Before starting the truck’s engine, I called Leah to say I was on my way to the newsroom, and asked if the Downtown Club debate was on the next day’s news budget. Unaware of my ulterior motive, she sounded pleased by my initiative.
“The casino campaign is going to be nasty. No time like the present to get to know the players and their arguments.”
Brownie points for me, I thought as I drove away from the Mill Stream. Covering the debate would allow me to work the Desmond story on the sly. Jay Preble wanted to bend my ear about the evils of gambling interests. With some careful footwork I might get him to tell me more about what he recalled of the FBI side of the Desmond investigation.
My mind wandered back to my morgue research. MacMahon, the state police investigator who’d retired to Kennebunkport, might have been in on the top-level meeting Preble described. If he’d been in his late thirties at the time, he’d be in his eighties now. Assuming his brain was still sharp, he might remember whether any actual leads were developed about who might have drawn Desmond into a scam, then offed him once the money was in hand.
My ability to focus exclusively on the Desmond story was over, meaning my to-do list would have to be squeezed in during coverage of other stories. I owed Helena a report on my meeting with Joan Slater, but it would have to wait until later. Tracking down MacMahon seemed to be a more important next step.
Chapter Eighteen
Thursday, May 30, 1968
Riverside, Maine
It was Memorial Day and Paulie had a hot date and an intriguing destination.
He and Joan Slater had been spending as much time together as their jobs allowed, taking evening drives out to Sebago Lake or the two lighthouses in Cape Elizabeth. Joan sat close while Paulie steered with his left hand, his right arm around her shoulders. After a polite kiss goodnight at the door to her apartment, he’d tiptoe through her backyard and slip through the open window and into her bed.
Tuesday morning Jay Preble called to invite him to a Memorial Day lobster bake at the Preble family’s private island in Casco Bay.
“A boat will be running people out from Maine Wharf throughout the afternoon,” Preble said. “There’ll be plenty to eat and drink. Lots of pretty women. Come on out, and if you’re seeing anyone, bring her with you.”
Paulie immediately accepted the invitation, even though it left him scratching his head. Preble knew damn well Paulie didn’t run with the ancestral summer cottage crowd. And the casualness of the “bring a date” comment made no sense. Preble had to realize his setup of Joan and Paulie was as smashing a success as the Beatles at Shea Stadium.
When Paulie told Joan about the invitation she was keen to go, imagining the Preble summer compound would be like Hyannisport down east. Paulie didn’t care if it was a lean-to with a fire pit. He assumed Preble had invited his whole crowd, which meant Ken Coatesworth would be there. With Joan Slater on his arm, Paulie would have cover to eavesdrop.
In an attempt to get on Jake Stuart’s good side, Paulie volunteered to work from 6 a.m. until 2 p.m., covering the Portland parade or whatever other holiday story was being assigned. To further endear himself to the early shift, he brought a box of Sullivan’s doughnuts. The holiday desk man was a rotund guy with beaverish front teeth named Dave.
“Up early or out late?” he said when Paulie poked his head into the newsroom.
“Little of both,” Paulie said. “Got plans for the afternoon, so I told Jake I’d come in early and see what’s going on.”
“Coupla’ messages for you on your desk. The guy I talked to—he called about an hour ago—sounded disappointed you weren’t here.”
Paulie offered the doughnut carton. “Jaysus, my reputation needs work. What does it say about me that people figure I’ll be here twenty-four hours a day?”
Dave laughed and selected a glazed cruller before refocusing on the garble emanating from the police radio. Paulie read the message slips as he walked to his desk.
Thursday night at ten thirty-five the evening newsroom clerk had scrawled Call Mr. Mack ASAP. 555-1262.
Who the hell was Mr. Mack?
The early morning message was also from Mack, but this one contained a telling clue.
6:10 a.m. Mr. Mack called the home number you gave him but you weren’t there. Call him at 555-1262.
The bell rang. Paulie didn’t give out his home number to many people, but he’d given it to Tom MacMahon. It was a huge risk for the state police lieutenant to call the Chronicle newsroom. Something big had to be happening.
MacMahon picked up on the second ring.
“Finnegan here. I hear you’re looking for me.”
“Hang on a sec.” Footsteps echoed in the background, a door opened and closed, then MacMahon was back on the line.
“You got rocks in your head, Paulie?”
“And good morning to you, Lieutenant. Two messages tell me I better call you back because something’s on fire.”
“Something’s on fire all right. Your dick.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Joan Slater. You’re sleeping with her, right?”
“Why is my personal life your business?”
“In a criminal investigation, everything’s my business—or should I say everything is Curtis Wellington’s business, and he’s got you in his sights.”
“I’m a reporter doing my job, for Chrissakes.”
“Curt’s boys know you’re working overtime. They’ve been watching Slater because Curt’s got her pegged as Desmond’s sidekick.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Their theory is George grabbed the money and headed somewhere warm and sunny where nobody asks too many questions. Slater’s job is to cover his tracks before following him to the beach hideaway.”
Paulie closed his eyes and counted to five. “That’s nuts.”
“What’s nuts is that they’re onto you. FBI guys have been watching you slip in and out of Joanie’s apartment under cover of darkness for the past week or so. Curt thinks you’re going to screw up his case.”
“How would I do that?”
“He figures George has eyes and ears around town too. When he finds out little Miss Hotpants has taken up with you, he’s going to comfort himself with a big-breasted native of whatever island paradise he’s escaped to, and cut his ties with Joan, meaning the FBI will have a harder time tracking him down.”
“It’s an inventive theory. Problem is, it’s not true. Joan wasn’t sleeping with Desmond. She worked for the guy, period. For what it’s worth, she doesn’t believe he took any money and has no idea where he went.”
“I’m sure that’s what she’s telling you. I have no idea what’s true. I do know Curt’s watching you, and that you’d be smart to end your little love affair.”
“I’m not that smart.”
“Not when you let your dick do your thinking.”
Paulie glanced over to reassure himself the desk man wasn’t eavesdropping. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because Wellington’s ruthless. He muscled us local guys out of the way, had it all goddamn figured out before he’d been in town twenty-four hours, said he’d seen it all before. It’s such bullshit. We were doing solid police work before he showed up. Plenty of evidence points in a whole different direction, but he doesn’t want to hear it.”
“I’m all ears,” Paulie said.
MacMahon paused. “If a few pending inquiries pan out, I may fill you in. Until then, keep your head about you, okay? And lose the girl or Wellington will run right over you, like he ran right over us. Trust me, it doesn’t feel good.”
Paulie set the phone in its cradle, even though he wanted to throw it across the room. MacMahon made him feel like a high school kid caught screwing in the hayloft. He forced himself
to calm down. MacMahon was just the messenger. Wellington was the real problem. After the holiday he’d figure out how to handle him.
* * *
At three o’clock Joan emerged from her apartment, stunning in a pale pink dress and white sandals. Her long blond hair was brushed back, held by a clip at the nape of her neck. She carried a sweater over her arm. Shaking away the doubts planted by MacMahon, Paulie kissed her on the cheek and escorted her around to the passenger side of his Bel Air.
Their ride to Preble Island was on a broad-beamed boat with wooden benches along both sides and across the stern. The deck was packed with casually dressed men and women who all seemed to know each other. The only one familiar to Paulie was his target, Ken Coatesworth, who stood at the starboard rail speaking into the right ear of an enormous crew-cut guy with a sunburned scalp.
Offering Joan his arm, Paulie maneuvered his way across the deck, stopping just behind the duo. Pretending to be oblivious to his neighbors, he kept up an even-toned patter in Joan’s direction, pointing out the Coast Guard station, Bug Light and Spring Point as the boat chugged toward Preble’s Island.
Halfway across the bay Coatesworth moved away from his burly pal, a frown creasing his young face. When he saw Paulie and Joan, his face relaxed into a polite smile.
“Hello there,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were aboard. How nice to see you again.” Coatesworth swiveled his head from Paulie to Joan, a sly smile playing across his face. “I never imagined when I introduced you last week that you’d develop a personal friendship.”
Coatesworth was such a lousy liar Paulie almost laughed in his face. But Joan was effusive, taking the pressure off the situation. It was so nice to be out on the bay on such a beautiful day, she said, maybe summer was going to take hold early this year.
“That’d be great,” Coatesworth said. “Nothing like warm weather and clear skies to raise your spirits.”
Paulie found his smile and joined the conversation. Prep school or no prep school, he could chitchat with the best of them.
* * *
The Preble summer place was a rambling shingle-sided “cottage” with multiple stone chimneys, sited to take advantage of both the view and the shade of the evergreen woods. Joan seemed a bit disappointed that it wasn’t a white mansion on a manicured lawn. Paulie had been around long enough to know that money didn’t look that way on the Maine coast. The more rustic a place, the richer the owners. Ostentation was for those who’d come into their money during the twentieth century.
“Look who’s here,” Jay Preble said as they strolled across the dock. “Glad you could make it.” Wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt, he shot a subtle wink at Paulie after a lingering look at Joan. “There’s beer and wine in the coolers. Hard stuff is over there on the picnic table. I’ll see you in a bit. I need to help line the fire pit with seaweed.”
Paulie and Joan wandered around holding hands, chatting with the other guests, only a handful of whom lived in Maine. At a picnic table next to the badminton net, two men began arguing about the Vietnam War, their voices rising as their debate intensified. That led others to join the conversation, but Paulie had no interest in being drawn into a debate involving people who most likely had never been in the service, much less in Southeast Asia. He led Joan down to the beach where carefully banked coals were being covered with a tarp and seaweed in order to steam potatoes, clams and lobster. Preble, Coatesworth and the bruiser with the sunburned scalp were sitting in beach chairs drinking beer while an older man and his teenage son tended the pit.
Preble introduced the big man as Leo Harding. The name rang Paulie’s memory bell. After a second he retrieved a memory of a young fisherman smashing an obnoxious marine’s head into the jukebox at the Bog. From the blank look on Leo’s face, he didn’t remember Paulie being part of his audience that night.
“Have you spent much time on the bay?” Preble’s smile was aimed at Joan.
“None to speak of,” she said. “It’s lovely here.”
“There’s plenty of room if you and Paulie want to stay overnight.”
“They look like they’d be happy to have a room to themselves right now,” Harding said, all but leering at Joan.
Preble glanced sideways, a frown on his handsome face. “Try not to act like a frat boy, Leo.”
“Aw, go ta hell.” The big lug’s ears reddened.
Paulie wondered how Preble knew Harding, whose rough edges made Paulie seem debonair by comparison. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes active behind his Ray-Bans.
For Joan’s benefit, Preble launched into a description of the art and science of a proper lobster bake. Hopping out of his chair, he introduced the pit tenders and drew them into a discussion about the proper technique to bank the coals and layer in the seaweed to create the steady, steamy heat that cooked the crustaceans.
After a while, Coatesworth and Harding announced they were going to get more beer. Preble continued to act like the host with the most. As the three of them lounged in the beach chairs, he answered Joan’s questions about the history of the island, explaining that his great-grandfather won it in a bet.
“Black Jack Preble was a gambling man,” he said. “In 1894 he got into a high-stakes poker game in one of the big Portland hotels. When the guy who owned this island ran out of cash, he put the deed on the table and my great-grandfather took it with a pair of kings. That’s why the place is called King’s Cottage.”
After a half hour of chitchat Joan excused herself to find a powder room. As she walked across the beach, Preble leaned close to Paulie.
“Wow, man,” he said in a low voice. “You caught the brass ring.”
“Joan’s a beautiful girl.”
“And Desmond’s secretary. That must be intense.”
Paulie shrugged, thinking back on his conversation with MacMahon. “Like I said the other day, she’s as mystified as anybody about what happened to the guy.”
Preble sat back in his beach chair. “Wherever he is, he’s got plenty of dough.”
“You still working with the FBI to piece it together?”
Preble glanced at the pair tending the seaweed-covered pit, as if they were double agents who’d bust him for talking to a reporter. “Whoever’s behind this knew what he was doing. Money was moved first from our bank to a dummy account at New York Bank & Trust, then to a numbered Swiss account. It’s like hitting a brick wall, from an investigative standpoint.”
“If the FBI dead-ended on following the money, and they dead-ended on following Desmond, what’s next?”
“That, my friend, is the hundred thousand dollar question.”
“Five hundred thousand,” Paulie said.
Chapter Nineteen
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Riverside, Maine
At twelve on the dot I walked into the Chronicle newsroom. On my drive from Riverside to Portland I’d stopped to buy a peace offering—several Italian sandwiches and a six-tray of large coffees. Leah was at her usual perch. She smiled when she saw the olive-oil-stained bag.
“Please tell me you’re carrying a salami and ham Italian with my name on it,” she said.
“Double pepperoncini, no pickles.”
“I’ve had a crappy morning. Double pepperoncini’s gonna save my life.”
She dug a stack of paper napkins out of her desk drawer while I spread the previous day’s sports section on the corner of the city desk and unwrapped two sandwiches.
“What happened?”
Leah dismissed my question with a wave of her left hand while she chewed her first mouthful of meat, cheese, tomatoes, peppers, olives and bread anointed with olive oil. Her eyes rolled back in her head when the sharp tang of pepperoncini hit her taste buds. She didn’t react when I outlined the information-sharing deal I’d struck with Chief Wyatt
the previous day, possibly because she was in the throes of a food climax.
Gene pulled up a chair and unwrapped a double salami for himself when I was describing my archaeological venture through Paulie’s old notebooks.
“He was a hell of a reporter, back in the day,” Gene said. “Everything was grist for his mill. He was always scribbling notes. I’ll bet you twenty Italian sandwiches he knew twice as much about Desmond’s disappearance than found its way into the paper.”
“Especially because he was pulled off the story after three weeks or so,” I said. “Some guy named Francoeur took it over when the story stalled, but you can bet Paulie’s sources kept calling him.”
“Why would the story have been handed over to somebody else?” Leah stopped eating her sandwich long enough to extract a couple of black olives, which she preferred to eat on the side. “Paulie was the police reporter of all police reporters.”
Gene leaned back in his chair, wrinkling his forehead as though he’d put his brain into overdrive. “Desmond disappeared in May, right?”
“The eleventh,” I said.
“Less than a month later Bobby Kennedy was shot,” Gene said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was yanked off the police beat and made the go-to guy on the local reaction to the assassination.”
“I’ll bet you’re right. Whoever was running the assignment desk at the time would have been nuts not to put a go-getter like Paulie on that story.”
“Especially because the Desmond disappearance story was more or less dead in the water by then.”
My cell phone rang when I was flipping through my notebook looking for the phone number I’d jotted for retired Maine State Police Detective Thomas MacMahon. The guy at the garage where I’d had my car towed was calling to say my car needed not two, but four new tires because it would screw up the alignment to replace just the rear ones.
“The bad news is your tires got cut,” he said. “The good news is you needed new rubber anyways. Your sticker expires in September, and the tires on the front never would have passed inspection.”
Quick Pivot Page 14
