“Because like I just said, it was after midnight, that’s why. I didn’t want to wake you up. And I wasn’t done yet, because I hadn’t yet talked to Mark’s neighbor, Dave Chaplain. And he told me about this guy’s visit yesterday, pretending to be a deputy sheriff. Dave also said he told the guy about you, Mark’s girlfriend. That’s when I came racing into town.”
The anger seemed to seep out, and my dear friend looked so very tired. “Damn.”
“What did he say his name was?”
“Reeve Laughlin.”
“He told Dave it was Reeve Longwood. He’s experienced, then.”
“How?”
“You use an assumed name, you take on one that’s similar to your real name . . . so you can respond correctly when someone talks to you. That takes discipline and practice. Did he say what branch of the federal government he was with?”
“No.”
“Did he show you some identification?”
“Yes . . . a leather wallet, with his photo and lettering and mumbo-jumbo.”
“Hold on . . . you didn’t see what it said?”
“No, I didn’t, because he was telling me that Mark was safe and nearby . . . and if we hurried, I could see him.”
I didn’t say anything, and Paula said, “Damn it, he told me Mark was alive and a few minutes away. Sorry if I didn’t play Paula, cynical and doubting reporter. . . .” A few more tears trickled down her cheeks. “I was Paula, worried fiancée . . . so fucking sue me.”
I reached over, squeezed her hand. “Lucky for Mark he has you, no matter what you call yourself.”
She twisted her wrist so her hand was in mine, and we sat like that in silence for a few minutes, two scared people, on the run.
Her voice was now quiet and determined. “What now?”
“We try to find Mark, ahead of whatever bad people are looking for him.”
“And not call the cops? I mean, this is more than just a missing-persons case, isn’t it?”
“It is, and if we call the cops, they won’t be investigating Mark: they’ll be looking into me. The evidence will show that I drove like a maniac through downtown traffic, breaking a half dozen traffic laws, and then threatening a man who wasn’t posing a threat to me, and then I discharged a firearm in town limits, shooting out two car tires. If you’re a cop, what do you investigate first? Unprovoked gunfire in downtown Tyler, or the claims that some tattooed guy is looking for the town counsel and uses assumed names?”
“Damn. How about Diane? Couldn’t she help?”
Something let loose inside of me, and I wasn’t at my best. “Sure, off on medical leave, in the middle of physical therapy and occupational therapy, learning to walk again and think again, I’m sure she’ll jump right in to volunteer.”
“I’m looking for my fiancé, Lewis, when nobody else wants to help!” she snapped back. “I’m sorry!”
I took a breath. “No, I’m sorry too. The priority is to find Mark. If I thought Diane could help, I’d do it. But even she’d have a hard time overlooking me firing off two rounds in downtown Tyler without better evidence.”
Paula wiped at her eyes. “What now?”
“We look for better evidence.”
I started up the Pilot and, back on the road, I made a left and kept on driving.
Within the hour, we were in the town of Merrimac, Massachusetts and, in a few minutes of quiet driving, found the town library. We were lucky in that in most small New England towns, the library is plopped right down in the center of things, which meant we didn’t have to ask for directions.
I parked the Pilot at the rear of the building so it couldn’t be spotted by any curious eyes that might be driving by. “We’re going to go in, do a bit more anonymous Internet research about Mark and the guy who was asking about him. But Paula . . . I’m going to ask some tough questions, questions you might not like.”
She nodded. “You’re doing this for Mark, I appreciate it. Just . . . don’t give up.”
“I won’t.”
Paula swiveled, glanced back at the cluttered rear of my car. “Lewis . . . I’ve got to ask you. Have you been living in the rear of your car?”
“That I have.”
“But you said you were staying at the Lafayette House.”
“Nope, I said I was a guest of the Lafayette House. Which I was. Residing in their parking lot.”
She looked again at the plastic bags, the open sleeping bag, the pile of clothes. “Oh, Lewis . . . if you need money, I could—”
“One of these days, the insurance company will come through with a big fat check.”
“But you could be staying at my place!”
I smiled, opened the door. “And how much sleep would I get, knowing the temptation that was just a few yards away from me?”
That got a brief smile in reply, and I was so very pleased.
The interior of the library was a mix of the old and the new, lots of old leather books, vaulted ceilings, and six computer terminals. We were asked if we had library cards or were town residents, but Paula surprised me by pulling out her press identification—issued by the N.H. Department of Safety—and quickly explained that she was working on an important news story, and would it be all right if she and her friend did a little research?
Worked well, and in a few minutes we were in front of a terminal, me on a keyboard, she sitting next to me, and I said: “That was pretty good work, Paula. In professional circles, it’s called a pretense call or conversation.”
“Guess I’ve learned some, hanging around with you.”
I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, so I got to work, under the watchful eye of one of the assistant librarians.
I typed in a search phrase on the Google home page, and Paula asked “What does that mean?”
The assistant librarian, a slim older woman, was pretending not to listen as I replied. “What it means is that we need to be quiet here. You got any questions or concerns, make note of them, all right? In the meantime . . . just let me do what I need to do.”
She rummaged in her large purse, pulled out a reporter’s notebook and black Bic pen. “Then do it,” she said.
An hour later, we were back in the Pilot, and after we got in Paula said, sharply, “Well? Mind telling me what that was about?”
It was cold, so I started the engine and the heater. “That was finding out what I could.”
“A motorcycle gang! From out west! How in hell does that have anything to do with Mark?”
I rubbed the steering wheel. “The man who called himself Reeve, he had a tattoo of a bird on his right wrist, along with tats on his neck. Mark’s neighbor saw it, and so did I. A mean-looking falcon or hawk. You saw the Internet research I did, saw what results came up. The Stonecold Falcons Motorcycle Club. From Wyoming.”
“But Wyoming! What does—”
“Mark’s Social Security number,” I said. “Numerals five-two-zero. Meaning it was issued in Wyoming. Paula, please, think hard again. Did Mark ever mention Wyoming at all?”
“No.”
“No family, relatives, friends?”
“No, he said he was from Vermont. He was born in Vermont. Hell, I’ve even seen pictures of him playing in Little League when he was a kid!”
I thought some more, fingers still absent-mindedly moving around the smoothness of the Pilot’s steering wheel. “Your trip out west. Where he proposed to you. Where did you go?”
“Colorado.”
“Why Colorado?”
“Lewis, I—”
“Sorry, I meant: who suggested Colorado? You or him?”
“Him.”
“How did it come about? Did he just casually say he wanted to go out west for some time off, and he picked Colorado?”
She sighed. “No, we were looking to take a mini-vacation, get out of New Hampshire for a while after what had happened at the nuke-plant protests, and he said let’s do something different, instead of going to Florida or someplace like that. So I asked hi
m what he had in mind, and he said, well, he’s always been fascinated with the American West, even growing up as a kid in Vermont, and there were excursions and trains you could take, look at ghost towns and old mining sites . . . and God, we had such a good time. . . .”
Her eyes watered and she sat up straighter, like she didn’t want her emotions to overwhelm her. “Colorado. We stayed in Colorado. We were never in Wyoming.”
“Were you together all the time?”
“Of course.”
“Think some more, Paula . . . was there any time when you were by yourself, when he left for some reason?”
She started to speak, then caught herself. “Well. . . .”
“Paula.”
“There was one time. The day before he proposed to me. We were spending the night at a bed-and-breakfast, and he told me that he had to take a walk, to clear his head. It was right after we’d had an early dinner. . . .”
“How long was he gone?”
“A few hours.”
“Really? Weren’t you concerned?”
“Of course I was, but he came back, smiling and all apologies, and he opened up the ring case, showed me the ring he had picked out. Mark said he had been nervous, that’s all. . . .”
“I see. What was the name of the town?”
“Fort Collins. Gorgeous town. Lots of micro-breweries, Colorado State University is there. So very pretty.”
“Your phone. Does it have Internet capability?”
“Of course: it’s an iPhone.”
“Let’s take a look. Show me a map of Fort Collins.”
“Why don’t we go back into the library? Oh, forget it. I understand.”
“As few digital footprints as possible. Show me what you’ve got.”
Which took just a few seconds. She held up the display, and I said, “Zoom it out, slowly. See what we can find.”
Using two of her fingers, Paula manipulated the screen of her iPhone, as the map of northern Colorado expanded; in a second or two, the state border of Wyoming was displayed, along with the city of Cheyenne, and a blue line marking Interstate 25, which connected that city and Fort Collins.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“One more thing,” I said, as the Pilot’s engine grumbled along while we remained in PARK. “Do a quick trip request, see how long it would take to drive from Ft. Collins to Cheyenne.”
Her fingers flew across the iPhone, and I remembered what Felix had said, about the cool kids teasing me about my flip-top cell phone. Maybe when this was all over, hah, it would be time for an upgrade.
“Forty-five minutes,” she said, voice dull. “Forty-five minutes to get from Fort Collins to Cheyenne.”
“And you said he was gone the night he proposed to you. How long did you say that was?”
“Three . . . maybe four hours.”
“Yeah.”
She stared at her iPhone for a few moments, like she was trying to change the information there with just the power of her mind. And then she said, quietly, “What’s going on?”
“Not sure. But he has a Wyoming connection for sure, Paula.”
“But that wasn’t the point of the trip! He wanted a tour of the American West, the old mines, the—”
I interrupted, “—ghost towns, historical sites, yes, all that. But I’ve been in his condo unit, Paula. I checked out his bookcase. I saw a lot of books about the law, business, management. I didn’t see one book about history, never mind Western history. Not one.”
She stayed quiet, fumbling some as she pressed the SLEEP/WAKE button on her iPhone and put it away. I pressed her. “Paula? Am I wrong? Did he have some books about the American West? Did he like to watch the History Channel a lot? Was there any indication that he was so fascinated that he wanted to travel out there?”
“He proposed to me,” she said. “You can’t take that away.”
“I don’t want to take anything away,” I said. “I just want to find Mark. And to do so, we have to both realize what the truth is. Somehow, he’s connected to Wyoming, something illegal or dangerous, and there’s at least one member of a Wyoming motorcycle gang, out here almost two thousand miles away from home, looking for him.”
“But he’s not interested in motorcycles! Or motorcycle gangs.”
I shifted the Pilot into reverse. “Maybe so, but they’re certainly interested in him.”
We got out on the street in front of the Merrimac Public Library and resumed our drive onto the back roads of Massachusetts. “What now, Lewis?”
“We call a friend of mine, see how he’s making out in his little research project. We’ll compare notes and then figure it out from there.”
“Who’s your friend? Not Diane, right?”
“No,” I said. “Felix Tinios, from North Tyler.”
She seemed to shiver and shrink inside her coat. “That Boston thug? I’ve heard a lot about him.”
“Well, if you’re lucky, you’re about to meet him.”
“Wonderful,” she said, voice dry.
Again, I couldn’t help myself. “Yes, very wonderful, if you want to see Mark again, alive and in one piece.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
While we were on the road, I had a quick and productive phone call with Felix, and he suggested a place for us to meet, on the north shore of Massachusetts. I kept to the back roads and Paula assisted with navigation with her iPhone. It was late afternoon and we were both hungry, but neither of us talked about food.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Ask me the question you’ve been dying to ask.”
“What, why do you still type with two fingers most of the time?”
“No,” she shot back. “Why I’m with Mark Spencer. Why I’m going to marry him. When he’s so different from any other man I’ve met . . . especially you.”
About a half mile passed, still going through rural roads, when I said “None of my business, Paula.”
“But you’d still like to know.”
“Yes, if you’re offering, I’d like to know.”
“All right,” she said, looking out at the passing Massachusetts countryside. “Before Mark came along, the man in my life had been you. Oh, I dated here and there after we went our separate ways, but you . . . you got under my skin, friend.”
I kept quiet.
“Then Mark was there, and he was . . . different. Safe. Almost dull. And after being with you, and knowing about some of the places you’ve gone and things you’ve done, and with your time in the Department of Defense that you still don’t say much about . . . safe and dull was very appealing. Please don’t be offended. I wanted safety, security. . . . And he’s a good man, a very good man . . . I love him and I’m so very scared for him.”
I still kept quiet, and I squeezed her hand.
Paula turned to me, face quiet, and then looked down at her iPhone.
“At the intersection coming up, take a left.”
“A left it is.”
We ended up in a city called Beverly, and we were in a part of the city that was still rural, with old trees and stone walls and high brush, and Paula said “Place looks like the back lot of Universal Studios back in the day. Half expect to see werewolves running around.”
“I hope not,” I said. “I left my silver bullets back at home.”
The restaurant was called Anthony’s, not a very original name, and it looked like it had started in an old New England saltbox house, with additions added onto it over the years. The parking lot was dirt and rutted, and there were three vehicles parked at the rear, including a blue Mercedes-Benz with New Hampshire license plates.
I pulled in next to the Mercedes and Felix stepped out, wearing dark charcoal-gray slacks, a black cardigan sweater, and a gray cloth coat that reached down to his knees. Around his neck was a tartan scarf, and as I approached him I said, “What’s that, the scarf from the McCorleone clan?”
He smiled. “In our neck of the woods, it’s called family, not clan.” Smile getting wider, he extended his hand
to Paula. “Ah, Paula Quinn of the Chronicle. So we meet after all this time.”
Felix can charm a young nun into forgetting her vows for an hour or three, but his charm ran up against Paula’s mood like the Titanic hitting an iceberg. She said nothing, shook his hand briefly, and stood there.
But it didn’t seem to bother Felix. “You’ve been busy and bad, Lewis. A dangerous combination. Gunfire in downtown Tyler? Who would have guessed?”
“Just wanted to surprise people. You got anything for me?”
“Sure,” he said. “But you first.”
I looked to Paula, who had no apparent expression on her face, and to Felix I said: “Mark is being chased by a motorcycle gang, out from Wyoming. It’s called the Stonecold Falcons Motorcycle Club. And they’re not here to bug Mark about overdue payments on his club membership.”
There have been very few times when I’ve surprised and impressed Felix, and I cherished what he said next.
“Damn you, Cole, if you knew all of that, why in hell did you bother me to do some snooping around?”
I gently slapped him on his shoulder. “Just wanted to see how good you were.”
“Hah,” he replied, rubbing his hands together. “It’s getting cold out here. Let’s get inside for something to eat while we talk things over.”
The inside of the restaurant was empty, and a restaurant with dim lights and empty tables and chairs is a depressing sight indeed. But Felix ushered us into a small private dining room that was well lit, warm, and comfortable, with a solitary square table in the center covered with a thick white tablecloth. Felix first moved to take off Paula’s coat, and then his own, and then he took mine. A white-haired man with dark, wrinkled skin came in, wearing a white starched shirt, black bow tie, black slacks, black shoes, and a white apron that reached his ankles and was tied around his waist.
Felix murmured something in Italian, kissed him on both cheeks, and the man walked away with the coats. Felix held the chair for Paula, and she sat down and both of us followed. A bust of Julius Caesar was on a nearby shelf, and there were oil paintings of the Forum and the Coliseum.
“But it looks like this place is closed,” Paula said.
Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) Page 8
