LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (3 page)

I smiled. “Sure. We'll be there.”

I raised the window, and Paula said, “That wasn't nice.”

“What wasn't nice?” I asked, and, finally finding a break in the traffic, I eased out onto Route 1 and started heading north.

“You told her that we'd be at the rally tonight,” she said. “I bet she thought that meant you'd be there as a supporter, and not a reporter.”

“Not my fault if she thought that,” I said.

“You getting crusty in your old age?”

“Maybe,” I said, “but I don't feel old.”

That earned me a laugh as we went up Route 1, the traffic finally thinning out, the sun shining brightly, and the foliage on the trees on both sides of the road burning a bright red and orange. It looked nice, it looked quiet, and this would prove to be the last peaceful day in Falconer for some time to come.

 

CHAPTER TWO

It took about twenty minutes of driving to get where we wanted to go, as we took Route 51 down to Tyler Beach and then looped our way back to Falconer, traveling on Route 1-A, also known as Atlantic Avenue. Here there were cottages and lots of motels and shops, most them closed down for the cold fall and winter that was coming our way, and off to our left, the endless moving gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean. We crossed over the Felch Memorial Drawbridge that spanned the channel leading from the Falconer and Tyler harbors to the ocean, and to the right, lobster boats and stern draggers were moored as a sharp wind made whitecaps dance on the waters.

“Tell me again about your new boss,” Paula said.

“Do I have to?”

She laughed. “A real mouthful, isn't she. Denise Pichette-Volk, right?”

“Good memory,” I said.

Paula added, “Also known as ‘Denise the Dastardly.' Known for coming into newspapers and magazines that are struggling, cutting costs, squeezing more personnel, getting, quote, more efficiencies, unquote, from staffers. You getting squeezed there, Lewis?”

Up ahead I saw lines of people marching along both sides of the road. There were chain-link fences on the right, and beyond that, a flat parking lot and a large white building with a peaked black shingle roof that was the fishing cooperative for most of the fishermen working out of Falconer and Tyler harbors.

“Usually I like being squeezed by women,” I said. “Not this time.”

“Any juicy details?”

I thought for a moment, slowing the Explorer some as I reached the open gate of the cooperative. “Not a one.”

She smiled, but there was a hint of frustration in her face. “Some days your secretive past and lack of conversation can be charming, but not today. I feel sorry for your lady friend, if this is the kind of face you show her, day after day.”

She turned and pretended to be interested in the line of marchers clustered around the gate to the parking lot. As Paula looked out the window, I did, too, and remembered.

*   *   *

About a month ago I had been summoned to appear at the offices of
Shoreline
magazine, located in a renovated mill building in South Boston. The monthly magazine covers the history and happenings of the New England coastline from the upper reaches of Maine to the lower depths of Connecticut, and I have a monthly column called “Granite Shores,” which covers the New Hampshire seacoast. I became a magazine columnist after an unfortunate series of events when I was a Department of Defense employee that led to the death of some friends and co-workers, including a dear woman who might have become Mrs. Lewis Cole one day—but that wasn't meant to be, like JFK's second term.

Being told to appear in South Boston had been a shock, and was going to be one of many that day. In the brick-lined and comfortable offices of the magazine, the biggest shock was seeing someone different sitting behind the desk of the magazine's editor, retired U.S. Navy Admiral Seamus Anthony Holbrook. His office had mementos of his navy past and a great view of Boston Harbor, but the woman sitting at his desk was out of place. She was much younger than me, had long black hair, and wore a stunning black and red dress. All in all, she looked like one of those women devoted to fashion magazines that have an ad-to-copy ratio of about ninety to ten.

She stood up, gave me a brief shake of the hand, and got right to it. “My name is Denise Pichette-Volk. I'm now in charge here at
Shoreline
.”

I sat down, nearly missing the chair. “What happened to the admiral?”

She shrugged. “Off on medical leave. For something.”

“Where? For what?”

“I don't know.” She looked down at some papers. “What I do know is that the publishers have taken me aboard to make some changes, and your name is on the top of the list.”

“Just what kind of list is that?”

She turned a sheet of paper. “The list of those who get paid extraordinarily well for doing extraordinarily little. Mr. Cole, your sole responsibility to
Shoreline
is producing one column per month, for which you get paid at a higher rate than more than ninety-five percent of the staff. Doesn't sound particularly efficient, now, does it.”

I cleared my throat. “My arrangements here with
Shoreline
were made with the full knowledge and cooperation of Admiral Holbrook, and—”

Denise held up a manicured hand. “I know all about the arrangements. I know some about your service with the Department of Defense. I know that your job here was initially a gift to you, for your faithful service to our country, blah-blah-blah.”

Something cold tickled at the backs of my hands. “I'm sorry, what do you mean, ‘initially'?”

She looked at me with her cold brown eyes. “Initially the Department of Defense paid for your salary and benefits through a rather … unusual accounting arrangement, but that arrangement ended a few years ago. Cost-cutting, you realize, on the behalf of the federal government. Ever since then,
Shoreline
has been paying your full freight. Through the intercession of Admiral Holbrook.”

My hands and the back of my neck were now quite chilled. “I never knew that.”

“From what I understand, that was the admiral's decision. He has some old-fashioned concept about promises made and loyalty to subordinates. Now that decision has been overruled.”

“I see.”

“Um, no, I don't think you see. The decision of the admiral to keep you on and pay you was based on your performance as a columnist, but you're going to do more for the magazine now, Mr. Cole. An additional article in each issue, from a story idea that will be assigned to you by the editorial staff here. Copy editing from home on some of our less-talented freelancers' contributions. Perhaps even some sales work, going to businesses along the New Hampshire seacoast, convincing them to advertise with the magazine.”

I shook my head. “Not going to happen. Look, you should know that my agreement with the government meant that—”

She dropped her fountain pen, smiled, and leaned back in the admiral's chair. “Yes, your agreement with the government. I don't know the details of your agreement, but I do know that in exchange for keeping your mouth shut about some past embarrassing incident, you got this comfy job. Fine. Take it up with the government if you have a problem with the way you're being treated. Although, trust me, that won't get you far. Considering all the dirty laundry that's been aired this past decade about what our government has been up to, do you really think you can convince them to return to your original agreement if you threaten to go public? Over some past embarrassment?”

My hands were clenched.
Past embarrassment,
I thought. A long time ago, I worked as a research analyst for an obscure section of the Department of Defense, and on a training mission in the high Nevada desert, we were all killed—save for me—after being exposed to a nasty biowarfare agent that didn't officially exist. All those co-workers, my dear Cissy Manning, all dead and gone and forgotten … except they were now considered an embarrassment.

I said, “You seemed to have thought this through.”

Her face had a triumphant little smile. “I certainly have. That's why I'm here. So what's it going to be, Mr. Cole? Your new arrangement, or unemployment, in this economy and at your age?”

“I'd like to take some time to think about it.”

She leaned forward in the admiral's chair. “Take all the time you want. Just make sure it's in the next thirty seconds. I'm a very busy woman.”

I took a breath, and then another one. “Then I suppose my answer is yes.”

The triumphant smile on her face widened. “I never had any doubt.”

*   *   *

I drove up to the open gate to the fishing co-op, then stopped and touched Paula on her shoulder. Surprised, she turned to me, and I said, “Many years ago, I worked at the Pentagon. One day I was part of something that got a lot of friends of mine killed. I was the sole survivor. I got paid off, and to keep my mouth shut, I was given the job at
Shoreline
. I've kept my mouth shut ever since then.”

Paula looked shocked. “But … you've just opened your mouth.”

“I guess I did.”

“Why?”

Behind me horns blared. I didn't move. “Because I kept up my end of the bargain, while other people didn't.”

She looked at me, and her smile this time was genuine, no frustration mixed in. “Well, you certainly are full of surprises, even at this late date—but, Lewis?”

“Yes?”

“Get your butt in gear. We're going to be late for speechifying.”

*   *   *

Through some intercession of the parking gods we found an empty space, though we had to walk across what seemed to be a couple of acres of parking lot to get to the co-op building. There were a lot of pickup trucks and SUVs, and not a single hybrid in sight. The wind was sharper off the harbor, and Paula stayed close to me as we walked. The co-op was built like a large white barn, with doors set in the front, and there was a knot of people by the doors.

Paula said, “Still not sure why the union people are meeting here.”

“Biggest hall in the area,” I said, “and guys and gals who work with their hands—they tend to look out for each other.”

We got closer to the knot of people, some with windbreakers and jeans, others fellow members of the news media. There was a gatekeeper up forward, standing there, burly-looking, arms crossed, wearing a gray sweatshirt with a hood and soiled jeans, face red and belligerent. As I moved up I heard him say, “… and that's it, nobody else gets to go in.”

I went up to him, held up my press pass. “Just the two of us, all right?”

He looked and said, “Damn out-of-staters, coming in to stir things up. Nope, the hall is full.”

I said, “I live in Tyler, and so does she, so we're not from out of state. So how about stepping by?”

A firm shake of the head. “Nope. I got my orders. Room is full. Nobody else gets in.”

Paula said something, but I couldn't make it out because of the other people talking. I said, “Look, we need to do our job, we'll get in and stand in the back, and—”

The gatekeeper said, “Hey, I'm fucking tired of talking to you, so get out of my face, all right?”

“I don't think your face is worth getting into, and—”

He unfolded his arms and stepped toward me, and I let my reporter's notebook drop to the ground, and I felt that quick warm tingling that tells you things are going bad, very quickly, and just as quickly, it calmed right down when I felt a soft touch on my shoulder and heard a familiar male voice say, “Everything all right here?”

I turned in relief and then bent down to scoop up my notebook. Felix Tinios stood there, dressed sharply in black shoes, black trousers, and a light tan jacket that was partially zippered shut. The jacket fit snugly around his well-built shoulders and arms, his dark-skinned face was shaved smooth, and his black hair was well coiffed, as always. He was smiling, and his eyes were merry, but there was a sense of energy about him, like a man who would graciously allow you to cut ahead of him in traffic but would cause you grievous bodily harm if you ever crossed him in private or public.

I suppose he was my friend, though what passed for a relationship was much more complicated than that. In any event, I said, “No, everything is not all right here. Paula Quinn and I are trying to cover Joe Manzi's press conference, and this character won't let us in.”

Felix nodded crisply and went up to our nameless gatekeeper and said, “Hey, they're going in, okay?”

The guy said, “My orders are that the room is full and—”

Felix put his hand on the man's shoulder, gave it a firm squeeze. “I'll take full responsibility. The name is Tinios, and I'm in charge of Mr. Manzi's personal security.”

The guy opened his mouth, and then not a word came out. Whether he was struck speechless by Felix's logic or by Felix's hard grasp on his shoulder, he closed his mouth, swallowed, and moved aside. Paula ducked between us and got inside, and I looked to Felix and said, “Thanks.”

He looked unfazed. “It's what I do.”

“So you're now working for a union? I mean, come on. That's a cliché and you know it. Next thing, you'll be telling me that you're doing consult work in Las Vegas.”

That got a laugh. “Cliché or not, the money is still green, it's steady, and usually I'm home every night at a good time. As for providing security—it's good work for little effort.”

“Thanks again,” I said, moving now into the meeting hall, and then a wall of sound and smell came at me. I spotted Paula, standing against the rear wall, being jostled by some guys in dungarees and sweatshirts, and I elbowed my way in next to her. Near us was a wooden platform that allowed the television cameras to shoot over the heads of the seated audience.