Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  The two black Suburbans filled to capacity, then slowly drove away into the night.

  "Pretty important sardines. What happened to their third ride?"

  "My doorman with the skin problem told me a skinny Secret Service guy commandeered it to send two drunk ladies home. A blonde and a redhead. It was probably a more exciting night's work than my celebrity bouncer expected."

  Pepper found Zula back inside the Malecón patio, sitting on a black leather couch. Fatigue had set in on her face and she greeted Pepper's arrival with an annoyed yawn. Alfson was standing at her side, talking to her.

  Zula stood slowly, then leaned on Pepper's arm as she adjusted her shoe strap. "I'm not going to wait around for you, okay? My feet are killing me and I'm on Dispatch at 8 AM."

  "I can give you a lift," offered Alfson.

  You got another Suburban handy? Pepper gritted his teeth. "Sorry, Zula. Hurd'll keep me stuck here a while."

  Alfson grinned. "No worries, partner, I'll take care of her."

  And only another yawn from Zula, not even a peck on the cheek when they left. Pepper was pretty sure she was pissed at him. But thanks to Freestyle and Funsize's waffle cravings, his name would finally be on the Eagle's Nest gate list. The perfect chance to sniff around the big house to figure out if Maddie's old man being bilked by his Girl Friday, while maybe giving Pepper room to move forward his own little investigation…

  So finish at Malecón, then drown in sleep. Tomorrow would have to go better, right?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Not too early the next morning—practically noon—Pepper arrived at Eagle's Nest. He had to pass through two checkpoints along Shore Road with their deadpan agents coming out from the shade of their cheap white tents, and then a third checkpoint at the Eagle's Nest main gate itself. At the first checkpoint, he had to confirm his social security number and the agent checked her computer, maybe a criminal database? His name was on their gate list, he wasn't a criminal, he passed. At the second checkpoint, a German Shepherd sniffed around, in and under his car. At the third, the agent kept Pepper's I.D. and would have taken his handgun too, which was why he hadn't brought it.

  So, if the waffles were cold, the twins would have to take it up with the Secret Service.

  Pepper hadn't been to Eagle's Nest since he was seventeen but it was as over-the-top as he remembered. Pepper knew Acker Smith had built Eagle's Nest for his late wife—Maddie's mother. Pepper parked his truck in front of the main mansion by a large, round fountain with a statue in its middle of an oversized Greek nymph, acting surprised to be naked. The mansion's front doors were solid wood, twelve feet high. What would it feel like to call a place like this home?

  Pepper took the long walk around the house's side, to the backyard. The twins were sunning by the main house pool with the First Lady. Big smiles, small bikinis, on all three. Maddie Smith and Justin Case were there too, with a couple others, and were about to go down on the beach. Did Pepper have a bathing suit?

  Pepper held up a backpack, said he'd go change, meet them down there. The twins were already tearing into the waffles with ooh's and ah's. Loved the waffles, loved his plan.

  Maddie gave him an exaggerated wink, with a hint of a smirk? She waved toward the main house. "Anything you need, Detective, you'll find upstairs…"

  So, time to toss the billionaire's mansion for clues. Pepper made his way in through the rear entrance. Marble, gold, glass. Everything was larger than in a normal house, the entire scale was over the top.

  At the end of the hall, he climbed a broad staircase, nodding to two house staff—a woman and a man—as he passed them going the other way. One called up after Pepper, but he kept climbing with purpose. He had plenty to get into before his bathing suit. Agent Keser had begun his review of this building on the day before he died and ended up in the clambake pit—was there any connection, at all? Priority one was Pepper's official business—anything that might help his investigation. But hey, if Pepper bumped into any dirt that proved or disproved Maddie's suspicions about her daddy's assistant? That'd be a lucky bonus.

  As he reached the landing, he almost collided with a woman in a nurse's uniform who'd just left a room on the hall's end. Pepper stepped aside with smiles and apologies, let her take the staircase down. He waited a few seconds—the hallway was now deserted. So he gently opened the door she'd left and went in. Blind curiosity, for lack of a better plan…

  It was a bedroom. Larger than any Pepper had ever lived in. Pretty dark. A kingsize bed was kitty corner, near the windows with curtains drawn firmly closed.

  A man was in the bed. Acker Smith? Pepper tried to recall the billionaire as he'd last seen him, almost a dozen years before. This man looked…well, he looked diminished. Close to death. He was almost unrecognizable. His face was sunken and he had less hair now—the hands of cancer? The man was deeply asleep.

  There was a machine on a long table close to the bed. It held a number of tubes of blood. Freshly drawn by the nurse? There was a medical folder labeled Acker Smith. Pepper opened it but understood little. Quick glance at the sleeping man, then he took out his phone and took pictures of the medical chart's first few pages. Each picture's click sounded like a little slap breaking the room's silence and the flash was blinding, but necessary in that dark gloom. With one eye on the charts and the other on the man in bed, Pepper finished as quickly as he could.

  Some other device was on the table, maybe medical? It was a small rectangular box with a wire attached, looked like a headphone wire. Pepper took a picture of that too, nice and close. Click, flash.

  There was a large ceramic penguin on the table, near the blood machine. Pepper was a big fan of penguins so he rubbed its head. Then was startled when the penguin started to vibrate. What the hell?

  It vibrated, stopped, vibrated again. Like a cell phone with its ringer turned off. He held down the penguin with one hand and tugged up with his other. The head popped free. And he saw a cell phone with its screen lit up, on a pile of glassine envelopes. It was another of those strange blue phones and it was still ringing.

  Pepper picked it up and clicked it on. "Ah, hello?" he said.

  "Is that…you? You break your voice box?" asked a man.

  What? The caller had a bit of a southern accent. And an attitude. Did Pepper recognize the voice? "What're you calling for?" Pepper asked, trying to out-attitude the caller.

  "Job #1 is all set. I thought you'd want to know we're almost ready for the big show. Did you take care of the list yet?"

  List? "Ah, we should meet to go over that," improvised Pepper. "Do you know Roger's Lighthouse parking lot? Let's meet tonight, nine o'clock, don't be late."

  The man on the other end clicked off.

  Was he spooked by something, or was a meet-up all set? The whole conversation felt sneaky, but was Pepper missing some innocent explanation?

  Pepper typed the man's number into his own phone. He didn't really know whether the call had anything to do with the cases he was working, but his blood was pumping hard. He was about to put the phone back in the penguin but stopped when he saw the tiny glassine envelopes again. Maybe twenty or so. Each was sealed shut and held a small amount of white powder that looked like salt. Opium or some variation?

  Pepper activated the flashlight on his phone and held one envelope up to its bright light, but that technique told him nada. And he wasn't going to do a taste test. So he took the envelope and slipped it into an evidence bag in his backpack, sealed it. Let a lab figure it out. He carefully placed the blue phone back in the penguin, put its head back on and gave it a little pat. Had the head been on perfectly straight before he lifted it, or had it been slightly to one side? He had a nagging sense, maybe slightly off-center? But to which side? If he didn't guess right, would someone know the penguin had been tampered with?

  The man stirred in the bed, muttering unintelligible words that sounded vaguely panicked. Had Pepper's phone call or the flashlight app disturbed him?

  Fuck it,
leave the head straight. Pepper quickly checked the rest of the bedroom but didn't see anything else that caught his interest. Other than the decorative penguin, the room was strangely lacking in personal effects.

  He cracked the door and peeked out in time to see a man in a blue blazer checking a doorknob across the hall, walkie-talkie in hand, electronic voice quietly squawking. Pepper pulled back his head, slid the door almost closed, held his breath. The man in the bed behind him was muttering louder, half shouting as if in a nightmare. Pepper closed the door, locked the knob and leaned against it.

  A moment later, Pepper heard the doorknob creak and rattle as it was tried from the other side. Did Blazer Man have a key?

  Pepper pressed himself against the wall and hoped not.

  The door didn't open and the knob didn't rattle again. Pepper counted to fifty, then eased the door open again and stuck his head out far enough to see the hall was now clear of blazers and walkie-talkies. Pepper quickly went door to door on the ocean side of the hall, checking rooms. A few were locked. A few were unlocked but appeared to be unused bedrooms. The fifth door that Pepper tried was different. It was unlocked and looked lived in. He quickly went inside, saying a firm but quiet, "Hello?"

  It was a large bedroom—much larger than the others on the hall. Maybe the largest Pepper had ever seen. A billionaire's bedroom, seemed like. A lot of furniture but even more empty space. A big bed with sheets and blankets pulled back a bit like someone had been sleeping there. So why was Acker Smith tucked away in the other, smaller room?

  Pepper saw French doors at the far end leading to a balcony. Off to the side was a mahogany desk with a large flatscreen monitor for a desktop computer.

  He quickly went to the desk, hoping for anything relevant to his investigation. Maybe Keser's picture with a red X across his face? At that point, Pepper would have settled for naked pics of Smith's assistant. He felt like he was taking risks but getting nowhere.

  Pepper tapped the keyboard to wake the monitor but then it required a password. He tried 'madeline'. Then 'Madeline'. And then 'MADELINE'. Nope, nope, nope. Pepper was worried if he failed too many times the computer would lock and give away that someone had tried to hack in.

  The desk drawers were unlocked. He rifled through them. The drawers were full of documents and other odds and ends, like any desk. But what else? Time was running out. Someone could come in any minute—what would he say? That he needed a safety pin for his swimsuit?

  A neat stack of documents was perched on the desk's corner. None looked like a will, but Pepper quickly took a picture of each document's top page. He didn't have time for the other pages…

  As Pepper hastily patted the documents into a stack, a little yellow post-it note kicked free from the pile. It said 'Scoter' and 'BLACKHAM' with a phone number. And an exclamation note below that. Hmm… Pepper took a picture of the note then tucked it back into the stack.

  He opened the French doors and stepped onto an enormous balcony. It appeared even larger because there was very little furniture. Just two oversized chairs, wood frames with sleek gray cushions, and one little white table.

  The view was impressive. The massive lawn rolled past the blue pool and down a gentle slope. The lawn blended away into a seagrass jungle which led to the beach. A billionaire's backyard. And the Madeline Too yacht hunched at the horizon's edge, unmoving, but dominating the view. There weren't as many other craft as usual, due to the restricted zone around Eagle's Nest due to the president's vacation. A few Navy boats were patrolling back and forth across the bay.

  He could see Maddie and Justin down on the beach and the twins picking their way through a path in the tall seagrass to join them. Justin was lying on his back just above the high tide line, vigorously making what appeared to be a sand angel. Maddie was about forty feet from shore balancing on a paddleboard. She was wearing an ocean blue strap bikini top and lighter blue swim shorts. Pepper saw her balance her forearms against the flat of the board, then push herself upward into a kind of forearmed handstand. One leg scissored forward, the other back, as she struggled to find balance. But after a little wavering, she found her pose. Her caramel-tanned arms and legs shone with water and light. Girl had some core strength.

  "Who're you!?!" demanded a voice behind him—high, hard, female. "What're you doing in Mr. Smith's bedroom?"

  Lizzie Concepcion was standing in the middle of the bedroom. Acker Smith's right-hand woman, and maybe more.

  Pepper gave her his super most charming smile. Almost overdid it. "I'm Pepper Ryan! Here with the twins, you know… And Maddie… She said I could put on my board shorts and this was the only open door in this castle. Mind if I?" Pepper jerked his head toward a master bathroom off to the side, past the mahogany desk.

  "Mr. Smith's on his way upstairs! If he finds you here, he'll have you arrested! And me fired!" The woman was shaking.

  "Whoa, fired?" he asked. "Maybe I should get naked somewhere downstairs?"

  "Lizzie, call security." The voice came from the doorway, thin but firm. Like it'd been squeezed through two pieces of sandpaper, but under high pressure. A gray-haired man stood there, glaring at them both. Imperious. This was Acker Smith—the disapproving mouth was undeniable. Smith was just as sick as the other man sleeping down the hall—wicked pale with a yellow-orange tinge. A similarly sunken face and sparse, white hair. Radically thinner than years ago.

  "CALL SECURITY!" Not much louder, but with as much force as the old man could muster. Smith twisted to the side, bent over, and violently vomited on the floor. Lizzie Concepcion rushed to his aid.

  Pepper didn't wait for security—he knew how to throw himself out.

  Back in his truck, he exited through the Secret Service checkpoints. He expected their phones to ring, for them to point their weapons, to order him from his vehicle. But leaving was much quicker than entering. He was given back his I.D. at the nearest checkpoint. Barely had to stop at the next two. He was soon driving back along Shore Road, a free man, his heart working harder than a one-legged tap dancer.

  Why had Smith and Concepcion just let him leave? Too distracted by Smith's sudden up-chuck? Of course, Pepper was only standing there, in what had to be Smith's bedroom, when he was discovered. He didn't have his hands in the underwear drawer, thank God.

  He'd have to see what his document photos showed. Great luck that security or the Secret Service hadn't grabbed him and found all that! But more importantly, what should he do about the mystery meet up at Rogers' Lighthouse at 9 PM? Show up alone? Or try to set a trap, with a full backup of local cops and Secret Service? How would he explain to the General and Alfson how the meeting had been set up? And that he had absolutely no real idea who'd be there? The relationship might be completely, innocently legal. Pepper pulled over to the side of Shore Road. Sighed. Took his phone and scrolled to the mystery number he'd copied from the blue phone. His gut told him he knew that voice, but he just couldn't place it.

  Pepper dialed the number.

  The call connected but with no greeting. Pepper could hear breathing, no words.

  "Just calling to confirm your order," said Pepper in his peppiest voice.

  "Who's this?" asked the same voice as earlier.

  "Broken Dreams Antiques and Pizzeria… Did I, you know, fat finger the wrong number?" tried Pepper.

  "Have a nice fucking day," said the man, disconnecting.

  Hmmm… The man's voice was teasing Pepper, like he'd heard it somewhere other than those two calls. Or maybe it was the attitude that seemed so familiar? So many assholes, so little time…

  Why would the sick man in the guest bedroom at Smith's mansion have been calling that person anyway? What could be the connection? He'd have to ask Maddie who the sick man was and why he was holed up at Eagle's Nest.

  And should he tell Alfson yet? No, still way too many questions…

  Oliver and Croke were hunkered down at the Sanddollar Motel on that Saturday, waiting until they got a further assignment or else the 'all
clear' to split. Sitting in Croke's room, each on one of the twin beds, watching crap on TV. Sitting up like those puppets on Sesame Street. Ernie and Bart?

  "I think some of these rooms are being rented by the hour," muttered Croke.

  "Huh? Who cares?" Croke was getting on Oliver's nerves, clicking through the TV channels aimlessly.

  "It's just a lot of traffic. Couples checking in for a few hours, taking off. More people to see us. Maybe remember us." Croke finally stopped clicking when he saw baseball.

  "Those people aren't dropping a dime. What'll they tell the cops? I was giving my mistress a nooner and I saw two shifty guys at the Sanddollar? Live and let live, that's what I say. Unless someone pays me otherwise."

  "I'm getting a bad feeling about Cape Cod," said Croke. "Kinda real bad. Maybe we should take off, huh?"

  Take off, and leave the big money and glory that Oliver was certain would soon be his? Not damn yet... "Let's go to that burger place with the fat pickles you like. Talk it over."

  Oliver had him at pickles. "Okay," said Croke reluctantly. "But first I gotta piss." Croke slid off his bed and shadow-boxed into the bathroom. One of his quirks, showing off what he claimed had been pretty good boxing skills, back in the home country, in his youth. Just ask him, he'd tell you. At length.

  Another of Oliver's annoyances with Croke was the man was a slow pisser—he took longer than anyone Oliver had ever met. He needed one of those medicines from the Golf Channel. Oliver didn't want to loiter outside among the adulterers so he just lay there on the spare bed, closed his eyes and tried to close his ears. The Croke situation was getting on his nerves and giving him a headache.

  When they finally went outside to get in the Taurus, they found their way blocked by a woman. A woman in what appeared to be a bathrobe. She stopped Croke with an angry gesture. "This your car?" she asked.

  "Is something wrong?" asked Croke. Looking a little confused and maybe amused.