Storm Cell

by Brendan DuBois

  “I see. And what was the point of their discussion?”

  “Diane . . . I’m really not in a position to say.”

  She stared at me and then picked up her white napkin, gently dabbed at her lips. “Sounds spooky.”

  “Spook central.”

  “Connected with Felix?”

  “With staples and duct tape.”

  “What do they want you to do?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Oh,” she said. “Not in a position to say, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ah, the Feds,” she said. She rattled her spoon against the edge of the bowl. “You be careful playing with the Feebs. They talk nice, they dress nice, and they can afford to have the prettiest toys. But when they’re done with you, they are done. No matter what they promise, no matter what they do, at the end of the day, or the beginning of the night, you can’t trust them. Hey, are they from the Porter office?”

  “No. Boston.”

  “Oh, crap,” she said. “Those guys are so gun-shy over what happened during the Bulger fiasco, if they get scared or jumpy, they’ll toss you over the side so fast, you won’t know if you’re landing in water or on dirt.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Mom? Then why don’t you call more often?”

  “Because Kara intercepts my phone calls, that’s why.”

  That earned me a good laugh, and we ate some more, and I said, “Change of subject?”

  “Sure.”

  “Fletcher Moore.”

  “Ah, why am I not surprised.”

  “You know my methods, that’s why. I’m just curious, what would make him a victim? And up in Porter. A real estate agent, developer, and selectman. And he gets two taps to the back of his head.”

  Diane gently licked her spoon. “That’s a pretty good synopsis. Fletcher was from one of the old Tyler families that came in during the early 1700s. Married, two daughters, enjoyed his work, enjoyed giving back to the town, was running for reelection during next week’s town meeting. Sorry I can’t add any more to that.”

  “For real?”

  “Oh, very for real.” She rattled her spoon against the soup bowl.

  I said, “Considering he’s from Tyler, I’d think your department would have some interaction with the Porter police.”

  “True,” she said. “Captain Nickerson has been handling that, and if you care to push it, I suppose you can talk to her.”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it. I kept it shut for a few moments as Diane broke off a piece of baguette and used it to wipe her bowl clean.

  “My apologies,” I said.

  “Only accepted if you can tell me what you’re apologizing for.”

  “You’ve been back to work for just a couple of months. And I’m pushing you. And you don’t need the aggravation, especially if word gets around that I’m poking into Fletcher Moore’s background, when people in the know are familiar with our relationship.”

  “Doing well, my friend. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You told me that if I cared to push it, I could talk to Captain Nickerson. You didn’t invite me to talk to her, or recommend that I talk to her. No, you said something different.” I paused. “If I’m going to Captain Nickerson, I’m confirming that she’s in control of this investigation. People see that. People start questioning. Before you know it, lots of actions and questions that should come to you go to Captain Nickerson.”

  Diane finished off her bread. “That’s right. Here I am, on limited duty, and with limited funds for the police department and the town in general, and some are trying to grease the skids to get me out.”

  “I’m not going to help anyone grease any skids.”

  She smiled. “Even if it means slowing you down, helping out the FBI?”

  “If it helps you, I’ll be as slow as a Yugo with a flat tire.”

  The smile grew wider. I felt better, and finished my wine.

  Later I was back home, and I still got a warm and comfortable feeling going down the rutted driveway, which came out of the parking lot across the street from the Lafayette House. Some months ago arsonists had struck my old home—originally a lifeboat rescue station during the mid-1800s—but the Tyler Fire Department managed to knock down the blaze before it consumed the whole building. Alas, a side shed that held odds and ends and my Ford Explorer was destroyed, but since the man responsible for it eventually got his head cut off, I didn’t brood about it too much.

  I parked in front of a new shed and went in. The entryway opened up to closets and a living room to the left. After hanging up my coat, I went through the living room, caught a glimpse of the dark Atlantic Ocean beyond sliding glass doors that overlooked a deck. To the right was a kitchen, and a staircase that emerged to a bedroom, bathroom, and my office. Most everything up on the second floor was new, even though it had been rebuilt with salvaged lumber from old homes and barns.

  The home still had a scent of woodworking and cut lumber, but it seemed like at last the scent of burnt wood and smoke was starting to lessen.

  It had taken a very long time.

  Around my couch and chairs in the living room were piles of boxes, and that sight made me smile. I had lost a number of books in the fire, but through some judicious online shopping and visiting area bookstores, I had managed to rebuild my collection.

  Then the phone rang.

  I paused. The house seemed empty and cold.

  The phone rang again.

  I went over to the kitchen counter, picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  My reply was a burst of static, a whistling noise, pops and creaks and crackles.

  “Hello?”

  More noise.

  “One last chance,” I said.

  The chance was given, nothing changed, and I hung up the phone.

  For the past few days, I’d been receiving the same calls, all at night. Harassment? Probably. And I did the usual star-69 to find out who my mysterious caller was, but no joy. The call was always blocked.

  It was a mystery, one that seemed unsolvable, and I didn’t like that at all.

  So I went to bed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning I stationed myself on the access road leading to the Wentworth County Superior Courthouse, and waited. After doing a quick reconnaissance of the parking lot and finding my target missing, I parked and trotted over to the road, waited some more. A stream of cars, pickup trucks, and SUVs came through, and then a dark brown van went by, emblazoned with the Wentworth County Sheriff’s Department emblem.

  I saw shapes behind the tinted glass, knew that one of them belonged to Felix Tinios. I thought a wave would be too flip, so I kept my hands to myself. A few more cars drove by.

  Then a gray Audi 6000 with Massachusetts plates came up the road, and I stepped out at the last moment, causing the driver to brake hard.

  Hollis Spinelli raised his head in anger, gestured with his hands for me to get out of the way, and I replied by giving him a little boy’s wave. That got him angrier. He put the Audi in drive, came forward, nudging my legs.

  I stayed put.

  He opened the door. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Trying to get a few minutes to talk to you, like you promised.”

  “I’m heading to court!”

  “That’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

  Cars slowed and passed him, two honking their horns. Hollis looked over at them, and back at me. “Get the fuck out of the way!”

  “Not until we talk.”

  Another car honk. “Okay, okay,” he said, getting back into the car. “Get into the passenger’s seat, we’ll talk.”

  He closed the door. Waited. So did I.

  Two more cars came up, paused, and then went around the parked Audi. Another horn blared. Hollis lowered the driver’s side window. “Are you deaf? Stupid?”

  “No, I’m not deaf, and being stupid, well, that’s open for discussion
,” I said. “But if I was going to walk around and give you an opening to pass me by, well, then that’s definitely stupid.”

  He raised the window, backed up, came at me again, braking at the last moment. The window lowered again. “You fuck, you’re going to make me late!”

  “Then move over, let me drive, and then you won’t be late,” I said. “Counselor, I can stay out here for some time to come, and that’s going to delay your morning court appearance. Who do you think the judge will punish when this is through? You or me?”

  A few more obscenities came my way, and he put the Audi in park, and with difficulty, crawled over the center console and went over to the passenger’s side. The driver’s door remained open. I got in, closed the door, and put the car into drive.

  “So close in, I don’t think I’ll need the seatbelt, do you?” I asked.

  Hollis said, “Just fucking drive.”

  I took my time, which gave me a few minutes, which—unfortunately—was going to be enough.

  I said, “How did you come to represent Felix?”

  “A phone call. From jail. The usual.”

  “Have you represented him before?”

  “No.”

  “How do you think he got your name?”

  “From a fucking phone book, for all I know.”

  We got into the parking lot, and I took my time finding an empty space. “His usual lawyer is Raymond Drake. Why didn’t Felix ask him to be his counsel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not curious?”

  “I’m here to do a job, which is to get a not guilty verdict for Mr. Tinios. That’s it. I’m going to attack the state’s case and do my very best.”

  “No offense, you don’t seem to be doing your best.”

  Hollis muttered and said, “There. Pull in there. You have a law degree?”

  “No.”

  “What was your degree in?”

  “English.”

  “Really? An English major is going to tell me how to try a case? Jesus Christ, what kind of world are we in?”

  I slid the Audi into an open parking space and said, “I want to see Felix.”

  “Not my call.”

  “Ever since his arrest, I can’t get a message, make a phone call, do anything like that to reach out to Felix. Can you make it happen?”

  “No.”

  “Can you pass along a letter to him?”

  “Again, no.”

  I put the Audi in park and he reached over to snatch the keys away. “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because he’s at the Wentworth County jail, and I only see him on official visits, and I’m not his damn post office. Besides, if you want to see him, go to the jail and do so.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I made a phone call to the jail and I’m not on the approved visitors list.”

  He laughed, stepped out of the car. He opened the rear door, leaned in, and emerged with a bulging leather briefcase in his hand. “We’ve talked, so get the hell out of my car, all right?”

  I stepped out, feeling deflated, a bit numb. I closed the door and he locked it with his key fob. “Not on the visitors list, is that what you said?”

  “Yes.”

  Another laugh. “I guess you are stupid, after all. Don’t you know the rules over there? The visitors list is prepared by the inmate. Not me, not the sheriff’s department. There’s up to five names on the visitors list, that’s it. Even I don’t know whose names are there.”

  He started walking, and then gave me a parting shot. “If you’re not on the list, that’s because he doesn’t want to see you, Mr. Cole.”

  He stepped farther away from me and called out one more time. “Just so we’re clear on this, I may have a license to practice law in Massachusetts and New Hampshire, but I got my first degree on the streets of the North End. Fuck with me again, and you won’t be happy.”

  I said, “I’m not happy now,” but I’m not sure he heard me.

  I joined other folks streaming into the courtroom this brisk March morning, going up its wide granite steps. There was a checkpoint past the wide doors, with a sheriff’s deputy and a metal detector. I tossed my car keys, cell phone, pen, and notepad in a little bin, and in a few seconds, I was on my way. I went up to the third floor and then slipped into the courtroom.

  There I took my place on the right-hand side of the spectators’ section. Felix came in, his hands were uncuffed, and he sat down with Hollis Spinelli. If Hollis was upset by our little encounter outside, he was hiding it well. He smiled at Felix, gave him a gentle slap on the back, and whispered some words into his ear. Meanwhile, the state—represented again by the well-dressed assistant attorney general and her young charge—whispered between themselves.

  Lots of whispers this morning.

  Paula Quinn of the Tyler Chronicle was sitting up forward, gave me a friendly nod, and Detective Steve Josephs from the Porter Police Department studiously ignored me. Sitting next to him was a Portsmouth police officer in full uniform. On the other side, friends and family of Fletcher Moore sat still, eyes forward, hands clasped, just straining in some anticipation of the morning’s proceedings starting in a few minutes.

  A door opened, the twelve jurors and two alternates came in, and a bailiff called out, “All rise,” and that we did. Despite observing a murder trial and being worried for what the hell was going on with my friend, I was tickled to see how the jurors in this case were being honored by having everybody in the courtroom rising in recognition of their importance.

  We all sat down, and a minute later, the bailiff called out again, “All rise,” for Judge Crapser, who had been here at this superior court for a number of years. In this state, judges are appointed by the governor, following a recommendation from a judicial commission and final approval by the governor’s executive council, a holdover from after the Revolutionary War, when the council was set up as a brake on executive overreach. Considering our governors are elected every two years and we have a house of representatives numbering four hundred people, I guess our founding fathers were a suspicious lot.

  Judge Crapser sat down, gaveled us into session, and after a few minutes of housekeeping details, she said, “Miss Moran, you’re up.”

  The assistant attorney general stood up and said, “Your Honor, the state calls Corey Bailey.”

  The uniformed Porter police officer stood up and walked to the witness box. A county court clerk swore him in, and he sat down. Assistant Attorney General Deb Moran came forward and said, “Good morning, Officer Bailey.”

  “Good morning, ma’am.”

  For the next twenty minutes or so, Moran queried Officer Bailey about his upbringing, his background, his prior service in the Army, his honorable discharge, his training at the New Hampshire Police Academy, and his time of service with the Porter Police Department. He looked familiar, though I knew I had never met him before. Something was going on with his pale blue eyes. Then Moran looked down at her notes.

  “Officer Bailey, were you on duty on the night of Friday, January twelfth, of this year?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “When did you report to work that night?”

  “At six P.M., ma’am.”

  “Do you recall what you were doing when you were contacted by Porter dispatch at 11:05 P.M.?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I was on routine patrol in the area of Congress Street in Porter.”

  “What was the message you received?”

  “An anonymous phone call had come in, indicating shots had been fired at an address on Sher Avenue.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Hollis said, standing up. “I’ve heard the dispatch center recordings. There was no mention of an anonymous phone call. Just that a call had been received. Officer Bailey was in no position to know if the phone call was anonymous or not.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Crapser said, and with a smile said to the young man, “Officer, please only testify about matters that occurred at the time, without bringing
in any subsequent information you may have received.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his face flushed. His blond hair was cut pretty short, and even his prominent ears turned red.

  The assistant attorney general said, “Officer Bailey, if I may, what was the message you received at 11:05 P.M. the night in question?”

  “Shots had been fired at an address on Sher Avenue.”

  “What address was that?”

  “Fourteen Sher Avenue, apartment three.”

  “I see. What happened then?”

  “I immediately responded to the address in question.”

  “What did you notice upon arrival?”

  “I saw cars parked in the vicinity.”

  “Any persons in the area?”

  “No.”

  “Were you the first officer on the scene?”

  “I was.”

  “What did you do upon arriving?”

  “I approached the building.”

  “Can you describe the building?” she asked.

  “Narrow . . . three floors, with a side entrance. There were three apartments, one on each floor.”

  “What did you do after you approached the building?”

  “I observed that the main entrance door was open, leading into a narrow foyer and staircase.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went up the staircase, until I reached the third floor, the location of apartment three.”

  “What did you observe then?”

  “I noted that the door to apartment three was open.”

  “What were your actions next?”

  “I drew my weapon, approached the open door, and announced myself.”

  “Did you hear anything in reply?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I entered the apartment.”

  “What did you see?”

  The slightest pause from the young police officer. “I saw a man on the kitchen floor, lying on his side. There was blood on the kitchen floor, pooled around the base of his head.”

  A murmur from some of the spectators on the left side of the courtroom. Assistant Attorney General Moran said, “What did you do then, Officer Bailey?”