“For a killer. Say it.”
I shrugged. “For a killer.”
The faxed ballistics report topped the pile of papers on my desk. I’d been reading it when Haden walked in. I twirled my chair away from him to face the big windows and the wide early winter morning outside: freezing rain and winds gusting to thirty miles an hour.
“You know someone planted that iPod, Chief.”
“Broke into his house, pulled the songs off his computer?”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s crazy, that’s why.”
“His house isn’t locked. There’s no security on his laptop. They’re out tramping in the woods every afternoon. It’d be a cinch.”
I rotated back around. “But why?”
“Misdirection. Lattimer’s the obvious choice if you want to set someone up for a sniper kill.”
I nodded. “Or maybe whoever wanted Todd Macy dead wanted to get rid of Lattimer at the same time.”
“Two birds with one stone.”
“It’s surprisingly difficult to hit even a single bird with one stone, you know. Much less two.”
“And yet.”
“Yeah.”
We sat in silence, rearranging the pieces of the puzzle, until Charlie Boyce stuck in head in the door.
“I think we have a lead on the F-150.”
Chapter Twelve
Truck Rally
Charlie and his team had done their homework—the tedious, detail-crunching slog that made up about ninety percent of effective police work. The figures broke down this way: Don Allen had records for twenty-two black Ford F-150s purchased over the previous five years, new and used. Three of them had been resold, two of the sales for cash, and Charlie was trying to track down the new owners, who could be visitors, or off-island contractors, or illegal aliens who re-sold the vehicles themselves. It got a little murky down at that level. Up in the sunlight of legal transactions with valid paperwork, fifteen of the vehicles—and their owners—had solid alibis for the afternoon in question: off-island, or parked at various jobsites. Four could be placed at Marine Home Center, Valero’s, or Island Lumber in the time frame we were looking at.
That left four trucks unaccounted for. One was being cannibalized for parts by a local mechanic, one was a Christmas gift to a high school senior named Ken Podell, who was serving a detention at the high school that Saturday afternoon. One was registered to David Lattimer, who couldn’t have been driving it, since he was on the ground as the vehicle left the scene.
The fourth one belonged to Brad Thurman. “Jane Stiles’ soon-to-be-ex boyfriend,” Haden pointed out. “According to the infallible Nantucket rumor mill.”
“He doesn’t go to her readings.”
I thanked Charlie, dismissed Haden and started pacing my office. On the upside, it was nice having an office big enough for pacing. On the downside, Brad Thurman. The contractor’s relationship with Jane made him a confusing person for me to investigate—if I was, in fact, interested in Jane as more than a writing colleague and one-woman critique group.
Because, if Alana Trikilis and Jared Bromley were right, Thurman was involved with the drug-fueled movie-making that had been using the Thayer place for an ad hoc soundstage. That gave him motive and opportunity for the arson. I should send one of my detectives to see Thurman, but neither of them knew the link to the pornography ring, and I had promised to keep Alana’s name out of the investigation until I had enough evidence to arrest these people and was able to justify the expense of protecting her to the Selectmen.
Haden Krakauer would have given a simpler explanation—I was incapable of delegating responsibility. He would have been right. This was one case I wanted to handle myself.
I called Thurman’s home number. No answer, but the voicemail offered his cell number; no answer there either. I left messages and then went down to the Town Hall to check the building permits.
Gail behind the counter saved me the trouble of a long search. “He just filed for a big job in Shawkemo,” she told me. “Is he in trouble?”
I had to think fast. The last thing I wanted to do was fire up that infamous Nantucket rumor mill. “No, no,” I improvised. “It’s personal. His mom is in the Island Home and I was thinking of moving my mom in there, too. I just want to get the inside dope on the place, but he never returns a phone call.”
“Well, the Island Home is wonderful, I can tell you that much. My grandmother is in there and she loves it. The MassHealth part is bad, it’s like the state hates paying for her, and it’s always trying to find some excuse to kick her out. But the people are terrific. They’re really on your side. And they all love Grams.”
I smiled. “I think you just saved me a trip.”
I had told her half the truth. I didn’t know about Brad Thurman’s mother, but I was missing my own, and all her friends in Northern California had died off. She was ready for assisted living, with me living three thousand miles away. My itinerant FBI agent brother wasn’t much help. He visited her maybe twice a year. It wasn’t an urgent issue; Mom was fine for the moment. The important thing was derailing Gail’s interest in Brad Thurman’s possible criminal activities, and discussing our local skilled nursing facility had served the purpose to a T, as my mom herself would have said.
I drove out to the jobsite, a big house framed and half-
shingled, surrounded by trucks parked in the mud. I saw a Bromley Electric van, with its lightning bolt logo, and Ted Bromley himself, bald and hawk-nosed, rummaging through the shelves inside. The van was right next to the front door of the house, a prime space as befitted an electrician, the acknowledged royalty among island tradesmen. Anyone could equip themselves with a hammer or a paintbrush, but taking apart your own fuse box was illegal, not to mention a terrific way to get yourself killed.
Ted carried his elite status lightly. He sensed me beside him now, pushed off to stand up straight, and turned to face me. “Chief Kennis,” he said, “thanks for looking after my boy.”
“Jared’s a good kid. It’s not often you find someone who’s a good friend and a good writer. Jared is both.”
He grinned. “Charlotte’s Web fan, I see.”
I nodded. “Some pig!”
“So what brings you out to this hellhole today?”
“I’m actually looking for your boss.”
He cocked his head in surprise. “I’m my boss.”
“I meant…your GC.”
“Brad Thurman doesn’t sign my paychecks, Chief. That would be Polly Culbertson. Her husband owns this dump, but she’s in charge. He only bought the place to keep her out of his hair for a year or two—that’s my theory.”
I smiled. “So you see a lot of her.”
“Oh, yeah. We’re changing the wall sconces again. And I haven’t even got the place wired yet.”
“So…Brad?”
“He eats lunch every day at the drugstore in town. Don’t ask me why. I think he uses the soda fountain for an office. Beats paying rent.”
***
I thanked him and drove back into town. I found a slant parking spot in front of the Hub, and walked the half block to the Nantucket Pharmacy. The Christmas trees lining the sidewalk had been decorated, now mostly by businesses and school children. Laminated crayon drawings of Santa vied with miniature jewelry boxes and tiny anchors. It all looked messy to me, and the jewelry boxes reminded me that the island had a few more jewelers than it really needed.
When I first arrived on the island there were two drugstores side by side on Main Street, but Congdon’s had closed. The space had been renovated into yet another high-end jewelry store, but the words Congdon’s Pharmacy could still be seen, cut into the panels below the front display window. David Trezize had photographed that storefront to illustrate a screed about the new Nantucket. But the picture nailed it.
“A thousand
words, exactly,” he had said, after performing a word-count on the editorial. “I’m not sure why I bothered.”
Thurman wasn’t at the lunch counter but I found him sitting in a silver Toyota Tundra in front of the store. Not a good start—he was driving the wrong pickup truck.
“Hey, Chief,” he called out. I walked over, leaned into the window. “I got a bone to pick with you. Listen to this. I was driving my kid’s Range Rover, it’s a used ’97 model. He rebuilt it himself, so don’t tell me I’m spoiling my kids. Anyway, I’m out for a spin on Milestone Road, doing the speed limit, driving like an old man which I’m getting to be, let’s face it. And one of your goons pulls me over—flashers, sirens, the whole nine yards. I’m like—what the fuck? So the big dumb cop strolls up, looks inside and says, “Sorry, Mr. Thurman, I thought it was your son.” Can you believe that shit? Don’t tell me you’re not targeting Tommy, Chief. That idiot admitted it. I were you, I’d fire his ass just for that. He couldn’t think of any excuse? So he just blurts out the truth? What a loser. And Tom’s been clean for eight months, FYI.”
“Did you get the officer’s name?”
“No, but he’s a big fattie and he needs a haircut. Acne scars. Bad breath. He needs to go to a dentist, get those teeth cleaned. Unless he’s got stomach cancer or something. Which wouldn’t surprise me given the crap he probably stuffs in his pie hole every day. Anyway, he’s a disgrace to the department.”
Thurman was talking about Byron Lovell. Not my proudest hire. But Byron was Haden Krakauer’s nephew. I’d let him handle the situation.
“Got a minute?” I said.
“Climb in where it’s warm.”
I opened the door and folded myself into the front seat of the big truck.
“Didn’t you used to own an F-150?”
“Yeah, until the coil packs crapped out, the injectors starting leaking, and two timing chains failed. All just as I hit the magic sixty-thousand-mile mark. Then the shift cable broke, while I was driving it into Don Allen! They were gonna charge me three grand to get it fixed. I sold it to some Brazilian instead. Jorge something, he paid cash. Said he likes working on cars after work. The guy’s a mason, works eighty hours a week, then fixes cars for fun at night. How are we supposed to compete with that?”
“Work harder?”
“Or hire some Brazilians. That’s my solution.”
“So when did you sell the truck?”
“Back in October. I didn’t want to go through another winter with that shitbox.”
I looked around the cabin of the Toyota. “Nice ride.”
“It’s loaded—heated seats, back up camera, bluetooth, you name it.”
“Plus that new car smell.”
“Can’t beat it.”
We sat quietly for a moment, then the bluetooth function lit up, alerting him that it was syncing to a phone he had programmed into the system.
Thurman hit the horn two short blasts and someone on the sidewalk sprinted away. I twisted around in my seat to watch as the figure pivoted around the corner onto Centre Street and out of sight.
“Who was that?”
Thurman shrugged but I could tell he was spooked. “Could have been anyone. Most of my subs are synched to my bluetooth.”
“So they can use their own phones hands-free when they drive your truck?”
“Why not? They use my vehicle for a supply run, they can’t charge me for the mileage.”
I stared at him. “Most contractors I know are more possessive about their wheels.”
“I just want to get the job done. These guys are driving my trucks, I can keep track of them.”
“Trucks?”
“I have three now. I’m a self-serve taxi service. But on the other hand I don’t have some kid getting his used Chevy Malibu stuck in the mud all the time. Or whatever.”
“Do me a favor, Brad. Get me a list of everyone with a phone synched to your bluetooth.”
“Why? What’s the problem?”
“I just want to know why that guy took off so fast.”
“Are you kidding? He saw you. These punks want nothing to do with the cops, okay? Probably thought you were going to sic the INS on him.”
“Should I?”
“Yeah, sure. Have ’em do a sweep. Half the workers on this island’ll be on the next boat home.”
“And you were just trying to help him when you honked.”
“I’m a nice guy. I don’t want to make trouble.”
“Really? Then get me those names.”
I climbed out of the truck and slammed the door behind me. I didn’t trust him to give me a complete list and I thought briefly of deposing his carrier—probably AT&T, since they were the only company that had a coverage at the far ends of the island. But I’d need a court order for that, and I had a better idea anyway.
The Hub had installed a webcam last summer, aimed directly at the corner of Main and Federal streets. It took a picture every twenty seconds and when they scrolled it back for me, I got one usable picture of my quarry: six-foot-two, broad Slavic face, tangled brown hair clamped by a watch cap. Whoever it was, it wasn’t one of Thurman’s Brazilian subcontractors.
I printed out the screen-grab, intending to show it around and see if anyone recognized it. But the first person who looked at it saved me the trouble.
“Pumpkin latte with a double shot,” said the Jamaican girl behind The Hub’s coffee counter.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what he orders. Doug. I don’t know his last name. But he comes in all the time.”
“And orders the pumpkin latte?”
She looked hurt. “They’re good! Want to try one?”
“Not right now. Does he ever park in front of the place?”
“Sure, I guess. Sometimes.”
“You ever notice the kind of car he drives?”
She nodded. “It’s a big black pickup truck.”
She saw my expression, and hers changed too, the smiles echoing back and forth like a shout in a canyon.
After a few seconds I said, “I think I will try that pumpkin latte, after all.”
It was actually pretty good—not as sweet as I expected. Haden Krakauer filled in the rest of the information: “Douglas Blount. He’s the caretaker handyman guy out at the Pell place.”
And the porn group’s enforcer, according to Alana. With her as my only link to him, I had promised to leave the guy alone. But now I had an independent lead. I was standing in the door to Haden’s office. I turned to go.
“Heading out?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Want backup?”
“You just want an excuse to get one of these pumpkin lattes.”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“I’ll bring you one. With a double shot, just the way Doug likes them.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Major Domo
The LoGran corporate mansion gave me a jolt of déjà vu—the company had purchased the house out on Eel Point Road where Preston Lomax was killed. I hadn’t been back in the two years since, but the place looked pretty much the same—big high-
dormered gambrel roof rising three stories above the crushed-shell driveway and elaborate stonework that terraced the steep front yard. The white widow’s walk would have a spectacular view of the harbor.
The house had a shuttered, closed-down look. Haden had told me that, apart from Doug Blount, who lived in the guest cottage during the off-season, the only resident was a woman named Sue Ann Pelzer, who was the “major domo” of the place, making sure everything was clean and sparkly when the visitors showed up, or some big function had to be organized, deploying armies of tradesmen to work on the plumbing or the furnace if necessary, fixing the cracks in the walls and the mold on the grout, filling the fridge and the potholes in th
e driveway, changing the old shingles and the sheets, restocking the bar and the wood shed and the pantry, making sure the blu-ray players in every bedroom could stream Amazon Prime, Hulu, and Netflix. She made sure the bills were never overdue and the propane tanks were never empty, the pillows arranged and the gardens weeded just so, the window boxes blooming with pansies in the summer, cleaned out and stored for the winter, and the new toilet paper in every bathroom sporting a folded triangle of tissue at the top of every roll.
“Cleaning isn’t an easy job,” Sue Ann said to me. We were standing in the giant high-ceilinged living room with its massive fireplace featuring alabaster mermaids holding up the mantel. Sue Ann stood about five-foot-one, with a starved and steely marathon athlete’s body and a blocky, wide-eyed face. The piercing blue eyes looked out from below a curtain of bangs, her hair knotted into a tight braid at the back. She wore a gray wool cable-knit cardigan over a white-collared shirt buttoned to the neck, khakis, and running shoes.
Standing feet apart with her fists on her hips, she seemed to be guarding the place. The trumpet of her big Southern voice filled the room.
I studied her while she continued her lecture. “You have to know where to look and you have to be able to see what you’re looking at. It sounds simple, but it’s not. In fact, it’s a talent, Chief Kennis. Just like your poetry. Oh yeah, I read your poetry. I read everything. I’m a reader. I even learned one of your poems by heart, I liked it so much. Don’t believe me? Then listen up.
I watch the lawnmower
Make another pass
Across the field of wildflowers
Cut to look like grass;
Hacked to their stems.
The sweet green turf
Keeps its secret,
Trimmed and discreet—
Like a circus clown
In blue jeans
Like an acrobat
Merely walking
Down the street.
“That one’s called ‘Incognito.’ Am I right?”
I had to smile. “Absolutely.”
She laughed. “You should see the look on your face! Writers love to be quoted. I know that for a fact. The magazine said you were a detective and I loved that. It’s a detective’s poem. You see what isn’t there, and what was there before. It looks like grass now but you know the truth. You see the wildflowers when everyone else just sees grass.”
Nantucket Grand Page 10
