Fort Point (Maine Justice Book 2)

by Davis, Susan Page

  “Be my guest.”

  In the SUV on the way to Mr. Bailey’s, he smiled gently at her. “Forget about that burglary stuff, gorgeous. You don’t need to keep thinking about murders and mayhem.”

  She shook her head with a smile. “How did you know?”

  “You had worry lines.”

  “Well, what worries you worries me.”

  He laughed. “I’m not worried about the case. At least, not when I remember who’s really in charge.”

  She watched him carefully as he drove. “You mean …”

  “I mean God. Old habits die hard, I guess. I’ve been stewing about it some, I’ll admit. But God knows who killed Martin Blake. If he wants the truth known, we’ll find it.”

  She reached over and touched his sleeve. “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.” He clasped her hand, and she settled back, contented. “A guy from Coastal called me, one of the programmers. Remember John Macomber?”

  “Sure.”

  “He’s nice, has a family and is a normal person.”

  Harvey smiled.

  “Well, you know,” Jennifer said. “Not like the bosses at Coastal. He offered to buy my software rights.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. John was with Coastal quite a while, and he wrote a lot of programs. He’s interested in starting his own company. The court will let him market the programs he has partial rights to. He offered me a job, too.” She watched for a reaction, but Harvey’s face remained neutral. She went on, “A partnership, actually. I’d keep my rights and work with him to start the new company.” She swallowed hard.

  He parked in Bailey’s driveway, then turned to face her. She knew he wanted a domestic wife, not a career woman who went off to work with her portfolio every morning, and he didn’t want to come home to an empty house at night.

  “I was hoping you’d enjoy just being Mrs. Harvey Larson,” he said plaintively.

  She squeezed his hand. “That sounds great, but buying the house might be more of a financial strain than you think. There are always expenses you didn’t plan on. I wondered if I ought to keep working for a while.”

  “I don’t think you need to.”

  She had hoped he would say that, and she smiled. “So, I should just sell him my rights?”

  “How much?”

  “Twelve thousand.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Take it. But let me see the contract first. I’ll show it to Pete Bearse and make sure everything’s square.”

  They sat in the sunroom with Mr. Bailey and talked for a long time. They settled the timing of the payments, and Harvey said he could have the papers drawn up.

  “If I should die before the contract is completed,” Mr. Bailey began.

  Harvey said, “I would just pay your daughter, sir.”

  Bailey nodded. “All right.” He named a few pieces of furniture he would like to take to his daughter’s house. “The rest I’ll get rid of. I had the dining room set appraised. You folks don’t want it, do you?”

  Jennifer winced involuntarily, and Harvey fought back a smile. “No, sir, I don’t think so.”

  “Then I’ll call the dealer tomorrow. I’ll sell my wife’s piano, too, I guess. My daughter wants the living room set, and the bed from the master bedroom, and her mother’s china. I’ll take my desk and my recliner. That’s about it. Can I just leave the rest and not charge you anything extra?”

  Jennifer stared at Harvey.

  He said, “Sir, you have some fine pieces. You should get what you can for them.”

  “It’s too stressful to haggle and pack things. I’ll have them come for the dining room set and the piano. My son-in-law is getting a truck for the things going to their house. But the rest … it would be so much easier to not have to deal with it.”

  “You may wish later you’d kept some things,” Harvey said.

  “Well, I’ll have my daughter go through everything with me, but your paying cash will save me a lot of bother. Bring the papers by any day this week, and we’ll settle it.”

  Harvey looked at Jennifer. She shrugged as subtly as she could, and he gave her a reassuring smile.

  “When would you want occupancy?” Bailey asked.

  “Our wedding is July 17th, and we’ll be out of the country for a week. Is the 25th all right?” Harvey asked.

  “Yes, that’s plenty of time for Lucy to go through it all with me. We’ll take away my personal things. They’ve arranged for me to have two rooms at their house. Their children are grown and gone. With my desk and my books and recliner, my sitting room will be pretty cozy.” He waved toward an Early American portrait of a child. Jennifer had noticed it on their first visit, but hadn’t gotten a close look. Could it possibly be real? “I’ll take that painting, too, and the floor lamp.”

  “Just make sure you have everything you want,” Harvey said.

  “I’ll be happy, knowing you’re living here. I have great respect for you, Mr. Larson.”

  “Thank you.” Harvey extended his hand, and Mr. Bailey shook it.

  This is our home, Jennifer allowed herself to think. Thank you, Lord!

  *****

  Harvey took Jennifer to dinner and then home. He didn’t linger, but went back to his apartment and opened Morristown. It had over four hundred pages, and he wondered if it would hold his attention that long.

  Jennifer was right. It was good. The seacoast town seethed with tension. Eighty pages into it, he came to the chapter about the home invasion burglary.

  Three high school seniors, Binky, Danny, and Jason, were looking for trouble. Problem was, none of them had a car. They talked an introverted, unpopular kid into taking them for a ride in the heap his father had given him for his birthday. They cruised around for a while, assuring the poor kid, Larry, that he was now their best friend. They bought him a burger, then they had Larry drive them to an exclusive neighborhood. They picked an upscale house where all the lights were out and there was no car in the driveway. Larry got nervous, because their talk told him they were up to no good.

  They teased him a little, then pressured him to go with them. He refused. They needed the car, so the ringleader, Binky, at last told Larry he could stay in the car and they would be back in a little while. Larry parked down the street, under strict orders not to leave without them. He waited.

  After fifteen minutes, he saw a car pull into the driveway of the house where the boys had gone. He was afraid, but he stayed. Another five minutes, and the three came running silently across the lawns.

  “Drive!” Binky said when they got in the car, and Larry drove.

  The next day it was all over the school. A man had been killed by burglars who ransacked his house and stole eighty-four dollars and a .22 caliber pistol.

  Larry was sick. He had a hard time believing it, but after school the other boys were waiting by his car, and he knew it was true.

  “You can’t ever, ever say a word,” Binky said earnestly. “We didn’t kill him. At least, we didn’t think we did. We roughed him up a little and tied him up.”

  “You put tape over his mouth,” Danny said.

  “So, he should have been able to breathe through his nose,” Binky replied.

  Another student walked past, and they all shut up.

  When the coast was clear, Jason said they hadn’t left any fingerprints. They’d been smart. If Larry didn’t blab, everything was cool. Binky leaned close to Larry’s face. If he did blab, he’d be charged as an accessory. Larry had never been so scared.

  He thought about telling his father, but didn’t dare. His father, one of the book’s main characters, was difficult to please, and Larry feared he would be abandoned if he admitted having a part in the episode. The police got to work and slowly began finding clues.

  Harvey put the book down at midnight, halfway through, and went to bed, but he kept thinking about it and wondering who the boys were.

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday, June 29

  Eddie came to pick up Harvey
up in the morning, and he was still tired. He took the book with him and told Eddie about it in the truck, then read more while they drove to the station.

  The plots and subplots were intertwined, and he tried to skip parts that didn’t have to do with the burglary. The fictional police eventually brought charges against Binky, and he withstood questioning without ever ratting out on his friends. Binky went to jail, and the other three boys lived in fear. By unspoken consent, they never mentioned the incident.

  Eddie pulled into the parking garage, and Harvey took the book with him in case he had time to read after the press conference. Jennifer was getting out of her car one row over. Harvey opened his arms, and she ran to him.

  “I’d better get out of here,” said Eddie.

  “You don’t have to.”

  Eddie just shook his head and steered for the door. Harvey walked with Jennifer down to Records, soaking up her innocence and joy. He was happy because she was happy that he was there. She wasn’t thinking about corpses and burglaries and dirty politicians. For three minutes, he had a carefree life.

  Upstairs, he turned his computer on and went right to his market accounts.

  “What are you doing?” asked Eddie.

  “Liquidating stock. I’m going to make the first payment on a house.”

  “You didn’t tell me!”

  “Didn’t know until last night.”

  “Where is it?”

  Harvey told him. “Not too far away, Ed. And if Jeff gets this job with Portland Fire, he’s going to take my lease on the apartment.”

  “Great. I like Jeff.”

  Harvey needed extra money for the rehearsal dinner and other wedding-related expenses, plus running money for the honeymoon, so he gave the order to sell $52,000 worth of stock. Eddie whistled, and Harvey realized he was still looking over his shoulder.

  “You’re loaded! Did you have a rich uncle that left you a bundle?”

  “No, I just quit spending money and socked it away instead.”

  “Well, I took your advice a couple years ago,” Eddie said. “I’ve got about eight grand in the mutual fund now.”

  “That’s good, Ed. Keep it up. Someday you’ll want to get married, and you’ll be glad you did it.” Harvey finished the transaction and looked up at Eddie. “Would you please call Patricia Lundquist? Ask her if she’s still got her high school yearbook.”

  By then he was sure Binky was David Murphy. He was the brightest member of the class, the most likely to succeed. But in the book, he was convicted of the crime and imprisoned for life. Murphy hadn’t done any jail time, or he would never have made it to Congress.

  At nine o’clock, the four Priority Unit detectives went downstairs for the press conference, leaving Paula to tend the phone. Arnie took Mike’s usual post by the door, and Eddie stood to Harvey’s right. Pete took a spot against the outside wall of the parking garage, next to a few uniformed officers who had come out to listen.

  Terry introduced Harvey, and he started out with, “Thank you for coming. The department has a little information to make public in the Blake murder case. Last week, our investigators found some human blood on the railing of the bridge over the Fore River at Stroudwater. The state lab in Augusta is checking it, to determine whether the blood was that of Martin Blake. We would like people to come forward to help us with the investigation. First, we would like anyone who drove over the bridge on the evening of Sunday, June 20, between 10:30 and 11:30 p.m. to please contact the Priority Unit at the Portland police station.” He gave the number that rang in on Paula’s desk.

  “My second request is for anyone who visited Fort Point State Park, near Stockton Springs, on June twentieth to please contact us.” Again he gave the number. “All right, I’ll take a few questions.” He called on Ryan Toothaker first.

  “Did you get any information off the knife that was found in the river?”

  “Nothing new on that,” Harvey said. He called on another reporter.

  “Was Martin Blake stabbed on the bridge on Route 9?”

  “We’ll know more when the state lab completes the DNA test, but it’s a possibility that his body entered the water there, from the bridge.”

  “Could he have been stabbed someplace else and the body carried there for disposal?”

  “Remotely possible, but unlikely. He was seen walking in the area that night. The most logical scenario is that he was stabbed on the bridge during a lull in traffic and dumped over the railing. According to the autopsy, Blake was still alive when he hit the water, and the medical examiner has concluded that the stabbing took place a very short time before that.”

  From a TV reporter came the question, “Detective, what do you hope to gain by interviewing tourists who visited Fort Point the day of Blake’s class reunion?”

  “We have other lines of inquiry we hope to follow.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the second death that occurred that day, the drowning of Luke Frederick? Are you also investigating the Frederick case?”

  “The state police are handling that. Anything we find, we’ll share with them.”

  “Then why are you asking for information about Fort Point, instead of the state police?”

  Harvey tried to stay calm, but that guy was pushing his buttons. “Both the Portland P.D. and the state police would like an explanation for some things that happened that day. We’ve agreed that one press conference is easier on you journalists than two. People who think they have information pertinent to the Frederick case may prefer to call the state police. That’s okay.”

  A young woman with thick glasses and a tailored navy pants suit called, “Could you elaborate on the things you want explained?”

  Harvey was getting into deep water, and he knew it. He looked over at Arnie, but he was no help. He just stood by the door, frowning. Harvey said, “The class reunion was attended by both Blake and Frederick that day. They saw each other, spoke to each other. We’d just like to be sure we cover all the bases.”

  *****

  Harvey and Eddie walked the few blocks to the bakery in the warm sunshine. Pete and Arnie would handle any calls that came in while they were gone.

  “Harvey, good to see you,” Patricia said. A man was behind the counter, waiting on a customer. Patricia took them through to her office, and Harvey introduced Eddie.

  “That was my husband, Michael, out front.” She picked up a green high school yearbook and handed it to Harvey. “I think you wanted to see this?”

  “Thank you. I read most of Blake’s book, Morristown, last night and this morning. Stayed up later than I should have. But Jennifer said you told her the burglary incident described in the book actually happened thirty-five years ago.”

  “Yes, it did. You could probably get clippings from the Press Herald. It was pretty traumatic for our class.”

  “Could you tell me about it as it actually happened, and separate the fact from the fiction for me?”

  “Well, it happened in the spring, early April, I think. It was a real sensation. Everyone talked about it for years. The man apparently returned home while the burglars were in his house, and they killed him. Martin wrote the details very much the way it really happened—the things that were done to the house, the amount of money that was taken.”

  “And the police accused a classmate of yours?”

  “Yes, Philip Whitney was accused and stood trial for it.”

  “Philip Whitney? Who’s Philip Whitney? I was sure David Murphy was Binky.”

  “Oh, no. It was Philip. He denied it and would never name the others, but the police knew there was more than one person involved. But they couldn’t find any fingerprints, and the evidence against Phil Whitney was circumstantial. He stonewalled it all the way, and the jury let him walk.”

  “Was he guilty?”

  She laughed. “You’re asking me? I was a kid. Barely eighteen years old.”

  “But the kids at school knew, didn’t they?”

  “Not for sure.
There were all kinds of stories going around.”

  “So, who else was involved?”

  “We never really knew. Some people thought David Murphy was involved, but if anyone brought it up he would deny it flatly and walk away. After a while I decided maybe he didn’t do it. He was never charged. The police never charged anyone but Philip.”

  “But they did question David?”

  “I think they questioned half the boys in the school. But there was never any proof. None of them ever told.”

  “Who else did you think was involved?”

  “I don’t know. At least twenty guys were named at the time. Nobody knew. Everybody had a theory.”

  “So, what happened to Philip Whitney?”

  “I thought you knew. He committed suicide.”

  Harvey was stunned. “When did this happen?”

  “When Morristown was published.”

  He and Eddie exchanged looks. Harvey felt like he was missing something. “You’re telling me this guy who beat the rap on the burglary in real life killed himself when Blake published it as fiction?”

  “That’s right,” Patricia said.

  “How?”

  “Shot himself.”

  “Why didn’t he just keep quiet, like he had for—what?—fourteen years or so?”

  “Well, in the book, Binky was left handed, and he dropped his ID bracelet at the man’s house.”

  “I remember. That’s how the police got a line on Binky.”

  “That’s how they got a line on Philip. He dropped something. It wasn’t an ID bracelet, though. I think it was a pocketknife. And he was left handed like the character in the book, so, I guess it was too direct for him. He left a suicide note, confessing to the burglary and tying the man up. He said they didn’t mean to kill him, but he still didn’t name the other boys.”

  “And the case has stayed unsolved all this time.”

  “Other than Philip, yes.”

  “Was there a renewed interest when the book came out?”

  “Oh, yes, and I think the state police reopened it, but nothing came of it, and after a while it died down again.”