Graveyard Bay

by Thomas Kies

  Mike moved his eyes from John to me. He wanted to watch my expression when he told me the news. “Oh, and we found the dead body of a high-level street dealer last night just behind the East Sheffield Train Station. Have you ever heard of Travis Monk?”

  I felt a sharp jolt of electricity snap inside my chest. I did my best not to let my face betray my shock. Travis Monk was the drug dealer I’d staked out in November on Edison Avenue. Before the “homeless” scout ratted me out, I’d taken dozens of photos of his customers and clear shots of Monk’s Cadillac Escalade. I’d sent them anonymously to Mike’s email. I’d assumed that since he was never arrested, Monk had moved to another town.

  “How did he die?” Even I could hear the nerves in my voice.

  Please let it be natural causes or an overdose.

  “Foley is doing the autopsy today, but from what I could see, he’d been tortured and beaten to death.”

  John leaned forward, suddenly very interested. “Merlin Finn?”

  Mike was still watching me when he answered. “It has his MO all over it. Plus, we think that Monk was one of Wolfline’s crew.”

  I asked, “Have you checked to see if there’s any security video in that part of town?”

  Mike frowned as if I should know better than to ask that question. “Of course we have. One camera mounted in the parking lot of the train station and one security camera at the Shell station up the street. The killers dropped him off using Monk’s own Escalade. The man we saw rolling the body out of the SUV was dressed in a black parka and wearing a ski mask, just like the thugs in the marina homicides. We haven’t found the kid’s Escalade yet.”

  John spoke up. “Probably at the bottom of Long Island Sound.”

  Mike wasn’t finished. He was staring right at me. “You know, an anonymous source sent me photos of Monk selling dope over on Edison Avenue last month. We used them as leverage. We wanted him to flip on the Russians. Threatened Monk with prison time if he didn’t turn snitch.”

  I cleared my throat. “Did he?”

  Mike nodded. “There’s a glut of drugs on the street right now. I wanted to use Monk to find out where Wolfline was getting their supply.”

  I interjected. “I heard Wolfline’s getting out of the business.”

  “I doubt that. Before we got anything useful out of Monk, Finn killed him. Finn would have been better off leaving him alive to snitch on the Russians.”

  John frowned. “With the FBI crawling all over them, it’s a wonder the Russians can move anything at all.”

  Mike squinted at John. “I’m sorry, who are you again? You work for the Friends of Lydia?”

  John smiled back. “I do odd jobs.”

  Interesting way to put it. It’s the second time in less than an hour that I’ve heard him use that phrase.

  Mike grimaced. “Could I have a moment alone with Genie, please?”

  John adjusted his glasses and grunted. “Sure.” He stood up, picked his overcoat from the back of his chair, draped it over his arm, and slowly walked out of the office.

  Giving him a minute to get out of earshot, Mike leaned forward and jerked his thumb in the direction of the doorway. “What’s the deal?”

  There it is. The question.

  I cocked my head. “What do you mean? What’s the deal with John?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, John Stillwater. Why is he here?”

  “After the B&E on my apartment yesterday, the Friends of Lydia have generously offered me a bodyguard.”

  Mike stared at the empty doorway. “He looks and acts like a cop.”

  I nodded. “He used to be.”

  “Okay, the offer still stands. Want to me to park an officer on the street in front of your house?”

  Oh, he is so adorable.

  I smiled. “No need. John will be there.”

  “Overnight?”

  Without another word, I smiled mysteriously and stood, grabbed my bag and my coat, and started for the door.

  Before I got there, I heard Mike clear his throat. “Be careful, Genie. You really don’t know much about this guy. For the time being, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust anyone.”

  * * *

  We drove back to my place, and John parked the Mustang next to the Sebring in the driveway. We went in, and while John went through the house to make certain there wasn’t anyone hiding in a closet, I dug out the extra key from the junk drawer in the kitchen.

  When John came back downstairs, I handed it to him. “Here. You can come and go as you please.”

  “Thanks. Where do you want me to sleep?”

  There’s that sexual adrenaline again.

  I could feel my cheeks reddening.

  “Well,” I stammered, “Caroline’s room is probably a bit girly for you. How about I sleep there tonight, and you take my room?”

  When I said the words “take my room,” the sexual tension inside me ratcheted up another notch.

  What is this all about? Last night it was Shana, and now it’s John?

  If John noticed my clumsiness, he didn’t let on. He merely said, “No worries. I’ll just camp out on the couch if that’s okay.” Then he glanced around the kitchen. “I see the coffeemaker on the counter. Mind if I make myself a pot of coffee?”

  “Help yourself. Filters and coffee are in that cabinet.”

  “When do we leave for your office?”

  I watched him pull down the coffee filters. “We don’t. I’m going to be fine. I’d rather have you guarding the castle.”

  “Really?” He took out the plastic container of Stop-n-Shop breakfast blend. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.”

  I shook my head. “There’s a difference between keeping an eye on me and being a babysitter. I can’t do my job if you’re standing next to me while I’m interviewing people. It was kind of awkward with Arthur Finn and Mike this morning.” I scrunched up my nose, trying to be honest yet adorable.

  He folded his arms and studied my face, taking measure of my resolve. Finally, he answered, “Okay, you win. But on one condition.” He held up a finger indicating to give him a minute. I watched as he briskly hustled out of the kitchen.

  While he was gone, I filled the coffeepot with water and emptied it into the maker’s reservoir. I had only just pushed the button to turn it on when John returned.

  “Here.” He held out his hand.

  “What’s that?” It was a black plastic wafer and about the size of a fifty-cent coin.

  “A GPS tracker. It’s waterproof and has a five-day battery life.”

  I took it out of his hand and held it up to see it better. “If you had to, you could track me by using my phone. I have a tracking app already loaded. All I have to do is add you.”

  He shook his head. “A phone is too easy to lose or steal. Put this in your pocket. It connects directly with my laptop and cell phone.”

  “This seems a little James Bond to me.”

  “It’s very James Bond. It’s the only way I’m letting you out of my sight.”

  I slid it into the pocket of my black jeans. There was comfort that John had given me another layer of protection. But I was certain that once I was in the car, I’d take it out of my pocket and drop it into my bag. I never go anywhere without my bag. “Okay, Q. Are we good?”

  “We are now. While you go out to do your newspaper thing, I’ll set up my laptop here on the table and get some work done for Nathaniel.”

  I liked having John there, especially with Caroline in Colorado. Having someone to come home to would be nice. “I should be back here around five. I’ll pick up some takeout.”

  He scowled. “We passed a grocery store on the way here. I’ll go get a few things and make us dinner tonight.”

  Yes, I like this very much.

  He glanced back out at the living room. “Where
are your holiday decorations? I could put some up for you.”

  I braved a smile. “Still in the attic. Tell you what, when I get home tonight, you and I can do it together.”

  * * *

  “What did you get from Merlin Finn’s father?” Lorraine Moretti was sitting behind her desk, peering at me through her silly cat glasses.

  I consulted my reporter’s notebook. “He told me that the two men his son killed up in Brockton weren’t drug dealers at all. They were assassins sent by the Russian mob to kill Merlin Finn.”

  “Can you substantiate that?”

  I sighed. “I doubt it. Police reports claim the two men were drug dealers.”

  Lorraine looked at me over the top of her glasses with a grim expression. “So the trip out there was a complete waste of time.”

  I didn’t take the bait. “Before I came in this morning, I stopped by SPD to pick up the incident reports. A drug dealer named Travis Monk was found tortured and beaten to death last night. The police think it might have been Merlin Finn.”

  She growled, “Well, that’s something at least. Go write it up.”

  I started to get up but sat back down again. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She’d turned her attention to the computer screen on her desk and now seemed annoyed that I would have the audacity to pull her away from it. “Yes?”

  “When did you know that someone was going to build an urban mall here in Sheffield?”

  She blinked, running answers through her head. Finally, she responded. “Ah, yes, the mall. I wouldn’t know what information our corporate office had or when it knew that an urban mall was being built in Sheffield. I sincerely hope you’re not implying that our company did anything unethical. Galley Media’s values and sense of ethics are held to a high standard, Genie. And we expect our employees to do the same.”

  I hadn’t really expected a straight answer, and I wasn’t disappointed. Wordlessly, I got up and went out to the newsroom. I wondered how Galley had known about the stealthy purchase of all the land that was required for such a massive project. They’d made the deal with Ben just prior to the developer approaching the city about permits.

  How did Galley Media know?

  And what idiot, in this time of online shopping, would consider investing hundreds of millions of dollars to build a dinosaur like a shopping mall? Hell, they were going the way of the newspaper. Both of us were products of another time.

  And yet, someone was doing it.

  As if on cue, Bill McNamara from advertising slid into the chair next to my gunmetal-gray desk. Playing with his handlebar mustache, he grinned at me. “How’s it going with the new boss?”

  I glanced over at her, still hunched over her keyboard. “About how you’d expect. I heard you have a new VP of advertising. How’s it going with her?”

  His lanky frame shuddered theatrically. “Her name is Sue Lewis. Every time she says something, every sphincter muscle in my body tightens.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I heard some of the other sales staff saying she was a real ballbuster.”

  “I’m not sure all of us are going to survive the Galley transition. They have to keep us on staff for a year, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find other jobs.”

  I need to talk to Ben about taking the position at Lodestar.

  I turned my attention back to Bill. “Heard anything more about the mall? Who’s the developer?”

  “A company called Wyatt Investments out of Boston.”

  “Is that who bought up all the land out there? They were really quiet about it.”

  Bill nervously pulled on his bow tie. “Don’t know. I can find out for you. Why?”

  “Just curious how Galley Media got the intel on the mall before we did.”

  “Oh, by the way, the project has a name, the Sheffield Meridian.”

  “Meridian? Doesn’t that have something to do with maps?”

  Bill grinned. He was about to show off. “It’s a circle of constant longitude passing through a given place on the earth’s surface and the terrestrial poles.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, what I said.”

  He held one finger in the air. “Furthermore, in Chinese medicine, it’s a set of pathways in the body along which vital energy is said to flow.”

  “Great. Maybe they should call it the Zen Mall. You hear anything more, can you let me know?”

  He leaned in and whispered, “You’ll be the first.”

  A half hour later, I quietly finished the piece on the late Travis Monk and sent it to Lorraine. Then I turned my attention to the young man who had died the night before by overdose.

  I did some poking around on the internet and the various social media platforms and discovered that eighteen-year-old Bryan Townsend graduated from West Sheffield High School last year with honors. According to his Facebook posts, he was close with his parents, enjoyed sailing, and was studying law enforcement at Sheffield Community College. According to his Instagram account, over the summer, he worked as a deckhand for Groward Bay Marina.

  Coincidence?

  I decided to pay a visit to the kid’s roommate. Before I put my coat back on, I sent Lorraine a short email letting her know what I was doing. When I hit the Send button, I could feel the bile in my throat.

  Changing jobs was looking better and better.

  So why haven’t I given my notice?

  Chapter Eighteen

  I pushed through the back door and stepped out onto the concrete steps leading to the employee parking lot. I’d just gotten to the driver’s side of the Sebring when I heard my phone ping. I unlocked the car and slid in, started the engine, and cranked up the heater.

  Then, taking my phone out of my bag, I checked to see who had sent me a text. Fear charged through my veins.

  Eric Decker, Wolfline Contracting’s attorney.

  The last time I’d seen him was in that very same parking lot. His Jaguar had been parked behind my car, blocking me in.

  Involuntarily, my eyes darted to the far corner of the lot. It was where Bogdan Tolbonov’s F-150 pickup truck had been parked. It was the first time I’d laid eyes on him. His sheer size and menacing presence were frighteningly intimidating.

  That was back in October, and Eric wanted to know where the Friends of Lydia were keeping Betsy Caviness. What the Tolbonovs really wanted was the notebook.

  And now Merlin Finn, the Tolbonovs’ enemy, has it.

  The text said simply:

  Please, I need to talk with you.

  I thought about calling John before I replied but decided that at that moment, the ball was in my court. I typed:

  When and where?

  Better be someplace public.

  It took a few moments, but the return text popped up with another ping.

  The Aquarium here in Sheffield. Jellyfish exhibit. Fifteen minutes.

  I considered calling John, but my comfort level with having someone looking over my shoulder while I asked questions was low. I put the car in gear and decided that the aquarium was public enough that I would be safe meeting the attorney there.

  I took the Merritt Parkway, which at one o’clock was frustratingly crowded with traffic.

  Last-minute Christmas shoppers?

  At exactly a quarter past one, I pulled into the parking garage across the street from the aquarium. I got my ticket from the kiosk and hustled across North Water Street, got to the entrance, flashed my press credential, and flew past the young lady at the counter.

  The aquarium is in South Sheffield, which had become a trendy neighborhood of chic shops, restaurants, clubs, and bars. The aquarium was the tourist cornerstone that brought it all together. A massive brick building, once an 1860s iron works factory, now housed sea otters, seals, loggerhead turtles, sharks, fish, crabs, and other sea life. It was also the home of
the area’s only IMAX theatre. Over half a million people visited the aquarium every year.

  The week before Christmas, however, was a slow time. The place was nearly empty as I dashed past the touch tank and the massive room where sharks swam behind thick glass.

  I nearly skidded into the jellyfish exhibit. The room was dark. The only illumination came from recessed lights in the ceiling directly above the cylindrical tank that slowly changed from a neon blue to pink and back. The lights were hidden, so it appeared that the hundreds of slow-moving jellyfish in the glass cylinder were glowing. Their slow journeys were governed by gentle flows of water within the tank.

  Outside the exhibit, laughter and conversation echoed off the brick walls and glass tanks. Inside, all was quiet except for soft, tinkling, new age music that made the jellyfish’s movements a delicate, slow ballet.

  The only person in the room other than me was a tall man in his forties, glasses tilted back on the top of his balding head. He stood close to the glass, his patrician nose inches from the tank. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his black businessman’s overcoat. Eric Decker stood slightly behind the tank, so he could observe anyone who walked into the room.

  I stepped cautiously toward the tank glancing at the room’s perimeter, making certain no one was hiding in the darkness along the walls.

  He moved around the exhibit, hands still in his pockets. When I got close enough, he blinked at me and said, “Miss Chase, I can’t thank you enough for meeting with me.”

  I nervously glanced around the room again, then back at the doorway. “Is Bogdan here with you?”

  He raised his eyebrows and shook his head slightly. “That’s what I want to talk with you about. Bogdan’s missing.”

  “What?”

  Eric took the glasses from the top of his head and put them on so he could better inspect the jellyfish. “You know, there’s evidence that jellyfish evolved over 700 million years ago. They’re ninety-five percent water. They don’t have a circulation system, a respiratory system, or a central nervous system. So delicate, yet so durable.”