Graveyard Bay

by Thomas Kies

  A few beat-up cars were parked on the street at the curb, but there wasn’t a soul walking along the sidewalk. This part of town was dangerous. Better to stay inside—best to not be there at all.

  I’d found a trash-cluttered alleyway between a shuttered single-story brick building that once held a beauty salon and an abandoned two-story structure that, in another life, had been a barbeque joint. Now they were both empty, silent monuments to better days. Backing my Sebring into the narrow space, I sat in the shadows, away from the streetlights. I was well hidden and yet had a reasonably good view of the street, including 113 Edison Avenue, the address of a vacant two-story Cape Cod at the end of the block. Before the daylight completely faded, I saw that the front porch of the Cape Cod had nearly collapsed under its own weight. Paint was peeling from the home’s faded facade, and the tiny yard was occupied by a torn mattress and a rusty washing machine someone had left behind.

  Even though the heater in my car was cranking, I shivered.

  I just know that house is crawling with cockroaches, rats, and ghosts.

  I glanced at my watch. It was a little after ten when a brand-new, polished black Cadillac Escalade rolled slowly by and pulled over to the curb in front of the dilapidated old home. Brake lights came on, then extinguished, and the vehicle was parked and ready for business. The streetlight above the SUV was conveniently dark.

  Purposely broken? Shot out?

  I was gratified to see that the SUV was parked facing away from me, lessening my chances of being spotted by the driver.

  From the front seat of my car, I watched as a steady stream of cars, pickup trucks, vans, and SUVs turned the corner from South Sheffield, drove slowly up Edison Avenue in my direction, pulling up parallel with the Escalade. Brake lights would go on while the driver’s side window in the customer’s vehicle slid down. The Escalade’s window would do the same, and the transaction would take place.

  Fast, quiet, unobtrusive. I didn’t know what kind of drugs the Cadillac was dispensing, but I had a pretty good idea. Grass, cocaine, oxycodone, meth, and, for sure, fentanyl-laced heroin. The opioid was a cheap way to increase the high and decrease the cost of production and seemed to be wildly out of control in Sheffield.

  It was also deadly as hell.

  I took photos of each vehicle. I used the Post’s night-vision telephoto lens to take the shots and was able to get clear pictures that included their front tags—Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey. This guy might be a low-level drug dealer, but he had a tristate clientele.

  I took a few sips of the vodka I had stashed in my commuter cup, felt the love spread through my core, and relaxed as the rhythm of the night took over, watching the repetition of car after car cozying up close to the black SUV, the driver handing over a wad of cash, taking a baggie, rolling up their window, and driving away. Every single time they rolled past where I was hidden, I slid down a little, making myself more of a shadow in my seat.

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly one in the morning. Almost time for the bag man to pick up the cash from the Escalade…if I’d read the notebook correctly.

  A hand slapped my window.

  My heart froze, air caught in my throat. I turned to look.

  A face glared at me, inches away from the glass.

  Horror-struck, eyes wide, I leaned into the passenger’s seat, staring at the man standing just outside my car, the filthy palm of his hand still pressed against the window. His face was deeply lined, a heavy gray beard covered the bottom half of his face, a baseball cap barely kept his long, greasy hair at bay. He was wearing a camouflage jacket.

  He grinned, showing me a mixed grill of yellowed and missing teeth.

  My heart slamming hard against my ribs, I shot a worried glance at the business going on down the street. The last thing I needed was wary, curious eyes looking my way.

  Rolling down my window, my stomach twisted when a sour odor of alcohol, tobacco, and vomit immediately flooded into my car. “What?” I growled.

  “Got any spare change?” His voice was much too loud.

  I glanced back at the Escalade. A black Ford pickup truck sat next to the drug dealer. The truck’s powerful headlights bathed the road in front of me in bright illumination. My fear grew exponentially.

  Bogdan Tolbonov drives a black Ford F-150 pickup truck.

  I tore through my bag and found a couple of wadded-up singles. “Hold out your hand.”

  He did as I’d ordered, his right palm facing up, shaking, tremor ridden. Without touching him, I dropped the cash onto his hand. “Now beat it,” I hissed.

  The man grinned again and doffed his baseball cap. “Bless you.”

  He disappeared behind me, into the shadows, and I glanced back at the Cadillac SUV.

  My stomach dropped.

  It was gone.

  But the pickup wasn’t. The truck slid slowly, too slowly, past where I sat in the shadows. Then it accelerated and disappeared around the corner.

  Dammit. I got made. Please God, don’t let that be Bogdan Tolbonov.

  Paranoia wrapped around my gut like a snake.

  Was the homeless guy a plant? A scout? Did the driver of the pickup get a look at my car? What if it really had been Bogdan? He kills people.

  And he already knows where I live.

  My plan had been to tail whoever picked up the cash and follow him to see where the money was dropped—the notebook had called it Ivan’s. There was a strip club in Bridgeport called Ivan’s. That could be where the black pickup was heading.

  But hell, I was dealing with a crew of crazy Russians. It could be any damned place.

  All I knew was that it was prudent to get as far away from Edison Avenue as I could, and as quickly as possible. I had a feeling this was about to become a very precarious place to be.

  I waited a week before I had the nerve to go back. I knew that someone would be watching the alleyway where I’d hidden, so I didn’t try to stake out the drug dealer again. Instead, I did a drive-by to see if the Escalade, or a replacement, was parked in front of the spooky old Cape Cod.

  The street was empty.

  I went back the next night and the next after that.

  For the time being, Edison Avenue was drug-free.

  I couldn’t tell Mike Dillon that I had staked out a drug dealer using Betsy Caviness’s notebook without putting her in danger. So I sent the photos I’d taken to the police using a fake Gmail account. I was able to trace the Escalade’s owner by the license plate. It belonged to a Travis Monk, twenty-seven years old, five eight, one hundred seventy pounds—according to his DMV info. Last known residence was in Millport, Connecticut. I checked it out. The address was an empty lot.

  For weeks, I watched the arrest reports to see if his name showed up. It never did.

  Having been caught staking him out, my anxiety level ramped up and I kept my eye out for anyone who might be tailing me. When I was home, I watched to see if cars I didn’t recognize were parked out on the street. At work, I kept worrying I’d be approached in the parking lot.

  I remembered the dominatrix Shana Neese’s warning.

  You can’t be too paranoid.

  * * *

  I shoved that out of my mind and scanned the contents of the notebook on the screen of my monitor. Hearing that Judge Niles Preston had been positively identified as one of the homicide victims, something had jogged my memory. Since Betsy had sent it to me, I’d studied that notebook for hours, days, looking for a way it could be useful.

  On that morning in the newspaper office, it took me a few seconds, but I found what I was looking for.

  A single entry, dated early October.

  Starbucks, Wilton, Rt.7, Wed, Oct 3, 8 am, drop $, Judge P.

  Judge P…Judge Preston? Was that an entry for Jim Caviness to pay off the judge?

  Was Judge Preston dirty?<
br />
  Before I went to DaVinci’s to pick up some takeout food for Caroline and me, I made two stops. One was at Al’s Liquors for a bottle of Absolut. The one I had hidden at home was nearly empty.

  And then I dropped into the Starbucks in Wilton on Route 7. Smooth jazz discreetly floated in the air and the scent of strong brew hugged me like a long lost relative. If it hadn’t been so close to the dinner hour, I suspected the coffee shop would have been packed. But as it was, I was nearly the only one there who wasn’t wearing a green barista apron. A tall man stood attentively behind the counter. In his twenties, his dark hair was propped up in random spikes with gel. The name tag on his chest told me his name was Chuck.

  “Hey, Chuck.”

  He had a pleasant smile. “Hi, can I help you?”

  I almost asked for a latte, but then remembered I had vodka in the car that was seductively whispering my name. I pulled a photo out of my bag and held it up for the barista to look at. “Do you know this man?”

  Chuck’s smile faltered. “That’s the judge. Are you a cop?”

  I cocked my head. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Geneva Chase with the Sheffield Post.”

  He held up a smartphone. Chuck’s voice went low. “Oh, I read about it online. It was awful what somebody did to him.”

  I nodded. “Did Judge Preston come in here a lot?”

  “Should I be talking to you?”

  I frowned. “I’m not looking for dirt, Chuck.” I lied. I’m always looking for dirt. “I’d just like to know if the judge was a regular here.”

  Chuck appraised me with squinty eyes for a moment but must have figured I was okay. “He was in here all the time.”

  “He ever meet anyone here?”

  The boy nodded. “The judge used to joke that this was his second office.”

  I pulled another photo out of my bag. This one was the mug shot of Jim Caviness when he’d been arrested for trafficking in underage girls. “How about this guy? Recognize him?”

  Chuck concentrated. Then he slowly shook his head. “Nope, sorry. A lot of people come and go here.” He turned to a young woman standing behind the counter who had been staring at the screen of her smartphone. “Hey, Deb. You ever seen this guy before?”

  A woman in her early twenties dropped her phone into the pocket of her barista apron and stared at the photo I held in the air. She ran her hand through her mop of brown hair and pursed her lips. Finally, she said, “Could be. A guy who looks something like that used to come in now and then and sit down with the judge.” She pointed to an empty table in the corner. “If it’s the same guy I’m thinking of, he’d drop by where the judge was sitting for a couple of seconds and then leave. I noticed him because he’d come in but never buy anything.”

  Walking back out to my car, I pulled my scarf up around my face and thought about what I’d just learned. Judge Preston was a regular at Starbucks and he might or might not have met with someone who bore a resemblance to Jim Caviness.

  That’s a whole lot of nothin’.

  Chapter Four

  I dropped the plastic bag holding the takeout dinner onto the kitchen counter. Tucker looked up at me expectantly, tail wagging so hard, his tiny butt was shaking. I leaned down and picked the little guy up into my arms, still wearing my parka.

  “I thought I heard the car pull into the driveway.”

  Turning around, I saw Caroline standing in the doorway. She’s fifteen, long blond hair cascading over her shoulders, about five-foot-seven, and trim as a ferret, even though she can eat like a horse. When I look at her, I see Kevin. She has her father’s sparkling blue eyes and pretty smile. That evening, she was wearing her ratty, gray UCONN sweatshirt, pink sweatpants, and black, fluffy slippers. Around the house, she ain’t a fashion plate.

  But then again, neither am I.

  I was Caroline’s guardian. I’d made a promise to Kevin Bell that I’d take care of his daughter if anything ever happened to him. Way too soon, it did. Now she’s my responsibility and Kevin’s legacy to me.

  I smiled back at her, put the dog down, and shimmied out of my coat. “Hey, sweetie, how was your day?”

  She glided to the counter and opened the plastic bag, sniffing the air. Then Caroline grinned at me. “I’m on Christmas vacation.” She’d answered like I should have had a clue. “I slept late, read a little, watched some videos, and I finished packing.” She pointed to the takeout on the counter. “This smells really good. What did you get?”

  “Lasagna from DaVinci’s.”

  “Yum.” She looked up at me. “Hey, are you sure you’re okay with my going to Aspen with Aunt Ruth?”

  I wasn’t, but I was determined not to let Caroline see it. “Of course I’m okay with it. Heck, if Aunt Ruth offered to take me skiing over the holidays, I’d jump at the chance. When’s the last time Tucker went out?”

  She grinned. “Just before you got here. Tucker’s good. Want me to ask Aunt Ruth to bring you too?”

  Oh God, no.

  Caroline’s Aunt Ruth and I barely tolerated each other. Ruth was the sister of Kevin’s late wife. When I came onto the scene, it was easy to see that she had eyes for her widower brother-in-law. Then Kevin fell in love with me, and Ruth became downright hostile.

  After Kevin died and Caroline came to live with me, Ruth’s attitude softened…a little.

  In my head, I knew that Ruth’s offer to take Caroline and her best friend, Jessica Oberon, skiing had been incredibly generous. On my meager newspaper salary, soon to be cut even further, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I’d ever be able to afford a ski vacation in Aspen.

  Yes, in my head, I knew rich Aunt Ruth was doing something really nice.

  But in my heart, I strongly suspect that Ruth wants me to be alone at Christmas.

  I held up my hand. “I have to work, sweetie. I couldn’t go with you if I wanted to. Is Jessica excited?”

  “God, yes. Jessica’s gone nuts. Almost overnight, she’s gone from Goth to full-blown snow bunny. You should see all the crap she’s packing.”

  I was suddenly struck by the fact that we hadn’t done any shopping for Caroline. “Do you have what you need to hit the slopes?”

  She gave me a confident smile. “I’ve got long undies, jeans, sweaters, my heavy coat, mittens, extra socks, and snow overalls. I’m good. I’m worried about you, Genie. You’re going to be here all by yourself.”

  Alone for Christmas.

  I waved it off. “It won’t be the first time. Tucker’s pretty good company.”

  I said that, but I knew how depressing it can be to spend the holidays alone. That, on top of the unfortunate events unfolding at the newspaper, meant I was going to have to work hard to stay out of a black pit of despair.

  Caroline leaned against the refrigerator and crossed her arms. “Being alone during the holidays can be pretty awful. Promise me you won’t do something stupid?”

  Like drinking myself into a DUI? Or the hospital? Or to death?

  For an angry flashing moment, I took exception at her implication. But I counted to five before I answered, because deep down, I knew she was genuinely concerned for me. “Baby, don’t you worry about me. The only thing I want you to think about is not breaking any bones.”

  On the one hand, it pissed me off that Caroline thought she was the adult in that conversation. But on the other hand, I welcomed her concern. Only a couple of months before, Caroline was cycling through periods of sarcasm, belligerence, and insecurity with occasional annoying streaks of meanness. Then, over the last month, she seemed serene, more like a normal teenager, if there is such a thing.

  I wonder if she’s smoking pot?

  Her grades, when her father was alive, were always good. After he passed away, she struggled in school. Barely passing. Recently, however, her scores had ticked upward again.

&n
bsp; Nah, smoking dope never made me any smarter.

  She hadn’t even mentioned my drinking since last October. Of course, I kept it closeted. And I’ve tried to ratchet it back. I’m certain Caroline knows that when I’m in my bedroom, I have a couple of pops before I go to bed. And if she’s going to stay after school for a club project, I might stop at Brick’s for a glass or two of Absolut over ice and cover my tracks with a mouthful of breath mints.

  It’s all under control.

  I smiled at her. “I’m going upstairs to change clothes. If you can set the table, we’ll eat when I come back down.” As I exited the kitchen, I glanced back. She was already leaning against the counter, texting someone on her phone. No denying that she was a teenager.

  Before I stripped off my sweater, slacks, and bra, I took a glass sitting on the headboard of my bed, rinsed it out in the bathroom, then plucked out the nearly empty bottle of vodka hidden in my panty drawer. I poured a liberal amount and took a healthy swallow. The familiar heat drizzled down into my chest and tummy. Thinking about the pain of being on a reporter’s salary again, I upended the glass and polished it off.

  I poured another and fished the full bottle out of my bag and hid it in the drawer beneath my underwear.

  Robert Vogel, the evil weasel, was right. I’d drunk myself out of every good job I’ve ever had. But this time, he wasn’t punishing me for being a drinker. He was punishing me because I had the history of being a drinker.

  I took the phone out of my bag and checked the screen. According to the time stamp, while I’d been driving, someone had tried to call me. It was a New York number.

  They’d left a message on my phone voicemail. In a low range but with crisp diction, a male voice stated, “Hi, this message is for Geneva Chase. My name’s Nathaniel Rubin. I’m the CEO for a company called Lodestar Analytics. I wonder if you and I could chat about a possible career opportunity? Perhaps you can give me a call tomorrow morning?”

  Lodestar.

  Isn’t that the star sailors used to guide their ships?

  He left a number that I entered into my contact list. Glass in hand, still in my work clothes, I sat down at my desk and punched Lodestar Analytics into my laptop. The company was listed as a commercial research and strategic intelligence firm based in New York. According to its website, “Lodestar Analytics conducts open-source investigations and provides research and strategic advice for businesses, law firms, and investors as well as for political inquiries, such as opposition research. Lodestar employs a diverse range of experts including scientists, retired FBI agents, private detectives, and journalists.”