I asked him to hold off on the story and corrected his Daily News-style screamer. No one died, it was a crabcake not a crab, and Alana would hate the term “cutie.”
“Right,” David said. “So I should change it to…‘Mildly debilitating crabcake for feminist.’ That really swings.”
“Don’t run the story at all. It’s a nonevent.”
“Like the gas station holdup?”
“Exactly.”
He sighed. We both knew I’d always come through for him when it really mattered.
Bartlett’s was open until six in this final run-up to Christmas. I drove the winding route out along Hummock Pond Road toying with various approaches and strategies, but in the end I didn’t need any elaborate plan. Devon Flynn was working in the greenhouse, and he was wearing a TimeDraggers t-shirt.
TimeDraggers—that was Max Blum’s embryonic video game. Of course. And how typical that he had his brand registered and his logo designed before the work was done.
Max had to be in the center of this, writing code for his own real-life multi-player video game. What could be more fun than virtual reality? Actual reality—as long as Max was in control.
I found Devon setting out pots of paperwhites. He knew instantly why I was there. He extended his wrists for handcuffs.
I said, “I might just be here to pick up some flowers.”
“Nope. Uh-huh. The way I see it, you’re not the last-minute type. Too methodical. If you were into paperwhites, you’d have planted the bulbs at Thanksgiving. Actually…I’ve kind of been waiting for someone to show up. I didn’t expect the chief of police. And out of uniform. But it makes sense—low profile. Everything hush-hush for the touristas.”
“Something like that.”
“So they found the methomyl and that led you here.”
“And I recognized your t-shirt. From Max’s video game. This would be a good moment to stop time.”
“Or just slow it down, so I could get away without setting up any mental dissonance in your brain. Like the Fourth Circle masters do.”
“Max really thought about this crazy idea.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s awesome.”
I hated that word. “Are you talking Fukashima tsunami awesome, or Adele’s new single awesome?”
“Somewhere in between, Chief.”
He set the pot of flowers on the long trestle table, and rubbed his palms over his jeans. “Okay, so you know Max told me to do it. But he didn’t tell me why and I didn’t ask.”
“You just do whatever he says.”
“More or less.”
This was the heart of the matter. “I don’t get it. Why?”
Devon shrugged. “He’s Max.”
“Well, Max just got you fired.”
He shot me a sly little grin, a full-face shrug. “I thanked him in advance for that.”
“You may have to testify against him in open court, in front of your friends and family. Have you thanked him for that, too?”
“No need to. It’s not gonna happen.”
“We’ll see.”
There was no further point to this conversation. Devon wasn’t going anywhere. Despite his bluster, he’d testify as required. Like Ingrid Cole, he was an arrow in my quiver if I decided to mount the hunt in earnest. With only one day left until the drawing, I had to make my move soon, if I made it all. I knew Ingrid and Devon might try to warn Max, but my reading of the kid was that he was too cocky to worry about it. Jane had summed him up perfectly when she said, “He’s smarter than himself.” And he might have outsmarted himself permanently.
It was time to confront my quarry.
Chapter Twenty-three
Odd and Queer but Not Peculiar
I stopped by the hospital on my way into town. I wanted to check in on Alana Trikilis. She was recuperating in a big sunny room on the second floor. When I walked in her parents were sitting in chairs pulled up to the bed. Alana looked pale and gaunt. I suspected she had lost some weight during her ordeal. But she smiled at me.
“Hi, Chief.”
“Hey.”
Sam Trikilis stood up, shook my hand. “Good to see you.”
His wife, Jen, twisted around in her chair. “Thanks for coming.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’ll be okay.” He walked me a few steps away from the bed. “I’m hearing this was no accident.”
“We’re looking into it, Sam.”
“If someone did this to my little girl—”
“Then I’ll catch them and they’ll be punished.”
“And I’ll pick up their trash, same as ever.”
“First of all, you don’t have a monopoly on garbage. And you’ve been helpful before, picking up the trash.” The previous summer he had found a significant clue in a customer’s garbage. Sam was an inveterate snoop, but on the side of the angels.
He shrugged and changed the subject. “I quit as Town Crier.”
“Sam! You shouldn’t let—”
“I just don’t have the heart for it. With Alana in here.”
“They’re going to give the job to Dan Taylor. He’s been trying to land that gig for years,” I reminded him.
“He’ll be fine.”
“He might not want to give it up, if you want to come back next year.”
“I might not even be here next year.”
“Things will work out.”
“Really? My dad always used to say, ‘You can’t win them all—but you can lose them all.’”
“Well, I’m going to pray for you.”
“Says the man who never goes to church.”
I pointed an admonishing finger at him. “There are no atheists in the residential foreclosure process.”
I walked back to the bed, patted Jen’s shoulder, gave Alana a cool limp-hand squeeze and fled. There was nothing I could do to help them and we all knew it.
***
Ten minutes later I was walking into Max Blum’s room in the big house on Pleasant Street.
Max was working at his computer, talking to Dave Prescott in a Skype box open in one corner of the screen. “Here’s another one, Dave. John Lennon and George Harrison—but not Paul McCartney.”
Prescott’s voice was faint and tinny. “Uh—John and George wrote in minor keys and Paul didn’t?”
“Annnggghhh,” Max made a game show “wrong answer” noise. “Here’s a hint. Put this one together—look for the connections! Ferrari and Cadillac but not Toyota.”
“Luxury cars! John and George are classy, like Ferrari and Cadillac.”
“No, no, no—you’re missing the point. Here’s another one. Guinness Stout, Beefeater Gin, but not Absolut Vodka.”
In the tense cogitating silence, Max went back to working on the computer, jabbing the keys. He hit them hard with two fingers and they made a low thumping sound in the quiet room, like rain on the roof.
Finally Prescott said, “I’ve got nothing, give me a few more.”
“This is so simple. Fine. Let me think. Daal and vindaloo but not masala.”
“Are those Indian foods?”
“Yes, Dave, but that’s not the point. The Eiffel Tower, The Colosseum, but not Big Ben.”
“Fuck it. I give up.”
“Good. I have to go anyway. The cops are here.”
“The police?”
“The coppers, the fuzz, but not the constabulary. Get it now?”
“What are the police doing there?”
“Bye, Dave.” Skype made its electronic bubbling disconnect noise and Max swiveled in his chair to face me. “Sorry, Chief, didn’t mean to be rude. That’s a little game I play with Dave called ‘Odd and Queer but not Peculiar.’ All he has to do is figure out the common identifier that connects the first two words but not the third. We’
ve been playing for weeks, but he still doesn’t get it. He hates the game but it’s fun for me. He’s still trying to figure out how Hillary Clinton, Maggie Thatcher, but not Carly Fiorina connect to E.E. Cummings and Edna St. Vincent Millay, but not T.S. Eliot.”
“And all of them with three brands of vodka, Indian cuisine—and the Beatles.”
“Exactly.”
“He’s not very bright, is he?”
Max lifted his shoulders with an amused fatalism. “Turns out even playing football with a helmet can scramble your brains.”
“Sad. Because the answer is obvious.”
“Really? This is my new favorite game—‘Match Wits With Inspector Kennis.’”
“Too bad it has to be such a short one.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Max. The answer is obvious. You have the poor idiot going on one wild goose chase after another. It has nothing to do with the subjects, does it? It’s the words themselves. The first two have double letters. The last one doesn’t—like…assault and battery, but not fraud.”
“What an appropriate example.”
“I thought so.”
“You must know this game.”
“Never heard of it. I’ve heard of all kinds of fraud, though.”
“Like cheating on the Red Tickets Drawing.”
“Right.”
He blew out a weary breath. “You have to let this go and concentrate on real police work, Chief. Due respect. Someone dug up a skeleton with a bullet hole in its head! Plus, we have drunk drivers terrorizing the island. And a terrible drug problem.”
“Thanks to your friend, Gary Pressman.”
“He’s not my friend. And he’s the least of the problem, as you well know. He’s one branch on the trunk of the tree. It’s the roots you have to dig up.”
“We’re working on it.”
“Good, because this raffle tickets hobby of yours is getting out of hand. Let me lay it out for you. You have some goon at Bartlett’s—”
“Devon Flynn.”
“Whoever—and he says I asked him to steal some sort of industrial pesticide—”
“Methomyl.”
“Whatever. Then you have some worker bee at a local restaurant—”
“Ingrid Cole, at Ahab’s”
“Fine. She supposedly put the stuff into some tainted food—”
“Crabcakes.”
“Crabcakes, right. She implicates Lizza Coddington, this Devon person implicates me…but it’s all hysterical hearsay and none of them have any idea of what’s really going on…assuming anything actually is! I could have wanted that insecticide for my aunt’s garden, assuming it really was me that wanted it in the first place. Lizza might have a grudge against any of the five people who got sick—if it really was Lizza, if this Ingrid Cole doesn’t have her own grudge against Lizza. Or maybe she’s just using Lizza to cover her own tracks. It all sounds very suspicious to me.”
I was listening for holes in his argument, and there were plenty to choose from. “How do you know it was five people? How do you even know there was a poisoning incident? There’s been nothing in the news or online about it.”
“I know people, Chief. It’s all anyone is talking about at the hospital. The point is, it’s all a bunch of disconnected he-said-she-said chatter. The only thing lashing it all together is your wing-nut fantasy—no offense—about the Red Tickets Drawing. I don’t see a case there.”
I shook my head. “Well, it’s hard to see yourself. Unless you look in a mirror, and even then the image is reversed.”
He grinned. “That’s deep. I like that. So, let’s say it’s all true. I’m the mastermind of a diabolical plan to rig this stupid raffle. What’s the big deal? Someone’s going to win, and everybody who loses fully expects to. You have to be there in person, right? And every year, without fail, someone with a winning ticket happens to be off-island or home sick or something, and they call out the numbers and wait…and wait—and then they move on. That person lost their chance. Tough luck. But here’s the thing—if you skip the drawing, you think—Oh no! What if that was me? What if I had the winner? And I blew it! On the other hand, if you show up on the day, and you’re standing there with your ticket or your list of ticket numbers in your hand with everybody else, you know that unclaimed winning ticket wasn’t yours. It doesn’t haunt you. That’s why people show up. Not to win. To be sure they lost.”
“But you’re making sure everyone loses. That’s the difference.”
“If I’m actually doing this.”
“If you are.”
“Look, Chief—no one gets hurt. That’s the point. Everyone has fun. It’s a victimless crime. I don’t see why you care.”
“It’s the principle of the thing, Max. I don’t like cheating. And I really don’t like cheaters. Neither do you. What if people find a way to cheat at your video game?”
“They won’t.”
“It’s impossible?”
“Pretty much.”
I thought of Jane’s comment. “You’re too smart for them.”
“Something like that.”
I cocked a finger at him. “Well, I’m too smart for you.”
“We’ll see.”
I let him have the last word. I wanted him to remember it.
Chapter Twenty-four
Honor Among Thieves
Dave Prescott’s family had just finished dinner when I appeared at their front door. I was getting hungry for my own dinner. Miranda had the kids for the night, which meant a frozen flatbread pizza and a salad for Jane, Sam, and me. A humble repast, but I wanted it badly.
I told myself this would just take a few minutes.
Jim Prescott came to the door, still wearing the rumpled gray suit from his office hours at the town building, where he served as chief clerk.
Jim was no fan of mine, but the situation between us was delicate. True, I had revealed his son Dave’s cheating, but I had also helped cushion the blow, and anyway the sneaky underachieving side of their son was something they should have noticed long before I showed up. That was the real chastisement of my presence. But Jim owed me one for looking the other way about his group’s drug-purchasing-for-disposal scheme. He had made good points in Pressman’s living room, that day on Tuckernuck, and I think he respected me for acknowledging them.
That was a separate issue. I still had to talk to his son.
Dave emerged from the house a few minutes later, zipping up a down parka. “What’s going on, Chief?”
“Take a walk with me.” I stepped off the deck and started down the driveway toward the road. He hurried to catch up. When we had struck a good stride I said, “I need your help.”
“I’m not sure what you—”
“Come clean about what’s going on.”
“Hey—”
“I helped out with Superintendent Bissell. I made sure he knocked your suspension down to community service. I’m on your side.”
“Okay. So?”
“So tell me about the raffle. For instance—who switched out the winning ticket? Where do they work? What are the exact logistics? How is Max going to pull it off?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously, dude.”
“Dude?”
“Chief Kennis. Sorry. But I can’t help you. I got nothing.”
We walked along. A line of cars forced us to stand on the shoulder. “I’m puzzled, Dave. I understand why you got involved originally. You wanted the money to buy Pressman’s stash. But that stash is history now. You have no reason to put yourself at risk anymore. Is it just loyalty?”
“What do you mean, at risk?”
“Come on. You know how it works. If you don’t help us, and we bust the others, and they implicate you…which they will, if only to get a break in the sentencing phase…
then you’re as guilty as they are. This isn’t cheating on some poetry test, kid. This is felony conspiracy and fraud and possibly money laundering, which is a mandatory five-year term.”
“Money laundering?”
“Lottery winnings are the perfect cover for a drug dealer. It’s cash you don’t have to account for. It buys the product and hides the profits. You’re covered at both ends. It’s kind of brilliant, until you get caught.”
He started walking again. I fell into step beside him, caught in the glare of a car’s headlights. When darkness closed over us again, he seemed to have organized his thoughts. “I can’t be caught. I haven’t done anything. No one’s done anything.”
“Not yet.”
“Right! So what does it—?”
“You helped plan this, Dave. That’s what the others will say. Backing out doesn’t get you off the hook. Only one thing gets you off the hook—helping me catch them. Otherwise, you’re looking at obstruction of justice charges on top of everything else. Not a great way to start your senior year next fall. That’s supposed to be the best year of your life. Don’t wreck it.”
“So—what—I’m supposed to testify against my friends?”
“It probably won’t come to that. But, yeah—maybe. You have to be willing, at least.”
“Forget it.”
I decided to play my ace—I just hoped it wasn’t a joker. You never knew anything for sure in the topsy-turvy Grand Guignol world of Nantucket gossip. “You’re very forgiving,” I offered.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s admirable. Not wanting to betray your friends. Too bad they don’t feel the same way.”
“This is bullshit. No one’s betraying anyone.”
“So Max and Lizza aren’t back together? That was what I heard.”
“No way.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I know Lizza. She would never—it’s like…been there, done that. Nice try, though, Chief.” He stopped walking and we faced each other at the edge of the road. “Look, whoever palmed the ticket can’t use it. Max got the original, he bought something at some store, and whoever was working behind the counter that day gave the duplicate to Lizza, so she can draw it out of the truckbed on Christmas Eve. Who’s got the winning ticket? Who did Max give it to? That’s the key. That’s the real question, and no one knows the answer but him. The problem is…he’s hiding out somewhere right now, and no one can find him. Yeah, he called me after you left his house. You freaked him out pretty good. He said, ‘I’m going under until the drawing. If you need me my location’s on the books. Whatever that means.”
Nantucket Red Tickets Page 27
