The Fisherman

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  5

  Anne Bouchard placed her empty coffee cup on the table and smiled at Houston. His black hair was still messed from sleep, and he needed a shave and shower after the Olympian effort he had put forth the previous night. His hazel eyes were bloodshot, and he yawned.

  “What’s the matter, Mike? You out of shape or something?” She suppressed a laugh. The truth was that she, too, felt the effects of the previous night’s activity and wanted a hot shower to revive her.

  “Well, it’s been a long time since we went to bed that early and went to sleep that late . . .”

  “Take a hot shower—that’ll wake you up,” she said. “Better yet, I’ll go first.”

  “Don’t you think we should shower together to conserve water?”

  “Are you up to it?”

  Houston thought for a moment then said, “Probably not. . . . You wore me out, woman.”

  Bouchard stood and, as she walked to the bathroom, said, “I’m starting to think you’re too old for me, Houston.”

  “Too old for you? I’m only four years older—”

  She smiled and with an exaggerated sway of her hips turned toward the bathroom. “Age is only one way to measure how old a man is. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  _________________

  Once showered, Houston made a fresh pot of coffee and took two mugs out to the porch. He sat in one of the Adirondack chairs beside Bouchard, who said, “You were right about one thing, Mike. This life grows on a person.”

  “And I thought you’d go nuts up here. It’s a long way from here to Newbury Street and Quincy Market.”

  “Oh, I knew I could adjust.”

  “Maybe so, babe. But a part of you will always be a city girl.”

  “You’re probably right. Let’s get down to business, okay?”

  “Sure, I’m all ears.” He sat back and listened. When he and Anne had been partners on the BPD, he had always deferred to her when it came time to make a presentation or to present the facts of an investigation to their superiors. They had both been born and raised around Boston—he in Irish South Boston and she in affluent Newton. However, it was she, not Houston, who had the gift of blarney.

  “An old couple, Betty and Archie Guerette, have been hounding every law enforcement agency between Portland and Boston. Their granddaughter, one Cheryl Guerette, was a student in Boston, and she’s disappeared.”

  “Well, college kids are an impulsive bunch. She probably took off to the Cape or some romantic getaway with her latest boyfriend.”

  “Maybe, but I got a bad taste about this.”

  “Anne, I don’t have a clue as to what I’ll be able to do in regards to this.”

  “I’ve arranged for us to meet with the Guerettes at their home in Kittery. That should give us a starting point.”

  “If,” he added, “I decide to take this on.”

  “When,” she countered, “you take it on.”

  “That sure of me, are you?”

  She smiled at him. “After five years as your partner and over a year of living as your significant other, I know you better than you know yourself.”

  “I still don’t know if I want to do this. We’ve been off the job for over a year.”

  “Mike, you were the best when it came to closing cases. Like I said, you have a couple of resources that make you uniquely qualified for this.”

  “I think you overestimate how much influence I have in Boston.” He took a sip of his coffee and placed the mug on the small table beside his chair.

  “Twenty years as a cop, fifteen as a detective, and being a lifelong friend of Jimmy O’Leary’s gives you more influence than even you realize.”

  “How does Jimmy fit into this?”

  Houston and Jimmy O’Leary had grown up together in South Boston. They’d separated when Jimmy dropped out of school, and the rift had widened when Houston joined the Marines. Later, when Houston became a cop, the relationship became adversarial and remained so until a deranged sniper killed Houston’s ex-wife, Pamela—Jimmy O’s sister.

  Bouchard pressed on. “Even though you chose to walk a different path, he’ll still do anything he can for you. He’ll still help you. He never stopped thinking of you as his brother-in-law, even after the divorce.”

  Houston’s face turned pallid. “Pam’s been dead for over a year . . .”

  “Yes, she has, and Jimmy helped us bring Rosa down.”

  “I didn’t promise anything other than I’d go talk to the girl’s grandparents. I’m not committing to anything yet . . .”

  “I know you will . . .” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “And you know it, too.”

  6

  Houston stepped from his pickup and waited for Bouchard to touch up her makeup before following him. He spent several moments observing the small cape house and the commercial fishing boat moored at the dock behind it. The yard was neat and showed the results of hours of loving care. Someone put in a great many years planting, pruning, and nurturing the flowerbeds. He sensed rather than saw Bouchard beside him. “Nice house.”

  “Betty must really love working in her garden. I like the farmer’s porch.”

  Houston looked at his partner. “If you ever stop finding cases for us, I’ll put a farmer’s porch on the cabin.”

  She said, “Mike, if all I did was work around the house all day, I’d go bonkers.” Bouchard pushed open the gate of the small white picket fence and stepped aside for him to precede her in. He placed his hand on the gate and said, “Humor me . . .”

  She stepped through the portal and gave him a look that was somewhere between a smirk and a smile. “He suffers from latent gentlemanly tendencies . . . who would have thought?”

  “Five minutes from now you’ll be calling me a chauvinist.”

  “Well, it is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”

  “Depending upon her mood and the situation.”

  “Ah, Michael Houston, you’re not as slow as you look.”

  A diminutive woman, who Houston thought to be in her mid- to late sixties, appeared on the porch, interrupting their never-ending battle of quips. She stood in the shade, her nervousness evident by the creases along the side of her eyes and the way she twisted a towel in her hands.

  “Be nice.” Anne warned him in a hushed voice. “Don’t even bring up the possibility that the girl may be dead . . . these people still have hope that their granddaughter is alive.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “We both know there’s little chance of that . . .” Bouchard escalated the volume of her voice. “Good afternoon, Betty. This is my partner.”

  The elderly woman nodded and said, “Please, come inside.” She stepped aside, allowing them entrance to her home. Once inside, Houston found himself standing in an immaculate though small living room. The furniture was not new but showed no signs of wear. It was either of good quality or hardly used. Either way, Houston knew it was the result of a New Englander’s desire to get the most for their dollar. He thought of his maternal grandfather, Chester Mahan. A Scotsman by heredity and frugal by virtue of being raised in Maine, Chester was tight, but when he did open his wallet he would purchase something once. Houston recalled him saying that you might as well spend two-thirds more and get quality rather than pay one-third less for something of dubious quality, only to have to pay it three times. When asked what he meant, the wily Scot merely said, “Think about it.”

  Bouchard took control. “Betty Guerette, this is Michael Houston. Mike, meet Elizabeth Guerette.”

  The petite woman held out a tiny hand and said, “Pleased to meet you. Please call me Betty.” She pronounced her name in two syllables: Bet-tee. Her accent was that of down east Maine.

  A door slammed in the rear of the house, and someone called, “Where are yuh, woman?”

  “That’d be Archie.” Again, Houston thought the accented Ahh-chie had an almost lyrical ring to it. A small man—barely an inch taller than his wife and who had a barr
el chest and heavily muscled arms that made him look like a beer keg with arms and legs—entered the room. Still, in a tussle, Houston, who was six-two and 220 pounds, would be careful not to let the older, smaller man get his hands and arms around him.

  Archie wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a green and yellow John Deere cap. “Archie, deah, this is Mr. Houston. He’s the private detective Anne told us about.”

  Archie held out a hand so huge that it seemed oversized for his body. “Pleased ta meet cha.” That deep timbre coming from such a small man surprised Houston.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Betty asked. “Maybe some tea or coffee? If you’d prefer something cold, I have iced tea and lemonade.”

  “A glass of cold water would be fine,” Houston said.

  When Betty returned carrying a pitcher of ice water and four tumblers, Archie said, “Why don’t we set out on the porch? They’s usually a nice breeze this time of day.”

  Once they were seated, Houston said, “Anne told me some of your problem. Still, I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  Betty sipped some water and placed the glass on the small table between her and her husband. She sucked in air in a manner that said let’s get this over with and said, “It’s about our granddaughter. She’s missing.”

  Houston decided to conduct the interview tabula rasa—a blank slate. “How old is your granddaughter?”

  “She just turned twenty the fifth of this month.”

  “Mrs. Guerette, the police are truly your best option here. They have a much better chance of finding her than Anne and I would.”

  “Anne has already told us that. We have already notified them, but they haven’t been able to find her.”

  “Well, these things can take time.”

  “It’s been two weeks,” Archie said.

  “The police don’t seem to care,” Betty said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if a bunch of people in Boston think that they have better things to do than worry about a girl from up here. That’s why Archie and I thought that maybe if we hired a . . .” She hesitated as if she were trying to find the correct word. “. . . private eye, they might be able to go down there.”

  “Well,” Anne said, “Mike and I have licenses to conduct investigations in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts. We have more freedom to go between states than members of police departments do.”

  Betty pressed on. Her eyes bored into him, and Houston saw a steely resolve in her. “I want to know if our Cheryl is alright. We’ll pay you for it even if we have to mortgage the boat.”

  Archie nodded his agreement.

  Houston thought that her inner strength was reminiscent of a she-bear protecting her cubs. “Well, Mrs. Guerette, I feel it’s only fair to advise you that it can be expensive.”

  A bright-red hue crept upward from the collar of Archie’s shirt. He took a weathered leather wallet out of his hip pocket. “We ain’t looking for charity.” He counted six one hundred dollar bills and placed them on the table near Houston’s leg. He held the money in place with a strong, gnarled index finger and said, “Here’s six hundred dollars. Take it and go to that school. All we want is for you to find out why she hasn’t called or written us.”

  For the second time that afternoon, the old fisherman reminded Houston of his grandfather. Like Archie, Chester would have slid down a banister made by Gillette before he took anything that remotely resembled charity. Houston’s reservations as to whether or not he would help were swept away. When Houston took the money, Archie removed his hand. Houston shifted in his seat and held the money toward Betty. “Tell you what. If we think we can help you, and then, if we find your granddaughter, we’ll talk about compensation. Okay?” He saw Bouchard’s questioning look and knew he’d have to explain why he refused to take the money.

  Betty and Archie looked at each other for a few seconds. “I suppose that would be alright,” Archie said.

  “You must also keep in mind that we may not learn anything—and if we do find her, she’s twenty and we can’t make her return home if she doesn’t want to.”

  Betty took the six bills from Houston and handed two of them back, saying, “For your expenses.” She passed the remaining four to Archie. She settled back in her seat and studied Houston as if she were unsure of him.

  Houston saw her skepticism and realized that for some reason he was compelled to overcome it. “Okay, tell me everything—from the beginning.”

  Archie glanced at Betty, waiting for her to decide which of them would tell the tale. She nodded; it was all the affirmation he needed, and he settled back.

  “Cheryl—that’s her name,” Betty said, “has lived with us since she was a baby. Her father, our son, died young, and her mother left.” When she spoke of her departed daughter-in-law, her gentle, grandmotherly demeanor disappeared, and her eyes turned cold. “That one was not made from good stock. Had a problem with . . . drugs.”

  “Was she an addict?” Houston asked.

  Archie nodded. Betty’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away from Houston and stared at the porch decking. When she regained her composure, she began to speak, accenting her words by tapping the arm of the chair with a crooked finger as she spoke. “Last year Cheryl left home and went to school down in Boston. She wanted more out of life than what being the granddaughter of a fisherman could give her. But we told her it was nothing to be ashamed of . . . it’s what we do.” She straightened up when she spoke; her posture was all the evidence Houston needed to know that she was a strong, proud woman.

  Houston rarely interrupted people when they were telling their story. He knew that once they began talking, momentum would loosen their tongues, and they would reveal even more than they had intended, but when she paused, he realized she wanted some form of affirmation. He gave it to her. “What type of school?” In spite of Archie’s ability to have six hundred dollar bills in his wallet, these people did not strike him as having enough money to pay for their granddaughter to attend Harvard, Radcliffe, or MIT.

  “She goes to the Suffolk College of Acting and Modeling,” she said. “Cheryl is such a lovely child.”

  Houston smiled at her and said, “I can see where she gets it.”

  Betty blushed. Houston knew it had probably been years since anyone had told her she was pretty. Nevertheless, she was an attractive woman. She must have been a beauty in her youth. “I have a picture,” she said. She fumbled inside her purse for several seconds and then produced a small photograph. She leaned forward and handed it to him.

  It was a photograph of a gorgeous young woman; the resemblance to the woman sitting across from Houston was close enough that there could be no doubt they were from the same gene pool. The young woman leaned against a late-model SUV, her arms draped around a swarthy man. When Houston looked at him, one word came to mind: pimp. The man wore a shirt open to the middle of his chest and had more gold chains around his neck than a character in a 1970s disco movie. Houston thought, If he’s trying to look like Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, it’s not working. He looks like Travolta in Pulp Fiction. “Who’s the guy?”

  “Melvin Del Vecchio.”

  “What’s his relationship with Cheryl?” Houston asked.

  “Cheryl has been doing some modeling already,” Betty said. “He’s her agent and business manager.”

  Houston did not want to tell them what type of business the greaseball in the photo most likely managed. However, he knew it was not smart to make quick judgments. Over the years, Houston had learned a few basic rules about life. One of them was that things were usually the way they looked; for instance, if the animal in your backyard was black with a white stripe down its back and smelled like a skunk, there was little probability that it was a cat on its way to a masquerade. Houston spent a couple of seconds committing Del Vecchio’s face to memory. He had a premonition—one he hoped would remain hidden from the Guerettes.

  He shifted his attention to Cheryl’s image
and looked closer at it. Her eyes had a faraway look to them. Back in the day when he was a cop, he had seen eyes like that a thousand times—usually on drug addicts. He suddenly had second thoughts about taking the case. Something told him that the outcome might not be one the Guerettes were going to like. It would not be the first time a big city predator hooked an attractive young girl from the sticks.

  7

  Houston and Bouchard exited the highway at Mystic Avenue to avoid the traffic backup on the lower deck. Interstate 93 piggy-backed into upper and lower decks from Sullivan Square to the TD Bank Garden, where it joined US Routes 1 and 3 and disappeared under the old Southeast Expressway in the O’Neil Tunnel—usually a driver’s most horrific nightmare.

  They cut through Somerville and Cambridge and entered Boston via the Boston University Bridge. Once across the Charles River, Bouchard turned onto Commonwealth Avenue, following it through Kenmore Square. Houston studied the familiar shape of Fenway Park as they passed.

  Cheryl Guerette studied art at the Suffolk College of Acting and Modeling on Fairfield Street. Houston remembered the area from his days on the BPD—a neighborhood comprised of Victorian brownstones and narrow cross streets between Back Street and Boylston Street. Houston thought it a strange place for a school. He cursed the weather—it was not even nine o’clock in the morning, and the temperature and humidity index were the same: eighty-eight. When Boston gets that hot and humid, a deep breath puts you at risk of drowning.

  As they strolled along the street, Houston realized that Boston was a part of him, and although he had left the city, it had never left him. He also knew that the city was not a big enough part to lure him back except to visit.

  They had no trouble finding the Suffolk College of Acting and Modeling. Inside the main entrance was an open door. The school was, like most small for-profit proprietary colleges, extremely money conscious and hadn’t spent a lot on decorating when they opened. It appeared as if they had just removed the doors from a set of apartments and converted them into office suites. It didn’t surprise him. Boston was a college town and full of places like this. Cambridge was even worse; as Harvard University had grown, the school bought up blocks of old brownstones and triple-deckers and turned them into offices.