Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  An hour later, social media blew up. First, selfies by Justin Case and the twins. Thank God, they were alive! But then, video snippets. The three of them, skinny dipping! And yeah, it was nighttime, but the full moon and lack of cloud cover meant the video was only dark enough to be slightly mysterious.

  Pepper thought he recognized the scenery in the background and took an educated guess, directing the Suburbans to Dill Beach. They located the missing trio waterside, ten minutes later. The Secret Service agents politely but firmly bundled the girls into a Suburban, with the loan of two agents' blazers as towels. A little less politely—and more than a bit roughly—they left Justin Case there at the top of the beach path, naked except for his shell necklace and a wounded pout.

  Pepper got back to Malecón ninety minutes after he'd run off. It was past last call and the crowd was streaming out the door. A TV truck was parked in the lot and a red-haired Channel Ten reporter ran over, caught Pepper by the arm as he was about to go inside. She was an artist at it—looked like she was just resting her fingers on his arm, but actually was holding him firmly in place. Her cameraman was a couple of steps back and to the side, catching them together in his bright light.

  "Officer Ryan! What happened here? Were the First Daughters in danger? And is it true the fugitive Brian-Edward Westin is a suspect in tonight's attack at Eagle's Nest?"

  "No comment. Contact the Secret Service." He tried to gently wiggle his arm free from her pincer fingers.

  "But officer, the public needs to know! Public safety—"

  Pepper was tired and pissed off. "Okay, tell your viewers this. I know who's behind all this chaos and I personally guarantee they're going down, ASAP. Everyone else should sleep tight." And he winked into the camera.

  Pepper pulled loose and quickly disappeared into the refuge of Malecón. Instantly mad at himself for his comments on camera. Already knowing who'd be upset—Pepper's bosses, Alfson and his bosses, it'd be a goddamn long line of people ready to spank him. Why hadn't he just shut his cake hole!

  But first, Pepper had to find Angel and face the heat for running off, again. He imagined what Angel must have had to do to keep the party going once his entertainment disappeared. On probably the tourist season's biggest night. No apology was coming to Pepper's mind that'd make things right with Angel.

  Pepper knew how the fireworks felt, after their explosions were done.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Oliver thought something stunk.

  He'd just driven back from the Chatham Public Library where he'd checked the chat site for instructions from their bosses in Queens.

  An ominous message had been waiting for Oliver:

  FBTW. Charlie in coma. You hadn't heard, right? Go home kids… HAGD

  Have a good day? Their bosses liked using the chat room but it didn't mean they were good at it. But they seemed suspicious that the client had been talking to Oliver and Croke directly. One thing they absolutely were good at was being suspicious. And vindictive.

  Then, of course, on the drive back to the Sanddollar Motel, the special blue phone had rung and Oliver had received a garbled, cryptic instruction from the client: they should meet someone today at noon at somewhere called the High Seas Ice Cream Hut to receive a special package. Their assignment would follow.

  And, frankly? The money had been too lucrative to say no. So Oliver was going to ignore them (keeping their chat room message a secret from Croke) and take the next assignment. Even though the setup reeked. Oliver didn't even trust Croke. Why was Oliver going to walk into a blind meeting? Well, he wasn't.

  When Oliver got back to the motel, he went straight to Croke's room.

  Croke was watching TV, as usual. "That Pepper Ryan was on the news earlier," he said. "Talking big about how close the cops are to catching us. Said he knows the whole setup, even more than we do. The reporter looked like she was going to kiss him, right there on the news."

  "He said that? Must mean they're desperate. Some kind of bluff."

  "Or maybe not. He winked, right at the damn camera. Maybe we should get off Cape Cod, right now?"

  "Croke, do you know what 'fuck you' money is?" Oliver explained as simply as he could.

  Croke was visibly impressed, so Oliver decided to push him. "And good news, you'll soon be one step closer to a big fat retirement fund. The client wants you to collect a package at a place called High Seas Ice Cream Hut, today at noon. Then we'll get the details of another very profitable assignment."

  "Me?" asked Croke. "What package?"

  "You. And the client didn't say. I don't know why he thought you'd do a better job. But hey, the client's always right, huh? I suggest you wear a new disguise to the handoff. I got it—maybe a smile?"

  Oliver had read recently that a car is stolen in the United States every forty-five seconds. So Oliver felt it was statistically in his favor on that Tuesday that he'd find a car to drive to High Seas Ice Cream Hut. He wanted to monitor the handoff without anyone's knowledge, including Croke's.

  Oliver soon located a Toyota Corolla behind a dumpy apartment building a few blocks from the motel that was just volunteering to be borrowed. The car was heavily dusted with green pollen, making Oliver guess it wasn't driven daily. But best of all, the owner had left the driver's side window down an inch.

  So Oliver took the invitation. He stuck in his fingers and gripped the window tight. Then he rocked it back and forth until it popped from the track. That left enough room for him to reach in and unlock the door.

  And the universe was smiling at Oliver that day because the owner had left a valet key in the unlocked glove box with the owner's manual. Karmic groove, baby! Or maybe the owner was too dumb to even know the key was in there. Whatever--away he drove.

  Oliver arrived across the street from High Seas Ice Cream Hut wearing his favorite disguise to make sure no one--including Croke--could identify him. Sadly, Croke still looked like Croke, despite Oliver's honest efforts. Dark baseball cap and sunglasses. Fake mustache. High neck fleece pullover with a shark on it. Unfortunately, he couldn't do much to change Croke's potato-like torso and cauliflower ear.

  Besides, if it was a setup by the client to clean up the operation for some reason, the plan would be to kill whoever showed up to collect the package. It wasn't to put his face on a wanted poster. Oliver would watch whether Croke met that fate, and if he did, Oliver and his pollen-crusted ride would head on up Route 6 and disappear forever.

  He saw Croke sitting on a wooden picnic bench, eating an ice cream cone. He looked self-conscious and very warm in his fleece pullover. He kept taking his hat off and waving it at his face, and the ice cream was like a big brown O of lipstick around his mouth, gumming up his fake mustache. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Croke did get shot.

  Croke also stood out because the other customers were in family clusters. So when a newish brown Honda Accord pulled in and a single man got out, stretching, the solo man and Croke made eye contact pretty much right away. SoloMan was more than a bit overweight and he was wearing sunglasses and a bucket hat, plus a windbreaker. He seemed kind of familiar…

  Oliver watched the handoff from across the street in the anonymity of his stolen Toyota. The green dust covering the car was almost like window tint, protecting his privacy. He saw Croke get up and drop his half-finished cone in a garbage barrel. Croke went over and shook hands with the man. Shook hands, who does that for a handoff? Oliver saw the other man recoil a bit, then surreptitiously wipe his hand on his dark pants. Was the man one of those guys whose pictures were splashed all over the news? One of the militia group that the feds were trying to hunt down? Oliver thought so…

  The man popped his trunk, pulled out a golf club travel bag, all zipped up. Didn't appear to be too heavy, by the way the man lifted it. He handed it to Croke, clapped him on the back, got in his Honda and drove away. Like one creepy guy giving another creepy guy back his golf clubs. And that was it. Croke watched the man depart then put the bag in the trunk of their
Ford Taurus.

  But there was another reason Oliver had come to watch—paranoia. When Croke turned onto the street, Oliver merged into traffic a few cars later. Traffic was the typical soul-crushing bumper to bumper Cape Cod mess and Croke was easy to follow, just going with the slow flow. Oliver maintained his position for five or six traffic lights, then slowly dropped further back.

  And then, aha! A black Toyota 4Runner—a nice, new one—passed Oliver's beater and settled in three cars behind Croke's. Oliver didn't get a good look at the driver. The 4Runner maintained that distance, but carefully forcing itself through intersections to not be left behind.

  Then a Chevy hatchback passed Oliver and he recognized the driver. Oliver laughed—it was the lead asshole from the militia group. The main guy whose face was on TV, the biggest target of the big manhunt—Brian Something Westin? Pretty ballsy or stupid to be out and about in traffic. Maybe trying to figure out who his flunky had handed off the package to and where it was going?

  So first vehicle, Croke. Then the 4Runner. Then Westin's Chevy. Oliver followed them all at what he hoped was an extra-safe distance, all the way back to the Sanddollar Motel.

  Croke pulled into the lot like usual, but the 4Runner pulled over at the curb on the street. It waited while Croke parked, got out of the Taurus and went into room sixteen. Then the 4Runner drove away. The Chevy rejoined traffic moments later, from where it had waited in an oil change shop's parking lot, a bit further down the street.

  Oliver followed them both from a very, very cautious distance. The two vehicles made a left onto Rogers Folly Road and Oliver had to run a stale yellow. Who was Rogers, and what was his folly? Oliver wondered the same thing every time he took this road. He could probably research it at the Chatham Library. Or he could get the hell off Cape Cod before his brain melted any further…

  Oliver followed the 4Runner and the Chevy right into downtown New Albion. More stop and go traffic, for jaywalking pedestrians and cars swooping into parking spots which had been abandoned a split second before. Then the 4Runner turned right and pulled into one of the only empty parking spots in town because it was in front of the New Albion Police Station and was reserved for police parking. The Chevy kept driving and disappeared around the corner. A man climbed down from the 4Runner and sauntered into the police station as Oliver cruised past, carefully nonchalant but otherwise soaking the guy in.

  Oliver recognized Mr. 4Runner— it was the police lieutenant with the big nose who got beat up by the tweaker fisherman in that bar! The situation was all too interconnected to be a coincidence—both the militia guys and the lieutenant somehow in on this handoff?

  But the thing that bugged Oliver most—why the hell was a cop monitoring the package drop? To provide some shady security oversight, or something more? The call from the client had—as usual—been electronically garbled, the voice unrecognizable. Had it been someone else on the line—a cop? Was the whole thing some kind of setup? It worried Oliver to be on the defensive. He didn't want to be the prey, ever.

  Still a little rattled and confused, Oliver drove back to the Sanddollar Motel's neighborhood. He carefully parked his borrowed Toyota Corolla in the same spot behind the apartment building where he'd found it. Nobody was around, nobody came out to start a fuss. Oliver wiped down everything he thought he might have touched. He'd already popped the driver's window back in its track and now lowered it to the same careless inch as when he'd found it. Oliver locked the door and strolled away, pocketing the valet key in case he needed a set of wheels again. Always good to have a personal Plan B.

  Oliver noticed Croke had parked the Taurus in front of room thirteen again. That stubborn bastard had obviously decided to carry on his simmering feud with the murderous-looking woman with the two brats. Like it was now a point of honor for Croke not to back off and park in one of the motel's other open spots instead. So much for a low-key hideaway—they'd come out some morning and find their vehicle on fire.

  Still anonymous and invisible in his disguise, Oliver picked some shade across the street from the motel and sat down, watching to see whether maybe the golf bag would draw a swarm of police cars to Croke's room. That was the only reason Oliver could imagine for a cop to monitor its handoff to Croke.

  But nothing happened. All was quiet. Families came from their rooms, stumbling under armfuls of awkward beach gear, and departed. Self-conscious adulterers slunk in, then slunk out forty-five minutes later. The two little kids from room thirteen came outside and played within earshot of their room. Then their mother's head poked out of the room, saw their parked Taurus and grimaced terribly. Then she bellowed at the kids to come inside the room. Thirteen's door closed with a slam. Just another postcard afternoon at the Sanddollar Motel.

  Croke came from room sixteen a couple times, made his way six doors down to Oliver's. Knocked, waited, then went back to his own room. Oliver could see Croke's lips moving in what was likely a traditional Eastern European curse.

  But Oliver needed alone time, to think. Why the hell was a cop monitoring the client's package?

  After an hour or so, Oliver went back to his room and removed his disguise. Packed it carefully away. Then he wove through the two kids from thirteen, who were outside again and chalking up the concrete. He knocked on Croke's door.

  The golf club travel bag was lying open on the tile floor surrounded by four blankets which must have been included for padding. Croke said he'd checked the bag for any tracking devices and found no problem, but Oliver gave it the once over again.

  "So?" Oliver asked. "What was inside?"

  "Christmas present."

  "I love it when you try to joke."

  Croke gave him a glare then reached under the bed and pulled out the coolest rifle. Black and green. Scope on top. A sniper rifle? But smaller than any sniper rifle Oliver had ever seen—maybe two feet long. "Bullets too," said Croke. "Special made."

  "Were you followed back?" Oliver asked, knowing Croke would expect the question.

  "Of course not!"

  Right. One more vehicle it would have been a parade. "Well, maybe let's ditch the Taurus and get different wheels again—just in case?" Oliver knew for a fact at least one cop knew the Taurus—the mysterious lieutenant. They should probably change motels immediately too.

  And why the hell had the militia group delivered them a sniper rifle?

  The special blue phone buzzed. Their client's garbled voice gave them a clear, simple assignment—to shoot that local cop, Pepper Ryan. Payment would be made within the hour. Biggest payment yet.

  So, that's why the sniper rifle... The motel change would have to wait—duty called!

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chief Eisenhower was wicked pissed, again. "Pepper, what the hell were you thinking last night, holding your own press conference!"

  Pepper had finally shown up at the station to face the heat.

  Sgt. Weisner came around the corner, saw him, started clapping. "Congrats Wonderboy, you're famous again! And your wink—an instant classic. You know the press is calling you Flirty Harry? I'll bet those bad guys haven't stopped running yet."

  Eisenhower wasn't sharing the humor. "Pepper, don't do anything until I talk to Hanley and we decide how to fix this! Stay out of trouble!"

  But later on Tuesday morning, Pepper's cell phone rang--Maddie Smith's name flashing on his screen. She was all tears, Pepper couldn't really understand her. She was at Eagle's Nest and had fought with Justin Case. The rest he couldn't make out.

  "I'll be right there," he promised. Chief Eisenhower had only ordered him to stay away from work trouble, right?

  It took Pepper longer than before to get through the Secret Service roadblocks. As his truck crunched down the long driveway to the main mansion, he remembered he had to ask Maddie about the other sick man tucked upstairs—who the heck was he?

  Maddie was waiting for him by the naked nymph fountain. She was wearing white capri pants, a pink t-shirt and flip-flops. Casually lovely, despite
red eyes and messy hair. Her pretty mouth was twisted in a thick pout.

  "Where's Mr. Skinny-dip?" asked Pepper.

  Maddie scowled at him. "Gone! We had a big fight and I kicked him out! He thought their midnight swim was no big deal. Just a way to get more exposure. And right when I was screaming at him, his manager called—a production company wants him for a new show!"

  "Oh yeah? Something lazy and easy?"

  "It's a reality show called Love Raft Cancun."

  Pepper didn't spend much time watching reality shows--weren't they pretty much all the same? "Love Raft? Like, the sharks aren't all in the water? Doesn't sound too lazy-style."

  She gave him a face. "Don't be an asshole, Pepper. I liked him."

  "So did Freestyle and Funsize."

  "He just can't help sharing himself with the world." She scowled some more, but it changed to laughing. "Sorry, I know. It sounds stupid. And he embarrassed me, running around naked with the First Daughters. Sluts! I know he's a self-absorbed, playboy flake. But he made me happy, some of the time." Then she gathered herself. "But let's forget about him. Tell me everything you've dug up on that Lizzie Concepcion… She's trying to steal Daddy's money, right? Is she a career criminal?"

  Her topic change tripped Pepper up. He almost suggested they go inside together—maybe he could search the big house more successfully on a second attempt? But what were the odds that Smith and his assistant would be safely out of his way again? Slim to nil, right?

  "Let's take a drive and we'll talk," he said. He took the keys to her yellow Porsche and away they went, the car fighting his slow pace like a tightly wound spring, stuck in second gear.

  Zula Eisenhower's pop needed to talk to Pepper Ryan ASAP and of course he'd disappeared from the station. And wasn't answering her calls. When Zula saw a pic on Instagram of Madeline Smith with Pepper at the Fudge Castle, she volunteered to hustle right over.