But reservations or not, dinner for us this evening consisted of hot dogs and Coke, and this sumptuous meal was shared on the front seat of Diane Woods's unmarked police car, a dark blue Crown Victoria with blackwall tires and a whip antenna on the trunk. Unmarked though it might be, it was also instantly identifiable to those Tyler residents who dabbled in things illegal, though it was useful for grabbing those out-of-towners who thought a beach town was a license to raise hell.
We were about a block away from Grace's Beach House, and I looked at it longingly as we crawled north on Atlantic Avenue, behind the usual late afternoon flow of traffic from points such as Salisbury, Lawrence and Lowell. In this part of Tyler Beach, Atlantic Avenue is two lanes and both of them head north and it looked like Boston's Southeast Expressway during high commuter time. I had the window down and Diane was nervously tapping the steering wheel as she drove, balancing a half-eaten hot dog in one hand while driving. Both of my hands were free, as I had finished my own dinner earlier, but I wasn't sure if that was much of a prize: the hot dog felt like a lump of cold seaweed unmoving in my stomach.
I hadn't changed from my day's visit to Manchester and Bainbridge, and Diane was equally casual: white denim jeans and short-sleeved red shirt that was flapping over the waistband, the better to hide her .357 Ruger, detective shield and handcuffs. Diane swore under her breath as brake lights up ahead from both lanes lit up, and she said, "Look, Lewis, I know you wanted to go to Grace's and have a half-decent meal, but I've been sitting on butt all day and I was getting tired of it."
I looked over at her and said, "Your butt looks pretty good from here."
She said something that I'm sure the area third-graders would have been shocked to hear, coming from a police officer who loves to come in and talk to them. Diane said, "Some days I just get tired of sitting there, reading and rereading reports, making phone calls, trying to track down leads and taking phone calls from a whole host of shitmeisters, like the State Police and AG's office and our lovely friends in the news media. So you need to get out and get some fresh air, and I'm sorry, Lewis, I couldn't spend another hour or so just sitting. I needed to get my blood revving again."
The low-slung police radio chattered the usual noises of a weekday summer evening at Tyler Beach, from a stolen car to a couple of drunks barricaded in their motel room, refusing to leave and tearing the place up. Around us was a mass of people, swarming three or four deep along both sidewalks. There was not a single parking space to be found. Cars that crawled past us had their radios going, and just by sitting still, you heard rap music going into metal and into hip-hop and rock. But no classical. I guess they had their own beaches to go to.
Through it all, Diane Woods steered the car, talking to me but looking at what was going on. Little things like burned-out taillights or open containers of beer didn't even cause her to tap her brake pedal: she was out for bigger prizes. She finished her hot dog and took a sip from a cup of Coke that been stored between her legs, and then was going to say something but just stayed quiet instead. A woman skated by on rollerblades, eyes half closed, listening to a tiny tape player strapped to her tanned upper left arm. She had on a lime-green string bikini and her flesh was tanned and taut and seemed to spill over the tiny green fabric. There was a chorus of shouts and car horns as she skated south. I even saw Diane sneak a look in the rearview mirror.
"Not a bad view," I observed.
"You get them all the time around here," she said, braking again as the traffic ground its way north. "Jesus, I'm beat, Lewis. You know, I wouldn't mind a summer here, just listening to the music and skating around. Not a bad lifestyle, at least for a change. Get to sleep late, at least."
"What's new with the diver case?"
She looked over at me, a bit of mustard in one corner of her mouth, and said, "Officially and what I tell the news media, the case is proceeding along."
"Unofficially, the story's different, then."
"Yeah." She brought the cruiser to a stop again. "Damn traffic. Yeah, the case isn't going anywhere. First of all, no one's claimed the body. No missing person report has been filed, no landlord has gone into a cottage and found that his tenant was missing, and no empty boat's been washed up ashore. The wetsuit had no rental tags on it, and none of the dive shops report any of their gear missing. Autopsy… Well, the diver certainly didn't drown, that's for sure. Not enough water in the lungs. So the case is gong in the 'I'll get around to it when I can' file unless something breaks soon."
She eased off the brakes, and I said, "Well, obviously some people know, Diane. The guy or guys who took care of the diver, the diver's friends or family. Which tells me that this wasn't a dispute over a title search. Something a bit heavier."
Diane flicked her tongue out and caught the bit of mustard, and I felt better for some strange reason. She said quietly, “Maybe I'll have a talk with your buddy Felix."
I said, "Not sure if buddy's the word. But feel free to try. How’s the rest of the department working?"
By now the traffic in the left lane had come to a complete halt, and there was a blare of traffic horns from up ahead. Diane sighed and said, "We're not getting squat information about the chief and how his treatments are going, so everything's up in the air. Both of the deputy chiefs are busy setting bureaucratic land mines for each other, and I'm turning into one of their favorite weapons."
"For example?"
"For example, one deputy's supposed to be in charge of administration, and the other is supposed to be in charge of operations. With the chief around, I usually went straight to him and left those guys out of it. But now both are fighting for the detective bureau --- i.e., me --- and I'm getting conflicting orders --- like how to file certain reports, when I should be working and when I should be talking to the state. Petty crap like that. And then I got the diver case, the usual summer nonsense, the felonies and stuff and phone calls like you wouldn't believe."
We moved up ahead some, but the left lane was stock-still, the sounds of the horns were getting louder. "Sounds like it's time for a vacation."
She had both hands on the steering wheel and I could tell she was tensing up. Something was bothering her. She said, "No, it sounds like I need something more permanent, Lewis. Like a change in direction, or maybe careers." She turned to me, her tanned face looking weary. "But being a cop's all I know. That's all I've ever done, and I've given practically everything I've got to this department and this town, and I haven't been winning much all summer."
"Has that Roger Krohn been helping much?"
Another blast of horns from up ahead, and Diane actually smiled. "He's a funny character, that one. One day he's the tough, cynical Massachusetts detective who's seen it all, and another time he's just amazed at how things are up here in New Hampshire. I tell you, he keeps on talking about how he wants to get out of Massachusetts and come here, maybe find a nice local job, and I get the idea he's scouting out the chief's position."
"Sounds morbid," I said. We moved forward a bit more, and then stopped. Nothing moved in the left lane.
"Maybe so," she admitted, "but you know how it is with cops. We have a secret network that lets us know who's hiring and who's firing. Who's in at what department and who's not. Roger's just taking advantage of what's here. I really think he's gunning for the chief's job." She paused, was going to speak, and then seemed to change her mind.
I said, "You were about to say?"
That same smile. "I was about to say that I believe he's gunning for something else besides."
"Oh," I said. I thought for a moment and said, "Think he's gunning for the Tyler detective bureau? In a truly nonprofessional way?"
She grinned this time. "Unh-hunh. That I do."
"So how is your love life, Diane?"
Before she could answer we found out why the left lane had been at a standstill while our lane had continued to move ahead. A late-model Chevrolet, bright red and with mag tires and increased suspension, was stopped in front of a dress shop while the driver talked to two young ladies, who were leaning over and talking back to him, and while in the process of doing so, were revealing a remarkable amount of cleavage from their skimpy bathing-suit tops. The driver didn't seem to mind the tie-up he was causing and seemed to ignore the blaring horns, and based on the view at the time, it seemed understandable. Not particularly bright, but understandable.
Diane muttered something and pulled up next to the Chevrolet and yelled out, "Hey, you! Move it!"
The driver kept on talking and Diane leaned on the horn and said, "I'm talking to you, mister. Move it!"
He turned and looked over at us. He had on a black baseball cap, worn backward, and his long brown hair fell to his shoulders, which were bare, and it seemed as if he had spent about two weeks growing his mustache. He was smoking a cigarette and he removed it with one hand, the better, I suppose, to speak to us. He flipped the butt toward Diane, saying, "Fuck you, lady. I'm busy."
Well.
Diane said something under her breath and slammed the Crown Vic in drive and pulled it ahead and over, blocking his way. She threw the Crown Vic back into park and the cup of Coke that was on the seat fell to the floorboards, but by then she was out of the car, pulling a nightstick from underneath the seat and carrying it one hand. I got out just in time to see her reach into the Chevrolet with the nightstick, and then pull the young t=man with the foul mouth out, using the nightstick under his chin. His two female friends, seeing what was going on, melted back into the crowd.
God, Diane moved fast. The driver swore and swung at her, just barely missing her face. I went around to the front of her cruiser, going to give her some help, but Diane had grabbed one am and had tucked the young man's thumb under his hand, and was pulling the arm up against his back. He yelped and his legs gave way, and Diane slammed his chest down on the front of the Chevrolet. I winced. Diane had him in what she called a "thumb come-along," which was guaranteed to make prisoners do what cops wanted. As a joke once, she had tried it on me, and after a few seconds she had let go when I started yelling. The pain and stiffness in my arm had stayed for almost a week. Using the thumb come-along, Diane could have made me do anything she wanted, from tap dancing to signing over my bank account. It hurt like a son of a gun.
Diane told me once that one of the Tyler police's secret fears was drawing a crowd along Atlantic Avenue during the height of the beach season and ending up with a riot that would drive a stake into Tyler Beach's reputation as a family beach. With the amount of drinking going on, all it would take would be a couple of guys shouting "Off the pigs" and throwing a couple of bottles. Things could get nasty real quick. So by virtue of that fear and Diane's natural speed, by the time I had gotten around to the left fender of the Crown Vic, ready and willing to offer any assistance that I could, she had handcuffs on the driver and was walking him to her cruiser. His hat had come off in the process, his head was down and he was moaning, probably wondering what the hell had happened to him. I opened the rear door of the Crown Vic and said to Diane, "Here you go, Detective. Always glad to help."
I swear, her smile had dimples by then. "Thanks," she said, tossing him into the backseat. He lay down, his arms handcuffed behind him. On his left shoulder blade, there was a tattoo of a bulldog.
"Do me a favor?" she asked, breathing fairly hard.
"Name it." She nodded over to the Chevrolet. "Pull this nitwit's car over to the side, will you? Gotta open up the traffic."
I felt somewhat odd as I did what she asked, stepping into this stranger's car and driving it all of six feet so it was next to the sidewalk. Hardly any type of crowd had formed during the sixty seconds or so of this little incident, but those people who did glance at me gave me a look that said "cop." Since I've been called worse things, I didn't let it bother me.
After switching off the engine and locking the doors, I went back into the Crown Vic and handed the keys over. She threw them down next to her metal clipboard and we headed down one the lettered side streets that connect Atlantic Avenue with Ashburn Avenue--- both streets run parallel to the ocean --- and from there it was just a short drive to the Tyler police station. As she drove, the guy in the backseat moaned a couple of times and said, "You broke my goddamn hand, lady. You broke my goddamn hand."
Diane said, "Save it for when we get to the station."
She looked over at me and said, "You know, once I get this fool processed, I'm just gonna head home to my condo, shower in cold water and go to sleep."
"Sounds like a hell of a schedule."
The moaning resumed, and I spared him a glance and almost felt sorry for him. Here he was, young and probably considering himself good-looking, driving a car that he's proud of owning and being in Tyler Beach during a hot summer night. All wants is some action, some good times to take back to his life Massachusetts, and he almost gets there, talking it up to a couple of babes in good-looking bathing suits, and in the process of trying to impress them on how tough he is, he ends up in the rear seat of a police cruiser, being taken to the police station by one member of the Tyler police department that I guarantee does not have a bleeding heart. Diane would probably have let everything slide if it weren't for the language and the flying cigarette butt. It'd be enough to make me vacation at home.