The Boss of Hampton Beach

by Jed Power

  Chapter 28

  There was nothing worse than knowing what was going down, and yet not knowing who the hell was behind it.

  Ray Conover scowled through the binoculars pressed against his eyes. If Dan Marlowe was still alive, sooner or later he'd have to come home. So Conover had sent Bartolo off to check out a nonexistent lead, while Conover and his binoculars headed down to a cottage in the Island section of the beach with a clear view of Dan Marlowe's front porch and door. Conover's jacket and holstered gun were thrown on a dirty, threadbare sofa. A cold McDonald's burger was on a nearby metal tray table.

  Conover's stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten his food. The last time he'd eaten had been early in the morning, before he and Bartolo had been rousted by the Hampton cops. But he could go without a meal, maybe even two, if it meant connecting back up with Marlowe.

  He could understand Marlowe slipping out the back door for an hour or two–maybe he wanted some privacy or wanted to have a few cold ones. But to be gone this long without checking in–that just wouldn't happen. Marlowe was too determined to get the guys who beat up his buddy and save his own skin in the process.

  Conover'd been using this little cottage location for the same purpose off and on for the past few days. The foot traffic outside was heavy, even for a summer day. Foot traffic came with its own distractions–like the blonde in the skimpy bikini headed down to the beach.

  He leaned back a bit in his metal foldout chair, took another bite out of the burger, and spit it out. Nothing worse than coagulated grease for lunch. Too bad the cottage wasn't as cold as the burger. Even with the windows open, this place was turning into a real hot box.

  He dumped the rest of the hamburger onto the tray table, turned back toward the window, and glanced at Dan Marlowe's cottage. What the . . . ? He blinked a couple of times and grabbed the binoculars. A man dressed in pants, a t-shirt, and a Crocodile Dundee hat was standing on Marlowe's porch. A skinny guy. Like the one he'd chased and traded shots with down at the harbor the other day, the little prick who'd given him the finger as he went under the Hampton Bridge in that damn motorboat.

  Conover watched as the Crocodile Dundee look-alike opened the screen door and tried the inside handle. After a moment he stepped back, let the screen door close, and looked slowly both ways.

  The longer he watched, the more certain Conover became. When the guy walked over to one of the porch windows, lifted the screen, and climbed in, Conover knew he'd hit pay dirt. This was definitely the guy. How nice of the little weasel to walk right into Conover's hands.

  He leapt up, almost knocking over his chair. He grabbed his Glock off the sofa, pulled it free of the holster, and hurried out the door. He was off the porch in one leap, jamming the pistol into the back waistband of his pants. No use scaring the natives any more than he had to.

  Conover dashed across the street and pressed up tight to the side of Marlowe's cottage. There were two doors in these cottages, front and rear. No way could he watch both. He had to go inside and take him. Now. Before he got away.

  He moved slowly along the side of the cottage–back pressed against the rough wood, gun in his right hand, barrel pointed at the sky. He reached the porch, took the steps one at a time, then crossed the porch quickly. When he reached the window he'd seen Crocodile climb through, Conover bent down and peered into the cottage's front room.

  Empty.

  Sweat tickled down Conover's sides. He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out slowly. He could crash through the front door, but that move would not only cost him the element of surprise, he could wind up with a broken bone or two. That left him with one option–the window.

  Conover slipped the Glock back into his waistband, slid his right leg over the sill, and eased through the window onto a ratty couch. He drew his weapon and made another check of the front room. Off to the right was an open door that led to what appeared to be a bedroom. At the end of the small hallway directly in front of him he could see the corner of a refrigerator. The kitchen. And from the thumping and scuffing going on, it sounded like someone was getting an afternoon snack.

  He rolled off the couch and rushed over to the wall, weapon at the ready. He swallowed hard to get some moisture back into his mouth and scooted along the wall toward the kitchen.

  A quick peek around the corner showed the man with the Crocodile Dundee hat standing on a chair by the sink.

  "Freeze! Police!" Conover yelled as he stepped into the kitchen, weapon pointed at the intruder.

  The man jerked, bumping his head on a light fixture. "Ow!"

  "Don't move or you're fucking dead," Conover said, keeping the Glock trained dead center on the man's back. "Keep your hands on your head and climb down off that chair. Slowly."

  "I'll fall."

  "Tough. Just do it. And you make one wrong move, you're dead. I've got a gun with a full clip pointed straight at the middle of your back. Give me a reason to see how fast I can empty it. Please."

  The man bent his knees and took one step off the chair, teetered backward, then regained his balance, and finally came to a stumbling stop on the floor, hands still on his head.

  "Good. Now turn around slowly."

  Conover's stomach clenched like someone had head-butted him right in the gut. This wasn't the guy he'd chased down Ocean Boulevard. The guy he held at gunpoint was about sixty years old with a ruddy drinker's face. The only similarity was that he was as skinny as a rail.

  "Who the hell are you?" Conover kept his weapon pointed at the man's midsection.

  "They call me Fuckin' Schneider," the man said indignantly.

  "Well, Fucking Schneider, what the hell are you doing here?"

  "I'm fixing the goddamn light fixture up there." Schneider took one hand off his head and pointed up above the sink.

  Conover tensed. "Easy, Fucking Schneider. Who told you to fix the light?"

  "Who the hell do you think? The man who lives here. Dan Marlowe, that's who."

  This was not looking good.

  "Ahhh, for Chrissake," Fucking Schneider said, dropping his hands down to his sides. "He told me a couple of months ago to fix it. I'm just gettin' around to it now. I'm a busy man, you know. I'm like a one-armed paperhanger. Especially now that it's summer."

  "Why did you come in the window?"

  "I ain't got a key and I know Dan keeps that window unlocked. I've used it before."

  "How were you going to fix it with no tools?"

  "I was going to use Dan's." He pointed to an open tool box on the floor. "I didn't bother bringing mine. It's an easy job."

  A handyman, a stinking handyman. Conover lowered his weapon. "All right, fuc . . . uh, Schneider. Here's the story. I'm a police officer and a good friend of Dan's. He's had a few break-ins recently and he asked me to check the place every so often. When I saw you going through the window, you can imagine what I thought."

  "Yeah, I can imagine, son," Schneider said. He grabbed his hat with both hands and adjusted it. "But you better be careful who the hell you're pointing that thing at from now on." He nodded at the Glock.

  Good thing Bartolo wasn't here. No way would Conover's partner listen to a lecture from a handyman. Somehow Bartolo would manage to find a way to intimidate the guy, shifting all the blame onto the handyman and then demanding not only his cooperation, but his silence too.

  Conover took a deep breath. Now was not the time for bemoaning missing partners, especially when those partners got you into more trouble than they got you out of. "I'm hoping you'll keep our little encounter here quiet. Don't want to spook anyone. I'd still like to catch the creeps who've been breaking into Dan's place."

  "I'll keep my mouth shut. For Dan," Schneider said pointedly. "Get on outta here now. I got a light to fix." Schneider waved his hand as if he were a king dismissing a subject.

  Conover walked out of the cottage, surveyed the street in front of him, and h
eaded back to his surveillance post to get his things. This wasn't getting him anywhere. He'd have to try something else. He hoped his next step wouldn't be as screwed up as this one. But the way things had been going, he knew that was a lot to hope for.

  ~*~*~