checked his watch. “Sorry. Got to get back to the station. Your little tour done here?”

  “I guess it is,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

  He went past me to the door. “Always happy to assist a member of the Fourth Estate, or whatever the hell kind of estate you’re with.”

  Outside the wind had shifted, bringing in the salt tang from the harbor in Porter. There was freshness to the March air, of the promise of spring, of havi
ng survived yet another winter with its brutal storms and winds, of making it through those vicious storm cells that formed out on the Atlantic.

  I kicked at a chunk of dirty snow and ice. Storm cell. Like the one bearing down on Felix.

  Josephs said, “Again, I ask you, so why aren’t you leaving this to his attorney?”

  “It doesn’t feel right,” I said. “I need to know more.”

  “Then ask his attorney.”

  “He’ll barely talk to me.”

  “Some defense attorneys are like that,” he said. “Not all of them. The good ones will talk to anybody and everybody if they think it’ll help their client. The bad ones, the arrogant ones, they get pissed if they think you’re telling them how to do their job.”

  “Unfortunately for Felix, I think he’s got one of the bad ones.”

  “Still sticking up for him?”

  “Obvious, isn’t it?”

  “He’s a bad man, Mr. Cole. A very bad man.”

  “I owe him.”

  “For saving your life? That’s such a cliché.”

  “Things become clichés because once upon a time, they were based on real events.”

  “When was the last time you saw Felix, before his arrest?”

  “Believe it or not, it was me, taking him to the ER at the Exonia Hospital, a week before Fletcher Moore was murdered.”

  “What was going on? He get somebody else’s blood all over him?”

  “No,” I said. “He was helping me put up some new shelves at my house. Something slipped and dinged up his right hand. I thought maybe a finger or two got broken, but no, not that bad.”

  “So it was a wasted trip.”

  “Not really,” I said. “He got a date the next night with a radiology technician.”

  “Bet he’s not getting that many dates at the county jail.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “He won’t let me visit him.”

  “For real? You’re doing all this legwork on his behalf and he won’t let you see him?”

  “Nope.”

  He strolled over to his unmarked cruiser. “Then do something about it.”

  “How?”

  He opened the door. “You’re a journalist. I’m sure you can figure something out.”

  I had a quick lunch at a pizza joint in downtown Porter—a steak-and-cheese sub, just to give the pizza chefs something different to do—and pondered the rest of the day. No court. No gathering of witnesses, of spectators, of lawyers.