But Zula just held it to the light, peering through the plastic bag. "What is it?"
"My guess? Coke. Or maybe heroin."
"Where'd you get it?"
"In the course of my comprehensive investigations. But please ask them to expedite it. ASA frickin' P."
Now she was glaring at him. "So how am I going to pull off that favor?"
Pepper had some immature suggestions to offer, but luckily the General and Hurd came into the room. Faces hard, grim. Pepper saw Zula palm the evidence bag and lower it to her side. What a sweetheart!
But the General's face reminded Pepper that some things skip a generation. "We'll have to review your actions that led to the firefight," the General growled. "But at this point, I'm keeping you, Larch and Dooley on active duty—I'm too short this week to pull three officers."
"That might change after the review," added Hurd. "No warrant! What do—"
"Westin invited me on his property when we met five days ago," interrupted Pepper. "He said to come back anytime. Check my report. And there wasn't time for a warrant. I believed Marcus Dunne might have been inside that duffel. His life was in danger. What if--"
Chief Eisenhower stopped Pepper with a glare. "We'll get to all that."
Pepper bit his tongue. And he didn't think it was a great moment to mention the Rogers Lighthouse parking lot rendezvous that he'd set up on that phone call, since Pepper had missed it due to the NRF firefight.
The General seemed to take that for contrition. "You're a good cop, Pepper. You'll be an excellent one, if you stick with it…like your dad and your brother. But you have to know your limits."
"And obey orders," snorted Hurd. "Because your insubordination's going to get one of us killed."
The General gave Hurd a look, then continued. "But we had some helpful news. The NRF member who survived the firefight talked for a while, in his hospital bed. He admitted that he and a few buddies dug the clambake hole at Dill Beach last week but swore he didn't have anything to do with killing Keser. He said he'd have heard if anyone in the NRF had done it, and he hadn't. Then he stopped talking, asked for a lawyer."
"Shit," blurted Pepper, his mind racing. "If the NRF didn't kill Keser, we've been looking at this Red Starfish threat all wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"We've been chasing individual groups, assuming one must be our threat. What if there are multiple, separate bad actors, each carrying out their own piece. Like separate arms of a starfish."
"So, a conspiracy."
Pepper just grunted his agreement. His brain was already racing forward—they had to find Westin—where would he have gone? And where was Marcus Dunne? But to stop the plot to kill Garby, Pepper knew they'd have to chase down more than what were essentially the arms of the starfish. Does a starfish even have a brain?
Because Pepper feared they had to find that brain—the mastermind—to prevent the assassination.
Chapter Thirty
Pepper Ryan woke to banging on his trailer door. He creaked it open. Zula Eisenhower was standing there—she took a step backward when she saw he was wearing only boxer briefs, but quickly recovered. Her face was a mask of seriousness.
"Pepper, does this tin can have power? You ever charge your phone? Marcus Dunne's body washed ashore. Hogan Beach. A lifeguard found him half an hour ago. Pop thought you'd want to look things over for yourself."
Shit! The news was like a punch. All his efforts, and promises to Trish, had been useless…
Pepper slipped into t-shirt and jeans and accepted a ride over in Zula's jeep. On the way, Zula updated Pepper on the research she'd completed for him on Scoter, Inc. She said it was a Cayman Islands-registered company. One of its officers was Wayne Garby—the President of the United States! Its secretary was Isabel Bumpers and its treasurer was John Bumpers, but she hadn't found any further information about them. They may be Cayman nationals—sometimes local people served on Cayman corporations to handle any administrative tasks that arise. She didn't know for sure though.
Pepper thought Zula sounded distracted, like she wanted to talk about something else. But she said nothing after completing her brief info about Scoter, Inc., just let the wind ripping through the open Jeep fill their silence. Which was fine with Pepper—he was still reeling from the tragic news about Marcus Dunne and his own failure to prevent it.
They joined Chief Eisenhower, Lieutenant Hurd and Sergeant Weisner who were questioning the teenage lifeguard who found Dunne's body. She was sitting in an oversized Celtics sweatshirt, hands pulled into her sleeves, pale under her summer tan.
"I was jogging the beach to my station like we're supposed to," she said softly. "I saw him floating in a few inches of water. I pulled him on shore as far as I could and checked for a pulse, you know? But I could tell he was dead for hours… Do I need to stay for my shift?"
Pepper hated the little shake in her voice.
Weisner took her to sit in a police car, away from the breeze and the body.
"So how would they have done it?" asked the General. "One man charters Dunne's boat, goes out to sea with him? Kills him? Then an accomplice shows up in a separate boat, gives the killer a ride back to shore?"
"Maybe the killers own a boat?" asked Pepper. "Supports the theory the unsubs are locals. Unless they stole it?" Some lead—searching for a small boat, no description, in Cape Cod. No choice, but a needle in a haystack might be quicker…
But Pepper had to say what he was really thinking. "I can make this one easy, Chief. I know who did it."
"Who?" demanded Hurd.
"We did. It'd have been more merciful to just put a bullet in his head, once the Secret Service announced they had a witness in the clambake case."
"We don't even know if he was killed before or after you started a firefight with those militia nuts," said Hurd with a shake of his nose. "So maybe we aren't to blame, Ryan. Maybe it's all on you."
You know that's bullshit, thought Pepper. But it's definitely my fault too.
Pepper was sipping coffee at Aunt Anney's Kitchen, trying to get Dunne's bluish-red face and swollen body out of his mind. He was mentally fried but still had lots of work to do. Reports to file. The bureaucratic garbage which almost made it all not worth it. What would his reports say? Just a mishmash of facts that didn't tell very much?
This was all just temporary madness. Pepper would solve whatever the hell was going on, including catching whoever killed Dunne. Then he'd be out of here. New Albion could go back to the way it was and Pepper would get out of the way… That'd be a fair plan for everyone.
He decided to pursue one of his few tiny loose-ends instead. He pulled up the photo of the yellow post-it note from Smith's desk. BLACKHAM. An exclamation point. Then a phone number. A bit above Blacklock's name was the word SCOTER.
Pepper dialed the number.
"Blacklock!" a man's voice said, brusquely.
Pepper gave his name and title. "Sir, I'm calling to ask you a few questions about Acker Smith. And…Scoter?" Whatever that was.
"What? My call to the feds was anonymous. How'd you get my name?" Loud, belligerent.
"Nothing's anonymous anymore," Pepper assured him, while thinking Blacklock called a federal agency? What for? "So you should cooperate fully, for your own protection."
"Fuck that! I'm not blowing the whistle on anyone without guarantees, in writing. I'm not even sure what I know…I need to talk to someone first… What's Scoter? I called about my Cayman account, Turnstone. What're you trying to pin on me? Maybe I need to chat with a few dozen of my lawyers, then call you back."
Pepper's blood was racing. He'd have to ask Zula to fire up her databases again, dig deep on the two mystery names: Turnstone and Scoter.
"Mr. Blacklock, you don't have anything to worry about. How can we get together, as soon as possible?"
Pepper's dad called, his voice a bit too loud and excited. "If you're still trying to figure out where the assholes bought that shellfish for their clambake, you c
an stop."
"What?"
"I found the place! Larry's Fish Market, up in Bourne."
"Bourne? That's an hour away."
"Yep. Either they were trying to be pretty careful or else the feds' theory they're locals is shit. They may have stopped off on their way to the Cape. And bonus points, there's video!"
"What!"
"Kinda grainy and the two jokers are wearing hats and maybe long wigs. Even sunglasses. But the timing matches the purchase we've been looking for."
So, two people. And despite the disguises, maybe the Secret Service could use their technological wizardry to get some other helpful details to ID them. Height, race, that sort of thing. "Nice score Dad! You want to tell Eisenhower?"
His dad laughed. "Why don't you take the credit on this one, tell your Secret Service pal. Probably keep me from getting arrested!" But Pepper could hear the triumph in his dad's voice.
"Helluva job, Dad, thanks."
Then Pepper filled him in on almost everything that happened since they'd last talked, finishing with his conversation with Brandon Blacklock.
"Did you check out the pictures I sent you?" Pepper asked. Sent, but hadn't specifically said where they'd come from. And Pepper was glad his dad hadn't asked…
"I did. Was that a joke?"
"No, why?"
"Son, I won't even ask how you legally got Acker Smith's medical records… But the chart shows better news for him than I'd been hearing. I had Dr. Anderson take a look, on a no-name basis. He said it showed pancreatic cancer, but not final stage. The patient would potentially have one to two years to live, and with further treatment, maybe longer… Hold on, that's Eisenhower on the other line."
In a long minute, his dad clicked back. "Goddamn it Pepper!"
"What happened?"
"Lieutenant Fucking Hurd had the balls to complain to Eisenhower about me! I was following the paperwork on the home destruction and saw he'd assigned that Phillips kid to traffic detail at a bum address that was almost the same as ours. So I went to Hurd who processed the request for a detail officer, asked him if he remembered anything strange about it, right? And he got all crusty with me! Told me to butt out and leave it to the real police. I was catching bad guys in this town before he was potty trained. I told him to go fuck himself and reminded him he's supposed to be heading that investigation and hasn't come up with squat. And I may have said something about his nose probably being bigger than his dick."
"Dad!"
"Hey, with a nose as big as his, he could still be pretty hung. But he went crying to Eisenhower—what an asshole!"
Pepper wouldn't want to be in Hurd's shoes—caught between the new chief and the old one. Didn't Hurd know they were best buds?
His dad continued. "It was bad luck for Hurd, I'd just gotten some other lousy news and was a little less tolerant of idiots than usual. The mortgage company sold my loan and the new holder's forcing my hand. They want our family land sold."
Holy shit! Pepper was speechless.
"Of course I'll try to delay them, but…"
"I'm sorry, Dad," said Pepper quietly. "We'll figure something out."
Chapter Thirty-One
The Tuckers had changed their beachcomber routine. Sherry had been more than a little spooked by finding the poor dead man in the clambake pit. Ever since, she'd refused to take their early morning walk along Dill Beach. Not with some maniac on the loose! No, she'd stick to mid-day strolls on busy stretches of beach.
Bert? He felt ten years younger. At least five. He'd become more than a bit of a celebrity at the Knights of Columbus, having to retell his story endlessly. And he thought the Wolsons and the Fischers might even be jealous—they'd been unavailable for cocktail hour all week.
It was early Sunday afternoon at Hogan Beach, a popular stretch of sand in New Albion. Which was fine with Bert. From the corner of his large, wear over sunglasses (which he thought make him resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger) he was watching three foxy teenaged girls attempting to toss a Frisbee. The beach was crowded with sunbathers, kids digging futilely in the sand, and even some swimmers braving early July's cool waters.
And then all hell broke out.
Bert Tucker would have run away, but, as he explained later, that wasn't his Marine Corps training.
Actually, the Tuckers just froze where they were.
They saw one group, very organized, with signs and fists, entering the beach area from the parking lot. Maybe thirty people, mostly men. Their leader had thick black hair, gelled hard, like a helmet. A number of their signs mentioned the Church of Peter Weeping. They were chanting, blowing whistles and one guy was giving it his best into a megaphone. Bert had heard of those Weepy assholes and their protests at veteran funerals.
A second group was coming south along the beach, ebbing and flowing around the families and their blankets and chairs. A few dozen protesters, a pretty even mix of men and women, chanting passionately, waving signs and banners. Some banners and signs protested the depletion of fish and other natural resources. Bert usually spent a good part of every morning at the Dunkin' Donuts shooting the breeze with other retirees and reading whichever newspapers had been abandoned there, so he knew President Garby had managed to piss off everyone on the fishing topic. The feds had closed part of George's Bank and some groups wanted that reversed, other groups wanted more closures. It was a hot debate across Cape Cod—were the closures necessary and would they wipe out a generation of fishermen?
This group also carried signs supporting wind energy and protesting President Garby's failure to support it. They were even toting a mannequin dressed as President Garby, hung in effigy. This bunch was what Bert would lump into the broad category of 'tree huggers'.
And then, for flip's sakes, he saw a third group arriving! Looked like commercial fishermen, the way they were dressed. They didn't have signs. They had weapons—pieces of pipe and 2x4s, lengths of chain. They'd appeared from the marina's direction and laid into the tree huggers without so much as a how-do-you-do. The tree huggers fell back stunned, then regrouped and started to defend themselves, using their signs as shield and weapon. And their fists, the women too. When the first group—the Weepy a-holes—reached the battle, the two other groups laid into them as well.
The families and other folk caught in the path of the violence tried to flee. Parents grabbed children, boyfriends grabbed girlfriends. Fights spilled into the blankets and chairs and fathers joined the fight. And some mothers. Bert had his bride by one hand, and his other arm up defensively. But they stayed frozen. Sheltered in place, he'd later describe it.
Bert witnessed a police officer—the youngest one from the clambake murder crime scene, Phillips?—calling in the riot on a shoulder radio. The officer then pulled his baton and ran toward a man who was sitting on one of the Frisbee teenagers and banging her head on the sand. Officer Phillips gave the man a full whack to the back of the head, knocking him off and motionless. The girl sat up, red-faced, hysterical, shaking. She crawled to her feet and stumbled off toward the parking lot.
He saw the officer run to a scrub pine tree. Get it to his back. He was trying to use his shoulder radio again but was having problems. And now finally there were sirens filtering in from all directions. The law, descending to kick ass and take names. Most of the rioters were getting in a few final licks and then trying to escape up or down the shoreline. The families and sunbathers were still streaming toward the parking lot.
Bert gently tugged his wife's hand, reassuring her and trying to get her slowly headed up to the parking lot, as well. The news trucks should be there any minute.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Later that afternoon, Chief of Police Eisenhower spun his laptop around, showed the headline at boston.com to SAIC Hanley and Special Agent Alfson. Pepper Ryan and Lieutenant Hurd weren't close enough to read the smaller print, but they didn't need to. They'd already seen it, plenty.
CAPE FEAR! said the headline. The photo below it showed New Albion Offic
er Jackson Phillips, arm back, baton descending toward the head of a man on his knees. The bottom of the scene was cut off, but the photographer had caught quite a moment--officer in the foreground, arm raised, a half smile on his face, with miscellaneous mayhem and violence in progress in the rest of the photo.
"That should ease your parking problems," said Alfson. But no one laughed.
"I was hoping we could brainstorm a bit about what the hell's going on here," Eisenhower said. "The way the trouble's all tying together. So many outside groups. So aggressive. And they seem to be coordinating with each other. I was interested in your opinions and maybe a little more sharing than we've done so far."
"Sounds good," said Hanley.
"Well, the chief asshole for the Weepers, Reverend McDevitt, ended up briefly in the hospital. Probably just long enough to support his lawsuits. But one of our officers saw something interesting. McDevitt had one of those fancy blue phones—he had it out for a second when he was pulling himself together to be discharged."
"Maybe just a coincidence," said Hurd.
"Unlikely," said Hanley. Since they're Black Wing II phones. It's a model approved for Department of Defense work. Top of the line privacy features and top of the line price."
"Pretty fancy for a preacher, even a rich fake one," said Eisenhower.
Hanley asked Alfson to recap the investigation's progress. Sadly, it didn't take long.
"We've enhanced the surveillance video from the seafood market," added Alfson. "Their disguises limited the results, but we're comfortable that they're both Caucasian, a younger male about 5'11" and an older male about 5'8"."
The recap went downhill from there. There was little promising physical evidence at the crime scene. One witness dead, and the others who could only say there'd been two men, which fit with the seafood market video. The Secret Service research team believed that Keser and Dunne were killed by the same unsubs, due to the patterns of the crimes, and apparently the same party was behind the unsuccessful poisoning of Freestyle and Funsize at that nightclub. Particularly due to the red starfish messages left at each incident. The Secret Service had also developed a psychological profile but felt it was incomplete, contradictory. The mix of professionalism and personal animus didn't make sense as a whole.
Killing Shore Page 18
