"Overtime?" asked Pepper.
Zula choked back a smile.
Her pop stayed dead serious. "It means, get along with your Special Agent Alfson better than you have so far. I hear he's on the fast track, being groomed for Hanley's level. Maybe that's why he wasn't such a fan of working with you. Maybe you look like a danger to everything he's been working for. But just cooperate. Catch those clambake assholes, quick. And whatever you do, keep me up to date."
"Yessir." Pepper paused, thoughtful, then his eyes locked on hers. "If I need a hand when things get busy, can I have Zula? Maybe for some NGI searches or other research?"
Zula sat upright. Research? She liked the idea of helping Pepper with the Keser case, but who did he think she was, his assistant?
Her pop was shaking his head no anyway. "Zula has a full load on Dispatch. The Secret Service has all the researchers you'll need if you ask politely. And Pepper? You're starting with strike two. If you get the urge to think outside the goddamn box, and that box is local, state or federal law, just quit first. Again."
Pepper had invited Special Agent Dan Alfson to meet him at the police station to touch base and was surprised when Alfson arrived accompanied by five Secret Service investigators. Pepper would have brought a bag of bagels.
The meeting was super serious, professional and not very productive. The youngest agent walked them through the case book—initial reports from the New Albion police, evidence and medical report, witness statements. The crime scene area had yielded a mishmash of potential evidence—cigarette butts, footprints, hairs, etc. But each much more likely to have been left there by someone other than the unsubs or the victim. The autopsy had yielded a couple tidbits. Gravel was found embedded in Keser's hands with related hand scrapes. Road rash. This supported the theory that Keser was grabbed mid-jog. He also had a fresh bruise on the back of his head. They watched overhead video of the clambake pit and beach area that the Secret Service had taken with a drone but Pepper didn't pick up anything helpful from that angle. Cool to see, though.
Another investigator shared progress on Keser's movements prior to his death. The last part was easy—he'd been seen by another agent heading out for a run, which he was known to do five or so days a week. The investigators were reconstructing the forty-eight hours leading up to Keser's death in case his work or other activities somehow related to why he was killed, but hadn't identified any connections yet.
A team at Quantico was analyzing the note found on the body. Alfson said they didn't have any solid theories yet about the Declaration of Independence or the odd accusation that the POTUS took the unsubs' candy, but they should have a profile completed soon.
"The candy thing creeps me out the most," said Pepper. It's so juvenile and…personal."
"Maybe," said Alfson. "We'll wait for our pros to tell us what it means, if that's okay."
Which bugged Pepper, but not as much as that the Secret Service team had pretty much nothing to run with, so far.
"Can I get a copy of your case book?" Pepper asked.
After a pause, Alfson approved that with a short nod. "But the local angle, Pepper—let's peel the onion. What've you got so far?"
To which he had to admit the truth—not even bagels. But Pepper had a plan…
Pepper needed to bring local genius to the clambake homicide investigation, right? He used to know most of the wack jobs and lowlifes in lower Cape Cod. But having been away for three years, he didn't have any confidence in his grasp of the current players. So Pepper went to see a guy who would know. The only question was whether the guy would still talk to him.
Pepper pulled into the parking lot of the waterfront restaurant and bar that in Pepper's youth had been a restaurant called Sandy's Seafood. The big blue sign now read Malecón. His father had told him this place was the new venture of Pepper's oldest buddy growing up, Angel Cavada. Another person Pepper had flaked out on, when he'd taken off three years earlier, not long after Jake died. It still made Pepper sick to his stomach, how he'd treated Angel. Had he forgiven Pepper?
The teenage hostess said Angel was expected soon, so Pepper took a stool at the bar by the back wall to wait. Behind the bar was an enormous painting of a harbor waterfront. Somewhere in Cuba? Pepper ordered a jack and coke from a Latina bartender with a name tag that said Summer.
Malecón was cool. A blend of styles between Cuban and Cape Cod. Lots of wood. Light colors. Pepper knew Angel's parents had arrived from Cuba on a scrap wood and plastic bottle raft thirty years ago, before Angel was born, so it'd be beautiful if Angel made his American millions by tapping his Cuban heritage.
Angel came through the front door ten minutes later. Maybe a few extra pounds on his five foot nine frame, but pretty much unchanged. A quick back and forth with the hostess, followed by Angel's signature laugh. Deep, loud and infectious. Pepper saw the hostess laughing along--what choice did anyone have?
Angel saw Pepper at the bar. Angel did a little double-take, then sauntered over, his face having dropped its smile. This Angel was more serious. More guarded?
"Hey, Mano, I heard a rumor you were still alive…" said Angel. "I thought maybe you went Wonderboy for real, but I never saw you in the movies. Or maybe over to Milan, modeling, making millions in your underwear?"
Pepper got off his stool, started with a handshake that morphed into a half hug and a backslap. Kinda awkward.
"Angel, you did it man! This is the place you always used to talk about!"
Angel gave a nod. "Opened a year ago. Had to go for it, right? And so far so good. The food's the real deal. But the waitresses!" Angel kissed his fingers. "I pick 'em myself. Sweetest on the Cape! But the real magic's out back, you got a minute to see?"
So Pepper followed Angel through a door into a back patio which was bigger than the restaurant. Part garden, part patio bar. With a stage tucked away at one end. And an amazing view of the Atlantic Ocean.
"This is the key to the whole place," said Angel. Pepper could hear the quiet pride in his voice. "I took down a ton of trees and bam, there it was--the big blue ocean! I would have invited you to the opening, but no one knew where to reach you. What the fuck?" A simple question loaded with disappointment.
Pepper told his story. Said he'd been kind of freaked out by Jake's death and then getting suspended. Said he was sorry for not keeping in touch, which sounded hollow and strange even to his own ear. He added that he'd been playing music in Nashville most recently.
"A Nashville star! I could have predicted it. Mano, tell me you know Blake Shelton!"
"I sure do! Unfortunately, he doesn't know me…"
Angel laughed a little louder, a little more like himself. "Well, tell me you've come home to do a musical residency, right by the ocean. Music five nights a week out here. All I'm missing is a rugged scamp like you to sit on a stool and play Jimmy Buffet, Kenny Chesney, all those island booze songs. You used to play guitar decent enough. But your voice, kid, and your pretty face—the ladies'll line up all the way back to the Sagamore. You still got perfect pitch?"
Crap. Pepper pictured how the General would react if he heard Pepper was moonlighting. "Angel, I'm back with the Albion police. It's a favor to Chief Eisenhower. I won't have much time to serenade tourists."
"Whoa!" said Angel. Visibly recoiling.
"Really...I'm back to do a job. And I was hoping you could do me a solid? Fill me in on some info?"
Angel was just studying him, maybe a little too hard. "Home ten minutes and you've already broken my heart again." Another pause, then: "What do you need?"
Pepper explained he was gathering unofficial dirt on criminal groups in the area, especially those that hid behind legitimate fronts and so might be cruising under the police radar.
Angel yawned. "There's still the low-key drug dealing. Some folks selling meth. Some oxy or synthetics. The usual B&Es at vacation homes. All petty shit—near the lowest end of the food chain. Are those the types of folks you're looking for?"
Pepper
took a deep breath and thought, fuck it. He explained to Angel about the clambake victim being Secret Service, how they were testing a theory he was killed by one or more locals with a hatred for President Garby. Maybe a radical activist group—what the feds would call domestic terrorists. "But they'd cut off my nuts for telling you, so keep this secret, okay?"
"Whoa!" said Angel, shaking his head. Then he sat thinking a bit. "I don't agree you're chasing homegrown lowlifes. Not much fuss from extremist groups locally. Maybe the worst of the environmentalists, like the PLANT folks over in Wellfleet, but murder? Not really their gig. My gut, I think you're after vacationing lowlifes. I'd check with Nancy over at New Albion Realty. Remember her? Black hair? Big…eyes? Maybe better you don't use my name. Anyway, dust off the old Pepper Ryan charm and get a list of homes rented in the general area to a single party for multiple weeks."
Not a bad thought. "Buddy, I'm glad to see you're still a genius."
"Oh, and have you been tracking down a witness too?"
"Witness? No, why?"
"I heard somebody saw the clambake victim getting grabbed. Maybe just a rumor."
Pepper tried to get more out of Angel but he couldn't recall who he'd heard it from, or anything else to help chase the rumor back to its source. But Angel promised to keep his ears peeled and call Pepper right away with any further gossip.
"Oh, speaking of gossip," said Pepper. "You'll never guess who I saw the other day!"
"Madeline Smith?"
Good fucking guess. "How'd you know?"
Angel laughed. "You think Pepper Ryan being back in town's a big deal? Mano, Madeline Smith is the hottest of hot tickets—she's international gossip page one. They take her picture in a restaurant, its booking system gets blown out the next day. She dates someone, he becomes the media's 'It' guy. And she's entertaining the presidential twins when they arrive… So hey, do me a solid bro—get Maddie to bring the twins to Malecón? This place'll be legendary. And I think she had a thing for me, back in the day…"
Instead of an answer, Pepper gave him a hug. "I missed you, pal. And I appreciate your help."
Angel just gave him a light punch on the shoulder. "There's millions to be made on the Cape bro, all kinds of ways, except driving around in a cop car chasing down mouth breathers. Now you're back, you and I should own this town by Labor Day. At least tell me you'll think about it!"
New Albion would never be the same, thought Pepper. "I'll hop onstage sometime when I can. I promise. And damn, I miss performing almost as much as I've missed your evil laugh. It's great to see you again, Angel. I'm glad you're living the dream."
"Fuckin' A. You hear I'm on the Chamber of Commerce?"
Pepper strolled into the New Albion station house a bit later that afternoon. He had a five-page list of all multi-week house rentals on Cape Cod, courtesy of Nancy from eleventh-grade homeroom. Yes, he was back in town. No, he hadn't heard about her wedding. But she'd been happy as a clam to help him out.
Zula was on the desk with Barbara Buckley, the Dispatch Supervisor, nearby in her wheelchair. Barbara was chatting away on her headset and Zula wasn't, so Pepper pounced.
"Busy?" he asked Zula with a smile.
She studied him with her big brown eyes more than a little suspiciously, then gave a quick glance over at Barbara who was still chatting. "What'd you have in mind?" she asked.
He pulled the list from behind his back. "I know what your dad said, but this'll be quick. Is there a way you can check a list of local addresses against the dispatch blotter to find any matches? It might be super important, for the clambake case."
She held up a hand, took a call. Dispatched EMS.
Barbara Buckley was still on her call but she caught Pepper's eye, grimaced. He'd known Barbara since he was a little boy and that's how she still treated him.
Zula clicked off her call. "How'd you get this list?"
"Expert investigation, my methods are classified. But it's too many addresses for me to visit and time's, you know, of the essence. I hoped maybe the scumbags have already gotten some police attention. And one other little thing?"
She gave him a long sigh.
"A red starfish was in the clambake pit, on the body. I've never seen a red starfish around Cape Cod, and no one in their right mind eats starfish anyway, so why put one in the pit? Ignorance or maybe something else? Can you google around, see if there are any red starfish locally? I'll text you a picture of the one from the crime scene, maybe it'll help you figure out what type of starfish, where it came from? And if it's not local, maybe who sells them?"
"Shouldn't the Secret Service be doing this?"
"They probably are. But they don't know the Cape the way you do. They might not connect the dots on something a native soul like yourself would see, no problem. Please?"
"Push off, Pepper," said Barbara, having finally finished her call. "Sniff around my girl after hours, would ya?"
Zula tucked the list under some manila folders and gave a bigger, more dramatic sigh. "These favors are adding up, Wonderboy. You're going to have to make it up to me somehow, big time. And don't think you can get free favors by having your dad ask again!"
"What?"
"The inventory of all the seafood found in the clambake murder pit, that your dad said you wanted? He asked me to get it from the feds, said you'd owe me. I gave it to him half an hour ago."
What the hell? Pepper tried to hide his surprise. And Barbara was still glaring at them, so with a final smile to Zula, he pushed off.
Because he needed to find out what his dad, the supposedly retired Chief of Police, was up to now…
"You just missed him," grinned old Mr. Kierce at Orleans Seafood Market. Flashing what locals call "summer" teeth (some're there, some're missing).
Pepper's dad hadn't answered his cell phone or the home landline, so Pepper had taken his hunt to the open road, guessing the ex-cop would begin with Kierce—his favorite seafood proprietor—when searching for the source of the seafood in the Keser clambake.
Pepper thanked Mr. Kierce and headed back to his police cruiser. Unless his dad had changed, Pepper had a good guess where he'd have headed next.
And yep, bingo! Pepper found his dad sitting on a picnic bench at High Seas Ice Cream Hut, which was too close in proximity to the Orleans Seafood Market for him not to stop in for a quick cone. Ice cream was one of his dad's very few human weaknesses.
"Hey Pepper!" his dad said, with a little wave of his cone. Looked like vanilla infused with red sauce…Raspberry Ripple?
Pepper joined him on the bench. Pepper didn't say anything—he just gave back the kind of look his dad had given Pepper so many times before. Disgust and Disappointment Ripple.
But his dad only chuckled. "I guess Zula spilled the beans?"
Yeah, hilarious, but Pepper tried to keep his cool. "I've got a question…when you were chief, what would you've done if a civilian decided to get involved in solving a murder?"
"Civilian?" his dad sniffed. "I'm a sworn deputy of Barnstable County!"
Which was true, barely. About a year after his dad had resigned as New Albion Chief of Police under the financial and political cloud of an embarrassing lawsuit, he'd quietly been sworn in as a deputy by his close friend, the Barnstable County sheriff. It'd been a gesture of respect, an honorary role.
Pepper put on a Barbara Buckley-quality grimace. "You're retired."
"And you're a hard guy to help."
His dad wanted to help him? Or did he just want to show Pepper up? But Pepper's curiosity was getting the better of him. "So did Kierce think they sold that shellfish?"
"Nope. He said the list was a real mishmash of low-end product, not right for a good clambake. Probably a New Yorker or other mental defective, he said. Classic old Kierce! But I know all the other stores and docks that the perps could have bought it from in this part of the Cape, so I'll check around some more. A clerk might remember them and there might be security tape. Maybe they even left credit card info, if t
hey're as stupid as Kierce says."
Pepper suspected they weren't. They'd probably bought the mussels, quahogs and other shellfish in small batches from different stores, paid in cash. He'd have to ask Alfson whether his small army of investigators had begun chasing this seafood angle yet. Same for the other stuff used in the pit—the tarp and the canvas, if the Service thought they were new. But Kierce's comment was interesting—it made Pepper question whether the clambake pit and murder were actually the work of a local. Something to consider further.
"But seriously Dad, you need to stop."
His dad grunted. "Kierce said no one'd been in yet to even ask about the seafood list. So maybe you and the feds need all the help you can get? 'Cause if I solve this case first, everyone wins, right?" said his dad, sounding tough and unrepentant, but the raspberry ripple had melted onto his hand and he had a crooked smile on his face.
Chapter Eight
Smith Enterprises' Gulfstream G650 jet landed gently at Barnstable Municipal Airport on Monday afternoon. Its only passenger, Lizzie Concepcion, was in a limousine ten minutes later. Depending on traffic to the Smith estate in New Albion, Lizzie figured she might have about forty-five minutes left to her career as Special Assistant to the billionaire fund executive Acker Smith.
She worked at Eagle's Nest daily, but the sight as she came up the long driveway never failed to impress. It was a French Chateau style mansion in the tradition of "Mangez la merde, you peasants". Totally over the top. Mr. Smith had built it for his late wife, a minor French actress named Sophie Bissonette. Gray stone everywhere, like a castle. It had fifteen bedrooms, one which had basically become Lizzie's. The mansion also had a cute bowling alley, an oversized swimming pool and tennis courts on a twelve-acre wedge lot with private beach.
Killing Shore Page 5
