by Al Boudreau
“Have a seat, Sarah,” James said. “I was just about to share what the department dug up on our suspect Shauna Eastman. AKA Jessica Feldmeier. AKA Svetlana Kossiakoff. AKA Leia Chartoff.
I felt no joy in seeing Iacona’s jaw hang open as James dropped the triple bomb on the room. “There’s no way,” Iacona insisted. “I know this woman. She’s a good person. You’ve obviously made some kind of error.”
James held his tongue, choosing instead to take a seat directly across from Iacona while spreading out a stack of papers for all to see. When he was done half the conference room table was covered with rap sheets for Eastman and her aliases, as well as known associates from her criminal network.
“Oh, my goodness. She was there,” Sarah blurted out, tapping hard on the woman’s picture with her pointer finger. “Eastman was sitting right under my nose the entire time. What a disguise. She looks totally different.”
“How about these characters?” James asked and drew a circle in the air above six documents. “All of these men are known associates of our little friend, Eastman.”
Sarah studied the mug shots and still frames for a few seconds. “This guy. This guy right here. I’m almost 100% sure he was at the casino this morning.” She walked around to where she’d left her shoulder bag and pulled out her own stack of papers.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Pick a number,” Sarah replied as she compared the photo supplied by the casino with the rap sheets James had provided. “He has four.”
“Give me the one that comes up most frequently.”
“Roberge. Phillip Roberge,” Sarah said.
James drew an X on the man’s rap sheet while I jotted the name down in my notebook.
I smiled and nodded at Sarah. “Glad you took the time to round up those shots. I was going to ask if you could get images of the rest of Ryan’s known associates, but I had my hands full,” I said, subtly tipping my head in Iacona’s direction.
“Of course,” she said. “I had to find something to do with my time while I was there. It was way too early to start drinking.”
I looked at Iacona. He was clearly having a rough time accepting the obvious. He’d been duped. “I know it’s a tough pill to swallow, Jay, but this is progress. Progress that’s going to help us find your son.”
He returned a simple nod.
“Oh, found a match,” Sarah announced as she continued to compare the photos the casino had provided with those James compiled. “Aaand … he was an employee. From our list of suspects.”
“Was an employee?” James parroted.
Sarah nodded. “Assistant manager at the casino told me this guy—Anthony Turner—never even gave his notice. Just failed to show up for work three days ago. Now unreachable.”
We marked his photo, and I wrote his name and aliases down in my book. “Any chance these people made you while you were at the casino?”
“I highly doubt it,” Sarah replied. “I wasn’t focused on any of them at the time because their disguises were so good. In fact, I never would have made them at all if it weren’t for these alias shots James provided. And the discussion I had with the assistant manager took place behind closed doors. He printed out all these employee photos while we were in his office. I kept them hidden in my bag the whole time I was inside the casino.”
“Fantastic work,” I said, looking back and forth between Sarah and James. “Now we’re cooking.”
Sarah and James left the room. I saw it as an opportunity to try and get Iacona’s mind and heart back on track. “Listen, Jay, these people are pros. Shauna Eastman, for instance. If her real name is Kossiakoff, she’s of Russian decent. Some of the world’s best spies come from that part of the globe. And, regardless of where they’re from, scam artists, mobsters, and underworld thugs in general are adept at fooling all but the most seasoned intelligence professionals. You’re not the first to get played by these folks, and you certainly won’t be the last. I know it stings, but for Ryan’s sake, we need your head in the game. I apologize if what I’m about to say comes across as heartless, but … well, I think we both know that what you did was wrong to begin with.”
He crossed his arms atop the table and lowered his chin onto his forearms. “I know,” he said while nodding his head in short, quick bursts. “I’ll pull it together. Just give me a minute.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “No problem,” I said and left him alone to gather his thoughts. I approached Sarah and James, who were talking just outside the room. “What’s the plan?” I asked, looking at James.
“Well, there’s no sense trying to grab these lunatics without something solid to charge them with. These people are dangerous. Career criminals. We could bring them in for questioning, but they’re not going to give us squat. And then they’d know we’re on to them.” James massaged the back of his neck. “You know, Carter, it might make sense for you to go to the casino and set up surveillance. Then maybe we could figure out what they’re up to.”
“OK,” I said.
“I’m guessing you two think I should sit this one out,” Sarah said.
I looked at James, who gave Sarah a nod. “No sense taking chances. They’ve seen you. Carter would be a fresh face.”
“True enough,” Sarah said. “My son texted me a little while ago. He’s going to be in town soon and wanted to know if I’d be around. Guess I’ll tell him we’re a go.”
I turned to Sarah and gave her a peck on the forehead. “Nice work this morning. It’s Sunday. Go have some fun.”
Sarah nodded and smiled. “And you stay safe. These creeps are serious criminals.”
“Who, me?” I responded, throwing a little cowboy accent into my speech. “I’m nothin’ but a small-time gambler, ma’am. Just headed out to the casino, lookin’ for a good time.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Cooper’s Beach will never be the same again once they get a load of Carter Peterson, Marlboro Man.”
I turned to leave when I remembered Iacona had ridden with me to the station. “I almost forgot about Iacona,” I said. “I was his ride.”
“I’ve got this,” James replied. “I want to have a little chat with him, anyways. I’ll give him a lift once we’re done.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Sarah … see you back at the house?”
“Yes, you will, Tex.”
Chapter 12
I got back to the house first, so I hustled inside, hoping to put my urban cowboy act together before Sarah returned. The best part of the outfit was wearing my Smith &Wesson revolver on my hip. I rarely got the opportunity to openly carry a weapon, much less my favorite handgun.
I pulled my cowboy boots out of the closet, then changed into a pair of western-cut jeans and button-down shirt. I pulled my boots on, grabbed my Stetson buffalo nickel hat, and went to my dresser for the finishing touches: my holster belt and an authentic bolo tie.
I heard the front door close downstairs as I stood before our full-length mirror, making fine adjustments to my look.
“Carter? You upstairs?” I heard Sarah call out.
Satisfied with my get-up, I made my way down to the first floor as quickly and quietly as I could, hoping to sneak up on Sarah.
“Rahr,” I heard Sarah snarl from behind me, my surprise reveal blown.
I turned and said, “Well, hello there, little missy.”
Sarah took two huge steps toward me and pulled herself up tight to my torso. “You look so hot in those clothes, you may not make it to the casino this afternoon. In fact, I might never let you leave the house again.”
I bent down and gave her a real kiss on the lips. “Tell you what. Save all that energy for later tonight when your cowboy comes home.”
Sarah pushed me away, then swatted me on the shoulder. “Aww, you’re no fun.”
“Work before pleasure,” I said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go rope them doggies.”
Sarah laughed, but her smile soon faded. “Seriously, though, promise me you’ll be extra careful
.”
“Always.”
* * *
I really felt the part of urban cowboy as I rolled into Cooper’s Beach, the honky-tonk vibe enhanced by the facades of the bars, restaurants, and shops that still retained a lot of their early design cues. The strip, which ran parallel to the beach, was a mob scene, with people of all ages frolicking around in their skimpy mid-summer attire.
It took more time than expected to find a place to park. I finally grabbed a spot more than a quarter mile from the casino. I wasn’t looking forward to hoofing it that far in 85-degree heat in long sleeves. At least it wasn’t too humid.
I knew from past visits the casino had good air conditioning, so I grabbed the photos of the three suspects Sarah had seen then headed off. About twenty feet into the trek it occurred to me just how much technology, society’s sense of style, and people in general had changed since I was a young buck hanging out at the beach.
Used to be people were curious—interested, even—in other people. Now it seemed all they wanted to do was stare at their cell phone screens, oblivious to the wonder that surrounded them. Guess somewhere along the way people-watching became a thing of the past.
Though my revolver earned me more than my fair share of raised eyebrows.
I shook my head, concentrating on avoiding the throngs of kids who didn’t bother to pay attention to where they were going. Apparently, it was up to me to look out for them.
After about twenty minutes of bobbing and weaving through the crowded sidewalks, I finally passed through the double glass doors of Cooper’s Beach Club Casino. I felt relieved, thankful to be out of the heat and the herd. There was a huge rack on the wall with brochures, booklets, and fliers of things to do in the area. I grabbed the biggest one I could find and tucked the photos of our suspects inside.
I made my way through the jam-packed arcade and up the once-grand staircase leading to the gaming area of the club. The entire place was ripe for a good restoration, but some would say the wear and tear was part of its charm.
Despite the day’s weather being as good as it gets during summer in New England, the casino looked to be at maximum capacity. I got my mind in cowboy mode and decided to take a lap around the gaming floor, hoping to single out one or more of the suspects.
I saw a wide range of customers throwing money away as I moved through the joint, ranging in age from barely 18 to those who looked to be 98. Some appeared to be rich. Some average. And some who were likely gambling away their last dollars. I never understood it, personally, but people really loved to gamble.
I passed the blackjack tables—my game, if I ever had one, though I was a terrible player—and noticed that nearly every seat at each of the ten tables was taken.
Beyond the last blackjack table stood the bar, a clever location as the thirsty had to pass every available game of chance to get a cocktail—or pay a roaming server extra to have one delivered. Sarah had mentioned that the bar area was where she’d unknowingly spotted Eastman, AKA Kossiakoff, as well as Phillip Roberge. I scanned for their faces, but no one stood out. I also stayed alert for former casino employee Anthony Turner, though I gave it about a 50/50 chance he’d materialize. He’d probably kept his position at the casino just long enough to help with the Iacona job, then made a quick exit. Even odds said he was half way around the world by now.
Or … talking to a beautiful young woman no more than ten feet away from me.
My heart rate quickened as I fumbled with my tourist’s booklet, caught off guard. I wasn’t sure it was Turner yet. This curious character before me had a different hair style and color, and was sporting facial hair and multiple piercings in his face. In fact, had I not scrutinized the photos beforehand, he would have escaped my attention altogether. His ability to conceal his identity was that good.
I turned just enough to keep him in my peripheral vision while blocking his view of the photo I held. I studied the features of the individual in the photograph then closed the booklet and stole another look.
It was him. Without question. This guy was bold.
Anthony Turner had returned, well-disguised, ready to pull another job.
I looked around the bar, hoping to find an open seat where I could keep an eye on him without drawing too much attention.
No such luck.
Every stool was occupied. Even the few spaces that separated one seat from the next were filled, with short lines branching off, patrons waiting to have their drink orders filled.
I pulled out my phone and called Sarah, regretting that I’d asked her to stay home.
Straight to voice mail. I muttered an obscenity under my breath and ended the call. I thought I might encounter one of the other suspects, but really hadn’t expected to run into Turner. I’d gambled, and was now faced with the real possibility I’d be short- handed if and when one of the other two suspects Sarah had encountered earlier appeared.
I slipped my phone inside my shirt pocket when Sarah’s ringtone began to chime. “Is one of the suspects still there?” she asked. “Eastman?”
“Turner,” I replied. “He’s very well-disguised, but it’s definitely him. No doubt about it. Where are you?” I asked.
“Heading north on 95. With Brian.”
“Uh … okay.”
“Call Andrew,” Sarah said, not missing a beat. “My brother will come in a flash if you ask. He’s dying to take part in another case. Hasn’t shut up about it since you two got back from Hawaii.”
“Yep. Great idea. Gotta go.” I ended the call and immediately dialed Andrew.
Two rings and he was on the line. “Carter. Good to—”
“You available right now?”
“Sure, uh, I can be,” Andrew said.
“Good. Still got your scooter?”
“Yep.”
“I’m down in Massachusetts and I need you here ASAP. Cooper’s Beach. Place called the Club Casino. Come down on your scooter so you can park on the sidewalk, right in front of the entrance. I’m upstairs in the gaming area, near the bar. I’ll text you if that changes before you get here.”
“You got it. I’m on my way.”
A standing-room-only piece of real estate opened up at the far end of the bar, a perfect vantage point to keep eyes on Turner without being obvious.
I wasted no time making my way toward the vacant spot when a burly biker-type muscled in, intentionally cutting me off so he could get there first. I clenched my teeth and took a deep breath, doing my best to choke down my irritation. The last thing I needed was to draw unwanted attention to myself with a confrontation.
The guy turned and gave me a smirk once he got comfortable in my spot, then proceeded to look me up and down. I noticed his eyes stop moving when his he focused on my weather-worn Smith & Wesson. Much to my surprise, his facial expression and attitude changed in an instant.
“Hey, uh, sorry if I cut you off, bud,” he said as I got closer. “Just let me grab a cold one and you can get in here, all right?”
I acknowledged with a single nod while locking eyes with him. I figured if he was somehow intimidated by my piece, why not play it for all it was worth.
I chuckled to myself once the ten-cent tough guy turned to order his beer. Maybe he thought I was a marshal or something.
“All yours,” he said as he squeezed by me, 32-ounce mug of beer in hand.
Kids these days.
I staked my claim at the bar when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Muscle memory made me go for my weapon, but noticed out of the corner of my eye it was the same burly biker guy who’d just let me pass.
“That a model twenty-eight?” he asked, pointing at my revolver.
“Close. In fact, it would be called a twenty-eight if it were a year newer,” I said as I glanced over to check on my suspect’s status: still talking to the young woman. “1956 Highway Patrolman,” I told the biker dude.
“Killer,” he said and plowed his way over to join a gang of his buddies hanging out adjacent to Turner.
“Killer,” I said under my breath and shook my head. If he only knew.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Ginger ale, please.”
“Tonic water’s all we’ve got,” she snapped.
“Yep. Good.”
She shook her head, filled a rocks glass, and slid it in front of me. “Next.”
“How much?” I asked, opening my wallet.
She held up her hand as if she were attempting to stop traffic. “On me,” she said.
I gave her a nod, tossed a couple bucks in her tip jar, and raised my glass like any good cowboy would do.
I was about to take a sip when I saw Turner stand up and walk away from the woman’s table. I was about to follow him when he stopped in his tracks, spun around, and walked back toward the young woman. He bent down over her shoulder.
And must have said something she didn’t like, because she shot him a look that would have made Casanova cower.
Turner persisted.
“No,” the woman shouted, the noise level in the room suddenly dropping by half. “We’re done here. Goodbye.” She gave him a dismissive hand gesture, then turned away and continued her conversation with her female companions.
Turner wasn’t letting it go. He put his hand on her shoulder.
Big mistake.
“Get your filthy hand off me, you loser,” she screamed. Conversation in the massive room ceased, the clicking of the roulette wheel and the whine of the slot machines the only sounds remaining.
My new biker buddy and his crew turned and stepped in, apparently taking the young woman’s outburst as an open invitation to get involved. Turner was now faced with confronting five testosterone-laden Hell’s Angels wannabees, likely looking for a fight.
I slowly made my way toward the showdown, spying two staff bouncers converging from different locations in the room.
A pissing contest of words were exchanged between Turner and the bikers when I saw Turner pull a butterfly knife and stick the biggest biker right in the abdomen. Turner then drove straight through the wall of tough guys and into the crowd.
