Fatal Harbor Read online

  Hiss, thump-thump.

  “She told me the Tyler cops couldn’t do much, because his name was on the savings account. But Mrs. Martin was so upset . . . so I talked to her nephew and pointed out the error of his ways. Never told you this because I hated to admit it, but he was living in a condo in Porter. I was talking to him on his balcony and . . . well, I gave him a good view of downtown Porter. Upside down. Me holding on to his ankles . . . which was a hell of a feat, since I wasn’t feeling the best. But he paid up, and you heard about that, told me to leave police work alone. And I said it wasn’t police work, it was community activism . . . and it went on from there, didn’t it.”

  Thump-thump, hiss.

  “I’m off for a while. Tracing down some faint leads.” I stroked her hand. “Tell you the truth, I’m pretty much scared out of my wits. I’m going someplace . . . someplace I’ve tried to forget, someplace I’ve put out of my mind. But I’ve got a job to do, and a promise to keep.”

  I got up, kissed her forehead. “I love you, Diane. So very much.”

  Then I walked out.

  I met up with Kara as she was returning from the nurses’ station with a cup of coffee. “Talk to you for a sec?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We went into the same small room as before, and she sat down with a sigh. I sat down across from her. “I’m going to be away for a few days.”

  “All right.”

  From my wallet I took out a creased business card, passed it over to her. She gave it a glance and raised her eyebrows. “A lawyer? In Boston?”

  “That’s right. If you don’t hear from me in a week, I want you to call him. Tell him I’ve been absent for seven days. He’ll know what to do from there.”

  Her eyebrows went up a bit higher. “Not sure I like the sound of this, Lewis.”

  “Sorry to put this on you at this time, but there’s nobody else in the area I can rely on.”

  “But your friend. . . .”

  “She’s in D.C. Trying to elect a president.”

  She took the business card and carefully slipped it into her hoodie’s front pocket. “What are you telling me? Where are you going?”

  “You don’t want nor need to know.”

  Kara chewed for a moment on her lower lip. “You’re going someplace bad, someplace dangerous.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “But the cops. . . .”

  “The cops are good at what they do. But sometimes there are . . . circumstances where they can’t go or do anything. I don’t have those restrictions. And I’m going to see this one through, no matter what.”

  “You’re talking in riddles.”

  I got up. “I’m talking the only way I know how. Sorry, Kara. Remember, seven days.”

  That evening, I was at South Station in Boston, a transportation hub in the southern part of the city. In my continuing trend to explore transportation options in my neighborhood, I had taken a bus from Newburyport, Massachusetts, to Boston. Trains, cabs, and buses left South Station and went throughout New England and the Northeast. In the big lobby I sat on a wide wooden bench and watched the people eddy and flow about me. A soft black duffel bag was at my feet, my 9mm Beretta was in a shoulder holster on the left for easy access. I had a concealed-carry permit for the state of Massachusetts. I didn’t have carry permits for the several states I was about to pass through, and that didn’t bother me a bit.

  Eventually one man broke away from the crowd and sat next to me. Something tight around my chest lessened.

  “Good to see you, Felix.”

  “The same.”

  “How’s your great-aunt?”

  “Off to Florida a month ahead of schedule. She put up a hell of a fight, but I figured out a way to get her to leave early.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Told her that her retirement village was holding a fundraiser for wounded troops from a nearby base, and that they needed her lasagna recipe. So off she went.” He handed over a thick business-sized envelope. “Loan, ID, and credit card as requested. We’ll pass on the official paperwork.”

  “Thanks. How are you doing?”

  He stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankle. “Hell of a thing. We still got guys with sharp eyes hanging out in the North End, and my place in North Tyler is under watch as well. Over the years, you and I have been involved in some shadowy work, have gone up against some bad guys and gals. But this time . . . you know the phrase ‘stir up a hornets’ nest’? Man, you’ve stirred up a whole goddamn colony of nests.”

  “So I have. Sorry about that.”

  “Not a problem. Part of the life I chose, years ago. Dealing with angry insects and associated creatures.”

  The P.A. system issued some sort of gibberish that sounded like Olde English on crack. Felix said, “The question I have is, how are you doing?”

  “Working. Snooping. Going places.”

  “Like D.C.? You told me plenty of times that you would never, ever go back there. So what’s changed?”

  “Circumstances.”

  “Meaning you found something linking Curt Chesak to something in D.C.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something connecting him to your past life?”

  I kept quiet, put the bulging envelope in my soft carry-on bag.

  Felix said, “You want some company?”

  I couldn’t believe he had just said that. “D.C.’s not the North End. Or New England.”

  “What, you think I can’t handle myself against hired goons from the Feds?” he asked, exasperation in his voice. “First of all, I’ve been dodging Feds most of my life. I’m used to it, and they haven’t caught me yet. Secondly, I’ve had other hard men after me, plenty of times, whose weapon of choice was either an ice pick through the ear or two in the hat. So I think I can do just fine in D.C.”

  “Have to do this one alone. I have to move fast, have to think quickly on my feet . . . and it might not end well.”

  “So I just hang out up here?”

  “You just hang out up here. If you don’t hear from me in a week, do me one last favor and check on Kara Miles, up at the Exonia Hospital.”

  “Diane Woods’s S.O. What do I do?”

  “Whatever she asks. All right?”

  Felix leaned over, offered a hand. I gave it a firm shake. “All right. You can count on me.”

  “Always have.”

  He stood up. Fingered the zipper on his jacket. Looked over at the crowd, then at me. “You be careful out there among the English, pal.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Felix looked at me one last time. “You carrying?”

  “I am.”

  He shook his head in dismay. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Sorry that I’m carrying?”

  “No,” he said, finally zippering up his coat. “No, not that. You see, Lewis, there was a time when I could tell you were carrying. You were so conscious of the fact that you were armed that I had no problem seeing through you. But now I can’t tell. Which means you’ve changed, and not in a good way.”

  He turned, and I lost him in the crowd.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nearly twelve hours later, the next morning, I got off a Greyhound bus at the company’s terminal in Washington, a few blocks north of Union Station. I was stiff and felt grimy and greasy after spending so many hours sitting down or dozing. The bus had lumbered its way down the Northeast corridor, and it was full of people either like myself—wanting no official record of their travel—or those who couldn’t afford anything quicker, like a train or airplane. There were a crying baby or two, an old man who snored loudly, and a couple of soldiers going home on leave, still wearing their camos. They kept to themselves and stared a lot out of the windows as they passed through the country they had sworn to defend.

  I strode out to the street, which had a lot of traffic and taxicabs backed up. Eventually I got in the back s
eat of a Diamond taxi with an older African-American male driving. He had on a cloth jacket and cap, with a beefy arm and hand draped over the steering wheel. I got in, and he murmured, “Where to?”

  I handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “If you don’t mind, just drive around, show me the sights. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”

  He grunted, put the cab into drive. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Over the next half hour, I sat in the rear of the clean cab as we drove around the city, passing Capitol Hill, the Supreme Court building, the National Archives, and the Smithsonian along the Mall. The Air & Space Museum, the Museum of Natural History . . . so many beautiful buildings with beautiful and historical objects within. The monument park to World War II veterans, then a swoop and drive past the Jefferson Memorial. The Washington Monument, the reflecting pool, and Old Abe, staring out at the Union he had sacrificed himself to save.

  And a drive at a distance from the White House, once upon a time called the People’s House. Lots of memories and thoughts and melancholy swirled through my mind in that taxicab.

  At a stoplight, my quiet tour guide swiveled around and said, “You satisfied?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “We could go across the river, check out the Pentagon and Arlington National Cemetery if you’d like.”

  “No, I would very much not like,” I said. I passed over another fifty-dollar bill. “How about a motel or hotel that’s near D.C., safe and clean and reasonably priced? Can we go there?”

  He deftly pocketed the bill. “We can do that.”

  A few minutes later, he pulled into a small lot adjacent to a two-story motel called Lincoln Arms, just on the edge of D.C. “This will suit you just fine, mister.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I owe you any more?”

  He laughed, a pleasing sound. “Shit, man. No, we’re doin’ fine.”

  “Feel like earning a bit more?”

  “Why the hell not?”

  I opened up the door. “Come back in an hour, all right?”

  “You payin’, I’m comin’.”

  “Thanks.”

  An hour later, I was back outside, freshly washed, shaved, and dressed, wearing a nice fall uniform of slacks, shirt, tie, and blue blazer. My Bianchi leather holster kept my 9mm Beretta in place. Right on the dot, the Diamond cab pulled up and the driver looked me up and down and said, “Man, you clean up nice.”

  “Thanks, that was my plan.”

  Back into the cab, and he said, “More monuments, museums?”

  “How about a cesspool?”

  That made him pause. “Plenty of places to choose from.”

  I gave him an address on K Street. A chuckle from him. “That’s a good choice.”

  In the K Street area of D.C., my guide drove around and found an empty spot to park for a moment. The buildings here were large, some fairly new and built with clean stone and glass. He kept the cab idling, looked around him. He suddenly spoke. “My boy came back from Afghanistan last year. Body didn’t have a scratch but something’s going on inside of him, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “He’s not crazy, mind you. He’s just changed . . . real, real quiet. Used to go out clubbing, hanging with his boys . . . now all he wants to do is sit in his bedroom and read. That’s all he does, read old, old books, about spaceships and trips to the moon, and he eats three meals a day and sleeps twelve hours a night. He’s back, but not really back.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut. He sighed and I slipped over two twenties. He waved the two bills up at the gleaming buildings. “Think anybody who works there has a boy like mine?”

  “Not for a moment.”

  “Don’t think that’ll change anytime soon, right?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Another sigh. “We can dream, I guess.”

  I liked my cabbie but I also liked keeping things quiet, so I walked two blocks until I got to the address I was looking for, that of Munce, Price & O’Toole, Professional Associates. Before I made the long bus ride down to D.C., I had spent a few minutes at the Tyler Public Library, using one of their computers to do research on Munce, Price & O’Toole. And my research came up pretty thin. They had been in business for nearly two decades, were considered one of the most influential lobbying firms in the capital, and had a range of interests from agriculture to energy to pharmaceuticals to arms dealers and about everything else in between.

  What I couldn’t find out was who they specifically represented. Their client lists were very confidential and, unlike other lobbying firms whose reach exceeded their grasp, they rarely made the pages of the Washington Post and The New York Times, and in those appearances there was never any mention of scandals, arrests, or payoffs.

  Meaning they were either very lucky or very good, or a combination thereof.

  On this part of K Street, the buildings were a mix of old eight-story brick buildings, next to eight- or ten-story newer office buildings. There were four lanes of road in the middle, two local lanes on either side, with median strips and lots of trees. The sidewalks were quite busy with well-dressed men and women, striding along, doing their business, most of them with cell phones pushed up against their ears. So much power, so much money, so much wrong. For decades, both parties had declared this particular street the source of all evil in government, but neither had done very much about it. It was like two sets of mechanics, facing a car that wouldn’t start, with one set insisting that a new windshield would make it all right, with the other set equally insisting that four new tires would do the trick.

  I missed the address of Munce, Price & O’Toole and had to circle back to find it. It was a simple glass door with gold lettering. I tugged open the door and walked into a lobby.

  A small lobby.

  A very small lobby.

  It had a light-blue luxurious carpet, indirect lighting, and a curved counter where a receptionist sat. She was in her late twenties, early thirties, and excuse my old-fashioned observation but she was drop-dead gorgeous. A mane of blond hair that was expertly done, soft red lipsticked lips, and a clinging black dress that showed off a very taut and curvy body. She had a wide smile as I approached, and she was wearing a Bluetooth headset in her left ear.

  Before her was a telephone that struck me as very odd. There was no keypad, no buttons, nothing. Just a handset. To her right was a plain wooden door that had the firm’s name in gold letters, along with a doorknob with a keypad lock.

  “Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” she asked in a soft Southern voice.

  I looked around, took the place in. Another very odd thing: no coffee table with magazines, no comfortable chairs or couches for clients or salesmen to cool their heels.

  Munce, Price & O’Toole looked like a very tightly wrapped place.

  I showed her my press pass, issued by the N.H. Department of Safety, which had my name, photo, and the name of my former employer, Shoreline magazine. I held it for just a second or two, long enough for her to recognize it as a press pass, and hopefully not long enough for her to memorize my name.

  “I’m working on a story about different lobbying firms in Washington and what their clients feel about deep-sea fishing rights.”

  Her smile didn’t change a bit, but her voice seemed shaky. “Deep-sea what?”

  “Deep-sea fishing rights. Haven’t you heard about the fishing quota controversies in the Northeast?”

  “I can’t say I really have, sir.”

  “That’s my point. More people need to know about these issues, and I’m looking for information about possible lobbying actions that your firm has conducted. Is there a spokesman I can talk to?”

  The receptionist quickly regained her composure. “I’m afraid there isn’t.”

  “Really? Nobody to interact with the news media?”

  “Our firm rarely interacts with the news media. We find that our clients prefer it that way.”

  “How about com
munity outreach?”

  “We don’t do community outreach.”

  “Oh. Well, can you tell me which clients may have an interest in deep-sea fishing rights?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

  “But what kind of clients do you have?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

  “Really, I mean, can’t you tell me—”

  A quick buzz on her phone. She toggled something and nodded, speaking into her Bluetooth. “I see. I see.”

  Then she looked up at me, widened her smile some. “You know, Mister. . . .”

  “Smith.”

  “Smith,” she said. “Someone’s coming right now who might be able to help you.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I turned and got the hell out.

  I was about ten feet down the sidewalk when I realized my earlier mistake. The place looked quiet, small, and non-threatening. All of which were quickly proving to be false. I was certain that when I’d walked into that lobby, I was being observed and recorded, both by sound and vision. Plus I wouldn’t doubt that there were hidden metal detectors or X-ray devices around the doorframe through which I’d gone.

  Which meant to someone sitting in a room, deep in the building, that an armed man was in the lobby, asking lots of probing questions. Hence the call to the receptionist, to encourage her to keep me in place.

  I got to the corner, glanced back. Two men had emerged from the doorway of Munce, Price & O’Toole, one breaking left, the other breaking right. They strode quickly and purposefully.

  So did I. I went down and crossed the street, dodging through traffic, all of the drivers no doubt conducting the people’s business, and I got a barrage of honking horns for my trouble. Another glance back.

  There. An alleyway behind the building hosting Munce, Price & O’Toole. Two more men emerged. Their heads swiveled as they scanned the streets, and then they were looking at something in their hands.

  Another good guess. Print-outs of my face, from hidden cameras in the lobby.