Port City Crossfire (A Brandon Blake Mystery, Book 1)

by Gerry Boyle

  He didn’t know that. He did know that the consequences of this shooting were his and his alone.

  Mia hugged him back, and he went to the locker, pulled out jeans and a Portland P.D. sweatshirt. He pulled them on, slipped into a pair of battered Topsiders, and climbed up the steps and into the galley. Sun was streaming through the parted blinds and Mia was cracking eggs into a fry pan. Brandon brought the kettle to the sink, was filling it when he heard, “Hey, Brandon.”

  Estusa was on the float.

  Brandon stepped out onto the stern deck, felt Mia close behind him.

  “How you doing, man?” Estusa said. “I’m sorry to bother you and Mia, but I really hope we can talk.”

  He had his concerned look pasted on, like he’d come to check on their well-being.

  “The marina’s private property,” Brandon said. “You’re trespassing.”

  “Oh, sorry. The gate was wide open so I thought—”

  “Close it on your way out.”

  “Sure, but can’t we talk? I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I mean, it must be just awful, with what’s happened. But I’m thinking of a story about the hazards of your profession, that every time you go to work, this kind of thing is a possibility. And with what’s going on nationally, the police shootings and Black Lives Matter and all, I mean, your job has gotten harder and harder. It must be—”

  “Fuck off,” Brandon said.

  “Brandon, don’t,” Mia said.

  “No, I understand,” Estusa said. “You have a right to be angry.”

  “Hey, I’m not angry,” Brandon said. “I’m just telling you to leave.”

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be now. I get that I just sort of showed up. Didn’t know how else to reach you. But maybe we can find a time—”

  “I’m gonna call South Portland P.D. If you’re still here when they show up, you’ll be charged with criminal trespass.”

  “Hey, easy man,” Estusa said. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.”

  “What we talk about is none of your business,” Mia said.

  “Oh, but it kind of it,” he said. “I mean, Brandon is a public figure by profession, and you’re one by extension and involvement in a public event, a serious crime in a public place. The Fuller shooting. And now, I mean, a kid dying and all.”

  Brandon moved to the stern, pointed his forefinger at Estusa’s face, said, “Get the hell out of here before I—”

  And he heard a whirring sound, looked toward the yard, the open gate. A woman was standing there, camera raised, long lens aimed like a missile launcher.

  “Her, too,” Brandon said.

  Estusa smiled, said, “No, I understand. I really do. It’s gotta be very upsetting thing, shooting somebody, I mean, a child. It’s not like it was some hardened serial killer.”

  “I’m calling,” Mia said, turning and slipping through the hatch.

  “I’m going,” Estusa said. He reached inside his jacket, then yanked his hand back out and held it up, palm out. “Easy now. Just taking out my business card.”

  He slipped his hand into the jacket, took out a card. Holding it in front of him like a white flag, he took a step forward and laid the card on the transom.

  “We’ll be talking,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” Brandon said.

  “Okay. Your decision. I respect that. But we’re going from here to interview Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings at their home. They want to tell us about their son. I think they’re gonna have a lot to say, even in their grief.”

  “Go,” Brandon said.

  “It would be great to have your side of the story, just for balance.”

  “Now,” Brandon said.

  Mia stepped out onto the deck. “They’re coming,” she said.

  Estusa smiled and backed away, then turned and started up the float.

  The South Portland cruiser rolled in a minute after Estusa drove off. Brandon walked up the float and across the boat yard, stepping through the gate as a second cruiser slid to a halt behind the first. The cops—a big guy named Robichaud who’d played football somewhere, a smaller woman named Otongo whose husband was in the Marines—got out and approached. Brandon felt naked in plain clothes, like he was in his underwear.

  “Hey,” Robichaud said.

  “He left,” Brandon said.

  “Estusa?” Otongo said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Piece of shit,” Robichaud said.

  “Total slime bucket,” Otongo said.

  “Walked right up to the boat,” Brandon said.

  “We could round him up but he’d write about it,” Robichaud said.

  “Nah,” Brandon said. “I just don’t want him on the property. Or his photographer.”

  “Once they’re warned, we can cite ’em,” Otongo said. “Probably across the bridge by now, but your guys could track him down.”

  “He’d say I threatened him or something,” Brandon said. “May say it anyway.”

  They paused, looking at him. The moment extended, an awkward sort of standoff, the two curious but not sure what to say. What was it like to kill someone on the job?

  A car rolled by slowly, a gray-haired couple eyeing the cops, headed home to lock their doors.

  “So,” Otongo said. “You okay then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That dirtbag comes back, call us,” Robichaud said, his thumb in his belt. “We’ll write his sorry ass up.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Brandon said. “And it’s not just me. My girlfriend, she doesn’t need to be hassled. This has nothing to do with her.”

  Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. It had everything to do with Mia, with the two of them. Brandon felt the cops’ curious gaze again, Otongo staring. He shot her a look, and she turned away, her black hair pulled back tightly, posture military straight. Everything under control—until it wasn’t.

  “Yeah, well, you need anything, we’re here,” she said. “Got your back, man. Press steps across that property line, even if they don’t. You call.”

  Brandon nodded. Otongo took a couple of steps toward her idling cruiser. She stopped, turned back, started to say something and hesitated.

  “How does it feel?” Brandon said. “Pretty friggin’ strange. Even if you know you did the right thing. One minute everything’s normal, the next minute everything’s changed. And there’s no going back.”

  Otongo looked at him and nodded. Robichaud looked at the ground, embarrassed at having his mind read. The unspoken truth was that it could be them, any day, any time.

  Back among the floats, a diesel boat motor started, rumbling and gurgling. Otongo put her hand on the butt of her gun, then pulled it away.

  “Yeah, well, sucks to be them ’cause I’m going home end of my shift,” Robichaud said.

  Brandon smiled. “Right,” he said.

  When he got back to the boat, Mia was standing in the stern. She was holding her school bag in one hand, keys in the other.

  “You going?”

  “Will you be okay? ’Cause I can stay,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve got students coming and I can’t cancel them now. And it’s Abukar at eleven and I texted him but I don’t know if he saw it so I have to go. He could be waiting for me.”

  “Sure. I’m fine,” Brandon said.

  “What did South Portland say?”

  “Not much. Call if they come back.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Estusa will twist it around. Say cops are sticking together, protecting their own.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

  “No, you go. You can’t stand them up.”

  “They’re bringing in their first revisions. They’ll be looking for my reaction. Most of them, it’s their first time doing this so I want to establish some trust.”

  “Right. So go. Really, I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know I’m wit
h you on this.”

  “Right.”

  “On everything.”

  “Likewise,” Brandon said, and he leaned in, kissed her cheek. She put the bag on the deck and hugged him. “You hang in there,” she said, pulling back and looking at him, scouring his face for clues to his mental state.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “It’s gonna be okay.”

  “Right.”

  “Call Kat if you need to talk.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I’ll be back between four and five.”

  “Okay.”

  “Work around here, take your mind off of it,” Mia said. “Stay busy.”

  Brandon paused, said, “Is that what you’re doing?”

  Mia looked out at the boats, the shimmering harbor waters, the Portland skyline. “I can’t just sit here,” she said. “If I don’t keep moving, it’ll catch up with me.”

  “I’m not sure we can outrun this,” he said.

  “Yeah, maybe. But I’d rather be a moving target,” Mia said.

  It was what they taught you at the academy. If you’re in the open, return fire and keep moving. A shooter, even if they’re hit, will often get a shot off, so don’t make it easier.

  How ’bout this, Brandon thought. A dive to the right. Three quick shots, a two-inch cluster. Eliminate the threat from the goddamn plastic gun.

  Mia hurried down the float and up the steps to the yard. She clanged through the gate, turned to give Brandon a last wave. When her Volvo SUV had pulled out of the lot and disappeared, he stepped back onto the boat.

  Keep busy, Mia had said. Hard not to on a wooden cruiser. Want to stay busy for the rest of your days? Buy a vintage Chris Craft.

  Brandon had a list for fall: touch up the topsides paint, fill in the gouge in the planking on port bow where Sammy Sandoval had stalled Sea Stallion backing into the adjacent slip and drifted stern first into Bay Witch. Sammy had said he’d pay for somebody to do the repair but it was easier for Brandon to just do it. The switch for the blower was balky and he could go over to Hamilton Marine and pick up a new one.

  He pictured it: driving down Commercial Street, looking up the block to the shooting scene. He grimaced, went below, opened the paint locker and started rummaging. Epoxy. Hardener. Sand paper...

  And he heard it, even with his head in the cabinet.

  The marina entrance gate clanging and rattling. A woman’s voice screaming. He straightened up and listened. A woman, crying, hysterical, a piercing wail. Screaming, “You bastard. You killed my son.”

  Five

  As Brandon hunched over the open locker, frozen in a half-crouch, the crying subsided. He straightened and turned, moved to the hatchway, climbed the two steps up and froze again.

  “You filthy pig. You piece of shit. You goddamn murderer!”

  Then a jagged cry, a moan. Brandon closed his eyes, waited. It was quiet, just the creaking of the boat. He opened his eyes, took a deep, long breath and pushed the hatch doors wide. Stepped through and moved part way to the stern. Looked up at the yard.

  A woman was pressed against the fence to the left of the gate. She was spread eagle, fingers locked around the chain links. Her head was bowed and she looked like she’d been crucified. Brandon watched through the starboard rain curtains, thought maybe that’s what it felt like, to have your son shot and killed. Hung on a fence, bared to the world.

  No one had come off their boats, the live-aboards cowering below decks like Kitty Genovese’s neighbors, he thought, then it occurred to him that nobody there would remember Genovese, murdered in New York while the neighbors put pillows over their heads. Guy got life, the piece of crap. Look it up.

  There was nobody in the marina office, Brandon’s assistant, a high school kid named Luke, taking a few days off between summer traffic and fall pullouts. Thatcher’s mother hung on the fence like she was about to be flogged. Brandon hesitated, then moved to the stern, stepped over the transom, started up the ramp.

  He was crossing the gravel yard when she raised her head. She looked at him, eyes narrowing.

  “You,” she said.

  “Yes,” Brandon said.

  He was 20 feet away, walking slowly. Their eyes were fixed and he could see that her face was red, the eyes swollen. The diagonal pattern of the chain links was embedded in her left cheek. She looked at him blearily, like he’d awakened her from a dream. She said, “He was my baby.”

  Brandon stopped and stood in front of her. Her fingers, with red-painted nails, clenched the metal like she was an animal in a zoo. She pulled herself upright, the reek of alcohol wafting through the fence, mixing with the boatyard smells.

  “Did you hear what I said?” she said. “I am Tiff Rawlings and Thatcher Rawlings was my son.”

  “I did hear you. And I’m sorry.”

  Her hair was blonde, with bangs askew. There was a pinkish slash across her lower lip. Smeared lipstick. She smiled and the pink streak twitched.

  “I started to put makeup on when I decided to come see you,” she said. “Can you believe that? Like it matters? Like anything matters?”

  “I’m sorry,” Brandon said. “I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry for you and your family.”

  “You’re sorry,” she said. “You’re sorry. What are you sorry about? Your mother still has a son.” She gave him the bloody grin again and Brandon had a flashback, Thatcher on his back, blood pumping out, running down his chin like water from a fountain.

  “Your mother can call you. Your mother can talk to you. Your mother can hug you and make you dinner and ask you how your day was. ‘Hi Brandon.’ It is Brandon, right? ‘Hi Brandon, kill anyone today? How many kids did you blow away?’ Kids, goddamn it. Stupid kids doing stupid things. Making stupid movies to put on stupid fucking YouTube so other stupid kids can look at them and give them a follow or a like or whatever the fuck it is they do.”

  Brandon took a deep silent breath. Waited.

  “Unless some yahoo cop comes along and kills him, leaves him dying in some God-forsaken fucking place, all by himself, this little boy who never hurt anybody, never had a bad word to say. You know what the worst thing was that you could say about Thatcher? That he was a geek. That’s all. Video games and his geeky friends and never the cool kid, never the big jock. My husband and I used to say, ‘You think he’ll ever have a girlfriend?’ I’d say, ‘Maybe in college, some other geeky person just like him. And they’ll have little geeky kids and they’ll all live happily ever after. But now...”

  She sobbed and retched. A boat owner came out of the parking lot, Kyle Drake from the big Grady White sportfisherman, lugging a cooler. Bait, Brandon thought. Eels for stripers. Drake looked at Mrs. Rawlings, then at Brandon, and clicked the gate open with his card. He turned sideways and squeezed through, let the gate bang shut. Continued across the yard like it was normal for a distraught woman to be hanging from the marina fence.

  Tiff Rawlings pulled herself together enough to talk. “He’ll never be there when I look into his room to check on him. I still did that. I did. ‘G’night, Thatch.’ I still did that and he’d say, ‘G’night, Mom.’ Two nights ago. I didn’t know it was the last time I’d speak to my son.”

  Gulls soared over, eyeing them the way gulls did when there was anything unusual going on because unusual might mean food. Brandon said, “I didn’t want to hurt your son. I did everything possible to—”

  “Where’s your mother, Officer Blake? Let’s call her right now. I want to talk to her, you know, mother to mother, see if she can put herself in my shoes. I mean, she probably loves you. Thinks you’re a big brave cop, protecting society from skinny kids with toy guns.”

  Brandon knew he should leave, just turn and walk away. But he felt rooted, nailed in place.

  “Call her, Blake. She’ll be glad to hear from you. Probably make her day. Let me talk to her. We’ll have a nice chat. Maybe we can make a date for coffee. Hey, we could get to be friends, having so much in common, you killing my son and all. Ye
ah, that’s it. We could bond. She can come over to the house, I’ll invite some of my friends, introduce her around. Tell her not to worry, we’re pretty casual. My friend Sarah, she’s a little old for Lily Pulitzer but she’s the only one who—”

  “My mother’s dead,” Brandon said. “She died when I was three.”

  Tiff Rawlings paused, looked at him and smiled.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m glad.”

  The smile fell away.

  “Except she’ll never know what it’s like to bury your son.”

  Louder, she said, “She’ll never know what it’s like to never hear your son’s voice again.”

  Still louder, shouting, she said, “She’ll never know what it’s like to get that knock on the door and hear the fucking cop say, ‘Mr. Rawlings. This is the Portland Police Department. I’m afraid we have some bad news.’”

  She shook the fence, the chain links jangling. Brandon heard an outboard rev behind him, a small one, someone at the float by the ramp. The motor shut off and there was just the fence rattling, Tiff Rawlings shouting, “Bad news? Bad news? Bad news is your car got towed. Bad news is your son got arrested for drunk driving. Or pot. Or maybe he was in a car crash and he’s in the emergency room getting patched up and can we come get him. That’s bad news. That a cop shot him and killed him for no fucking reason and now he’s dead and there a hole in him, and he’s gone.”

  She sobbed, retched, and her head dropped to her chest, her fingers still entwined in the metal links. “My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

  Brandon stood still, let her words pelt him like stones. He felt the stare behind him, whoever was on the float. And then someone came around the side of the boat shed, the roadside. The photographer who had been with Estusa. Tiff Rawlings turned to look, the photographer shooting video. Then Estusa materialized beside her, notebook and recorder in hand. He held the recorder up as Tiff Rawlings bellowed into the camera, “He killed him. He killed my sweet, wonderful, beautiful boy.”

  And as she started to cry, part sob and part moan, Estusa moved closer, the recorder held out in front of him like it was guiding him in, a misery detector. Thirty feet, twenty, then ten.