A different man came down the hall, picking up the cell phone mid-stride and slipping it into his pocket. He stayed on his side of the screen door, didn't invite them in. He said his name was Brian Edward Westin. A short white guy, probably late fifties. A belligerent tilt to his face. Pepper could tell Westin was in charge because he was wearing both a t-shirt and pants.
Alfson had grudgingly agreed in the car to let Pepper take the lead. It made sense to keep this visit from sounding like part of a federal investigation, for now. So Pepper introduced himself, flashing his badge, and said he was following up on the noise complaint from last night. He introduced Alfson but didn't mention he was Secret Service. "We heard you had quite a gathering last night. Are you guys some kind of club or organization?" Pepper asked Westin through the screen door.
"Why, you hoping to sign up?"
Pepper heard laughter from back in the house. Westin was playing to a peanut gallery.
Pepper tried to stay calm. "Are you planning to hold any public demonstrations while you're in town? Maybe get a permit, that sort of thing?"
More laughter from back in the house.
Two trucks pulled into the long dirt driveway side-by-side behind Pepper's cruiser but no one climbed out.
"How long have you folks been in town?" asked Pepper.
"Since last Saturday."
Pepper was surprised the group hadn't hit the police radar earlier. "What's the deal with all the spades?" Pepper asked with a nod across the porch, where a group of flat tipped garden spades was tossed in a loose pile, as the patrol officer had remembered. They were crusted with sand. "You guys into building sandcastles?"
"Spades? Nobody here but us whites, officer."
More laughter from the back room.
But Westin had more. "You really here about that clambake stiff? Did somebody say we did him?"
"Did you?" asked Alfson.
"No way. Where we come from, we would just shoot him and leave him. If someone's pointing at us that's a lie I'd take pretty personal."
"Good to know," said Pepper. "But you got any weapons on the property?"
Westin smiled. "We're free men, gotta protect ours. You know how many Americans are killed by illegal immigrants each year?"
"I'm not here to debate, Mr. Westin," said Pepper. "I'm here to tell you how it works in our little town. You break Mass firearm laws or get out of line with public demonstrations? You'll be finishing your vacation at MCI-Cedar Junction."
Westin spat on the front hall floor. "You think we're here just to hear ourselves talk, while illegals flood what's left of our fine nation? We got Garby elected but he hasn't done anything to solve the problem. So he is the problem. Why should he have a peaceful vacation while our nation's going down the toilet? You think you intimidate me? Coming on our property with just this scarecrow for backup? Bring a war to my doorstep, try to embarrass me? In my country, son, your kind always gets what it deserves, times ten. Now run along and have a nice fucking day."
The men who'd arrived were now out of their trucks, milling, staring up at the screen door conference, discontent. About to join them on the porch maybe.
Time to go before they had to shoot someone. "Well, if you have questions about how to do things right in my town, you give me a call," said Pepper. He tucked in the edge of the screen door a generic New Albion Police business card with his name and cell number written in on it.
Westin just smiled. "Come back anytime. But, hey? Bring better backup."
Pepper and Alfson walked back through the cluster of men, not stopping when one of them, a guy with a curly mop of hair, said something. Not stopping when some of them laughed.
The two trucks behind his cruiser meant he couldn't back down the driveway. And he wasn't going to ask them to move because he knew what their answer would be.
So Pepper drove forward onto the grass and did a turnaround on the front lawn. Maybe hit the gas a little more than he had to, because his rear wheels spun and slid, ripping up the lawn and spitting dirt toward the front porch as he swung around the trucks, back to the road.
"Hey!" yelled Alfson.
"Oops."
As they drove back toward downtown, Alfson made a call. Pretty quiet, Pepper couldn't hear much of it. A couple minutes later he got a call back. Info about Brian Edward Westin.
"He's got a hyphen between his first two names," shared Alfson. "Brian-hyphen-Edward Westin. He's the leader of the New River Front. What they call a "sovereign citizens" group. American patriots fighting a complex government conspiracy that most Americans are too stupid to understand. Champions of the effort to change the fourteenth amendment that grants citizenship to anyone born on U.S. soil. And deny birth certificates and Medicaid to children of illegal immigrants. They're also working to create an alternate currency because, you know, the American currency is doomed."
"That brand of patriotism," said Pepper.
"Also known as an anti-government extremist group. Ties to white nationalist groups. Good old-fashioned conspiracy theorists. And Westin seemed like a jackass, but don't take him too lightly. He's ex-military—75th Rangers. More dangerous than he looked. Plenty of training to be our killer. And he left the army OTH—bad papers. I'm having someone look into why they tossed him…maybe that's part of his grudge."
Pepper was surprised by that news. He knew their quick retreat from the rental property would be interpreted as weakness, like blood in the water for sharks. Despite Pepper's obnoxious lawn job. Give the New River Front confidence for whatever shit they were planning to disturb. Not Pepper's finest moment, but what was the alternative--a shootout?
"Pretty unprofessional back there, destroying property. And I'd say that was the worst interview I've ever seen, except for one thing," said Alfson.
Pepper didn't ask. Just stayed silent.
"Except I think they're Keser's killers. Now we just need to make the case. I'll get some resources assigned to them. Start with surveillance and then work toward probable cause for a warrant. But we'll keep the investigation wide open for now—just in case for once my gut's wrong."
Pepper, with Alfson, drove to a few other rental addresses listed on the police blotter but their work yielded no positive results. Pepper dropped Alfson back at his car at Broken Dreams Antiques and Pizzeria. Enough kumbaya and condescension for one day. And they both had to make their reports. Pepper was salivating but was proud he resisted a second trip inside the pizzeria in one day.
And Pepper had to fight not to laugh when he saw Alfson's little Ford Focus displaying an orange violation ticket for parking longer than one hour. "I'll take care of that, partner!" said Pepper.
But Alfson just scowled, stuffed the ticket in his suit jacket pocket.
Pepper drove off by himself past the Fudge Castle, the candy store that'd been there since Pepper grew teeth and which made the best saltwater taffy on the Cape. Pepper had been spanked by his dad after shoplifting a handful of taffy at age six, one of his earliest acts of rebellion. He was driving toward the police station, scratching his armpit where his bulletproof vest had been rubbing too much, when Dispatch crackled on and broadcast a "help the officer" request. This was a very rare emergency message asking all law enforcement in range to assist an officer in extreme physical danger. Pepper knew it would bring every lawman in radio range as fast as they could get there. A rare tidal wave of weapons and badges.
Barbara Buckley said in her neutral, clipped tone that multiple 911 calls reported an officer was being assaulted. She stated the address as 32 Front Street. McLennen's Bar.
Pepper hit his lights and siren. He was only a block away. He took the corner onto Front Street then yanked his cruiser to the curb. He spat into the radio that he was on the scene and was going inside.
Sergeant Weisner radioed she was ETA one minute and to wait for her backup.
But a minute's a long time when you're being assaulted. Maybe too long...
Pepper sighed as he hustled out of his cruiser. He drew his Glock, then push
ed through the heavy steel door. He paused inside to let his eyes adjust to the dim lights and a scene of mayhem.
Chapter Ten
McLennen's was the beer and a shot dive bar in town. Not Pepper's favorite hangout in his younger times. Even on a good night, it was mostly alcoholics, bums and troublemakers, as opposed to the suntanned, fresh lipsticked summer girls Pepper and his pals tried to chase at the more touristy watering holes.
The layout was long and thin, with a scarred wooden bar running half the left wall. Beer signs were attached to almost every inch of brick wall space. A pool table took up the back area. The right wall was lined with beat-up, red leather booths. Scarred tables ran down the middle.
But right now, with a couple of smashed chairs and an overturned table, McLennen's was in a state of suspended chaos. Broken glass littered the floor. A dozen customers were scrunching back from the trouble, in booths or huddling behind the bar. Pepper was shocked to see those guys from earlier in the day: Brian-Edward Westin and a couple other New River Front housemates, including Mr. Droopy-drawers, who was now sporting shorts. Was their presence a coincidence? Did the NRF like to get out and party?
The only customer defying the violence was a scruffy man in a purple fishing cap, apparently homeless by his layered, eclectic clothing and long greasy brownish hair covering much of his face. Pepper thought he'd seen him before, but at the moment couldn't remember where. Unlike the others, he'd remained on his stool at the bar, cradling his drink defensively.
Toward the back, a giant man in a wifebeater t-shirt covered in blood was standing over a semi-conscious Lieutenant Dwayne Hurd. Large knife in his right hand. Pepper recognized the giant: Marcus Dunne. They'd played high school hockey together for a couple of years until Marcus dropped out to work full-time on his father's boat. He hadn't missed many meals since then. Always tall, by his late-twenties he'd filled out with muscle and fat. His hair was greasy and matted. He looked like a bear who'd just killed his prey. He had some kind of milky coating on his lips.
"Hey Wonderboy," said Dunne, quick and hard through his teeth. "Long time. Heard you was back."
"Hey Marcus," said Pepper. "You terrorizing the village?" Hurd was still in a heap at Dunne' feet, but moving just enough for Pepper to tell he was breathing. Pepper kept his Glock pointed directly at Dunne's chest.
"This little guy tried to cuff me. Haul me out of here in front of my wife, like a bitch."
"Oh yeah? You and Marie finally marry?"
"Her little sister Trish."
"Hey Trish," said Pepper.
"Hey Pepper," said a woman's voice from behind a booth table.
"Trish, he on anything I should know about?" Pepper asked, keeping his eyes on Dunne.
"A little meth Pepper. I told him--"
"Shut the fuck up Trish," interrupted Dunne, shifting around from foot to foot. "Shut up everybody. You too, Pepper. You're not Wonderboy no more."
"I don't want to shoot you, pal," said Pepper. "I was heading to have a beer myself. Shift just ended. But I'll take you in, make sure you get a fair shake for this mess."
"Nobody's taking me in. We need to make a deal. I tell you who did that clambake body thing. Get a free pass here. But you put your gun away first."
"Were you part of that, Marcus?" asked Pepper, slowly circling Dunne to his right. He slipped his Glock into his holster, snapped it closed.
"Fuck you! But I know what I saw and I know it's worth—"
Two other uniformed officers--Sgt. Weisner and Officer Phillips--burst through the front door, handguns pointed and screaming for everyone to get down.
Dunne reeled back then squatted over Hurd's body, dropping his knife and fumbling at the Lieutenant's belt. At the snap on Hurd's gun holster.
Pepper didn't have time to think. Impulse took over. Pepper was on Dunne in three steps, tackling him just as he straightened up. Pretty good football tackle, for a hockey player, except his cheek collided with something hard as stone, probably Dunne's elbow. But he'd caught Dunne off balance and Dunne went down sideways, heavily. The handgun flew from Dunne's hand, somewhere left.
Luckily Pepper ended up on top of Dunne. But unluckily, he was now close enough to be enveloped by Dunne's sour b.o. stench. Really ripe. Pepper had learned how to box in high school, but he'd learned how to fight a year later playing in the British Columbia Hockey League. Pepper began raining punches on Dunne's face.
Dunne recovered, reaching up and getting both hands around Pepper's throat. His eyes, inches from Pepper's, were like big black pools. But before Dunne could get a good squeeze on, Pepper pulled back from his grip. He swung down his forearm full power on Dunne's nose, felt it pop and saw blood spurt.
Then Dunne tossed him off, like Pepper was a child. A little meth, right. Dunne was lit up like a Christmas tree, feeling no pain.
Pepper crawled under the pool table as Dunne came after him howling and foaming blood, while Weisner and Phillips inched forward from the other side, guns pointed at Dunne, still screaming for him to get down. Pepper felt broken glass digging into his hands. He got clear to the other side of the pool table as Dunne stumbled around to cut him off, ignoring the other officers. So Pepper rolled back to the side he'd started on and scrambled to his feet.
As the big man cut around the pool table's corner, sliding on the broken glass as the other two officers closed in, Pepper had just enough time to grab a pool cue off the table and hit Dunne as hard as he could with the fat end right in the nuts. Two balls, corner pocket.
Which thankfully was game over. Dunne went down with a long howl and curled up in a tight fetal position.
A woman screamed and scurried to Dunne's side. Must be Trish, but with a bunch of tattoos Pepper didn't remember. Other officers were coming through the door.
Pepper noticed Westin and his hate buddies were nowhere to be seen. They must have slithered out the back door as more law enforcement came through the front. Obviously not big fans of the boys in blue…
And the homeless guy in the purple hat at the bar was laughing and laughing like the whole world was his personal comedy show.
Chapter Eleven
On Tuesday morning, Pepper found Zula plugging away faithfully on the dispatch desk. She was radioing instructions to a patrol officer so Pepper made it to her elbow before she noticed him, making her jump.
"Damn, Pepper!" she said, then muted her mike too late. "You scared the piss out of me, Frankenstein!"
Pepper had fresh stitches on his cheek, where it'd been split in the bar fight. "Hey Little Ike," he said with a smile that hurt. "You on a call? I got your message—what's up?"
Zula sighed, flipped back her black hair. "That call was about the damn peeping tom, again."
Pepper knew the station had been getting two or three calls a week for the past two months about a very active peeper. More since the story in the Cape Cod Times.
"An older lady, this time," said Zula. "Said she saw a man gawking in her bathroom window. Maybe just her imagination, but who knows?" Zula gave an eye roll like don't underestimate how weird the world can be. "Anyway, I finished researching your red starfish. It's definitely foreign, probably from the Indian Ocean. I sent a picture to a buddy who's an oceanographer at Woods Hole and she agreed with me."
"Cool. I'll get Alfson's folks to dig deeper—maybe there's a limited number of importers. Anything else?"
She paused, then frowned. "Did you hear the press got wind that the clambake victim was a Secret Service agent? Alfson's boss Hanley joined Pop at his press conference this morning about the clambake murder investigation. Pop told the world that you're leading the investigation for the department so now everyone knows you're the man, including the bad guys… Then Hanley announced you've located a witness and Pop got a choking fit, right on camera."
Damn! What could they be thinking, using Marcus Dunne as bait to lure out the unsubs? Hanley hadn't struck Pepper as being a moron or reckless…
"But that made me wonder," she continued.
"Could someone else have seen something, it being a Saturday night?"
Pepper didn't know where she was going with this, but gave her an encouraging nod.
"Maybe someone parked that night at the Dill Beach lot?" she asked. "It's kinda isolated. And really popular with the sixteen and seventeen-year-olds to park, make out. All that hormonal stuff, you know?" Then she blushed, which made her look a lot like a teen again.
"Great idea--did someone call in?"
"That's just it. No teens would stick their necks out, call the cops, say they were sucking face or worse, down in Dill Lot at night. Get their parents mad, all that hassle. A patrol car stops through sometimes when everything else is quiet, shoos them away, but I checked with the patrol officers on duty that night and no one checked the Dill Lot on Saturday night, things were too crazy around town. So I hoped maybe some teens were parked and saw something. But they're too scared to say anything. Just an idea."
Pepper squeezed her shoulder. "Pure genius! Now I just have to figure out how to get word out to teens. Maybe have Justin Case put out a social media clip…"
"How do you know about Justin Case?"
Pepper preferred not to bring up Maddie Smith and the ticket he didn't give her. "He's here in town," Pepper said. "Do you know much about him?"
"Hey hey!"
"What?"
"That's Justin Case's signature line. Hey hey! He's super cute but a baaaaaad boy. Where've you been hiding yourself? Justin Case's quite the hot online reality star."
"I must've been in some other reality. But now he's here, sponging off the Smiths at Eagle's Nest."
Zula filled him in on Case's background. His breakthrough on the YouTube clip series, Spring Splash, about twenty-somethings acting like idiots. How he went solo—Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and YouTube, the whole deal. "He's posted thousands of videos of himself, has millions of subscribers," she said. "And billions of views. So yeah, he's hot."
Huh. "What's the guy actually do?"
Killing Shore Page 7
