Fort Point
Maine Justice Series, Book 2
Susan Page Davis
Fort Point, Copyright ©2017 by Susan Page Davis
Published by Tea Tin Press
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Chapter 1
Monday, June 21
Detective Harvey Larson drove out of the airport access road and headed toward the police station. Ahead of him, a black-and-white braked sharply as a pedestrian darted into the street in front of it. Harvey hit his brakes too.
His partner, Eddie Thibodeau braced against the dashboard. “What’s going on?”
“Someone’s in a hurry.” Harvey pulled his Explorer up behind the squad car. To his relief, he saw that it hadn’t hit the runner. The man stood next to the car, talking animatedly to the officers, waving his arms and pointing wildly.
“I’ll check it out.” Eddie jumped out of the vehicle and walked up to the police car, spoke to the pedestrian, and then bent slightly to speak to the patrolmen inside. After a minute, he nodded and strode back to where Harvey waited.
“That guy says there’s a body down over the riverbank.” Eddie swung into the front seat. “Can you pull off here?”
“Sure.” Ahead, a small park edged the Fore River beside the road, before the junction with Congress Street. Harvey pulled around the squad car and drove into the small lot for the park. “Who’s in the car?”
“Hal Downey and Joe Clifford. The guy says he thinks someone drowned. He went down there and looked, but he didn’t touch him.”
Harvey had Eddie call the desk sergeant and tell him they would handle the unattended death and ask him to call the medical examiner. They got out and walked quickly to where the two uniformed officers stood on the sidewalk, talking to the civilian.
“I was going to call 911,” the man said, a little breathless, “and then I saw your car.”
Officer Joe Clifford was taking notes. Hal Downey turned to nod at Harvey.
“Detective Larson, this is Mr. Tipton.”
“You’re a detective?” Tipton asked. “I took my coffee out on the deck and I saw that guy just lying there, down on the mud flats.” He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and moccasins, and he looked wide awake now, even if he’d missed his morning coffee.
“Low tide?” Harvey asked. The river was an estuary that emptied into Casco Bay.
Tipton nodded and pointed toward the bank. “He’s right down there.”
Harvey said, “We’ll take a look.” Downey and Clifford would get the man’s full statement and keep people out of their way. They walked across the lawn. Tipton’s home on the riverbank was an older wood-frame house in a great location.
When they reached the bank, Harvey could see the body lying below him.
“Sure enough,” Eddie said, at his elbow. The man lay face down with water swirling around his feet, his wet clothes darkened, except for white sneakers. Eddie pulled out his smart phone and began clicking rapidly. “Can we wait for some guys with gear to come out here?”
“No, the tide’s turned. In another half hour, it could carry him downstream. Come on. We’re going to have to move him.” Harvey slogged out, glad the riverbed wasn’t too soft, and knelt by the body. He put a hand to the man’s throat, but there was no doubt.
Eddie came behind him. “Low tide was forty minutes ago.”
“Grab his other arm so we can get him out of the river. We’re losing evidence.”
They dragged him close to the bank and turned him over. The middle-aged face was wrinkled and the soaked, short hair plastered to his scalp.
“Get Joe to help us lift him,” Harvey said, and Eddie scrambled up the bank.
Harvey patted the man’s pockets and pulled out a waterlogged wallet. He flipped it open and studied the driver’s license, then peered closely at the man’s face. “Really?” He said softly. “Terrific.”
“Need us both down there?” Joe called from above.
“No sense all of us getting wet,” Harvey said. “Eddie, get down here.”
Eddie jumped down, and Harvey passed him the wallet. Eddie swore under his breath in French and squinted down at the corpse. “We got Maine’s most famous man?”
“Looks like it.” Harvey stood and shook his head. He loathed investigating celebrity deaths. They’d be tripping over reporters every step they took, and with internationally acclaimed author Martin Blake lying lifeless at his feet, he could bank on a long day.
He looked upstream to where Route 9 crossed the river. The place was known as Stroudwater Crossing. A lot of traffic passed over that bridge day and night. If only he’d kept going and crossed over it, and let Downey and Clifford call for someone else. But no, he’d stopped, and he was stuck with it now.
The got Blake’s body up on the bank, and he told Clifford to keep bystanders away. He didn’t want the dead man’s identity leaking out while they were still working here, or they’d have a circus on their hands.
While they waited for the M.E., Harvey had Eddie block the view from the street as well as he could while he knelt beside the soaked body. His initial examination revealed a wound high in Blake’s abdomen. It looked like a knife wound; the medical examiner would tell them for sure later.
“Not a straightforward drowning,” he murmured to Eddie.
He wasn’t an expert, but he guessed Blake had been in the water a few hours. The body was fully clothed in a brown tweed sport coat, striped shirt, dark brown pants, and white sneakers. Very ordinary clothes for such a rich guy. He emptied the man’s pockets and dropped each item into a bag Eddie held: a key ring with a dozen keys, a waterlogged pocket notebook, three pens, a dollar twenty-two in change, a pocketknife, and a soaked business card.
He opened the soggy wallet again. Besides Blake’s driver’s license, it held three credit cards, a medical insurance card, four library cards, eighty-seven dollars in bills, three photos, and a year-old-fishing license.
“Not a robbery,” Eddie said.
Harvey studied the driver’s license, effortlessly memorizing the address and vital statistics. Blake was 53, and his house was half a mile away. Harvey glanced toward the street. A couple of cars had stopped, and several people now watched from the lawn of the nearest house. Clifford and Downey were doing their best to move people along.
Harvey called for a mobile crime unit.
The medical examiner arrived within minutes. Harvey sent Eddie to have a word with the homeowner, to make sure the patrolmen hadn’t missed anything, while he talked to the M.E. After making his preliminary exam, the doctor prepared the body to be taken to the morgue for an autopsy. Harvey took Blake’s watch and wedding ring. The clothes would be sent over to the police station later. No cell phone. Had he left it home, or was it in the river?
He checked the time. Almost nine-thirty. His fiancée, Jennifer, would be immersed in her work. How would she would like him getting handed such a high-profile case a month before their wedding? Of course, she had no idea yet what that would entail. She would get the Cop’s Wife Crash Course.
Eddie came back. “Nothing new.”
“Okay.” Harvey looked up and down the river. The body had lodged in a grassy little cove on the west side of the Fore, just below the park. “That bridge is the most likely point of entry.”
They walked along the riverbank toward it. On the downstream side of the bridge, riprap tumbled into the water on
both sides of the channel. They waited for a lull in traffic on Congress Street and crossed to the other side, where a brick sidewalk melded into concrete over the bridge. That side had a higher railing. Harvey pulled out a tape measure. Forty inches. He walked along the sidewalk, looking closely at the railing. He stopped about two thirds of the way across.
“Eddie, this could be dried blood.”
Eddie hurried to him and looked at the brown smear on the painted steel railing. “Yeah, it could.”
“Flag it for the techs.” Harvey took some pictures of it and the bridge on his phone.
There wasn’t much more they could do at the scene, so when the mobile unit arrived at ten, he instructed them to take a good look at the bridge and the park, as well as the cove. The two detectives headed for Martin Blake’s house, to see if his widow was home.
The huge old mansion was surrounded by a high, wrought iron fence, and the gate was locked. Harvey spotted a switch on one side. He got out of Eddie’s truck and pushed the switch. Nothing happened that he could see, but he waited. Thirty seconds later, a young woman came out of the house and walked down the driveway toward them.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Detective Larson, Portland P.D.” Harvey held up his badge. “We’re here to see Mrs. Blake.”
She hesitated. “What is it about?”
“Are you a relative?”
“No, I’m Mr. Blake’s assistant.”
“I’ll need to talk to Mrs. Blake.”
She frowned. “I’ll take her a message.” Harvey got back in the truck.
They sat there a good ten minutes, and Eddie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Finally the woman came back down the driveway and opened the gate.
“You can drive up to the house.”
Eddie eased the truck through the gate and up the driveway. It was quite a house, a huge white Queen Anne with three different styles of shingle siding, brackets under the eaves, and a turret on one corner. They didn’t build houses that way anymore. Harvey wished Jennifer could see it. She liked antiques.
The assistant opened the front door for them. They stepped from the porch into a large entrance hall, with stairs rising to a landing above.
“I’m Barbara Heflin,” the young woman said. “You can wait in here.” She ushered them into a side room and left them.
Harvey looked around. The room looked comfortable in an upscale way—two sofas, armchairs, antique tables, a fireplace, oriental rugs on an oak floor. A huge landscape on one wall, and an abstract over the fireplace. He squinted at that one and decided it was genuine, and expensive. In the bookcase were copies of guess whose books, in regular, large print, and foreign editions.
Eddie was looking out a French window, and Harvey stepped over beside him to see what was so interesting. He gazed at a fenced-in swimming pool that could be reached via a wide deck outside the French window.
“Why do you suppose Martin Blake kept working as a reporter, when he was raking in millions from his books?” Eddie asked.
Blake had started as a reporter for the Portland Press Herald, then went on to become one of Maine’s most celebrated novelists. He wrote fat, passionate family sagas, churning out at least one a year, but continued to hold his job at the paper.
“I dunno,” Harvey said. “Maybe he used his job as fodder for his books.” He read a lot of books, but not Martin Blake’s.
“Gentlemen, how may I help you?”
They turned and faced Thelma Blake. Harvey had never seen her before, but had noticed her picture in the paper a few times. She was said to be eccentric, and he believed it. Her platinum blonde curls looked so precise, he decided she wore a wig. Her eyebrows and lashes were very dark, and her eyes were brown. She wore green eye shadow, bright red lipstick, and matching nail polish. Her toenails were red, too, peeking out of her sandals, and she wore a purple blouse and white pedal pushers.
Harvey introduced Eddie and himself. “Would you please sit down, ma’am? We have something to tell you.”
She looked mildly concerned, but not upset. She sat in one of the armchairs, and he sat on a sofa corner-wise to her. Eddie stayed by the window.
“Mrs. Blake,” Harvey began, “I have some bad news for you. Your husband has met with an accident.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Martin? What’s happened? Is he hurt?”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, you see, he’s dead.” Harvey usually gave a smoother presentation than that. The toenail polish and the wig distracted him.
For a moment she sat still, seeming ready to laugh if he said, Just kidding. Then she said, “Oh, dear,” as though perturbed with her inconsiderate husband.
Harvey said, “I’m very sorry.”
“I can’t believe it. He was fine last night.”
“It’s true, ma’am. I’ve just seen him. His body.”
She let out a little sob and tears streamed down her cheeks. She pulled in a shaky breath. “What happened?”
“We’re not exactly sure. His body was found in the Fore River. Did you see him this morning?”
“No, I thought he must have gone out early.”
“What about last night?”
“We went to his class reunion yesterday. We got home about nine o’clock and had a couple of drinks. I went to bed, but Martin said he was going to write for a while.”
“Where does he do his writing, ma’am?”
“In his study, upstairs.”
“Is that the last time you saw him?”
“Yes, I guess it is. I slept soundly, and I didn’t hear him come into the bedroom, but sometimes he stays up all night or falls asleep in his study. And sometimes he goes out and walks at night to think about his plots.”
“I wonder if we could see his study, ma’am?”
“Of course. Do whatever you need.”
She stood up and wobbled a little. Harvey put out his hand to steady her, but she crumpled up on him.
“Eddie, get that assistant girl.” Harvey laid her on the couch.
Eddie stepped quickly into the hall, calling, “Miss Heflin?”
They stayed until they could see Mrs. Blake was coming to, then left her in Miss Heflin’s care and went upstairs.
The study was in the tower room. The three windows overlooked the front yard, and the low windowsills were a foot deep and cushioned, so people could sit on them. Against one wall was a huge, oak roll-top desk, and a modern computer desk faced the door. Between them was an oak swivel chair with red cushions.
“Pretty cool setup,” said Eddie.
The computer was the newest thing, the kind Harvey would love to have. While Eddie checked out the four oak file cabinets, Harvey scanned the overflowing bookshelves. They ranged from Writer’s Market and standard references to genealogy and medical books. There were several volumes on China, and another clump on Mexico.
Since Mrs. Blake had given her permission, he sat down in the chair and turned on the computer. He went quickly to the word processing program and viewed the titles of the last few documents opened: “Border Feud,” “Cover letter,” “Shanghai Sequel,” and “McDougal Family.”
He opened the first one, “Border Feud,” which would be the one Blake had accessed most recently. It appeared to be a rough draft of a new novel.
“Finding anything?” he asked Eddie.
“Well, this first cabinet seems to be drafts of his fiction, research material and correspondence.”
“What kind of correspondence?”
“Uh, book proposals, synopses, contract negotiations.”
“Check the other files.” Harvey did a rapid search of the text files on the computer. He’d probably better ask for a warrant if he wanted to take the machine away, but he felt Mrs. Blake’s statement gave him the green light to look through the documents. If he wanted to peruse the emails and instant messages, he’d probably need some time with the computer.
“Everything here seems to relate to his books and the business end of writing,�
�� Eddie said, closing the bottom drawer of the third file cabinet.
“Nothing to do with his newspaper job?”
“Not yet.”
Harvey went through both desks. The computer desk held mostly office supplies. The roll-top held some personal items, bills, and notices. No phone.
“I’ve got paid bills, filed by the month,” Eddie said, bending over the last cabinet. “Warrantees for appliances, deed to the house.” He opened the bottom drawer. “Newspaper clippings.”
Harvey looked. The drawer was full of news articles, filed alphabetically by subject. Aston Exposé, City Council, Clukey Murder…
He remembered reading Blake’s front page stories on the Clukey murder. Someone else would be writing this one.
“Okay, we’d better seal this room,” he said. “We may not need any of this stuff, but if we do, I don’t want to come back and find out the widow’s been cleaning house.”
They went downstairs and found Barbara Heflin in the foyer.
“Where can I find Mrs. Blake?” Harvey asked.
“I took her to her room to lie down.”
“I’ll need to see her for just a moment,” Harvey said.
Ms. Heflin took them upstairs and along a hallway. She knocked softly on a closed door then opened it.
Mrs. Blake lay on a queen-sized maple spool bed, with a pile of pillows under her head and shoulders.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Harvey said, “but we’ll have to seal your husband’s study until we finish our investigation. May I have the keys?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Until we know what happened to him, we need to make sure all his records and papers are undisturbed.”
Ms. Heflin brought the keys, and Harvey sent Eddie to the truck for yellow tape, then upstairs to do the job while he talked to Mrs. Blake.
“We haven’t found Mr. Blake’s phone,” he said.
“He would have taken it with him.” She sat up straighter and looked across the bed at the other nightstand. “I don’t see it here.”
In the river, Harvey thought. She gave him the number, so they could ping it from the police station.
Fort Point (Maine Justice Book 2) Page 1
