Graveyard Bay

by Thomas Kies

  I punched her up on my phone.

  She answered on the first ring. She practically shouted, “Hi, Genie.”

  “Having fun?”

  “We skied so much this afternoon, my legs are sore.”

  Then in the background, I heard Jessica Oberon laughing. “We fell down so much, our butts are sore.”

  “I’ve got you on speaker, Genie.”

  “Is Ruth there?”

  Aunt Ruth piped in. “Hi, Genie. These girls ran me ragged today.”

  Sadness gripped my chest. I missed Caroline. “They’ve got the energy, don’t they, Ruth?”

  Jessica sang out. “Tell her about dinner.”

  “We had dinner at the White House Tavern in downtown Aspen. Jess and I split a French dip because the portions are huge.” Her voice went up when she said the word huge. “One of the waiters must have thought we’re older than we are ’cause he asked if us ladies wanted cocktails.”

  “He was cute, Genie,” Jessica added.

  “Of course he was,” I chuckled.

  Ruth nearly shouted, “I kept them straight, Genie. No boozing for these girls on my watch.”

  Anytime Ruth said something about liquor, I took it personally. She knew I used to drink too much.

  Still do.

  “Good for you, Ruth.”

  I eyed the vodka bottle sitting on the bed next to where Tucker was sleeping. “Hey, Caroline, I got a job offer today.”

  There was a moment of silence as she processed the possibilities. She said, “Is it more money?”

  “A lot more.”

  Her next words were tentative, frightened. “Will we have to move out of Sheffield?”

  “Nope, mostly working from home. You’ll still be at West High.”

  Her voice got high and happy again. “Yippee. Good for you, Genie. I want to hear all about it when I get back.”

  “I’ll fill you in when you get home. I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to give you a quick call to see how you’re doing.”

  I heard Ruth say, “I want to talk to Genie for a minute.”

  Caroline remarked, “Ruth wants to say hi. Thanks for calling, Genie. Talk tomorrow?”

  “Sure, baby.”

  We said our good nights, and then Ruth came on the line, taking me off speakerphone. “Genie.”

  “What’s up, Ruth? Everything okay?”

  “Do you remember that business last October when you had those people following you?”

  Bogdan Tolbonov tailed me in his black Ford F-150 pickup truck, not so much to keep an eye on me but to intimidate me. It had worked. “Of course.”

  “I don’t want to upset you, because I can’t be sure. But I got a weird feeling while we were at the restaurant, someone was watching us.”

  Fear gripped the pit of my stomach.

  Ruth added, “Then driving back to our rental cabin, I thought I saw a car following us.”

  Jesus Christ, they’re too far from me to help them if Ruth’s right.

  Ruth was deadly serious when she posed her question. “Are you working on something dangerous, Genie?”

  Yes.

  “Look, I’m going to have Mike Dillon call the Aspen cops and see if they can do some extra drive-bys to keep an eye on you.”

  That seemed to take the nerves out of her voice. “Okay, I’m probably just being paranoid.”

  You can’t be too paranoid.

  We said goodbye, and I called Mike and talked to him for a few minutes, wondering if Vicki Smith was lying naked in his bed next to him. Mike promised that once he hung up, he’d call the Aspen Police Department. “Most likely nothing,” he said. “But better to be safe, right?”

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  Say hey to Vicki for me.

  I shook my head at how petty I can be. I liked Mike. I only wanted the best for him. And God knows, that ain’t me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What’s the address?”

  I told John, and he deftly punched it into the GPS with one hand while with the other he negotiated traffic going north on I-95. We were back in the Mustang GT, and Tucker was in the critter carrier sitting on the back seat. Whatever snow had fallen overnight had turned into gray slurry.

  “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

  I answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re already on Merlin Finn’s radar. Are you sure you want to make yourself a more obvious target?”

  I took a breath. “He broke into my house and violated my space. I want to see him back behind bars.” The words on the note he left behind in my underwear drawer kept going through my mind.

  I’m going to make you model these for me.

  I recalled his mug shot. Shaved head, dark eyes, heavy brows, pronounced earlobes, thick-lipped snarl, a supremacist tattoo on each cheekbone. I remembered seeing the scars on Bristol Finn’s back from the beatings she’d taken from him.

  The difference between the S&M Shana practiced and the abuse that Finn handed out? Shana’s was about pain for mutual pleasure. Merlin Finn was about pain for only his pleasure.

  I could tell from John’s voice that he wasn’t convinced seeing Finn’s father was a good idea. “Maybe you’re trying too hard, Genie. Every cop in the tristate area is looking for him. He killed a judge. It’s only a matter of time before they find him.”

  I didn’t argue with him but changed the subject. “I noticed that the palms of Shana’s hands have a lot of callous tissue. That’s typical for someone who works with their hands, like a farmer or maybe a gravedigger. I wouldn’t imagine that it’s typical of a dominatrix. Is it from cracking the whip?”

  He slowly shook his head. “Before Shana left Louisiana, when she was around sixteen, she was beaten and raped. She’s carried the physical and psychological scars around with her ever since. When she bought the Tower, she put in an exercise room where she practices Krav Maga. It’s a martial art developed by the Israelis for Shin Bet and Mossad. It combines wrestling, karate, and boxing. It’s really just about fighting dirty.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “She also practices tae kwon do, karate, and kickboxing. Spends a couple of hours a day working at it. She’s got a punching bag that takes a lot of punishment. It toughens up her hands. She says that if anyone attacks her again, she’s going to either kill him or die trying.”

  I thought about Shana as we took the exit to White Plains and I watched the houses whiz by, nearly all of them with Christmas decorations in their windows, wreaths on their doors, or plastic reindeer on their lawns. The more I found out about her, the more impressed I was.

  Taking advantage of the silence, John spoke. “Did Shana take you for a tour of the Tower?”

  I grinned. “Yes, she did. It makes quite an impression.” I eyed him playfully. “Are you a client?”

  John chuckled. “Not my thing. Nothing wrong with it if that’s what you’re into. It’s all legal, by the way. Did you know that? As long as there’s no sexual contact.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s all sexual, John. C’mon.”

  “It clearly states on her website that if you even ask for anything sexual, you’ll be banned.”

  I repeated. “It’s all sexual. It’s hardcore foreplay.”

  John stayed silent, but I could see a tiny smile on his lips.

  “If you’re not a client, how did the two of you meet?”

  “I went to work at Lodestar after I left the NYPD. Nathaniel takes on occasional pro bono jobs for the Friends of Lydia, so he made the introduction. I like working with Shana. She’s a genuine badass.”

  She’s a sexy badass.

  “Is Nathaniel one of her clients?”

  John frowned. “Ask Nathaniel.”

  “What made you want to be a cop?” Gerald’s coffee
must have kick-started the nosy reporter in me that morning.

  John was silent for a few moments, obviously wrestling with what he should say. When he answered, it was with the voice of a cop. “My mother was the victim of a homicide. She and my father had divorced when I was eleven, and Mom had to work two jobs to make ends meet. One of them was as a bartender. We were living with my grandparents in upstate New York at the time. One night, after the bar closed, she got into her car but never arrived home. Her car was found torched, and her body was found in a ditch.”

  Our histories make us who we are.

  I reached over and put my hand on his shoulder.

  He continued. “They never found who did it. It made me want to be a cop.”

  Still touching him, I asked, “Why did you leave the force?”

  He glanced at me briefly. Then he turned his attention back to the road. “A story for another time.”

  I wanted to ask him about Abby but decided that I’d gone as far as he was going to let me. Instead, I fiddled with the radio and found NPR, and we quietly listened to Morning Edition until we pulled into the driveway of a nondescript, single-story ranch with an attached garage. The vinyl siding was white but with slight shades of mold green that begged for a good power washing. The shutters along the windows had once been black, but age and sunlight had faded them to a dark gray. Waist-high shrubs, shorn of their leaves, fronted the house, but in between, windows peeked out from the foundation of the building, showing that the house had a basement.

  John parked by the curb, and we walked up to the front steps. I rang the bell.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait, a man opened the door. He was in his late sixties and very tall—six seven, at least. At one point in his life, he probably had been very fit and muscular. But when the body slows down, muscle often turns to rubber around the middle and in the shoulders. He wore a long-sleeved tee that showed he was around thirty pounds too heavy for his height. The man still had a full head of unkempt white hair, but it was thinning, and his scalp shone pink in the scant morning sunlight. His jowly cheeks were covered with two days of gray stubble, and he had the demeanor of a bulldog. “What do you want?” he growled.

  “Are you Arthur Finn?”

  “What do you want?” he repeated, gazing at me angrily over a pair of wire-frame glasses.

  “I’d like to talk to you about your son, Merlin.”

  He grimaced and eyed John suspiciously. “You cops?”

  I shook my head. “I’m a journalist with the Sheffield Post.”

  Arthur stood just inside the doorway, but when he spit, it landed inches from my leather boots. “That’s what I think of reporters.”

  He turned and started to close the door on us. I tried one last gambit. “Your son broke into my house yesterday.”

  He stopped cold, then slowly turned and studied me through his glasses. “Did he now? What did you have that he wanted?”

  I cocked my head but didn’t answer.

  For the first time, he smiled a cold grin. “Come in. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  When he walked, it was in his stocking feet, and it was more of a slow, bowlegged shuffle, as if his knees were rheumatoid-ridden. We followed him into his dark living room. The heavy green curtains were closed, and a single lamp on an end table was the only illumination, save for the silver light coming from a muted large-screen television mounted on a bare wall, wires snaking to outlets below. A John Wayne movie was running without sound.

  He sat down in a well-worn cloth recliner. The arms were faded and threadbare. “Take the load off. Let’s sit and talk.”

  Other than the recliner, the only other place to sit was a plaid cloth couch. Without taking our coats off, John and I sat down.

  I glanced around the room. Arthur had three framed photos on his living room walls. One was of an American eagle posing in front of the flag. The second was the iconic scene after 9/11 when the firefighters hoisted the flag over the debris at ground zero in New York. The third was of a man and a little boy with fishing poles over their shoulders.

  I pointed to it. “Is that a picture of you and Merlin when he was a little kid?”

  It was adorable. Like the opening scene from The Andy Griffith Show.

  He looked up at it and sighed. “Yeah, it’s a reminder that even he was a little boy once.”

  Newspapers were stacked up next to Arthur’s recliner. The end table next to him carried an empty plate covered in bacon grease and a coffee cup with a Fox News logo.

  Trying to ingratiate myself to him, I pointed to the cup. “I used to work for Fox News.”

  His eyes glistened. “Did ya’ now? You ever meet Hannity?”

  I slowly shook my head. “We worked in different places in the building.”

  “Why did ya leave?”

  The real reason was I just couldn’t stand it. Not my kind of journalism. But I lied. “Someone made a pass at me.”

  Arthur chuckled. “Yeah, you’re a looker. I hear that happens all the time at Fox. I hear they make all their women wear little short skirts on the sets.” He sat on the edge of the recliner and leaned forward, his hands claw-like, resting on the knees of his gray trousers. “So, young lady, what’s your name?”

  “Genie Chase.”

  “And now you’re a reporter for a newspaper. Too bad you couldn’t find decent work. Bet you woulda made a fine secretary.”

  I let the insult pass.

  Arthur fixed his gaze on John. “And who are you? You a reporter too? You smell like a cop to me.”

  John only smiled. “No, sir. These days, I do odd jobs.”

  The old man grinned. “I gotcha. Odd jobs, you’re a fixer. I understand Merlin uses boys like you in his line of work.”

  “What kind of work is that, Mr. Finn?”

  He smiled at me enigmatically but changed the subject. “What did you have that Merlin wanted bad enough to break into your house, Genie Chase?”

  I glanced at John, who shrugged.

  Cat’s already out of the proverbial bag.

  “A notebook.”

  The man adopted a wide grin, and he clapped his hands together. “Jim Caviness’s notebook?”

  “Yes.”

  He chuckled wickedly. “I knew Jim Caviness. He was a dumb-ass. The Russians knew his brain was fried. He wrote things down in a notebook so he wouldn’t screw up. I was surprised as hell when I heard that his wife killed him. I guess she got him before the Tolbonov brothers did.”

  I leaned in. “What can you tell me about Valentin and Bogdan Tolbonov?”

  Arthur’s smile turned into a sneer. “Don’t ever trust ’em. Merlin treated those boys straight. He was their most loyal soldier. He ran his Brotherhood crew for the Russians and never skimmed a penny. Then, out of nowhere, Wolfline sent two assassins up to his place in Connecticut to kill him.” Arthur sat back. “Only the security on that mountain is tighter than Fort Knox. Merlin killed ’em first.”

  John frowned. “Word on the street was that Merlin was moving in on Wolfline’s drug trade. The two men he killed were low-level dealers.”

  Arthur shook his head. “He wouldn’t dirty his hands over street thugs.”

  The fact that Merlin Finn had tortured the two men to death in his redneck dungeon flashed through my mind. “Why would the Tolbonovs want to kill Merlin if he was such a good soldier?”

  He glanced over at John. “Like the boy here said. Word on the street. Sometimes in our line of work, bullshit trash talk can get people killed. Perception’s reality. They’re scared of him.”

  “Why?”

  Arthur flashed me a grin. “He’s big and he’s smart and he controls the Brotherhood. They thought if they could get rid of my boy, they’d control Merlin’s crew.”

  John offered, “But now that Merlin’s out, all bets are off.”
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  His grin grew broader. “Goddamned right, son.”

  John’s voice was steady when he asked the question. “Did your son kill Judge Niles Preston and Abby Tillis?”

  John’s too invested in this.

  Arthur sat up straight. “Wouldn’t know nothin’ about that.”

  I asked, “Has your son been in contact with you since he escaped from Lockport?”

  More silence.

  “Do you know where Merlin is?”

  He laughed. “Seriously? If I knew where he was, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell a reporter.”

  I tried again. “Have you seen him since he escaped from prison?”

  Arthur slowly shook his head. “He knows that the feds are watching me. And they’re keeping tabs on that cheating bitch wife of his too up at Oak Hill. Let me tell you, Miss Reporter, that once the FBI gets tired of watching her, she’s a dead woman for taking up with that Karl Lerner.” He grimaced when he added, “And it won’t be quick.”

  His words chilled me. I recalled the note I found in my underwear drawer back home.

  I’m going to make you model these for me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “There was another fatal OD last night.” Mike glanced over the top of his computer screen, focusing on John, who was seated next to me. “This one was an eighteen-year-old male, a freshman at the community college. Bryan Townsend lived in a condo at 81 Buckner Avenue. We talked with his roommate. He said he knew that Townsend was using and thought that he might have been dealing to pay for his habit. His body was found in the men’s room at the Exxon Station on West Avenue. We searched his car for drugs, and it was clean. He must have either shot up his supply or someone robbed him.”

  “Was he dealing for someone or was he working on his own?”

  Mike was still trying to figure out why John was there. “Don’t know.” He’d met John the day before when he’d identified Abby Tillis’s body.

  When we both entered his office, Mike politely shook his hand, but his face registered curiosity.

  Up front, I could have explained why John was with me, but I was in a bitchy mood and still smarting from the bombshell revelation that Mike had attached himself to a pretty, young Realtor. Sooner or later, Mike would ask. I was just going to make him wait.