Then Madeline left them.
Lizzie made sure the bedroom door was closed.
Smith looked furious. "Pepper Ryan…" he said. The way she'd say 'yeast infection'.
"Mr. Smith, did you mention to Madeline any of the, er, special arrangements you asked me to make in connection with disrupting the president's vacation? Could she have been talking about those groups?"
"The protesters and other shit disturbers?" He smiled. "I haven't said a thing."
"Fine, sir," she said, relieved. She couldn't be sure from one day to the next that he'd remember what they'd discussed and why it was happening. Hopefully he recalled it was his idea, and she was just following orders.
It was dangerous and unprecedented, the plan to disrupt. To spend significant money—millions—to make the President of the United States as miserable as humanly possible on his vacation. Payback for his disloyalty to Mr. Smith, right? All technically legal, of course—she was almost absolutely sure? Lizzie caught herself combing her brunette hair with her fingers. Forced herself to stop.
"Good," said Smith. "Garby's a weasel and a coward. That narcissist deserves all the suffering he gets."
Lizzie almost laughed—barely caught herself. Stayed silent.
"It's like all the idiots say—you have that epiphany when you're dying. Did I give it my best and was it a worthy cause? And how'll I be remembered… Well, I hope Garby remembers me with great pain. And Lizzie? Everything has to go perfectly. So don't let anyone get in the way. Especially Maddie's goddamn high school sweetheart."
Oliver didn't spend much time at marinas. But this one, Murphy's Hole Marina, was as Oliver would have pictured. Rows of weatherbeaten wood docks, boats of all sizes and shapes. A little store. All Oliver cared about was this was the right place.
They'd walked down onto the far dock, past the little yellow rope with the sign which told them not to. Oliver was trying to play as dumb a tourist as possible. Croke should have been a natural at looking dumb, but instead appeared uneasy behind his too big black sunglasses. And he seemed bothered by the floating dock's small movements.
But now they were standing by one particular fishing boat. They'd interrupted its captain who was performing one of the little tasks every boat owner always seems to be doing. Something with a rope, grimacing like the activity was a bit painful. And the captain wasn't as interested in talking to them as Oliver had hoped.
"It's our last day," Oliver said to the captain, with a little hand flourish. For emphasis. "We're headed back to Rochester this evening. But I thought, hey, wouldn't it be great to get out for a couple hours, maybe catch a big tuna myself, like on that TV show?"
"Wicked Tuna," said the captain. But still pretty much not interested. Still half dealing with what he was trying to do with the rope.
"So," said Oliver. "Maybe you know a boat I can charter for a little while? Just me. My brother here, he's not going. He's scared of deep water."
Croke grimaced at him. "Not scared. But I'm not feeling so good, today."
"I'd pay cash. A full-day rate for three hours," said Oliver quickly. "For the trouble, since I didn't, you know, make a reservation…"
"You could try Cape Crusader," said the captain, gesturing back toward the marina's other side.
"What's the fair rate, $1,800?" asked Oliver. Setting the hook.
"You said three hours?" repeated the captain. Definitely thinking about the money now.
Croke was pointing toward a large cabin cruiser, not a fishing boat. "Is that Cape Crusader?" Was he playing dumb or was he actually confused? Frickin' Croke.
"$1,800? Be a shame if you didn't get out on the water, your last day. I'm Marcus Dunne, captain of Shore Thang, at your service."
"I'm Will," said Oliver. Then he had to hold back a grimace as the captain shook his hand too hard.
"I could take you out as soon as I borrow some baitfish. When'll you be ready?"
"Oh, he's ready," said Croke, giving the captain what he probably thought was a warm smile. But the captain was already counting the $1,800 Oliver had handed over, didn't notice anything else.
Chapter Sixteen
While heading back to the New Albion police station where Special Agent Alfson had left his car, Pepper filled him in on his encounter with the Weepers.
"You wrote them tickets?" Alfson chuckled. "Pepper, you're a classic. Did you order them to leave town before sundown?"
Pepper didn't mention his dad's prior incident with the leader of the Weepers, since Alfson might laugh that off too.
"Reverend McDevitt and his hate cult have built up quite a war chest with their act," said Alfson. "Millions of dollars, from their lawsuits and tax-free donations from people even more nuts than they are. Which they've been quite happy to spend to keep stirring up more shit, but as a matter of religious principle I bet they don't pay parking fines. But I'd have liked to see McDevitt's face when you gave him those tickets…"
Pepper left Alfson back at his car, then with a friendly toot toot and guilty conscience drove off to swing by Marcus Dunne's house before he headed home. He knew the General--not to mention Alfson—would tell him not to. But Pepper also knew he had a better chance of getting quick info from Dunne. If they had to wait for the lawyers to negotiate a deal, it might be too late to act on whatever info Dunne had.
Dunne lived in the cheapest corner of New Albion. As far from the ocean as you could get and still be in the town. Small lots, older houses.
Dunne's house was a dump. Weed patches, fishing equipment and toddler gear were scattered around the yard. The clapboard siding had long needed repainting. Two cars were parked in the driveway, both covered in dust and grown around like they hadn't moved in a while and didn't expect to.
Pepper was still in uniform. He stepped carefully around a tricycle and an empty boat trailer and climbed the steps to the front door.
Trish answered the door. Cutoff jeans and a black lacy top that might be more for sleeping. Blinked at Pepper. He saw her eyes narrow and her face harden.
"We got a lawyer," she said. "You get your ass off our property, Pepper Ryan."
"Hello to you too, Trish."
She was out the door now, in his face. "You put Marcus in the hospital and come here for a hello? You stay away from us."
A little girl—three, four years old?--poked her head around the door and smiled at Pepper.
"This your daughter?"
Trish's face eased for a second. "This is Kaylee."
"Hello, Kaylee!" Pepper gave the little girl his super-friendliest smile.
"Get inside!"
Kaylee studied Pepper, then slid back from view behind the door.
Trish's fists were balled, she was breathing heavier. Looking more than a little pissed. "Pepper, whatta you want? Marcus isn't here."
Pepper spread his empty hands, palms out. "I'm not trying to cause him any trouble. But he knows something about the clambake murder. Or said he did, right? So if the wrong people hear, he could be in danger."
Trish glared at him. Weighing the level of his bullshit. "You think he's stupid? That I'm stupid?"
Pepper hadn't known Trish well. She was maybe three or four years behind him in high school. Her older sister Marie had been a little wilder but a little less naturally pretty. Trish had gotten the looks in the family but it appeared the last few years had been wearing on her.
"Trish, you know Marcus was about a half-second from getting shot when I whacked him. It had to be done."
She grinned despite herself. "He's still pissing blood. Probably good for you he's not here. He's still pretty mad about it. And not sitting comfortable, neither…"
Pepper grinned back. Okay, progress. "Trish, I'm not going to screw you guys over. But Marcus needs to tell me what he knows. He'll be safer once the info's out."
Trish sighed. Looked about ten years older than her real age. She crossed her arms over her chest but was rubbing her upper arms like she was cold. She fished in her pocket and pulled out
cigarettes and a lighter. Sparked up. "Want one?"
"No thanks."
She blew out a long stream of smoke. "Well, you take it up with Marcus. He went down to work on the boat. He's taking it out to Stellwagen early tomorrow and well...something always needs fixing."
"Murph Hole Marina?"
"Yeah. His boat's in an outside slip, all the way to the left. The Shore Thang." She shook her head. "And I can never get him to admit if it's named after me or Marie." Pepper saw her green eyes well with tears, but the water didn't make it to her cheeks—it stayed there in her eyes like perfectly crowned shot glasses. "Pepper, you gotta help Marcus. If anything happens to him..."
"I'll go down there right now. Hopefully he'll talk to me."
Trish stepped in for a goodbye hug but Pepper kind of botched it, being distracted by a car pulling up to the curb.
Three men got out. One was Westin, the top banana from the sovereign citizens outfit, New River Front. His two companions were wearing pants, so their visit must have been premeditated. Then they saw Pepper on the porch with Trish. They whispered among themselves and then Westin pulled out his fancy blue phone, made a call.
"They know you?" asked Trish.
Westin got a little more animated as his call went on, like he was arguing with whoever was on the other end. Then the three men climbed back into their car. As they were pulling away, Westin rolled down his window and gave them the middle finger.
"Yep, I guess they do," Trish said, with a little grin.
Pepper gave her a kiss on the cheek, suggested she be extra careful. Not open the door to any strangers unless they show a badge.
"My dishwasher may not work, but my shotgun's fucking tip-top," she said, smiling.
Pepper decided to pretend he hadn't heard the last comment. He was back in his truck on the street and had started his engine when a car passed and pulled into the driveway. A Ford Focus Hybrid. Two somber gentlemen in suits climbed out—part of Alfson's growing team on the Red Starfish investigation. Trish had gone inside. He figured the agents would hassle her but she'd be safe, as long as she didn't open with the shotgun.
Pepper was more worried about making his own clean exit. If the agents reported back to Alfson they'd seen Pepper at the Dunne's house, the day's kumbaya with Alfson would be undone. Pepper considered making a quick call to him but Pepper didn't have any info he wanted to share with the federal agent, quite yet. He needed to get something concrete first.
The two agents hadn't seemed to notice Pepper yet. He pulled away from the curb and was almost past them before they reacted.
"Hey!" yelled the agent Pepper recognized, who was waving to flag him down. But Pepper just waved back, friendly but busy. Drove away smooth but fast.
Pepper suspected the two Secret Service agents would be close behind him once they talked to Trish, maybe joined by a pissed-off Alfson, so Pepper headed straight to the marina.
Murphy's Hole Marina was at the far edge of New Albion's shoreline, tucked behind a man-made breakwater. Pepper had spent a lot of his youth with his buddies and Jake in little boats around the marina, fishing and swimming and screwing around.
Nothing much had changed here. Maybe it was a little more spruced up. What was the word--gentrified? Less fish blood stains on the dock. He made his way to the far left and walked down the ramp. The marina held a mix of commercial fishing boats, sailboats and motorboats. Most of the slips were full and not many people were around.
He didn't see Shore Thang. But three outside slips on the far left were empty.
Pepper strolled over to a teenager who was sitting on an upside-down white pail, deep in concentration while tying an O'Shaughnessy hook on thick fishing line.
"Excuse me, you know where Shore Thang ties up?"
Pepper could see the teenager taking in his police uniform, deciding whether to be helpful.
"You Pepper Ryan?" the boy asked, now making eye contact.
Pepper nodded.
"I'm in Leslie Holbrook's grade... Yeah, Shore Thang's slip's the middle empty one over there. He was just going out when I got here. Picked up a half-day walk on."
"When was that?"
"'Two hours ago. But funny you're here. I heard from Leslie, maybe I should talk to you?"
Pepper had left his voicemail for Leslie that morning. Requested she get the word around—if anyone was parked at Dill Lot on Saturday night, they needed to call Pepper. That it was super important.
The boy asked Pepper, can they keep it confidential? Pepper said he'd do his best to keep him out of it, but they really needed to know whatever he had to say.
"So, I was at Dill Lot on Saturday night," the boy admitted. "Just past dark like 9:30, for a while. I'm not saying with who, okay?"
"That's okay for now. What'd you see?"
"Just a car. It came into the lot and we scrunched down as it passed, thinking it might be a cop car, since it kind of looked like one."
"What color?"
"Maybe blue. Dark anyways. It backed in, far down by the end, near the path to the beach, you know? So I decided it wasn't the cops, because you guys just cruise through, shine your lights. But I didn't think anything of it yet, right? Just like they were parking too, wanted some space. But four men got out—"
"You sure they were men?"
"Definitely. They were bigger than girls and how they moved, you know? They were men. But I didn't see their faces or anything. It was too dark and too far away."
"So what'd the men do?"
"They popped their trunk. I saw them take out shovels, head down to the beach. They had to be digging a hole for that dead guy!"
"Maybe. Did you see anything else?"
"No. Jamie—I mean, my friend—was getting kinda freaked out, us hiding down low, watching the other car. I was trying to talk her into sticking around. But when a cop car came through the lot too, that made her even more freaked out. Her parents are low-key crazy."
"You sure about the cop car?" Zula had said every officer confirmed they hadn't patrolled Dill Lot that night. He'd have to ask her to double-check, had she missed somebody?
"Definitely. It was marked and everything. It cruised right through, then stopped for a minute by those guys' car. Then my friend…she wanted to split, too much traffic that early in the night. So we did." Then the boy thought a while. "Be nice if you'd catch those murdering sons, like you did that fucker in the brown van. Because Dill Lot used to be a great place to park…"
Chapter Seventeen
Pepper and his dad came from the Fenway Park tunnel near first base into bright sunshine. They paused, blinking, and taking in the spectacular infield. The razor straight chalk lines. Pesky's Pole. The Green Monster looming in left.
"A grass and dirt church with eight dollar beers," said Pepper. "Remember? That's what Jake called this place."
"Amen," said his dad.
Pepper was taking that afternoon off—his first break since starting again with the New Albion police. Someone had dropped off at the police station a couple Red Sox tickets with Pepper's name on them. A rare 1:35 PM game for that Wednesday. An anonymous welcome back. The public dropped off food, tickets, all kinds of gifts to the local police and firemen from time to time as a thank you. Especially since 9/11. But Pepper suspected the secret angel this time was his buddy, Angel. And the General had insisted that Pepper take his dad to the game. Basically ordered him to do it. Chief Eisenhower and his dad were tight enough for his boss to know how uncomfortable things remained in the Ryan home since Pepper's return. And this game was the perfect chance to find a way to somehow reconnect with his dad, right?
And Alfson? He was tied up with three teams of Secret Service investigators and had said he might have a window of opportunity to touch base around dinner time. Which lessened Pepper's guilt for an afternoon off, just a tad.
Their seats were twelve rows behind the Sox dugout, and like all the best days at Fenway, the weather was clear and warm. Anyone who knew right from wrong loved th
e decision a while back to renovate historic Fenway instead of replacing it. They'd preserved its essence while wedging in some extra seats and a few more executive comforts. Like the seats they were in--a little wider than the vintage seats, a little bit more curved and comfortable for an adult rear end. Discomfort was one tradition Pepper was happy to sacrifice.
Pepper felt a bit older today than his twenty-nine years, kind of beat up. It had only been a few days since the bar fight and he had various aches and pains from things he'd sort of pulled wrestling with Dunne. His cheek had gone black and blue around his stitches, but was hurting a little bit less.
The Fenway crowd was into the ballgame. Tons of Sox fans wore replica game jerseys, even the grown-ups. A level of commercial support way beyond Pepper's worn red cap with a white B.
"We didn't do this enough," said Pepper. "In the old days." It'd been a rare treat in Pepper's youth to make the pilgrimage up to Fenway with his dad and Jake.
His dad was silent a bit. "I did the best I could, Son. The job never stopped…"
Shit. Pepper took a gulp of beer. "I didn't mean it that way."
"In fact, I was amazed you could take the afternoon, what with being on such a hot case."
Frickin' touché. Pepper's gut tightened a bit. This outing was off to a wrong start… "Speaking about the old days, I had a little run-in yesterday with your old buddies. The Weepers."
"McDevitt? He came to town?"
"I gave him six parking tickets. He didn't take it well."
"At least you didn't punch him in the face."
And they sat, each thinking about his dad's career-ending punch six years ago. The Weepers had been picketing a dead soldier's funeral. The chaos was captured on video from three angles. The Weepers had broken the police line in several places and the reverend got too close to the grieving widow and her parents. She'd turned, her face pale, running with tears. Eyes wild with fear and grief, shrinking away as Reverend McDevitt leaned forward, spitting his insults into her face. Chief Ryan's right cross had caught the reverend on the ear mid-taunt, knocking him unconscious before he hit the ground.
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