Calamity (Captain Grande Angil Mysteries)

by Robert G. Bernstein

  “You so much as fart in Annapolis and I’ll arrest you,” the cop replied.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “As long as you don’t have to do it in the rain.”

  He tried to spin his wheels on the wet pavement and squeal his tires but all he managed to do was create a muted squishing noise and spew a little sand and dirt onto my truck. What did I care? It was a rental.

  19

  One good thing, I wasn’t tired anymore. The adrenaline pumping in my blood gave me newfound energy, and just in time. A half-hour after my encounter with Herr Policeman, Tanner walked out of the restaurant and got in his truck. He pulled onto West Street as if he knew where he was going. I took a right out of the lot and followed him. We headed West toward shore and the U.S. Naval Academy complex. It was about thirty minutes of driving before he pulled into a parking lot for the patrons of the Galway Bar & Grill. I drove past him and found an empty spot around the corner. I parallel parked the truck and shut off the motor and sat for a minute trying to decide what to do. The way I figured, I didn’t have much choice. I had to go in and see who Tanner was meeting, if anybody at all. I had to take the chance he would see me and recognize me.

  As I was changing from my leather jacket to my insulated foul weather coat I caught a glimpse of an Annapolis patrol car making a drive-by on the other side of the street. It was a slow, deliberate pass. When it got even with my vehicle the passenger window opened and the cop in the passenger seat gave me a steely eyed stare. I guessed the look was meant to rattle me and that these were the same pair of jackbooted nitwits that confronted me in the parking lot earlier.

  I gave my holster a tug and shook my shoulders to make sure the forty-five stayed put and wouldn’t pop out accidentally, then I grabbed a ball cap from my sea bag and got out of the truck. This close to shore the wind and rain held more salt from the Chesapeake. It had a slightly moderating effect on the cold and a clean ocean smell. Less mud-tide aroma and more southern sand and fish.

  The bar and grill itself was new but the building housing it had that classic Annapolis charm. So did the whole street. This area of Maryland was one of my favorites. Great Colonial architecture and old red brick facades. I certainly couldn’t fault Tanner for his choice of eateries, either. The Galway was an old world-style Irish bar with rich mahogany tones and a top-shelf choice of Scottish and Irish booze. I walked in like I’d been there many times before but kept my hand over my face as if I was wiping away rainwater. At the same time I looked quickly through the restaurant for Tanner. I saw him at a corner table sitting with a black man of average height and weight wearing expensively tailored clothes.

  I took the first open stool at the bar in between the waitress station and two young women who looked to be in their early twenties. I kept my head low as I sat down and gave them a ‘hope you don’t think I’m a lecherous old man but please think I’m cute’ smile. The bartender saw me and came right over.

  “What’ll it be, mate?” he said.

  “A double Glenlivet on the rocks and two of whatever these women are drinking. And a menu, please.”

  “Roger that,” he said and reached under the bar to get my menu.

  The two girls looked at each other and then looked at me. The prettier one said: “Thank you but we’re all set.”

  “It’s just a peace offering, girls, not a proposition,” I said, taking the menu from the bartender and opening it. “You don’t even have to talk to me.”

  The bartender looked at the girls. They looked at him, then each other, then at me. Finally they both shrugged and said OK. The prettier one thanked me again. The other one, who I now realized was even prettier than the pretty one, said, “Thank you, sir.” My heart sank for a second until I convinced myself she was probably a midshipman at the academy and had had the Sir thing browbeaten into her.

  When the bartender came back with our drinks — a cosmopolitan and a martini for the girls and a generous pour of single malt for me — I nodded appreciatively at the bartender and ordered two plates of fried oysters Diablo and a Caesar salad. He went off to serve other customers, and I took my first sip of the single malt. It went down like a little cloud from heaven.

  The girls were talking quietly with each other and I was watching Tanner and his impeccably dressed black companion. Tanner seemed upset. He was talkative and animated, making points with his hands and shaking his head a lot. At one point he threw his head back and mouthed, “God Damnit!” The black man seemed very in control, very reserved.

  “Are you from the Annapolis area?”

  The question diverted my attention back to the girls. They were both staring at me. The one who asked had brown hair and brown eyes, a full mouth and a tight-fitting blouse that made it difficult to concentrate. “Um, no. I live in Maine,” I said.

  “No kidding,” she said.

  The one sitting closest to me and speaking had on gabardine slacks that accentuated every line in her legs and hips. Her friend wore a silky-blue short dress. When she swiveled her hips on the stool her abdominal muscles showed in the fabric. I thought about my three ex-wives and reminded myself again of the sweet romantic and dangerous follies of men on the road.

  “What do you do up there?” Short Dress asked.

  “I’m a boat captain,” I said. “And a private investigator.”

  The girls looked at one another and smiled.

  “You mean like Magnum?” Sweater said.

  “Exactly. He wasn’t a captain, though, was he?” I said.

  The girls giggled. They were feeling their second drink. In the corner, the impeccably dressed black man stood up.

  “No, I’m just a regular guy doing regular things,” I said. “In Maine, some people need two or three jobs to survive. Mine happens to be captain and private cop.”

  “It sounds exciting,” Sweater said.

  My dinner arrived. My two plates of oysters Diablo and Caesar salad. I offered the girls some of my oysters and they giggled and politely refused. I had to eat fast. Tanner mysterious rendezvous was on the move. Fortunately for me and my dinner, Tanner ordered another drink from the waitress, and his dinner companion went into the men’s room. I wolfed down the two dozen super hot and delicious oysters until the water ran from my eyes like Victoria Falls.

  “Girls, I gotta run. I didn’t touch my salad. You want it?”

  They looked at each other and nodded happily and I slid the plate to them over the bar. I then called for the bartender and gestured for my check.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” I said to the girls, and reached out to shake both their hands. I’m not sure if they gave me a look of disappointment or utter disbelief. I hoped it was the former.

  Tanner, clearly edgy and uncomfortable, stayed in his booth power drinking a draft. I waited for his companion to come out of the bathroom and exit the restaurant. Mr. Fancy Pants had no reason to suspect I was following him and no way of knowing me so I left eighty-five dollars on the polished mahogany bar and headed for the door two steps behind him. I was close enough to smell his cologne. He was in his early forties and in good shape. The clothes he wore tugged slightly at his broad shoulders and back and when he moved his arm to push the front door you could see the outline of a well-developed triceps muscle. We walked practically side by side onto the street, where a Ford Expedition with Virginia plates was waiting for him by the curb. As he stepped into the back seat of the car he said something to the driver and I got a look at his face. He had the eyes of a man who took charge and did things his way. He had the eyes of a dangerous man.

  I hurried to the parked rental truck around the corner, climbed in the cab and wrote down the plate number of the Expedition. One-second after I turned the ignition key I heard the siren and saw the blue light.

  20

  They had me in a holding cell at Police Headquarters in downtown Annapolis. My truck had been impounded and all my gear, wallet and identification confiscated. They also took my Warthog, my belt and my shoes.

 
I was lying on my back on a hard bunk with my hands folded behind my head.

  At about midnight a doughy kid in wrinkled tan slacks and a tattered blue sport coat entered the cell and introduced himself as Bernard Rosenfeld, my court appointed public defender. He wore thick glasses and held a clipboard about two inches from his face. He came in talking and looking at the clipboard and never once acknowledged my presence or noticed me move from a prone to a seated position on the bunk until I said, “Hey, Junior! I’m over here.”

  “Sorry, ah, Mr. Angil,” he said, checking the name on the clipboard.

  “That’s Angil, with a hard G,” I said.

  “Sorry.” He jotted something down on the clipboard. “Got it. So, it says here they arrested you for refusing to comply with a sobriety test. In the process of searching your person and your vehicle they found one concealed weapon, a forty-five caliber semiautomatic pistol, ammunition for said firearm and items used in surveillance or spying activity. It says here that you are a licensed private investigator in Maine.”

  He paused to look in my direction but seemed to be talking to the wall.

  “You do know, of course, that we have no reciprocity in this state for Private Investigators?” he said.

  “Are you done?” I said

  “I’m sorry. Did you want to say something?”

  “Let’s start from the beginning, Mr. Rosenfeld. I refused to get out of my vehicle to take a sobriety test in the driving rain and sleet. Forgive me for not wanting to get soaking wet and risk pneumonia. I offered to take a Breathalyzer test but apparently they didn’t have one handy. I offered to take a blood test. They refused. Instead, they yanked me out of my truck and cuffed me and brought me here. What I have in my car with respect to surveillance or whatever they think it’s for and who I am is irrelevant. I am a licensed merchant mariner and never go anywhere without binoculars. The camera is for sightseeing. The pistol is licensed in Maine for concealed carry. I also have carry permits for New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut and Florida. Now, here’s what I need you to do. You go to the judge and tell him your client was arrested without due cause, that he was sitting in his vehicle on a public street, that he refused the sobriety test because it was pouring rain but requested both a Breathalyzer and a blood test. Tell him the weapon is licensed and that your client believed he had reciprocity to carry it concealed in the State of Maryland. Did you get all that?”

  He was busy writing. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Angil,” he said. “Can you repeat the names of the states again?”

  I repeated them for him and also told him the permits were all right there in my wallet and sea bag, along with my Mariner’s Z-Card, my TWIC security card, my P.I. license, my commercial fishing permit, my captains papers, my drivers license, my STCW Certificate, my NMFS operators license, and all the other crap a person has to carry now to be considered legal. Which, I added, were all in the possession of Maryland Law Enforcement.

  “And have those fools give me back my shoes and belt,” I said. “This isn’t Abu Grhaib.” I said it loud enough to be heard through the heavy glass paneled door.

  Mr. Rosenfeld finished writing and said, “Yes, Sir” and left the cell. An hour later two very large Maryland jailers brought me my shoes and belt and escorted me to an interview room on the second floor. They told me to sit down and wait, that a James Hadley would be in to see me.

  Hadley showed up a few minutes later. He introduced himself as a Special Advisor to the Governor’s Office of Homeland Security. He was a fit-looking guy in his late sixties or early seventies, dressed in a light gray suit, a blue shirt and a crème-colored tie adorned with tiny red and white lighthouses. His hands told their own story, small and soft, with no calluses or any signs of physical labor. He had the loose skin around his Adam's apple, very few wrinkles or liver spots, and his hair was still black. Touched-up for sure. On second thought, he looked to be about seventy-five. He had my wallet and my other possessions with him. The former was in an envelope that he dropped on the table between us. The latter he placed on a desk in the corner. The desk was bolted to the floor, as was the table.

  “Go ahead and check your stuff, make sure everything’s there. You should check your overnight bag, too.” He spoke with a thick southern accent. “I’ll give you back that sweet little forty-five when you’re ready to leave.”

  I got up and checked. Everything was there, just not where I had left it.

  “Is it Mr. Angil or Captain Angil?” Hadley said, sitting down at the table in the middle of the interview room.

  I dropped my sea bag back on the desk in the corner and took the seat opposite Hadley.

  “Grande will be fine.”

  “Have you been engaged in the surveillance or investigation of an individual here in the State of Maryland?”

  “Let me put it this way,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I am not now, nor have I ever been employed by a resident of Maryland for the purpose of conducting surveillance or an investigation of any sort in the State of Maryland or anywhere else other than Maine. Nor am I here to investigate or conduct surveillance of an individual who is a resident of the State of Maryland.”

  “That’s not exactly what I asked.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Would it help if I rephrased the question?” His “I” sounded more like an “ah.”

  “Probably not.”

  “How about telling me who it is? Maybe I can help.”

  I shrugged apologetically.

  “OK, here’s the thing,” Hadley said. “You’re in my state, and I know you’re on a stakeout. That poses a problem. We have privacy laws here, and it appears you may have violated some of them.”

  “Has anyone filed a complaint?” I said.

  “We brought you in because of something else,” Hadley said. “Suspicion of OUI. We have you going into a bar and coming out and getting in your truck, which you then started. We know you had a drink in the bar. When asked to get out the truck and take a sobriety test you refused. We consider that an admission of guilt.”

  “I prefer the Breathalyzer or blood test. It’s why I specifically requested it. The cavalry decided otherwise.”

  “Yeah,” Hadley said with a scowl. “The boys can really throw a clod in a churn. Too bad they didn’t take you up on your offer. I doubt the clams you ate did much to soak up the double you had.”

  “We’ll never know,” I said. “And they were oysters.”

  “Diablo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They make ‘em good there.”

  “Sure do,” I said.

  We sat across the table from each other in silence. Finally, after a good thirty-seconds, he said: “Off the record?”

  I gave it some thought.

  “Quid pro quo?” I said.

  “Maybe,” he said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “How about running a plate number for me?” I said.

  He laughed.

  “I was thinking more in line with giving you a ride to Impound and getting you your truck back without you having to pay for towing and storage.”

  “That’ll work,” I said.

  21

  Hadley had done his homework. I don’t know who it was he called in Maine but he knew what I’d been doing for the last ten years. He knew about my dive charter and salvage business, and he knew I had gotten my P.I. license only three-months ago. What he didn’t know, and what he tried like hell to find out, was the name of my client and who it was I had my eyes on at the Loew’s Annapolis and at Galway’s Irish Bar and Grill.

  “All right,” he said. “Let me try a different approach. What’s the license number you want me to run for you?” We were driving in a borrowed black-on-black Dodge charger that Hadley told me doubled as a highway chase car once a month.

  I gave him the license number without having to check my notepad. Hadley raised an eyebrow and flashed me a look as if I’d just whistled the Flight of the Bumblebee. If he thought memor
izing an eight-digit number at which I only had a passing glance was an admirable feat, he should watch me keep a series of latitude-longitude numbers in my head, down to two decimal points.

  “Well, Bubba,” he said. “I don’t even have to look that one up.”

  “Really,” I said.

  “Nope,” he said. “So, quid pro quo, as you suggested. I’ll tell you who the plate belongs to if you tell me what you’re doing down here. You don’t have to give me the name of your client or the job you’re on either.”

  We were cruising the back streets of Annapolis, heading for God knows where. It was about one thirty in the morning and all of eastern Annapolis looked like a ghost town. Everything was either shut down tight, on the verge of closing, or a few hours away from opening. There were a few people lingered around the doorways of the late night bars, and a patrol car passed us on a narrow side street. The driver gave us the “all secure” nod and wave. I saw one derelict searching for cans or food in a Dumpster. Hadley saw him, too. Nothing much got by Hadley, and he seemed very well connected locally for an administrator.

  “I followed a Maine lobsterman name of Pete Tanner down here,” I said. “Last year he went on a winter fishing trip and got in a jam. A twenty-two-year-old kid died. Boat was a total loss. The Coast Guard did what they do, drug and alcohol tests, had the vessel salvaged and surveyed. Found nothing. Tanner was exonerated based solely on his own testimony. There was no reason to think otherwise.”

  “Open and shut,” Hadley said.

  “Seemed that way at first,” I said. “Then I went to see him for a client who wanted details and Tanner told me to fuck off. I asked a few harmless questions at the wharf and he found out about it and got defensive, left some threatening messages on my answering machine. It made me think, what’s he so sensitive about?”

  “You find one rat, there gonna be fifty you don’t see,” Hadley said.

  A street sweeper came around the corner and Hadley had to steer around it. He had quick reflexes and a calm demeanor, the kind of guy who didn’t get fazed by surprises. I was starting to like him, but I knew he was holding back. He had no reason to trade information with me. He could have squeezed me harder at the station, not that it would have done much good. He could have also just sent me on my way, gotten me a cab. It made me suspect he had an itch he couldn’t scratch.