Storm Cell

by Brendan DuBois

  “Nice to know there are still good citizens around.”

  “She was from Denmark.”

  “Oh.”

  Diane said, “How did it start?”

  “He threatened my house.”

  Now it was Diane’s turn. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Threatened to burn it down unless I stopped contacting Hollis Spinelli. I didn’t take it too well.”

  “Sure.”

  She looked through some papers, and I said, “So what’s up? What am I going to be charged with?”

  “A variety of offenses,” she said, “except the man you rolled around with doesn’t want to press charges.”

  “For real?”

  “Very real,” she said. “His name is Angelo Ricci. From Boston. And for you, my friend, this is your lucky day. He’s not eager to press charges against you for the fisticuffs.”

  “Why?”

  “I imagine because he has an interesting criminal record from his home state to the south, including some assaults and being a suspect in a rape and murder. Perhaps it was also pointed out to him that being introduced into the criminal justice system of New Hampshire, even as a complainant, would not be in his best interests. He saw the light and asked to go home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Diane said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I heard you twice the first time,” she said. “Now that I have your attention, sit with me for a while, will you?”

  “Would love to.”

  She sighed, rubbed at the top of the stained desktop. “I have a feeling you’re going to ignore what I’m going to say next, but I still have to do it, at least for my conscience.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “True. I just hope it’s the same Lewis Cole I met and befriended years ago. Not the Lewis who’s going to get himself hurt bad or killed because he’s not as quick or as tough as he used to be.”

  She suddenly rattled her cane on the floor, startling me. “I always thought I was one tough bitch-on-wheels. I still think that, though this particular bitch needs a cane to help her wheels. And you don’t get prepared for something that . . . upending. When I got assaulted in Falconer last year, you saw what it did to me. Six months later, I’m still not back yet.”

  Another rattle of the cane. I didn’t like the noise. “That kid—”

  “Not really a kid,” I pointed out.

  “All right, that young adult out there, he was in a position to do you some grievous harm. He was young, toned, and muscular. You were lucky that somehow you slowed him down because, Lewis, he could have hurt you real bad.”

  I moved my splinted arm, winced. “I don’t think I slowed him down enough.”

  “Yeah, well, think of this,” she said. “While he was being booked, we found a leather waist holster at his side. Empty. Which meant he was probably carrying a pistol while the two of you were rassling around among the rocks. Did it fall out?”

  “No,” I said, recalling my pledge. “I grabbed it off of him.”

  “And what did you do with it next?”

  “Tossed it,” I said. “Didn’t feel like drawing down on him while Tyler’s finest was riding to the rescue. Too many questions to answer.”

  “He’s probably pretty pissed at losing his sidearm.”

  “I’m sure he’ll get over it,” I said.

  She raised her hand, but she didn’t rattle her cane again. Instead, she leaned over the table with some difficulty and patted my cheek. “Felix, I know he’s saved you a few times. I know that’s what driving you to help him out. Fair enough. Just be smart enough to know when it’s time to back away. Wheelchair and canes, they suck. They’re definitely not chick magnets. All right?”

  “That’s a deal, Detective Sergeant.”

  “Great. And how is Mr. Tinios doing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Really? I thought you’d be over at the Wentworth County jail every day, talking to him through the Plexiglas, listening to his different theories of how he ended up in jail.”

  “I haven’t seen him since his arrest.”

  That got her attention. “Really? He hasn’t put you on the visitors list?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Very strange, yeah.”

  “Then do something about it,” she said.

  “How?”

  She slowly got up from the desk, balancing herself on her cane. “You’re supposedly a rough, tough magazine journalist.”

  “Unemployed journalist.”

  “What, they take your rough and tough away, Lewis?”

  “No.”

  “Then prove it.”

  I left the Tyler police station soon afterward, and I didn’t want to ask Diane for another favor. I also didn’t want to pay for a taxicab, so I walked back up Atlantic Avenue, staying on the ocean side, running things through, bouncing things around. It was dusk and out on the now-darkening waters of the Atlantic, the lights of the Isles of Shoals were prominent, illuminating their lonely presence. There were other lights out there as well, boats or ships traveling either for pleasure or for business. All fighting against the darkness.

  And this walk?

  A trudge. That’s all.

  Just a trudge.

  The sidewalk was bordered on one side by Atlantic Avenue, and on the other by a seawall. I walked and walked, my feet crunching the beach sand underneath, the cars and trucks whizzing by.

  Eventually I went past Weymouth Point, which jutted out north of Tyler Beach. It was the home to a lot of expensive real estate, and an old, melancholy ghost of a wealthy lady friend who had been gone for a very long time.

  Trudge, trudge, trudge.

  Up ahead were the lights of the Lafayette House, and then its parking lot came into view, and then my lonely Honda Pilot. I got in, started her up, and then was home at last.

  At home I wandered around the joint, just to make sure everything was in its place. Then I went upstairs to my bathroom and checked my face, which had bruised up some and had two bandages. Ouch. I tried washing my face, but with one arm in a splint, it turned out to be a real pain. I recalled the EMT saying I should probably wear the splint for a day or two, to give my shoulder a rest, and I tore off the splint.

  “Gotta be a day or two somewhere else,” I whispered.

  I took two Tylenol Extra Strength, chased by a glass of cold water, and then went downstairs to try to take it easy.

  I was dozing on the couch after a dinner of a homemade hot pastrami sandwich—the pastrami was about eight days old but I was still on short rations—and a goblet of red wine from Lebanon, of all places, when the phone rang. I stumbled off the couch and grabbed the phone and lay back down.

  “Cole?” came a strong male voice that was instantly familiar.

  “The same, Angelo,” I said. “How’s it going? Tell me, can I call you Angelo? Or is it Angie? Or is it . . . oh, I don’t know, Alfred?”

  “You got lucky today.”

  I tried to get comfortable on the couch and failed. “My life has been full of luck today. Alfred. What’s going on?”

  He went on for about five minutes with the usual threats, curses, and more threats, and when there was a pause in the action, I said, “Can I have a moment, Alfred?”

  “Don’t call me Alfred.”

  “Fair enough, Alan,” I said. “I just want to make sure I understand. I’m to leave Hollis Spinelli alone, including phone calls, e-mails, and visits to his office. Correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I suppose that includes you as well.”

  “Huh?”

  “Alan, I suppose that includes you as well, right? I’m not to contact you, phone you, or otherwise bother you.”

  “You don’t have my phone number.”

  “My phone receiver says I do,” I said. “From that, I can find out lots of things if I want to. The question is, do you w
ant me not to bother you as well.”

  “Yeah, me too. Even though you cost me a sweet .32 Browning.”

  “I cost you not spending time in a county jail,” I said. “You telling me you had a New Hampshire carry license for that pistol?”

  I think I was overwhelming him with questions and comments, so I did my best to wrap things up. “Just so we’re clear here. I leave you alone. I leave Hollis Spinelli alone. And in return, nothing happens to me and my house. Right?”

  “Ah, yeah, that’s right.” He started up again with the curses and threats, and I cut him off.

  “Albert, you win.”

  It seemed like he couldn’t answer. I said, “Do you hear what I said? You won. I won’t bother you; I won’t bother Hollis. In return, you leave me alone, leave my house alone, and everything’s fine. Tell you what, you give me your home address, I’ll send you a check to cover the cost of the Browning.”

  “Uh . . . no. That’s all right. I don’t want you to know where I live.”

  “Smart fellow, Algernon,” I said. “Are we square here? All right? You tell Hollis everything’s fine, and I’ll just stay here.”

  He laughed. “Man, I tuned you up but good, didn’t I?”

  “You have no idea,” I said, and I hung up the phone, still stiff and sore.

  I thought I should at least get upstairs and get my 9mm Beretta, just in case my lumpy friend from Boston realized I just had him confirm what I knew, that Hollis had ordered him here to Tyler, but I was too sore to move.

  So I stayed on my couch.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sunday was spent on the couch in a haze of painkillers and watching HBO and eating whatever I could scrounge. The next day I overslept, overdressed, overwashed. My muscles and joints cracked, groaned, and screamed at me as I got up, demanding that I stay home with either heat packs or ice packs and lots of pain killers, but I was determined to get to court. Taking a shower took lots of grunts and groans, and trying to put on a shirt and button it up made me go to a black turtleneck shirt and a gray sweatshirt.

  Breakfast was drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts for a medium black coffee and a croissant, egg, and cheese sandwich, and I tried to ignore the time on the Pilot’s console as I sped west to the courthouse. I hate, hate being late, and I was wondering what I was missing while I was on a state highway and not in a state courthouse.

  After parking near the familiar building, I moved as fast as I could to the court entrance, and the bailiff operating the metal detector gave me an odd look as he scanned my bruises and scrapes, like I should have been entering the building through the prisoners’ entrance and not the main doors, but I was cleared and went upstairs to the courtoom.

  Which was practically empty.

  No judge, no jury, no Felix, no attorneys. Just two bailiffs and a deputy sheriff chatting it up with a clerk up front, and the thinned-out crowd of spectators. Detective Steve Josephs was in the front row, saw my entrance, and just gave me a pleased nod. An older man about my age, with thick gray hair and wearing a light green polyester suit, sat next to him, nervously shifting his position. There was an odd feeling in the courtroom, an electricity to the air, like some overhead storm clouds were moving through, deciding whether or not to start casting thunderbolts around.

  Paula Quinn saw me, and her eyes widened. She came back and whispered fiercely, “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Ran into a few rocks, over and over again,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  Fletcher Moore’s family gave us all sharp glances, and Paula took my hand and said, “C’mon, come out with me.”

  We went out to the wide lobby and sat down at an empty bench. Paula held my hand all the way. It felt good. She dropped her leather bag at her feet and said, “You missed the fireworks this morning, my friend, you certainly did.”

  “I sort of sensed the aftermath when I walked in,” I said. “What the heck happened?”

  She crossed her legs at her ankles. “The state came in this morning with new evidence. For once Hollis Spinelli decided to do something about it.”

  “I had heard there might be new evidence this morning.”

  “What? And you decided not to tell your favorite newspaper writer about this little scoop?”

  “I was otherwise engaged.”

  She touched my face. “Rock rolling, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Guess that’s better than Rickrolling. Anyway, there was a lot of shouting, paper waving, a couple of insults, and then the judge ordered them both back into her chambers. Just like on TV.”

  “What’s the new evidence?”

  Paula shook her head. “It’s a doozie, I’m afraid. There’s a corner market, right across the street from the apartment building where Fletcher Moore was killed.”

  “Sure. I remember it.”

  “Well, it seems there’s a 24/7 surveillance camera outside. The owner was having problems with the local youth disturbing folks, knocking over displays, otherwise raising hell.”

  I rubbed at the back of my sore head. “The surveillance video shows Felix at the apartment building.”

  “Going in and going out,” she said. “All within the time frame of the murder. Let me tell you, if this case was tied up for the state before this, now it’s in a pretty white satin bow and placed on the birthday table.”

  “Damn.”

  “Maybe, but still, it makes for a good story.”

  A couple of folks started going back into the courtroom, and Paula and I joined them, but not before I noticed something interesting.

  Paula’s engagement ring—the one given to her by Mark Spencer, the lawyer for the town of Tyler—was no longer on her finger.

  In the courtroom I saw the assistant attorney general grinning and talking to her young charge, with an expression that looked like she was saying, “See what happens when you study hard, fight the good fight, and a wonderful piece of evidence falls into your lap?”

  Meanwhile, Hollis Spinelli sat back in his chair, looking tired, defeated, worn-out. Seeing him like that would have usually cheered me up, but not today. His job was to get my friend Felix out, and while it had looked improbable earlier, it now looked damn near impossible.

  A door opened and a bailiff came in, pushing a television on a stand, and passed the remote to the assistant attorney general. She went to her lectern and said, “Your Honor, the state calls Melvin Plummer.”

  Up ahead, the man with the 1970s fashion sense sitting next to Detective Steve Josephs got up, tripped over Josephs’s feet, and then navigated his way to the witness box. He was quickly sworn in, and then the representative of the state spent a number of minutes going through his residence, his background, and what he did in the city of Porter.

  After twenty minutes or so, she said, “Mr. Plummer, according to police records, your convenience store was the site of a number of petty crimes last year?”

  Plummer gathered himself together and said, “Petty to some people but not to me! Hooligans! They were pushing people around, stealing things, hanging out in front of my store. The police, they always come by later and say, no evidence, no evidence. I decide then, well, I’m gonna get them evidence.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I bought myself a camera system.”

  “A surveillance system?”

  Hollis stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness.”

  “Sustained. Rephrase the question, Counselor.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Mr. Plummer, what kind of camera system did you purchase?”

  “One of those, you know, spy systems. To keep track of what’s going on in the store and outside.”

  “And where did you get this system?”

  “From Safeguard Security in Tyler, and let me tell you, I paid a shitload of money.”

  Some laughter and even the judge smiled at that one, and gently rapped her gavel. “Mr. Plummer, if you please, watch your language.”

  “Shit. I
mean, sure, Your Honor. Sorry.”

  He was then led through a narrative of how Safeguard Security came to his store, how they installed and tested the surveillance cameras, and how even the presence of the cameras there cut down on his troubles.

  “The hooligans,” he explained, “they know I’m gonna catch ’em on video, they go somewhere else.”

  “I see,” she replied. She looked down at her papers and said, “Mr. Plummer, did there come a time when you decided to go on a two-week vacation earlier this year?”

  A nod. “You bet. The snow was killing me. I went to the Virgin Islands. Not the American ones, but the ones belonging to the Brits. Hey, even though they used the American dollar. Pretty funny.”

  “And who ran the store while you were away?”

  “My idiot cousin Jeffrey.”

  Some more giggles, but the judge let it slide. “And did Jeffrey tell you anything about what had happened in the neighborhood while you were in the British Virgin Islands?”

  “Yeah,” he said, squirming more in the witness box. “He said there was a shooting. Some guy from Tyler got killed. He said the cops came by and asked if the surveillance system had been running.”

  “And what did Jeffrey tell you?”

  “He told me that no, the system wasn’t running. You see, there’s a console underneath the cash register. It has three lights, okay? If all three lights are green, it means everything’s copacetic. If they’re red, it means something’s fucked—I mean, something’s screwed up, and the system’s not working.”

  “So Jeffrey told you the lights went red when you were on vacation?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the lights were red on the evening of January twelfth, the night of the murder across the street?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what did Jeffrey tell you that he told the police during the investigation?”

  “That the recording system wasn’t working, and we didn’t record anything, either inside or outside of the store.”

  She paused again, went back to her papers. “Mr. Plummer, did there come a time when the Porter police came back to visit you?”