Black Tide

by Brendan DuBois

  The kitchen had a white tiled floor, a glass-topped table and white tubular chairs. There was a floral arrangement in the center of the table. "I'll be right back," she said as she went upstairs. I went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Pasted on the front of the refrigerator were two pictures of Diane's lover, Kara Miles. The pictures seemed to have been taken out on the Miranda.

  Diane came back from her upstairs study, yawning a bit, holding a file folder in her hand. She had changed from her jeans and polo shirt to a white bathrobe, and her feet were bare. A joke quickly came to mind, of her being in a kitchen and being barefoot, but she looked tired and I decided to let it pass. She passed the folder over to me and I glanced inside. Three sheets of paper, covered with Diane's neat handwriting. Unlike many cops I know, Diane can write in simple, declarative sentences, and she can write without using such words and phrases as "perpetrator" and "dead corpse." At the top of each page was a single name: Justin Dix. Ben Martin. Craig Dummer.

  She sat back, hands in her lap. "There you go, Lewis, and along with this info come some questions."

  "Fair enough," I said, taking a sip of orange juice. I felt uncomfortable at getting these three sheets of paper, considering what nastiness I had encountered last Saturday night, when one Tony Russo was shot to death in front of me and Felix Tinios, and all over the matter of those three paintings. I tried to ignore that vivid and bloody memory of Tony Russo gurgling to the ground after being shot. I wasn't that successful. Right then I could have given the three sheets of paper and the folder back to Diane without a single feeling or regret, save a slight tang of guilt for having made her do some work that I no longer desired.

  She motioned to the folder I was holding. "Those three men were all working at a museum in Manchester called the Scribner Museum. Five years ago they were there when it was robbed of three very rare and valuable paintings. But I guess you already know that, right?"

  "That's true."

  "You're doing a story or a column about this museum theft, right?"

  "I was," I said. "But now I'm thinking of letting this one slide by, Diane. It's too crazy and too complex."

  She nodded. "That's good, Lewis. Very good. I'd prefer you just let this one drop. You know, doing background searches like this, sometimes you trip off alarms. The other police agencies Land their computers want to know why you're suddenly interested in their cases, in their suspects. Especially with a screamer case like one. Even though it's five years old, a case that big doesn't get forgotten that easy. When I started sniffing around on those people, I got questions tossed my way. All right, that's part of the business. Which usually means you share with other cops what you're doing, and you've got a cooperative arrangement going on. But that didn't happen this time around, Lewis."

  The orange juice was cold and crisp, but there was another taste there, one I didn't like. "No, I imagine it didn't. You had to lie to them, didn't you?"

  She was rubbing her hands together. "I did, and I didn't like it. I had to tell them this was just a practice drill, that I wanted to see how fast I could get some background info from a number of different agencies about a big case, and this one seemed to be a case that would work well. Not a great lie but it worked."

  "I'm sorry I made you lie, Diane," I said.

  Diane motioned with her fingers. "What's another lie among many? It doesn't bother me that much and I'll sleep well tonight, but it's got to stop, just for a while. No more background checks or info checks, unless you clue me in as to what you're doing. I can't go out stirring up people I work with without a better excuse in my back pocket."

  Damn. My half hour traipsing through the records of DefNet the other day, searching out information about Cameron Briggs. I didn't want that effort to go to waste, not when I was so damn close.

  "Not even one more?"

  "Lewis…"

  "Just one more. All I need to know is something about a criminal investigation, something called Op Harpoon, or Operation Harpoon. It has ---"

  "Lewis!" she said, interrupting me. "Have you heard one word I've been saying?"

  "I have, but ---"

  "Look. You and I, we've developed a professional relationship here. Sometimes I've let you cross over some lines that other cops wouldn't. Fine. I can live with that. Most of the time it has worked out for the better, and I've grown comfortable with it. But on these three names, we had an agreement. Information on these people for you in exchange for your company this evening with Roger Krohn. As far as I can see, the exchange has just occurred, and it's over. We've both settled our deals, and it's done for now, and for a while longer. No more."

  I guess I couldn't give up that easily. "Diane, I'm in the middle of something, something that I need just a little help on."

  Her voice was sharp. "Why don't you do some work yourself, Lewis?" she said, rubbing at the side of her head before slapping her hands down on the table. ''And while you're at it, why don't you just leave?"

  The white scar on her chin was pale, which was a warning sign as visible as the fireworks we had just seen over Tyler Beach. I would have gladly traded those three sheets of paper about the museum theft for one paragraph about Operation Harpoon, but when I looked again at Diane, I would have traded all of that just to clear up that angry look on her face. It was late. I was tired. I couldn't think of anything good to say.

  I touched her hand. "Okay. I'm leaving."

  She looked away and said, "Sorry, I'm just tired. Try me again later or something, will you?"

  I squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry too, about pushing you."

  A squeeze back. "Fine. Now leave, before my woman comes here and finds me trying to seduce you." That gave us both a smile to hold things onto, and I left, with the flimsy cardboard folder in my hand, and I walked down the stairs and out onto the condo parking lot. I thought about the woman back up there in the condo. Diane Woods, my oldest friend here in Tyler Beach, who never once had seriously pressed me about who I was or what I did in my past. Not once. Now, not only was I hiding from her the identity of a homicide victim in her town, I had just spent the past ten minutes or so making her increasingly angry with me. What an accomplishment.

  I guess I wasn't made for easy. I got into my Rover and drove away.

  It was getting late and close to midnight, but the spat with Diane Woods had woken me up some. I stayed on Atlantic Avenue, heading north, past Roger Krohn's place. I had that confirming feeling that he and I would be spending some time together, when he came back here as the new police chief of Tyler.

  Traffic was even lighter than when I had first driven past here with Diane, and the night air was still quite warm. I had the window rolled down and the stereo tuned to a classical music station from somewhere south as I rolled up the short coast. I drove past the Victorian splendor of the Lafayette House and the parking lot that led to my home, and I felt that little tug of unease you always get when you drive by your home and don't stop. You wonder what's going on in the empty and darkened rooms, and your imagination can race ahead of you, thinking of what might , occurring there while you're away.

  After a few hundred feet, I crossed over the invisible line between Tyler and North Tyler, and I continued north, hesitating a moment as I passed Rosemount Lane, where Felix Tinios lived, in a ranch house that was near the ocean and which was remote enough so that no one could ever easily sneak up on him. I wondered where he was spending his hours this evening, for he had told me he was relying on a motel or hotel room in the area, and was staying far from his nest. There was that damn folder on the seat next to me, and I almost stopped and slid it under his door, but that would not be right. I would have to do something, but not tonight. No, not tonight. I had another destination ahead of me.

  There are a couple of small beaches in North Tyler, none of which match the magnitude of Tyler Beach, and in a matter of minutes I crossed yet another invisible line and entered the town of Wallis. With the new town, the scenery and the homes that
inhabit this part of the seacoast began to change. Most of the coastline turned from sandy beaches to a rugged collection of rocks, boulders and fissures, and most of the homes were transformed from rental cottages and condominiums to estates that would be right at home in Newport, Rhode Island, or on the Gold Coast of Long Island. Summer homes, of course, though many of them had been sold to successful businessmen and businesswomen and converted to year-round living. There are about a dozen of them and each summer tourists in cars with out-of-state license plates pulled over and helped the stock of the Kodak and Fuji companies by taking picture after picture of their elegance.

  Most of the homes are set back away from Atlantic Avenue and have wide green lawns and gravel driveways behind fences or gates. Even at this hour of the night, every home I saw was well lit indoors with soft lights and outside with bright spotlights, and the cars parked before the great doors were all foreign.

  It only took a couple of minutes and then I found the place I was looking for No. 4. It was easy enough, since the numeral 4 was inscribed in brass on the brick wall adjacent to the wrought iron gate. Another success story for the investigative reporter. I pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the engine and got out, my feet crunching on the dirt and gravel. A pickup truck loomed by, and was followed by two bulky men on Harley Davidsons. The full-bore throttle of those engines made the hair on the back of my arms rise up.

  I leaned against the Rover's fender. At my back was a seawall --- or berm ---- made of rock and dirt, hiding the tumbled mass of rocks that at this point made up the shore of New Hampshire's Seacoast. Beyond the mound of dirt and the rocks was the sound of the ocean's waves, roaring in and then roaring out, no doubt disappointed that they couldn't touch the expensive mansion cross the way. The house was huge, with two large wings on either side that were made up of fluted columns and floor-to-ceiling windows. The gate was closed and the driveway was made of crushed stone, going up to a circle at the front of the home. The lawn looked like a green carpet and seemed to be one of those expanses of grasses that have not once ever felt the foul touch of a weed. There was an Audi parked out front. There was no movement in the yard or from the windows of the home. It seemed quiet and peaceful, yet the man in that lovely and elegant home had done something horrible to this seacoast. Whenever the wind shifted, I still caught a whiff of the foreign oil which had been dumped here.

  Cameron Briggs. It was fairly ironic that he had a summer home on a part of the coast which was polluted by a tanker that he owned, but it was probably just a matter of time. There were many creaky tankers in the Petro Associates fleet, and it was probably just fate or kismet that one of those tankers would fulfill its destiny right on his doorstep. Another example, I suppose, of God showing that He had a sense of humor.

  A Nissan slid by on Atlantic Avenue, its radio blaring some trumpet march, and the sound made me jump. Then a little voice began to whisper urges at me, encouraging little messages that said I should walk across the street and clamber over the brick wall and stroll up to that quiet and rich home and start pounding the door, demanding entrance, demanding Cameron Briggs, demanding answers.

  Sure. Then I would spend the night in the Wallis police lockup. I thought that right about now Diane Woods would be content to let me rest there. Felix couldn't bail me out, and Paula Quinn, well, I guess it was time to see Paula again. I hadn't talked to her since that uncomfortable hour or so in the park so many days ago. It would be good to see her again. For professional reasons, of course. Before getting back into the Rover, I again caught the scent of petroleum, and I couldn't guess if the spill had caused Cameron Briggs any discomfort. But I was going to find out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Before having lunch with Paula Quinn on Thursday I spent an hour or so at the Gilliam Memorial Library, which is near the center of town and about three miles away from Tyler Beach. Among its cool stacks of books, quiet reading areas and softly whirring fans, it was hard to believe that one of the Northeast's largest beach resorts was only about ten minutes away, and that sweating people in bathing suits supported the operation of this quiet library. A true story, but it was a miniature tale of how New Hampshire has supported itself for many a year: not from a sales tax or an income tax, but from an unrelenting reliance on the dollar of the tourist.

  Which was fine, so long as you didn't mind paying high ,'property taxes, and so long as a recession or an oil embargo didn't keep the tourists away. A gamble, but one that our governor and citizen legislature take with determination every two years. During my time there, I found some additional information about Cameron Briggs through the usual references, such as Who's Who. He was about three years older than me, was born in New York City, and went to a private school called Collingwood, and then spent four years at Phillips Exonia, just down the street. From there he did the standard routine at Harvard, getting his MBA and then instantly working his way through a number of business and real estate companies. Names like Park Avenue Associates and the Briggs Management Company, as well as a couple of companies that seemed to be computer firms. Conquest Software. Brass Cannon Systems. Married to the former Joanne Ward Maynard and divorced, no children. Residences in New York City, on Long Island and in Wallis, New Hampshire. Active in a few charities in New York City: the Metropolitan Opera, the Central Park Trust and the Harbor Preservation Society.

  But in this semi-official listing, nothing about Petro Associates. Nothing at all.

  Why the big secret?

  I spent ten cents and made a quick copy of Briggs's entry, and then put the red-leather volume back on the reference shell. I had the basics, but nothing I could touch, nothing I could hold in my hands. I needed some more information before I went traipsing up that gravel driveway, and this little entry from Who’s Who wasn't going to do it. I glanced up at the wall clock. I had another half hour before my lunch date, and I went back to work. In those thirty minutes I searched through the indexes of the Boston Globe, the New York Times and a couple of years' worth of Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature, and I found not one reference to Operation Harpoon.

  Secrets, and this library wasn't going to help, as good as it was.

  After lunch at the southern end of the beach, Paula and I walked for a while, each of us slurping on a cold drink, and we sat on a park bench near the harbor, looking at some of the moored boats and the gulls flying overhead. Most of the moorings were empty, with trawlers and lobster boats out doing a hard day's work on the lonely ocean.

  Paula wore knee-length white shorts and a short-sleeved red blouse, and through the meal she'd had on her dark sunglasses, but for some reason that didn't bother me. She laughed a lot as we ate and I felt good about it. I enjoyed seeing her eyebrows ach above her sunglasses. I tried to guess in my own mind what her eyes looked like. I guessed that they were shiny and slightly mischievous, and I was happy with my fantasy.

  She sipped on a large 7-Up and ice and allowed herself a small smile. "Every April or so I get anxious, waiting for summer to begin. Just waiting for those warm days, getting your shorts out, and not worrying about keeping your oil tank filled any more. I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes the happiest day of the month is taking down the storm windows and putting up the screens. It means summer's here. No more cold mornings. No more heating bills. No more frost to scrape off the windshields."

  "Right," I said. ''And then you start digging out the insect repellent, you start paying higher electric bills because of air conditioning, and your clothes start to fall apart because you're sweating all the time."

  She laughed and said, "Well, I tell you, in April I'm waiting for summer to roll in, but right now is when I start waiting for it to roll right out. I start thinking about cool nights, foliage, pumpkins and empty roads. In October, it takes me all of ten minutes to get to the police station from the Chronicle. A day like today, how does forty minutes sound? Forty minutes, to get from center of town to the beach. I'm getting tired of it, and I'm getting tired of writing b
each stories. Today's the first of August. Labor Day's only four weeks away, and I can hardly wait."

  "You working on anything fun?" I asked. ''And are you still looking to get out?"

  She played with the straw in her cup for a moment. "No to the first one, Lewis. I'm just biding my time, until Labor Day passes, and then I'm taking a week off. That means a yes to the second question. I'm still job hunting, and I'm going to make some calls during that week. Maybe make an appointment or two. I tell you, right about now, I'm not too sure if I can spend another summer writing stories at the beach. It's the same stuff year in and year out. Accidents, arrests, beach business results, number of tourists passing through every weekend. Just change the names every year, and some years you don't even have to do that. How about you, Lewis? How goes Shoreline?"

  A lot of things had been going on with my life recently, none really connected to Shoreline, but I decided then to try something and I said, "I'm thinking of doing a follow-up on the Petro Star spill, sort of talk to some leading residents who live on the seacoast, ask them how the spill might have affected them. Everybody does a story about the fisherman or the guy who owns a motel at the beach. I want to try somebody different."

  ”You got anybody in mind?"

  "That I do," I said, wondering if this really constituted lying. ''A guy named Cameron Briggs. Lives up in Wallis. You ever hear of him?"

  Then Paula surprised me by giggling so hard that her sunglasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them up and said, "Lewis, my poor boy. You really don't read the Chronicle that much, do you?"

  My skin seemed to warm up, and I was sure it wasn't he sun moving in any closer. “Whenever I see anything interesting on the front page, I do pick it up, honest. Paula, it takes me more than an hour a day just to read the New York Times and the Boston Globe and ---“