Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  "You're parked in my spot." She gestured to room thirteen.

  Croke was staying in room sixteen and Oliver was in ten. Croke had split the difference when he'd parked last night, smack in front of room thirteen. Had done it most days since they first arrived at the Sanddollar Motel. He remembered that earlier in their stay someone had rubbed the word ASHOLE in the dirt on the back window of their last car, but when Oliver had noticed it he'd just wiped it away, assuming some stupid kid had been showing off his bad language and worse spelling. Maybe instead it had been a stupid woman? Whatever…

  "These are not reserved," said Croke to the woman. He waved an arm. "People just park."

  Two kids, maybe between four and six years old, had spilled out of room thirteen and were watching.

  The woman gave Croke one of the most murderous glares Oliver had ever seen. Pure hatred. Oliver thought he saw Croke waver a bit, but then Croke brushed past the woman. "Excuse us, ma'am," he said, all mock politeness.

  Croke started the car and slowly backed from the woman's spot and away they went.

  "It's not anyone's spot," Croke suddenly said a few minutes later.

  Oliver's head was hurting even more now so he didn't reply. There was no simple solution except murder.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "Is this a good idea?" asked Officer Larch, again.

  Pepper had been sitting with his colleague in Larch's personal ride—a Kia Sedona—for three hours. It was almost 8 PM. They were staking-out the New River Front house, making a few notes of people's comings and goings, but mostly trying not to die of boredom. The NRF weren't the liveliest bunch. He'd have to pull the plug soon if he wanted to keep his 9 PM rendezvous with the cell phone mystery man.

  Pepper's instincts were playing a light drumbeat in his veins. He believed this was enough of a lead to focus on, but not enough to lay out for Chief Eisenhower or Lieutenant Hurd, yet. And definitely not enough to call Special Agent Alfson. Pepper was gambling that these NRF shitbirds might be the shitbirds who abducted Marcus Dunne. Because either Pepper's charm or FBI Deputy Assistant Director Edwina Youngblood—bless her heart—had gotten FBI assets to assist. Thirteen files had arrived in Pepper's email from analysts at the FBI's National Security Branch, full of good, juicy info. The analysis mentioned only one activist group on Pepper's list who'd engaged in kidnapping in recent years: the New River Front. The same shitbirds with sandy shovels on their porch. And who may have been seen by the teen witness at Dill Beach lot, that night. So who better for Pepper to focus on? And Pepper knew time was running out to locate Marcus Dunne alive…

  While they waited, Pepper had texted his dad the photos he'd taken at Eagle's Nest. He knew his dad was still doggedly (and semi-unofficially) running down the paperwork and people trail to figure out who was behind the house demo. Not to mention the seafood angle of the clambake homicide. But hopefully his dad could take a look at the photos, let him know his thoughts? And could he get Dr. Anderson—the local general practitioner—to look at the medical chart pictures, translate what they said, as a favor? But not to discuss them with anyone else, please… Pepper had reviewed them and hadn't concluded anything helpful, but was hoping the risks he took at Eagle's Nest weren't a complete waste.

  "So I'm in the middle of a graveyard shift," Officer Larch was saying. "Real quiet. The Cape in March quiet. I'm cruising past the Rockland Trust branch when I see someone suspicious in the outer lobby, where they got the ATM machine. He's not standing at the ATM, punching in numbers on the keypad like a regular citizen. He's facing the other way, squatting down, with this anxious look on his face."

  "Uh-oh," said Pepper.

  "Right. The guy's taking a numero two, right there in the ATM lobby. So I put on gloves and bust him, right? He's drunk but otherwise pretty good-natured, now he's taken care of business. I book him for breach of the peace."

  In his side view mirror, Pepper saw a light blue Ford Focus pull up close behind them and cut its engine.

  "Of course the papers get wind of it somehow," continued Larch. He didn't seem to have noticed the Ford Focus. "Personally I suspect the lovely Zula. She's got a mischievous streak. So the Herald's crime beat reporter gets my report, runs it as one of those wacky crimes. So what do you think their headline was?"

  "Man Arrested While Making Deposit?"

  "No. It was... Dammit, that would've been better. Why didn't the Herald think of that? Now I forget the real headline. Fuck you, Pepper!"

  A man came up to the driver side window. Pepper's partner—Special Agent Alfson.

  "Mind if I get in?" he asked with a scowl.

  Officer Larch clicked the locks and Alfson slid into the back seat. All the way to the middle. Leaned forward, one forearm on each headrest. "Your phone not working?" he asked Pepper. "Because if my partner was staking out a house, I'm sure he would've called me. I couldn't believe it when my team in the bungalow across from the NRF called and reported there was a second stakeout group on the street."

  Oops. "We got a lead the NRF might be holding Dunne," said Pepper. "And since he's only tangentially related to the Keser case, as a witness, I didn't want to bother you."

  Alfson snorted. "Dunne may be more than a witness. I still think he could have been the goddamn killer. Or one of them. His co-conspirators might have grabbed him, maybe afraid he'll rat them out. So what's the deal—you trying to be the hero again?"

  "Well, this is awkward," said Larch. "Want me to take a stroll, so you two can kiss and make up?"

  Mercifully, right then the front door opened and two men came out and crossed the lawn to the driveway. They opened the rear of a Ford Expedition and wrestled a very large duffel bag to the ground. After a little stretching and tentative tugging, one tried to lift the bag. It was too heavy.

  Quick conversation with accusatory gestures. Then they each grabbed an end and began half dragging, half bumping the bag along toward the middle house. They paused to rest twice on the way.

  A third guy came out the front door and appeared to be giving them shit. But then the third guy grabbed a corner and they hauled the bag up the front steps and into the house. One man went back to the Expedition for a smaller bag, big enough for maybe a set of golf clubs. He carried that inside too and the house's front door closed.

  "Do you think Dunne was in the bigger bag?" asked Larch.

  "Looked about the right size and weight," said Pepper. "But who knows? If it's him, hopefully he's just unconscious… I'd better take a peek in their window, to check."

  "No, no, no…" scowled Alfson. "I need to touch base with my SAIC before we start raiding private property. Speaking of which, Pepper, I hear you showed up briefly at Eagle's Nest today?"

  "We can chat about that later. And we don't have time for a warrant—these are what the DA would call exigent circumstances," said Pepper. "Clearly. Besides, Westin invited us back, remember? Told me to bring more muscle than you."

  Larch grinned. "But maybe we should call for backup anyways?"

  If Pepper didn't fear the NRF might be about to kill Dunne he'd have said yes. Get a warrant. At least call for backup. But he couldn't wait, not after what he'd promised Trish. He could imagine her face, and little Kaylee's too, if their worst fears were confirmed. "Sit tight and call whoever you want. I'll be back in a minute, no worries. It's not my job description that requires jumping in front of bullets," winked Pepper. "Trust me."

  Pepper and Alfson hadn't seen anyone standing lookout or any security cameras on their prior visit to the house, but Pepper decided to assume there might be some. He circled around the block and came at the NRF house from the yard of the house behind it. No dogs started barking. No suspicious senior citizen shot at him. All was going well.

  He climbed over the low picket fence bordering the NRF's backyard and flattened himself on the ground. He slowly crawled to the house. Pulled himself up to the kitchen window. A shade was down but one edge had curled forward, leaving enough of a gap for Pepper to view a sizable
wedge of the room.

  The big bag was on the kitchen floor. Unzipped. And three men were unloading an arsenal of assault rifles, piling them on the kitchen table. Looked like M16s. They also pulled magazine after magazine--long, curved and black. Thirty rounders? And other gear--body armor? So, not Dunne, living or dead. But a whole different kind of trouble.

  Then three things went wrong, all in a row--

  A siren broke the evening silence.

  Then a second later he heard Larch yell, "Tom… Jones…!", loud and long from far away down the street.

  Then the shade pulled back and shot up and he was face to face with Brian-Edward Westin. Who was holding a handgun.

  Pepper threw himself to the left, away from the window and the light. Then he ran back toward Larch's Kia as fast as his legs could go.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pepper was almost to the car when he heard a handgun fire six or so times in a quick burst. Heard bullets zipping past, impacting trees and the Kia. He tore open the passenger door as Larch fumbled to start the engine. Larch yanked the shifter into reverse and floored his way out of there. Immediately hitting Alfson's Ford Focus.

  "Fucker!" shouted Larch, pulling forward briefly then reversing around the Ford Focus and down the street about fifty yards. He barely missed a police car coming around the curve towards him. The officer slammed his brakes and stopped nearby. Larch parked in the street at an angle.

  Pepper saw a man in the street in front of the NRF house, firing down the road towards them. Looked like Brian-Edward Westin.

  "Somebody…somebody called in they saw a peeping tom!" gasped Larch. "But I didn't think it was about you—Dispatch said on Robin Street!"

  That was the next street over--the row of houses Pepper had cut through to sneak up on the NRF house's rear.

  Pepper unholstered his Glock as he climbed out, running around the Kia's rear to the protection of the driver's side. He waved at the uniformed officer--the redhead Dooley--who was also getting out of his car while trying to figure out what the hell he'd driven into. He had his firearm out and up too, but recognized Pepper. Alfson and Larch also piled out on the Kia's protected side, their handguns drawn.

  The man in the road--who definitely appeared to be Westin—had put in a new clip and was firing down the road at them again. All three officers opened fire in return. The distance was around 100 yards. The man suddenly stopped firing, fell, got up and ran back towards the NRF house. They saw at least two other men on the front porch, but all went inside with Westin.

  That began what was later called New Albion's own little Waco Incident.

  A flood of local and federal officers secured the area's perimeter. The New River Front went right to their siege playbook--barricading the house and rebuffing the negotiators who called them on the house's land line. The NRF needed to keep the landline open to phone the media. They also sent out text messages, tweets and Facebook posts begging others to come to their defense, peppered with their top pet peeves against President Garby and federal authorities.

  Pepper stayed at the front line with Officers Larch and Dooley. Special Agent Alfson had disappeared a block further back to update his SAIC Hanley and Chief Eisenhower.

  Seven media trucks descended, staked their turf in a cluster as near as authorities allowed and raised their satellite dishes.

  An hour passed—boredom with a side of caged violence.

  "The house wants to talk to an Officer Ryan?" said the crisis negotiator who'd arrived from the Mass CNU. He held up the phone questioningly.

  Ryan raised a hand, stepped over, took it.

  "This is Ryan."

  Pepper didn't recognize the voice that replied. The man was hysterical, almost unintelligible, saying, "It's bought and paid for—"

  "Let me talk to Westin," interrupted Pepper.

  Another burst of words. That Westin wasn't coming to the phone, but the voice didn't say why. Was he dead? Or had he escaped before the perimeter was set up? "That dirty bird—" Then the line went dead.

  The negotiator tried to reestablish contact, then again five minutes later. But the NRF had gone silent.

  "Let me go up near the house, try to talk them out," said Pepper. "Maybe their phone died."

  Nobody liked that idea. Not Chief Eisenhower, who'd joined the forward cluster of law enforcement officers. Not the staties or the feds. Maybe the first time all those agencies had ever agreed on anything. But no one had a better plan.

  So Pepper and two SWAT officers slowly worked their way closer to the house, dressed head to toe in protective gear. Pepper already had sweat running into his eyes. They also carried big ballistic shields with POLICE stenciled on them.

  "These shields completely bulletproof?" asked Pepper.

  "Should be," said one of the SWAT officers. "They're the third most expensive this company makes."

  They halted at the lawn's edge. It was very quiet until Pepper began yelling to the house. That it was him. Could they talk? That they needed to come out, one at a time, hands up.

  The answer was the front door burst open. Three men ran out, firing M16s. Pepper and the SWAT officers huddled low behind their overlapping shields as what sounded like hundreds of bullets banged off them. Then Pepper heard the boom-boom-boom of SWAT snipers answering fire from way behind him. More firing came from the other side of the street—the agents who'd been on surveillance in the bungalow. All three NRF men went down, then regained their feet. They were wearing body armor too. One resumed firing at Pepper and his two companions. More booms from the SWAT sniper rifles and all three men went down again, writhing on the ground.

  "Dumbasses didn't put on leg protectors," said the SWAT guy to Pepper's left.

  One of the NRF men struggled to his feet and careened back toward the house. The SWAT team didn't fire again.

  But as the man reached the front porch's top step, his leg skidded out forward and he tumbled backward down the steps, arms windmilling. He hit the concrete walkway with a deadened thump, slid a bit on his own blood-slick, then was still.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Two of the three NRF men had bled out on the lawn and the third had been taken by helicopter to the hospital. And those were the only remaining NRF members at the house when the shootout had happened. A much larger group—five men and three women—had driven to the Golden Fork for its "10% off" weeknight special buffet. They'd been finishing up dessert when they were taken into custody by a few dozen local, state and federal officers.

  Those members had no idea yet that anything had happened back at their rental house. They hadn't seen TV and hadn't gotten a phone call because the shopping plaza where the Golden Fork was located was a dead spot for cell reception. They had nothing to say about the big bag of assault rifles, or the missing smaller bag, or what their leader Brian-Edward Westin was up to or where he would have fled. No idea about anything. Even the dumbest knew to ask for a lawyer, then clam up.

  Only Westin was missing. They found a pool of blood in the kitchen. But he was gone and so was the smaller carry bag. The ex-Army Ranger must have slipped away through the backyard during the initial chaos before a perimeter was fully set up. A BOLO was broadcast for him. Was he injured enough to require medical attention?

  Based on the Secret Service's surveillance after Pepper and Alfson's original visit to the NRF, the feds believed at least three other men and two other women from NRF remained at large in the area. Was Westin hiding with them?

  After an expedited warrant, the Secret Service, ATF, state and local law searched the rental house. They found two android phones in the kitchen, which the Secret Service considered a lucky break since those models aren't usually encrypted. The Secret Service would be able to hack them after getting another warrant, for caution's sake. Hopefully, there would be text messages, phone messages and emails explaining what the hell the NRF had been up to.

  "This is gonna sting," said Zula Eisenhower, with a hint of a smile cracking her pretty lips.
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br />   "No shit," said Pepper, gritting his teeth. It was late evening and he was back at the station, waiting for Chief Eisenhower and Lieutenant Hurd. Waiting to explain what the hell had happened.

  Zula splashed rubbing alcohol on a long scrape on Pepper's chin, where he'd hit himself pretty good with his SWAT shield. The alcohol felt like fire. She gave Pepper's scrape an extra firm rub with a paper towel. Then she carefully covered the raw spot with a loose bandage, then tape.

  She patted his hand and smiled. "Good enough for you," she said. "You'll probably be in the Emergency Room for one reason or another in the next few days. They can hit it again more professionally."

  "But not half so gently."

  "Baby! But I finished researching that name you gave me—Fulmar Limited? Not much to it. Turns out it's a Cayman Islands corporation. Acker Smith's an officer, plus a bunch of other people I didn't recognize except one: Elizabeth Concepcion. Here's the list."

  Pepper gave it a glance but didn't recognize any other names.

  "And I found that Fulmar Limited's the registered owner for a lot of Smith's assets. Eagle's Nest. His vehicles. His Gulfstream. Two yachts."

  "Hmmm. Maybe for tax reasons, estate planning?" Might be totally legit. And would it be normal to have an assistant like Concepcion as an officer, to handle the administrative crap?

  "Can you also do a background check on Lizzie Concepcion," he asked, "Just to be thorough?" He definitely wasn't going to tell Zula the Concepcion research was at the request of the lovely Maddie Smith…

  Zula looked at him like that didn't make sense. "Lizzie Concepcion? For the Keser investigation?"

  "Leave no shell unturned, that's my method." Pepper doubted Lizzie Concepcion was a gold digger and didn't know whether anything shady was going on at Eagle's Nest anyway. The whole thing might be a waste of time.

  But that reminded Pepper of something else. He took the evidence bag with the little glassine envelope of mystery powder from his pocket and handed it to Zula. "Can you send this up to the State Police Lab?" Hoping she wouldn't throw it back in his face.